He related the details of the meeting up to now, not knowing what he was saying, repeating by rote. Like his garden, Laurana was hauntingly beautiful that night. The moonlight stole away all color, so that the golden hair was silver, her skin white, her eyes luminous, her gown gray. She might have been a spirit, a spirit of his garden, for the scent of jasmine clung to her. He etched this image of her in his mind, planned to carry this image of her into death’s realm, where, he hoped, it would serve to light the unending darkness.
The meeting continued. He asked for reports from the elven commanders. They reported that all was ready or nearly so. They needed more rope, but more rope was forthcoming, for those making it had not ceased their work, nor would they until the very final moments. The barricades were in place, trenches dug, traps set. The archers had been given their unusual assignment, and although they had found their work strange and difficult at first, they had soon accustomed themselves to the requirements and needed nothing but the signal to attack.
“It is imperative . . . imperative”—Medan repeated that firmly—”that no elf be seen by the dragon walking the streets. Beryl must think that the city has been cleared, that all the elves have either fled or are being held captive. The Knights will patrol the streets openly, accompanied by those elves disguised as Knights to fill out our ranks. Tomorrow night, once I have been assured the royal family is safely on their way”—he looked at the king as he spoke and received Gilthas’s reluctant nod—”I will send a messenger to Beryl and tell her that the city of Qualinost surrenders to her might and that we have met all her demands. I will take my position at the top of the Tower of the Sun, and it is then that—”
“I beg your pardon, Marshal Medan,” Laurana interrupted, “but you have not met the dragon’s demands.”
Medan had guessed this was coming. He knew by Gilthas’s stiff rigidity and his sudden pallor that he had guessed it, as well.
“I beg your pardon, Madam,” said Medan politely, “but I can think of nothing I have left undone.”
“The dragon demanded that the members of the royal family be handed over to her. I believe that I was among those she specifically named.”
“To my deep regret,” said the Marshal with a wry smile, “the members of the royal family managed to escape. They are at this moment being pursued, and I am certain that they will be captured—”
Laurana was shaking her head. “That will not do, Marshal Medan. Beryl is no fool. She will be suspicious. All our carefully laid plans would be for naught.”
“I will stay,” said Gilthas firmly. “It is what I want to do anyhow. With myself as the Marshal’s prisoner, standing with him on the tower, the dragon will have no suspicions. She will be eager to take me captive. You, Mother, will lead the people in exile. You will deal with the Silvanesti. You are the diplomat. The people trust you.”
“The people trust their king,” said Laurana quietly.
“Mother...” Gilthas’s voice was agonized, pleading. “Mother, you cannot do this!”
“My son, you are king of the Qualinesti. You do not belong to me anymore. You do not belong to yourself. You belong to them.”
Reaching across the table, Laurana took hold of her son’s hand. “I understand how hard it is to accept the responsibility for thousands of lives. I know what you face. You will have to tell those who come to you for answers that all you have are questions. You will have to tell the despairing that you have hope, when despair is heavy in your own heart. You will bid the terrified to have courage when inside you are shivering with fear. It would take great courage to face the dragon, my son, and I admire and honor you for showing that courage, but such courage is paltry compared to the courage that will be required of you to lead your people into the future, a future of uncertainty and danger.”
“What if I can’t, Mother?” Gilthas had forgotten anyone else was there. These two spoke only to each other. “What if I fail them?”
“You will fail, my son. You will fail time and again. I failed those who followed me when I put my own wants over their needs. Your father failed his friends when he abandoned them while he pursued his love for the Dragon Highlord Kitiara.”
Laurana smiled tremulously. Her eyes shimmered with tears. “You are the child of imperfect parents, my son. You will stumble and fall to your knees and lie bruised in the dust, as we did. You will only truly fail if you remain lying in the dust. If you regain your feet and continue, you will make of that failure a success.”
Gilthas said nothing for long moments. He held fast to his mother’s hand. Laurana held his hand, knowing that when she let go, she would let go of her son forever.
“I will not fail you, Mother,” Gilthas said softly. He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it reverently. “I will not fail the memory of my father.”
Releasing her hand, he rose to his feet. “I will see you in the morning, Mother. Before I depart.” He spoke the words without faltering.
“Yes, Gilthas,” she said. “I will be waiting.”
He nodded. The farewell they spoke then would last for all eternity. Blessed, heart-wrenching, those words were words to be spoken in private.
“If that is all, Marshal Medan,” Gilthas said, keeping his eyes averted,
“I have a great deal to do yet this night.”
“I understand, Your Majesty,” said the Marshal. “We have only small matters of no importance to clear up now. I thank you for coming.”
“Small matters of no importance,” Gilthas murmured. He looked back at his mother. He knew very well what they would be discussing. He drew in a deep breath. “Then I bid you good night, Marshal, and good luck to you and to all of you.”
Medan rose to his feet. Lifting his glass of elven wine, he raised it. “I give you His Majesty, the King.”
The elves raised their voices in unison. Bellowsgranite shouted out the toast in a hearty bellow that made the Marshal cringe and glance swiftly into the sky, hoping that none of Beryl’s spies were in earshot. Laurana raised her glass and pledged her son, her voice soft with love and pride.
Gilthas, overcome, gave a brief nod. He could not trust himself to speak. His wife put her arm around him. Planchet walked behind him. The king had no other guard. He had taken only a few steps when he looked back over his shoulder. His eyes sought out the Marshal.
Medan read the silent message and, excusing himself, accompanied the king through the darkened house. Gilthas said no word until he reached the door. Halting, he turned to face the Marshal.
“You know what my mother plans, Marshal Medan.”
“I think I do, Your Majesty.”
“Do you agree with her that such a sacrifice on her part is necessary?”
Gilthas demanded, almost angrily. “Will you permit her to go through with this?”
“Your Majesty,” the Marshal replied gravely, “you know your mother. Do you think there is any possible way to stop her?”
Gilthas stared at him, then he began to laugh. When the laughter came perilously close to tears, he fell silent until he could regain mastery over himself.
He drew in a deep breath, looked at the Marshal. “There is a chance that we will defeat Beryl, perhaps even destroy her. A chance that her armies will be stopped, forced to retreat. There is that chance, isn’t there, Marshal?”
Medan hesitated, not wanting to offer hope where, in his opinion, there was none. Yet, which of them knew what the future would hold?
“There is an old Solamnic adage, Your Majesty, which I could quote just now, an adage that says there is about as much chance of that happening as of the moons falling out of the sky.” Medan smiled. “As Your Majesty knows, the moons did fall out of the sky, so I will only tell you that, yes, there is a chance. There is always a chance.”