Rage of a Demon King (12 page)

William waved away the apology before it came. “You didn’t. Those wounds are with me every day and they are always open. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never wed.”

As he reached the door, Erik said, “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what was her name?”

Without looking at Erik, still staring out the window, William said, “Jezharra.”

Erik closed the door behind him. As he walked along the corridor leading to the marshalling yard, he considered the conversation. No closer to knowing what he should do, he decided to put his mind to the matters before him and let his feelings for Kitty come as they might.

Tomas sat motionless.

King Redtree,
Aron Earanorn
in the elves’ language, spoke. “In the years since we abandoned the Northlands to
return,
we have attempted to understand our cousins.” The leader of the glamredhel, the “mad” elves, those left to fend for themselves in the Northlands above the Kingdom ages ago, fixed Queen Aglaranna with a steady stare. “We bow to you as ruler,
here,
lady”—he made an all-encompassing gesture with his right hand—“in Elvandar. But we do not accept any suggestion that you rule us, absolutely.”

Tomas glanced at his wife. The ruler of the Elves of Elvandar turned her softest smile on the warrior who had ruled over his followers for almost as many years as she had reigned in the elven glades. “Earanorn, no one here is suggesting anything,” she countered. “Those who chose to come to Elvandar,
by the call of ancient blood or as guests, are free to leave at any time. Only those who choose to remain here of their own accord are subject to our rule.”

The former King tapped his chin. “That’s the rub, isn’t it?” He looked at the assembled elves in the Queen’s Council: Tathar, her senior adviser; Tomas, the half-human Warleader and prince consort; Acaila, leader of the eldar who had remained on the world of Kelewan until the human magician Pug had found them; and others, including Pug and his current companion, Miranda. After a long silence, the old King asked, “Where would we go? Back to the Northlands and our less generous cousins?”

Tomas glanced at Pug, his boyhood companion, foster brother, and ally in the Riftwar, and his eyes revealed that he, too, knew the answer: there was nowhere else for these “wild” elves to go.

Tomas turned his attention to Acaila, whose knowledge and power never failed to astonish Pug, and raised a finger so slightly the human magician barely noticed it. Acaila inclined his head but a fraction of an inch, yet the Queen returned the barely perceptible nod.

“Why leave at all?” asked the leader of the eldar, those ancient elves who were closest to the Dragon Lords, and who kept their lore and knowledge. “You have found your lost kindred after centuries of isolation and no one seeks to return you to slavery, yet you seem ill at ease. May one ask why?”

Redtree let out a long sigh. “I’m an old man.” At this, Tathar, Acaila, and some others laughed, without malice but with genuine amusement. “Very well, so I’m merely three hundred seventy years of age, while some here are twice that, but the truth is the
Edder Forest of the Northlands is a harsh place, rife with enemies and scant of food. You have little sense of that here, in the midst of Elvandar’s bounty.” He hugged himself slightly as if memory of the Edder was chilling. “We numbered no Spellweavers, and the healing magic of Elvandar did not exist. Here a mild wound heals with rest and food; there festering can take a warrior as surely as an enemy’s arrow.” He held out his hand in a balled fist, anger coloring his words. “I have buried my wife and my sons. By my people’s experience, I am a
very
old man.”

To Pug, Miranda whispered, “And a long-winded one, too.” She stifled a yawn. Pug tried not to smile on the heels of the old King’s emotional words, but he, like Miranda and the others, had heard the tale of Redtree’s battles and losses many times in the months they had lived with the elves.

Calin, Aglaranna’s older son and heir to her throne, spoke. “I think over the last thirty years we have demonstrated our goodwill, King Redtree. We mourn your losses”—others of the council nodded agreement—“yet here rests your people’s best chance to thrive, returned to the heart of our race.

“During the Riftwar and the Great Uprising, we lost many who now rest in the Blessed Isles, yet we have gained, by your having found your way here. In the end, all of elvenkind are profited.”

Redtree nodded. “I have considered my people’s choices.” He seemed to let go of something, a hint of pride. “I have no sons.” Looking at Calin, he said, “I need an heir.”

A young warrior of the glamradhel stepped to his King’s side, handing over a bundle wrapped in leather and tied in thongs. “This is the mark of my
rank,” said Redtree, untying the bundle. As much as elves could display surprise, the assembled council was surprised. Inside the skins was a belt of marvelous beauty: silken threads that Pug judged were something more alien than silk held gems of stunning brilliance in a pattern both lovely and compelling.
“Aslethnath!”
proclaimed Redtree.

