The Speaker’s house was haunted.
So the gossip went in the markets and towers of Qualinost in the days that followed. The strange son the Speaker had brought back from the mountains was being hounded by the dreadful specter of a severed head. It made the good folk shudder, yet they repeated the tale. The story was awful, but it was also fascinating.
No one else had seen the ghost—only Prince Silveran was tormented. The specter would not appear to him unless he was alone, and then it persecuted him relentlessly. The robust young elf soon lost his color and vitality as sleep was denied him by the vengeful spirit.
Verhanna and Rufus set themselves the task of always being with Silveran, since the ghost chose never to appear to others. For a time, this worked. With his half-sister or the kender always in attendance, Silveran’s health improved. Then, after many weeks of this happy companionship, the haunting changed.
Verhanna, Silveran, and Rufus were in the garden behind the Speaker’s house. A straw-stuffed sack had been set up, and the warrior maiden was teaching Silveran how to shoot a crossbow. With the passage of time, Verhanna had been able to accept him for what he was—her brother, and very likely the next Speaker of the Sun. She’d grown to enjoy his company immensely.
Rufus jogged back and forth, retrieving arrows that went awry. It was a balmy afternoon, with gray clouds scudding before the wind, chasing the last remnants of summer over the western horizon. The trees were just beginning to show a hint of their autumn brilliance.
Thunk! A quarrel stuck, quivering, in the target. Verhanna lowered the crossbow from her shoulder. She wore a sleeveless red tunic and thin white trousers. On her feet were dainty red slippers, embroidered in gold. These had been a gift from Rufus on her birthday a week before.
“You see,” she said encouragingly, “it isn’t so hard. Even Wart can shoot a crossbow.”
“We kender think bows are cowardly,” Rufus replied airily. “A real weapon is the sling. That takes true skill to use!”
“Sling, ha! Slings are mere toys for children,” scoffed Verhanna.
Silveran sat on a marble bench cunningly shaped to resemble a fallen tree. He’d made a number of tries at the target, but his bolts always went wide. He couldn’t understand it, but his lack of success didn’t seem to bother him. It did, however, vex Verhanna.
“You have eyes like a barn owl,” she grumbled, hands perched on hips. “Why can’t you hit the target?”
“Weapons don’t work well in my hands,” Silveran replied with a shrug. “I don’t know why.”
“Nonsense. Warrior skills run in our family.” She thrust the hunting crossbow into his hands. “Try again.”
“If you wish, Hanna.”
Silveran fitted a quarrel onto the bow stock. Verhanna stood off to his left, Rufus on his right. He raised the crossbow to his cheek and squinted over the wire-bead sight fixed to the end of the stock.
Murderer…
Silveran lowered the bow and shook his head, frowning. Verhanna asked what was the matter. “Nothing,” he said, raising the weapon again.
Murderer…
The green-fingered elf knew that whispering voice all too well. Gripping the crossbow hard, Silveran tried to concentrate on the target, to banish all other thoughts from his mind. He hadn’t been bothered by the specter of dead Dru for over a month. His time had been spent with Verhanna and Rufus, or learning from his father the things that he needed to know as crown prince of the Qualinesti. His days were kept busy, and his nights had been calm since Rufus began sleeping on a small bed in his room.
However, hard as he tried to ignore it, the hollow sound of Dru’s voice filled his ears: Murderer. You killed me.
Green robe flying, Silveran spun around, looking for the terrible face he knew would be hovering nearby. Rufus threw himself flat on the ground as the quarrel tip on the cocked crossbow spun by. He shouted, “Hey! Watch where you point that thing!”
The only sound the Speaker’s son heard was the ghastly sighing of a long-dead elf. He swept around in a circle until he spied the horrible head suspended in space, just above his own eye level. The face of the evil sorcerer was even more decayed now than when he last saw it. The nose was sunken in, the eyes black sockets. The smell of death and putrefaction forced itself into Silveran’s nostrils. He choked and aimed the crossbow at the dead elf’s image.
“Silveran, don’t shoot,” Verhanna said evenly. The quarrel was pointing right at her forehead, only a half dozen feet away. A line of sweat appeared on her upper lip.
“Don’t shoot the captain!” Rufus, still flat on the sod, added his plea to hers.
“Go away,” Silveran quavered. “Leave me alone!”
“I’m not Drulethen,” Verhanna said carefully. Keeping her hands spread apart in front of her, she took a step forward. She continued to speak in calm, soothing tones. “Turn the bow away, Silveran. It’s me, Verhanna. Your sister.”
In Silveran’s fear-crazed mind, the words were different: Time is short, murderer. When the last flesh rots from my bones, I will come to avenge my death on you. Time is short! Look into the face of your death!
Maggots sprouted from the dead elf’s skin. Drulethen’s lower jaw fell away and vanished, leaving a horrid, gaping skull leering at him. Silveran shut his eyes and cried out for mercy. His hand tightened on the trigger bar.
Verhanna threw herself forward and knocked the bow aside. The square-headed quarrel leapt from the bowstring and hissed through the air, burying itself in a high tree branch. Silveran screamed and fought Verhanna, but she managed to pin him to the ground.
“No, no!” he ranted. “I’m sorry I killed you! Don’t hurt me, Dru! I don’t want to die!” Tears coursed down his cheeks.
Guards, servants, and Tamanier Ambrodel came running into the garden, alarmed by the cries. The guards restrained Silveran after Verhanna lifted him to his feet. The prince sobbed something about forgiveness and his own innocence.
“Did you leave him alone?” asked Tamanier quickly. “Did he see the ghost again?”
“We never left his side,” Rufus protested. “My captain and I were teaching Greenhands how to shoot a crossbow.”
Tamanier looked quickly to Verhanna. “Did you see anything untoward, Your Highness?”
She dusted dirt from her knees and shook her head. “I didn’t see or hear anything but Silveran.”
“He almost shot my captain,” blurted the kender.
“Shut up, Wart.”
Tamanier looked grave. “The Speaker must be told.” He folded his wrinkled hands and pressed them hard against his lips. “Forgive me, Highness.”
Verhanna bristled. “What do you mean?”
“His Highness could be ill in his mind.”
Her eyes blazed. “You go too far, Castellan Ambrodel! If my brother says he’s seeing a ghost, then by Astra, there’s a ghost!”
“I meant no offense, Your Highness—”
“Well, you’ve offended me!”
The guards supported Silveran as they walked him back to the Speaker’s house. Tamanier bowed and, white-faced, followed them inside.
Rufus picked up the crossbow and brushed the dirt from the bowstring. “You know, my captain, the old geezer could be right.”
She shook a finger under the kender’s nose. “Don’t you start, too, you noisy beetle!”
The kender turned and stomped away toward the house. Shaking with fury, Verhanna watched him for a second, then snatched up a forgotten quarrel and broke it over her knee. She flung the pieces aside and stalked off into the garden. Soon the warrior maiden was lost from sight as she crashed through the bushes and descended the gentle slope into the deepest recesses of the peaceful garden.
From a window in the Speaker’s house overlooking the upper garden, Ulvian watched the entire scene. He smiled. He was glad his rooms had such an excellent view.