Healers were summoned to the Speaker’s house; priestesses of Quen came and worked their incantations over Silveran—all with no success. Clerics devoted to the worship of Mantis and Astra wove protective spells around Kith-Kanan’s beleaguered son, but still the hideous corpse face of Drulethen tormented him, and him alone.
The Speaker met with the priests and healers. “Is my son bewitched?” he asked solemnly.
The high priestess of Quen, a former Silvanesti named Aytara, answered for all of them. “We have cast healing spells on your son, Great Speaker, and they do not affect him. The good brothers of Mantis have erected barriers to keep out elementals and evil spirits, and still he sees the dread specter.”
Her wide, pale blue eyes never faltered as she gazed at Kith-Kanan. “Prince Silveran is not afflicted by mortal magic, Great Speaker,” the young priestess finished.
“What, then?” he demanded.
Aytara glanced at her silent colleagues. “There are two possibilities, Majesty. Both are distasteful.”
“Speak the truth, lady. I want to hear it.”
“There are potions, poisons, that can corrode the mind. Your son may have been given such a potion,” she said.
Kith-Kanan shook his head. “Silveran and I eat the same foods. No one knows who will eat or drink from any given plate or cup. And I have experienced no such visions. It cannot be poison.”
“Very well. The last possibility is that your son has lost his mind.”
Terrible, icy silence followed the pronouncement. Kith-Kanan gripped the arms of his vallenwood throne so hard his knuckles turned as white as the wood. “Do you know what you’re saying? Are you telling me that my son—my heir—is mad?”
The priestess said nothing. A thought occurred to the Speaker. “My son has demonstrated magical ability in the past,” he ventured. “Can this power not be used to help him?”
“He does indeed have great power, but he is completely untrained. Without much study and practice, he can’t use these powers to help himself.” Aytara’s face was sad.
Kith-Kanan looked to each of the others in turn. All of them hung their heads and remained silent, having nothing further to offer.
“Go,” the Speaker said in a tired voice. “I thank you for your efforts. Go.”
With many bows and flourishes, the healers and clerics took their leave of Kith-Kanan. The Speaker turned away to stare out one of the windows. Only Tamanier remained in the hall.
“My old friend,” Kith-Kanan said to him. “What am I to do? I almost think the gods have cursed me, Tam. I’ve buried two wives, found that one son was a criminal and another may be insane. What am I to do?”
At the far end of the small hall, the aged castellan took in a deep breath. “Perhaps young Silveran has always been troubled,” he ventured. “After all, his early life and birth were not natural, and his powers are wild and uncontrolled.”
The Speaker slumped back on his throne. He felt every day of his five hundred and some-odd years of life weigh upon him like stones in the folds of his robe, or chains laid in long loops around his shoulders.
“I followed all the signs,” he murmured. “Has it all been a terrible hoax? It can’t be. Silveran must be my true heir, I know it. But how can we cure him? I can’t put my crown on the head of a mad person.”
“Sire,” said Tamanier, “I am reluctant to bring this up—especially now. But Prince Ulvian wishes to speak with you.”
The Speaker started, his mind far away. “What, Tam?”
“Prince Ulvian has asked to see you, sire.”
The Speaker gathered his wandering thoughts. With a nod, he said, “Very well. Send him in.”
Tamanier pushed the doors apart. An eddy of wind from the porticoed exterior sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across the burnished wooden floor of the hall. The castellan admitted Prince Ulvian, then departed, closing the doors quietly behind him.
“Speaker,” said Ulvian, bowing from the waist. Kith-Kanan waved for him to approach.
It took Ulvian twenty steps to cross the audience hall. In the months since his return from Pax Tharkas and Black Stone Peak, the prince had radically altered his looks and manner. Gone were the extravagant lace cuffs, the brilliantly colored and astonishingly expensive breeches and boots. Ulvian had taken to wearing plain velvet tunics in dark blue, black, or green, with matching trousers and short black boots. Heavy necklaces and bold gems on his fingers had given way to a simple silver chain around his neck, with a locket containing a miniature of his mother. Ulvian let his hair grow longer, in a more elven fashion, and shaved off his beard. Save for his broad jaw and round eyes, he could have been taken for a full-blooded elf.
“Father, I want you to send me away,” he said after bowing a second time at the foot of the throne.
“Away? Why?”
“I feel it is time to complete my education. I’ve wasted too much time on frivolous pleasures. There are many things I want to learn.”
Kith-Kanan sat upright. This curious request intrigued him. “Where is it you wish to go for this education?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Silvanost.”
The Speaker raised his eyebrows. In a gentle voice, he said, “Ulvian, that’s impossible. Sithas would never allow it.”
Ulvian took a step forward. The toes of his boots pressed against the base of the vallenwood throne. “But I want to learn from the wise elves of the east, in the most ancient temples in the world. Surely the Speaker of the Stars would permit his own kin—”
“It cannot be, my son.” Kith-Kanan leaned forward and laid a hand on Ulvian’s shoulder. “You are half-human. The Silvanesti would not welcome you.”
The prince flinched as if his father had struck him. “Then send me to Thorbardin, or Ergoth! Anywhere!” Ulvian said desperately.
“Why do you wish to leave so suddenly?”
The prince’s eyes dropped before the Speaker’s questioning gaze. “I—I told you, Father. I want to complete my education.”
“You aren’t telling me the truth, Son,” Kith-Kanan contended.
“All right. I want to get away from this house. I can’t bear it anymore!” He jerked out of his father’s grip.
“What do you mean?”
Ulvian fidgeted with his narrow gray sash. Finally he turned away, putting his back to the Speaker. “His screams keep me awake at night,” he said stiffly; “I—I hear him wandering the halls, moaning. I can’t bear it, Father. I know he’s your legitimate heir, and I can’t expect him to go away, so I thought I’d volunteer to leave instead.”
Kith-Kanan rose and walked to his son. “Your brother is ill,” he said. “If it’s any consolation to you, he keeps me awake at night, too.”
The dark smudges under Kith-Kanan’s eyes testified to the truth of his statement. “I wish you would stay and help Silveran, Ullie. He needs a good friend.”
The somberly dressed prince knelt and gathered a handful of red and brown leaves from the floor. Slowly he turned them over, as if studying their wrinkled surfaces. “Do the healers give him any chance of recovery?” he asked, staring at the leaves.
Kith-Kanan sighed. “They don’t even agree on why he is afflicted,” he replied.
Ulvian dropped the leaves and stood. Turning to face his father, the prince said quietly, “If you want me to stay, Father, I will.”
Kith-Kanan grasped his son’s hands gratefully. “Thank you, Ullie,” he said, smiling. “I was hoping you’d stay.”
The prince had never planned to do otherwise. Back in his own quarters, Ulvian ran his fingers lightly down the front of his heavy quilted tunic. The hard lump of the black onyx amulet was there, sheathed in a tight leather bag hanging around his neck.
“My beauty,” Ulvian rejoiced softly. “It goes well! Soon I will be sole and undisputed heir.”
You deserve it, my prince, crooned the amulet for Ulvian’s ears only. Together we will rule.