“My thought was that we would not tunnel under Qualinost itself,” Tarn explained, as they walked back to the Gulp and Belch. “We’re about forty miles away now. We will run our tunnels to within five miles of the city limits. That should be far enough so that the Neraka Knights have no idea what we are about. Also they’ll be less likely to discover the entrances..”
“What would happen if they did discover it?” Gilthas asked. “They could use the tunnels to invade Thorbardin.”
“We’d collapse it first,” Tarn said bluntly. “Bring it down on top of them and, likely, on top of a few of us, too.”
“More and more I understand the risks you run for us,” Gilthas said. “There is no way to thank you.”
Tarn Bellowgranite waved aside the words, looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. Gilthas thought it best to change the subject.
“How many tunnels will there be altogether, sir?”
“Given time enough, we can build three fine ones,” the dwarf replied. “As it is, we have one this far. You can begin to evacuate some of your people soon. Not many, for the walls are not completely shored up yet, but we can manage a few. As for the other two tunnels, we will need at least two months.”
“Let us hope we have that long,” Gilthas said quietly. “In the meanwhile, there are people in Qualinost who have run afoul of the Neraka Knights. The punishment of the Knights for lawbreakers is swift and cruel. The smallest infraction of one of their many laws can result in imprisonment or death. With this tunnel, we will be able to save some who otherwise would have perished.
“Tell me, Thane,” Gilthas asked, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it for himself, “would it be possible to evacuate the entire city of Qualinost through that one tunnel?”
“Yes, I think so,” said the High Thane, “given a fortnight to do it.”
A fortnight. If the dragon and the Neraka Knights attacked, they would have hours at most to evacuate the people. At the end of a fortnight, there would be no one left alive to evacuate. Gilthas sighed deeply.
Kerian drew closer, put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were strong and cool, and their touch reassured him. He had been granted more than he had ever expected. He was not a baby, to cry for the stars when he had been given the moon.
He looked meaningfully at Kerian. “We will have to lay low and not antagonize the dragon for at least a month.”
“My warriors will not rollover and play dead!” Kerian returned sharply, “if that is what you have in mind. Besides, if we suddenly ceased all our attacks, the Knights would grow suspicious that we were up to something, and they would start searching for it. This way, we will keep them distracted.”
“A month,” Gilthas said softly, silently, praying to whatever was out there, if anything was out there. “Just give me a month. Give my people a month.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dawn in a Time of Darkness
Morning came to Ansalon, too fast for some, too slow for others. The sun was a red slit in the sky, as if someone had drawn a knife across the throat of the darkness. Gilthas slipped hurriedly through the shadowy garden that surrounded his prison palace, returning somewhat late to take up the dangerous role he must continue to play.
Planchet was lurking upon the balcony, watching anxiously for the young king, when a knock on the door announced Prefect Palthainon, come for his morning string-jerking. Planchet could not plead His Majesty’s indisposition this day as he had the last.
Palthainon, an early riser, was here to bully the king, exercise his power over the young man, make a show of his puppeteering to the rest of the court.
“Just a moment, Prefect!” Planchet shouted. “His Majesty is using the chamber pot.” The elf caught sight of movement in the garden. “Your Majesty!” he hissed as loudly as he dared. “Make haste!”
Gilthas stood under the balcony. Planchet lowered the rope.
The king grasped it, climbed up nimbly, hand over hand.
The knocking resumed, louder and more impatient.
“I insist upon seeing His Majesty!” Palthainon demanded.
Gilthas clambered over the balcony. He made a dive for his bed, climbed in between the sheets fully dressed. Planchet tossed the blankets over the king’s head and answered the door with his finger on his lips.
“His Majesty was ill all night. This morning he is unable to keep down so much as a bit of dry toast,” Planchet whispered. “I had to help him back to bed.”
The prefect peered over Planchet’s shoulder. He saw the king raise his head, peering at the senator with bleary eyes.
“I am sorry His Majesty has been ill,” said the prefect, frowning, “but he would be better up and doing instead of lying about feeling sorry himself. I will be back in an hour. I trust His Majesty will be dressed to receive me.”
Palthainon departed. Planchet closed the door. Gilthas smiled, stretched his arms over his head, and sighed. His parting from Kerian had been wrenching. He could still smell the scent of the wood smoke that clung to her clothing, the rose oil she rubbed on her skin. He could smell the crushed grass on which they had lain, wrapped in each others arms, loathe to say good-bye. He sighed again and then climbed out of bed, going to his bath, reluctantly washing away all traces of his clandestine meeting with his wife.
When the prefect entered an hour later, he found the king busy writing a poem, a poem—if one could believe it—about a dwarf. Palthainon sniffed and told the young man to leave off such foolishness and return to business.
Clouds rolled in over Qualinesti, blotting out the sun. A light drizzle began to fall.
The same morning sunshine that had gleamed down upon Gilthas shone on his cousin, Silvanoshei, who had also been awake all night. He was not dreading the morning, as was Gilthas. Silvanoshei waited for the morning with an impatience and a joy that still left him dazed and disbelieving.
This day, Silvanoshei was to be crowned Speaker of the Stars. This day, beyond all hope, beyond all expectation, he was to be proclaimed ruler of his people. He would succeed in doing what his mother and his father had tried to do and failed.
Events had happened so fast, Silvanoshei was still dazed by it all. Closing his eyes, he relived it all again.
He and Rolan, arriving yesterday on the outskirts of Silvanost, were confronted by a group of elf soldiers.
“So much for my kingship,” Silvanoshei thought, more disappointed than afraid. When the elf soldiers drew their swords, Silvan expected to die. He waited, braced, weaponless. At least he would meet his end with dignity. He would not fight his people.
He would be true to what his mother wanted from him.
To Silvan’s amazement, the elf soldiers lifted their swords to the sunlight and began to cheer, proclaiming him Speaker of the Stars, proclaiming him king. This was not an execution squad, Silvan realized. It was an honor guard.
They brought him a horse to ride, a beautiful white stallion.
He mounted and rode into Silvanost in triumph. Elves lined the streets, cheering and throwing flowers so that the street was covered with them. Their perfume scented the air.
The soldiers marched on either side, keeping the crowd back.
Silvan waved graciously. He thought of his mother and father.
Alhana had wanted this more than anything in the world. She had been willing to give her life to attain it. Perhaps she was watching from wherever the dead go, perhaps she was smiling to see her son fulfill her dearest dream. He hoped so. He was no longer angry at his mother. He had forgiven her, and he hoped that she had forgiven him.
The parade ended at the Tower of the Stars. Here a tall and stem-looking elf with graying hair met them. He introduced himself as General Konnal. He introduced his nephew, Kiryn, who—Silvan was delighted to discover—was a cousin. Konnal then introduced the Heads of House, who would have to determine if Silvanoshei was indeed the grandson of Lorac Caladon (his mother’s name was not mentioned) and therefore rightful heir to the Silvanesti throne. This, Konnal assured Silvanoshei in an aside, was a mere formality.