The Second Generation

“Do stop this shouting. You’re disrupting my class. My students cannot concentrate on their spells.”

“Damn your students! Where is my boy?” Tanis shouted.

“He is safe,” Dalamar replied. “First—”

Tanis lost control. Heedless of the consequences, he leapt at Dalamar, hands going for the dark elf’s throat.

Blue lightning flared, crackled. Tanis was thrown backward. He crashed painfully into the wooden door. The shock of the magic was paralyzing. His limbs twitched; his head buzzed. He took a moment to recover, then, frustrated with his own helplessness, he started toward Dalamar again.

“Stop it, Tanis,” the dark elf said sternly. “You’re acting like a fool. Face the facts. You are a prisoner in the Tower of High Sorcery—my tower. You are weaponless and even if you did have a weapon, you could do nothing to harm me.” “Give me my sword,” Tanis said, breathing heavily. “We’ll see about that.”

Dalamar almost, but not quite, laughed. “Come now, my friend. I told you, your son is safe. How long he remains so is up to you.”

“Is that a threat?” Tanis demanded grimly. “Threats are for the fearful. I merely state facts. Come, come, my friend! What has happened to your renowned logic, your legendary common sense? All flown out the window when the stork flew in?"3

“He’s my son. Those draconians—I was afraid—” Tanis gave up. “How could you understand? You’ve never been a parent.”

“If degenerating into a mindless idiot is what it means to be a parent, I shall certainly take care that I never achieve such a dubious distinction. Please, sit down. Let us discuss this like rational men.”

Glowering, Tanis stalked over to a comfortable armchair, placed near a welcome fire. Even on a warm spring day, the Tower of High Sorcery was dark and chill. The room in which he was imprisoned was furnished with every luxury; he’d been provided with food and drink. His few minor wounds—scratches, mostly, from the draconian’s claws and a bump on the head—had been carefully tended.

Dalamar seated himself in a chair opposite. “If you will listen with patience, I will tell you what is transpiring.”

“I’ll listen. You talk.” Tanis’s voice softened, almost broke. “My son is all right? He is well?”

“Of course. Gilthas would be of little use to his captors if he were not. You may take comfort in that fact, my friend. And I am your friend,” the dark elf added, seeing the angry flash in Tanis’s eyes. “Though I admit appearances are against me.

"As for your son,” Dalamar continued, “he is where he has longed to be—his homeland, Qualinesti. It is his homeland, Tanis, though you don’t like to hear that, do you? The boy is lodged quite comfortably, probably being afforded every courtesy. Only natural for the elves to treat him with deference, respect—since he is to be their king.”

Tanis couldn’t believe he’d heard right. He was on his feet again.

“This is some sort of bad joke. What is it you want, Dalamar? What is it you’re really after?”

The dark elf stood up. Gliding forward, he laid his hand gently on Tanis’s arm.

“No joke, my friend. Or, if it is, no one is laughing. Gilthas is in no danger now. But he could be.”

Once again, Tanis saw the vision he’d seen on Storm’s Keep—dark clouds, swirling around his son. Tanis lowered his head, to hide his burning tears. Dalamar’s grip on him tightened.

“Get hold of yourself, my friend. We don’t have much time. Every minute is critical. There is a great deal to explain. And,” Dalamar added softly, “plans to make."

Chapter Seven

“King?” Gil repeated in astonishment. He stared at Alhana in disbelief. “Speaker of the Sun and Stars! Me? No, you can’t be serious. I... I don’t want to be king!”

woman smiled, a smile that was like winter sunshine on thick ice. The smile lit her face, but did not warm her. Or him.

“I am afraid that what you want, Prince Gilthas, does not matter.”

“But you’re queen.”

“Queen!” Her voice was bitter.

“My uncle Porthios is the Speaker.” Gil went on, baffled and—though he didn’t admit it—frightened. “I... This doesn’t make sense!”

Alhana gave him a cool glance, then she turned away, walked back to the window. Parting the curtain, she stared outside, and in the light he could see her face. She had seemed cold and imperious in the shadows. In reality, in the sunlight, she was careworn, anxious, and afraid. She, too, was afraid, though he had the impression that her fear was not for herself.

I don’t want to be king, Gil heard himself whine, like a child complaining about being sent to bed. He blushed deeply.

“I’m sorry, Lady Alhana. So much has happened . . . and I don’t understand any of it. You are saying that Rashas brought me here to crown me Speaker of the Sun and Stars, to make me king of Qualinesti. I don’t see how that’s possible—”

“Don’t you?” she asked, shifting her gaze. The purple eyes were hard and dark with suspicion.

Gilthas was shocked. “My lady, I swear! I don’t know ... Please, believe me ...”

“Where are your parents?” Alhana asked abruptly. She was looking back outside now.