[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]dropped to the floor.
"Sergeant of the guard!" Verhanna bawled. A warrior with a fanlike array of
horsehair on the top of his helmet came running down the corridor. "Post a guard around
this room," she ordered. "No one is to enter but I myself, Tamanier Ambrodel, or the holy
lady Aytara. Got that?"
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The guard glanced sideways at the prince. "Is my lord Ulvian to be excluded,
Captain?" he asked.
"He most certainly is. If I find out anyone else but the three I named has gone in
there, I'll have your head."
The sergeant, a seasoned warrior, swallowed hard. "It shall be done, Captain!" he
vowed.
A squad of eight guards formed before the doors to the Speaker's rooms. It was
nearly dawn. Verhanna left Tamanier to make the announcement to the people. Already
heralds clad in golden tabards were appearing in the halls, rubbing the sleep from their
eyes and tugging on their ankle-high boots. The old castellan, strain and sorrow written
into every line on his face, shepherded the elf boys and girls into an adjoining room.
Minutes later, the heralds emerged, red-eyed and weeping. They raced out of the building
to cry the sorrowful news to the waking city.
Verhanna went to see Silveran. The guards outside the chamber stood aside for her
as she unlocked the thick door of his room.
"Captain," one of the guards said to her before she entered, "you'd best look at his
hands."
She was weary and heartsick and still angry with Ulvian, and she told the guard she
had no patience for riddles.
"Please, Captain," insisted the guard. "He was once called Greenhands, wasn't he?
Well, his fingers aren't green anymore."
Verhanna's brows lifted at that. She went in and closed the heavy door behind her.
Despite the thick chains that encircled his arms and legs, Silveran was the picture of
peace. It made her heart ache anew to see him lying so innocent and untroubled while
their father was dying. What evil miasma had invaded his simple, guileless mind and
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made him go mad with fear? She still held the black amulet in her hand. Verhanna knelt
on one knee and studied the elf's hands. Just as the guard had said, Silveran's fingers were
now white, contrasting with his tanned hands.
Slowly, with much fluttering of eyelids, Silveran was waking.
"Hanna," he said happily. "Hello."
She stared down at him, incredulous at his calm manner. He sat up, and the chains
draped heavily on his stomach. "Oof," he wheezed. "What's this? Why am I bound?"
"Don't you remember what happened?" she asked.
"Remember what? Won't you take these chains off? They hurt me."
"How do you think you came to be here?" she said sharply.
Silveran's brow furrowed. "I was asleep," he said thoughtfully. "I had some bad
dreams then I woke up, and there you were, and here are the chains."
In slow, deliberate words, she explained what had happened. Silveran cried out and
retreated to the wall. The door opened and a guard poked his head in, but Verhanna
waved him out. Silveran hugged himself and gasped for air.
"It cannot be," he said, shaking his head. "It was a dream, a terrible dream!"
"It is the truth," she said grimly. "The Speaker is dying."
He buried his face in his hands. "I am cursed!" Silveran moaned. "I have slain my
beloved father!"
Verhanna sprang forward, grabbing his hands and dragging them away from his face.
"Listen to me! You may have been cursed, but you're all right now. When father dies "
she choked on the word "you must go before the Thalas-Enthia and demand that they
name you Speaker of the Sun. Otherwise Ulvian will claim the throne. You must do it!"
"But I must be punished for slaying our father," he objected, sobbing. "No one could
want me to rule. Let Ulvian be Speaker. I must be put to death for my crime!"
Verhanna shook him hard, rattling his chains. "No! It wasn't your fault. Ulvian used
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Drulethen's black amulet to drive you mad. He's the criminal. You are the chosen
successor. Everything depends on you. Father believes you are the future of Qualinesti!"
Bells began tolling from the high towers of the city. The heralds' dire tidings were
spreading fast. Verhanna listened to the doleful sound, knowing it was the Speaker's
death knell. When the bells ceased ringing, it would mean Kith-Kanan was dead.
Quickly the warrior maiden unlocked the fetters on Silveran's hands and legs. "You
stay here," she said. "I'll have the guards lock you in. You'll be safe."
"Safe from what?"
There was no time to explain. Silveran reached out for Verhanna as she made for the
door. Whatever he intended to say died in his throat as he noticed for the first time that
his fingers were no longer green.
"The power has left me," he breathed. "I no longer feel its touch."
Verhanna hesitated, her hand on the knob. "The magic? It's gone?"
He nodded. "Good," she said firmly. "Maybe that will be to your advantage."
The door slammed behind her before he could ask what she meant.
* * * * *
To walk among the green trees, to smell the sunwashed air, to eat what came to hand,
and to sleep under the stars that was the good life. The best life. For all his deeds and
wisdom, it was this simple woodland existence that Kith-Kanan always hungered for. The
myth makers, the legend builders, had elevated him into a hero, a demigod, in his own
lifetime. No doubt after he was dead, their exaggerations would grow larger with each
passing century. Perhaps Kith-Kanan might become a god someday in the eyes of his
descendants. He did not wish it. A far more suitable tribute would be the continued happy
existence of the nation he'd founded, Qualinesti.
Kith-Kanan walked in the shade of oaks. It was a remarkable dream he was having.
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Dreams were usually thin things, flashes in his mind's eye. This one, though, was
magnificent. The smells, sounds, and textures of the forest were all around him. Wind
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]zanotowane.pldoc.pisz.plpdf.pisz.plkajaszek.htw.pl
