The spilling of elven blood. That was the excuse they gave then. They did not want to see elf killing elf. The truth was that Alhana had expected her people to come to her and lay the crown of Silvanesti at her feet. They had not done so. As Rolan had said, they wanted only to go back to sleep, wanted to forget Lorac’s nightmare in more pleasant dreams. Alhana had been the cat yowling beneath the window, disturbing their rest.
His mother had refused to admit this to herself and thus, though she railed against the raising of the shield, in reality the shield had been a relief to her: Oh, she had done all she could to try to destroy it. She had done all she could to prove to herself that she wanted desperately to penetrate the barrier. She had thrown her armies against the shield, thrown herself against it.
But all the while, secretly, in her heart, she did not want to enter and perhaps that was the reason the shield had been successful in keeping her out.
Drinel and Rolan and the rest of the elves were inside it for the very same reason. The shield was in place, the shield existed, because the elves wanted it. The Silvanesti had always yearned to be kept safe from the world, safe from the contamination of the crude and undisciplined humans, safe from the dangers of ogre and goblin and minotaur, safe from the dragons, safe amidst ease and luxury and beauty. That was why his mother had wanted to find a way inside—so that she too could finally sleep in warmth and in safety, not in burial mounds.
He said nothing, but he realized now what he had to do.
“You pledge your allegiance to me. How do I know that when the path grows dark you will not abandon me as you abandoned my parents?”
Rolan paled. Drinel’s eyes flashed in anger. He started to speak, but his friend laid a calming hand on his arm.
“Silvanoshei is right to rebuke us, my friend. His Majesty is right to ask this question of us.” Rolan turned to face Silvan.
“Hand and heart, I pledge myself and my family to Your Majesty’s cause. May my soul be held in thrall on this plane of existence if I fail.”
Silvan nodded gravely. It was a terrible oath. He shifted his gaze to Drinel and the other two members of the kirath. Drinel was hesitant.
“You are very young,” he said harshly. “How old are you? Thirty years? You are considered an adolescent among our people.”
“But not among the Qualinesti,” Silvanoshei returned. “ And I ask you to think of this,” he added, knowing that the Silvanesti were not likely to be impressed by comparisons with their more worldly (and therefore more corrupt) cousins. “I have not been raised in a pampered, sheltered Silvanesti household. I have been raised in caves, in shacks, in hovels—wherever my parents could find safe shelter. I can count on my two hands the number of nights I have slept in a room in a bed. I have been twice wounded in battles. I bear the scars upon my body.”
Silvan did not add that he had not received his wounds while fighting in those battles. He did not mention that he had been injured while his body guards were hustling him off to a place of safety. He would have fought, he thought to himself, if anyone had given him a chance. He was prepared to fight now.
“I make the same pledge to you that I ask of you,” Silvan said proudly. “Heart and hand, I pledge to do everything in my power to regain the throne that is mine by right. I pledge to bring wealth, peace, and prosperity back to our people. May my soul be held in thrall on this plane of existence if I fail.”
Drinel’s eyes sifted, searched that soul. The elder elf appeared satisfied with he saw. “I make my pledge to you, Silvanoshei, son of Porthios and Alhana. By aiding the son, may we make restitution for our failures in regard to the parents.”
“And now,” said Rolan. “We must make plans. We must find a suitable hiding place for His Majesty—”
“No,” said Silvan firmly. “The time for hiding is past. I am the rightful heir to the throne. I have a lawful claim. I have nothing to fear. If I go sneaking and skulking about like a criminal, then I will be perceived as a criminal. If I arrive in Silvanost as a king, I will be perceived as a king.”
“Yet, the danger—” Rolan began.
“His Majesty is right, my friend,” Drinel said, regarding Silvan with now marked respect. “He will be in less danger by making a great stir than he would be if he were to go into hiding. In order to placate those who question his rule, Konnal has stated many times that he would gladly see the son of Alhana take his rightful place upon the throne. He could make such a promise easily enough, for he knew—or thought he knew—that with the shield in place, the son could not possibly enter.
“If Your Majesty arrives triumphantly in the capital, with the people cheering on all sides, Konnal will be forced to make some show of keeping his promise. He will find it difficult to make the rightful heir disappear, as have others in the past. The people would not stand for it.”
“What you say has merit. Yet we must never underestimate Konnal,” said Rolan. “Some believe he is mad, but if so, his is a cunning, calculating madness. He is dangerous.”
“So am I,” said Silvan. “As he will soon discover.”
He sketched out his plan. The others listened, voiced their approval, offered changes he accepted, for they knew his people best. He listened gravely to the discussion of possible danger, but in truth, he paid little heed.
Silvanoshei was young,and the young know they will live forever.
Chapter Nine
Gallivanting
The same night that Silvanoshei accepted the rulership of the Silvanesti, Tasslehoff Burrfoot slept soundly and peacefully—much to his disappointment.
The kender was deposited for safekeeping in a room inside the Solamnic garrison in Solace. Tas had offered to return to the wonderful kender-proof Solace jail, but his request was firmly denied. The garrison room was clean and neat, with no windows, no furniture except a stern-looking bed with iron railings and a mattress so stiff and rigid that it could have stood at attention with the best of the Knights. The door had no lock at all, which might have provided some light afterdinner amusement but was held in place by a wooden bar across the outside.
“ All in all,” Tas said to himself as he sat disconsolately on his bed, kicking his feet against the iron railings and looking wistfully about, “this room is the single most boring place I’ve ever been in my life with the possible exception of the Abyss.”
Gerard had even taken away his candle, leaving Tas alone in the dark. There seemed nothing to do but go to sleep.
Tasslehoff had long thought that someone would do a very good service to mankind by abolishing sleep. Tas had mentioned this to Raistlin once, remarking that a wizard of his expertise could probably find a way around sleep, which took up a good portion of one’s time with very little benefit that Tas could see.
Raistlin had replied that the kender should be thankful someone had invented sleep for this meant that Tasslehoff was quiet and comatose for eight hours out of a day and this was the sole reason that Raistlin had not yet strangled him.
Sleep had one benefit and that was dreams, but this benefit was almost completely nullified by the fact that one woke from a dream and was immediately faced with the crushing disappointment that it had been a dream, that the dragon chasing one with the intent of biting off one’s head was not a real dragon, that the ogre trying to bash one into pulp with a club was not a real ogre.
Add to this the fact that one always woke up at the most interesting and exciting part of the dream—when the dragon had one’s head in his mouth, for example, or the ogre had hold of the back of one’s collar. Sleep, as far as Tas was concerned, was a complete waste of time. Every night saw him determined to fight sleep off, and every morning found him waking up to discover that sleep had sneaked up on him unaw.ares and run away with him.