The prince busied himself putting the finishing touches to the speech he would give when he was made heir to the Throne of the Sun.
19 — The Death of the Sun
Before the first frost, they moved Silveran to a room at the end of the south wing of the Speaker’s house. In this secluded chamber, his nightly ravings wouldn’t disturb those sleeping near the center of the great house. Tamanier, as keeper of the keys, had the duty of locking Silveran in his room each night. If his cries became too loud, a sleeping draft would be brought for him to drink. Only through powerful soporifics could they hold back the relentless specter that haunted the young elf. The strong medicines left him groggy and befuddled most of his waking hours.
When Solinari, the silver moon, first called the fingers of frost over Qualinesti, Silveran was sleeping fitfully in his pitiful cell. There was no furniture or lamp or anything else he might use to harm himself or others. Of his blankets, only two hadn’t been shredded by fevered hands as he struggled to keep the hideous phantom at bay.
Greenhands, dead Dru called. Rise, murderer. Tonight, you join me in the land of the dead.
“No,” Silveran groaned. “Oh, no, please!”
Your time is all used up. Rise! I am coming for you!
“No!”
With a sudden spasm, the elf jerked awake. His heart hammered inside his ribs, and his breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. “You’ll not take me! You’ll not!”
He scrambled to his feet. The door to his room was locked from the outside. Panic seized Silveran. He stood and kicked the locked door hard.
The thick wooden panel boomed but stayed firm. Knowing his son’s great strength, Kith-Kanan had sadly ordered the door be the stoutest that could be found.
Greenhands, murderer…
In desperation, Silveran threw his entire body at the door. Under his frenzied assault, the jamb splintered, and the door flew wide. The dark hall outside was cold. Winter rugs had not yet been laid on the bare wood floor, and the elf’s teeth chattered as he staggered out into the chill.
To his left were door-sized windows, shuttered. Through the slats of the seven-foot-tall shutters came a weird, yellow-green light. Silveran uttered a short, sharp cry and recoiled from the slivers of sickly light slicing in between the slats. Laughter rang in his head—Dru’s laughter, mingled with the sound of rattling chains.
He ran down the hall, blindly blundering from one closed door to another. These ground floor rooms were unoccupied, as the Speaker was entertaining no guests. Silveran shook each door handle and pounded on each panel, but he couldn’t get in. The chartreuse light grew stronger, until it cast Silveran’s own long shadow to the end of the empty hall.
The light seeped through the closed shutters like oil through cheesecloth. As the petrified elf watched, it coalesced into the rough form of an elf. Silveran pressed his back against a locked door and stared in abject terror. The greenly glowing form assumed distinct arms and legs—but no head. The neck rose up, but where the head should be was only darkness.
Flee if you can, murderer! I have come for you! boomed the voice.
Silveran bolted from the shelter of the doorway and ran down the hall, crying out in horror.
He crossed the receiving room at the main entrance on the ground floor and seized the first available doorknob. This was the Speaker’s trophy room. Here were displayed Kith-Kanan’s various suits of armor, his personal weapons, as well as flags and standards captured from the Ergothians during the Kinslayer War. Silveran wove his way among the stands of halberds, swords, and pikes. The glint of metal gave him an idea, a mad idea. He would kill the wretched ghost again—for good this time—and be safe. Safe and free.
But the pikes and swords were held in their racks by strong loops of chain and wire, and none came easily to hand. Silveran hurried by them and went to the rear wall, scanning the trophies mounted there. These were not, properly speaking, weapons, but rather tools the Speaker had used in his long career. The saw he had wielded to fell the first tree when Qualinost was being built. The mason’s trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Tower of the Sun. The hammer King Glenforth of Thorbardin had given him to carve out the first block for the fortress of peace, Pax Tharkas.
The hammer rested on a small pedestal under a crystal dome. The silver bands on its handle sparkled, and its gilded head gleamed. The dome was not sealed, and Silveran quickly sent it crashing to the floor. The hammer fit his grip as if made for him.
He exulted. The mighty dwarven hammer would smash diamonds to dust if swung smartly and struck fairly. Now he would deal with the monster Drulethen. His torment would soon be finished!
The door of the trophy room opened slowly. The elf huddled in the shadows, hammer couched on his shoulders. A pale yellow light filtered in from the open door, and a voice whispered, “Silveran? Are you in here?”
“Yes!” he shouted, leaping on the door and wrenching it fully open. He saw for a second a grinning, fleshless skull staring at him with empty white eye sockets, heard the mocking laughter in his ears. “Now I will kill you forever, Dru!” Silveran screamed and brought the hammer down in a smashing blow on Dru’s skull. Bone yielded under the awful impact, and he smelled blood. The yellow light went out.
Silveran collapsed in a limp heap on the floor. He’d done it. He’d killed Dru completely. Now he was free. His eyelids fluttered closed just as more light filled the room.
Tamanier, Ulvian, and Verhanna lifted their lamps high. Behind them, sleepy servants muttered about their interrupted rest. The lamplight fell upon the scene in the Speaker’s trophy room.
“By all the holy gods!” Tamanier cried. “He’s killed the Speaker!”
The entire Guard of the Sun was roused and turned out of their barracks while the best healers in Qualinost were summoned to the Speaker’s house. Kith-Kanan bore a terrible wound on his head where the dwarven hammer had broken his skull. But he was not dead. His heart beat, and he drew breath, but the Speaker of the Sun had not opened his eyes since the tragedy.
Strangely, Silveran was likewise insensible. His body was unmarked, yet he could not be roused, even when foul-smelling asafetida was waved under his nose. All signs of madness had left him; his face was peaceful, and the deep lines in his brow were smoothed out. He looked like a sleeping child, lying on the floor by his mortally wounded father.
Verhanna refused any help and carried her father to his bed. Tamanier explained how Kith-Kanan had heard the disturbance Silveran had caused and had gone, without summoning any guards, to investigate.
“I will never forgive myself,” the old castellan said, wringing his hands. “I should have gone in his stead!”
“Never mind,” Ulvian said unsteadily as they mounted the steps on each side of Verhanna. “No one knew this was going to happen. Silveran must have struck out at Father in a delirium.”
In truth, the prince was much shaken by this turn of events. He had never desired Kith-Kanan’s death, and he somehow realized the amulet had deliberately maneuvered father and son together for just this result. Now the evil talisman wouldn’t have to wait long for Ulvian to receive that which he’d requested. In days—perhaps hours—Ulvian would be Speaker of the Sun.
Aytara and the entire college of Quen arrived, and they were put to work trying to save Kith-Kanan’s life. Silveran merited only a passing glance. Aside from the fact that he couldn’t be awakened, he seemed in perfect health. The high priestess didn’t wish to waste a single spell or incantation on the uninjured elf; all the magic they could gather would be needed for the Speaker. Two of the guards carried the Speaker’s unconscious son to a small room on the second floor of the great house. Their orders were to chain him and stand guard at his door.