Pug studied the belt, shifting his perceptions. To Miranda he whispered, “This is a thing of power.”

“Really?” she asked dryly.

Pug glanced at her and saw her smile, as she tried to keep from laughing at him outright, and again he was visited by the certainty that her power and knowledge were more than she revealed.

Acaila stepped down from the circling benches and came to stand before Redtree. “May I?” he asked.

Redtree handed him the belt.

He examined it and then turned to Tathar. “This is a great and wonderful magic. Did you not know it was here?”

Tathar, senior among the Queen’s Spellweavers, shook his head. With a hint of irritation, he said, “Did you?”

Acaila laughed, as he had often laughed when teaching Pug for the year the magician had lived with the eldar, in Elvardein, Elvandar’s twin forest, magically hidden under the ice cap on the world of Kelewan. There was no mockery in that laugh, ever, but with a hint of irony, Acaila said, “There is that.” He turned back toward Redtree, and the ruler of the glamredhel nodded slightly. Acaila turned as Tathar stepped down from his place in the Queen’s circle. Even though Acaila was the undoubted leader in age and experience
among the Queen’s advisers, he was a newcomer, and Tathar was Aglaranna’s seniormost adviser.

As Tathar took the belt and turned to present it to Calin, Redtree spoke. “The belt is worn in high council and is passed from the King to his son. As he who was my father gave the belt to me to mark my position as heir, so I give this to you, Prince Calin.”

The Elven Prince bowed his head as Acaila handed him the belt. He took it and touched his forehead to it, and said, “Your nobility is unquestioned. I accept your generosity with humility.”

Then Aglaranna rose and said, “Again our people are one.” To Redtree she said, “You are truly Aron Earanorn.” She bowed her head to him. An elf appeared behind him with a new robe, and at the Queen’s bidding, he placed it over the armor and furs Redtree wore in the fashion of his people. “You would honor our council by accepting a place in it.”

The old King said, “The honor is mine.”

Acaila put out his hand and led Redtree to a place between Tathar and himself.

Pug smiled and winked at Miranda. By placing the glamredhel above himself in council, yet behind Tathar, the wise leader of the eldar avoided years of possible resentment by the glamredhel. Redtree would stand second only to Tathar in council.

Miranda motioned with her head for Pug to move away from the council and when they were safely away from the discussion, she said, “How long is this going to continue?”

Pug shrugged. “Redtree’s people first came here about thirty years ago, twenty years or so after Galain and Arutha ran into him after the fall of Armengar.”

“They’ve been arguing who’s in charge for thirty years?” asked Miranda, her face showing disbelief.

“Discussing,” said Tomas, appearing behind them. “Come with me.”

Tomas led Pug and Miranda to a private area, screened from the Queen’s court by cleverly arrayed branches. On the other side, he could look out over the tree city of Elvandar.

Pug asked, “Do you ever get used to it?” He studied his friend, again finding the echoes of his foster brother in the alien-etched features of the tall warrior.

Even in his ceremonial robes, Tomas radiated strength and power. His pale blue eyes, nearly colorless, gazed across the vista of Elvandar as he said, “Yes, but its beauty never fails to move me.”

Miranda said, “No one who’s alive could not feel something.”

It was evening and Elvandar was ablaze with a hundred cooking fires, some on the ground below, others on platforms erected in the branches of the trees. Throughout the community, glowing lanterns had been ignited, but rather than the harsh yellow flame of a city lamp, these glowed with a softer, blue-white light: elven globes, part natural, part magic, and unique to this place. But the trees themselves also were alight, branches illuminated with a soft glow, a faint bluish or greenish haze, as if the leaves were phosphorescent.

Tomas turned, the golden-trimmed red robe flaring slightly, and said, “Is it time for me to don my armor, old friend?”

“Soon, I fear,” said Pug.

Almost wistfully Tomas said, “When we were
victorious at Sethanon, I hoped we were done with this business.”

Pug nodded. “Hoped. But we knew sooner or later the Pantathians would come again for the Lifestone.” Pug’s forehead furrowed, as if he was about to say something additional, but he halted himself. “So long as your sword rests within the stone, and so long as the Valheru are not finally vanquished, we did but buy time.”

Tomas did not reply, but continued to stare out over the railing at the splendor of Elvandar. “I know,” he said at last. “There will come a time when I must retrieve that sword and finish what we started that day.” He had listened with keen interest when Miranda had recounted what she and his son had discovered on their last voyage to the southern continent. Tathar, Acaila, and the other Spellweavers had questioned her repeatedly over the months since she had come, ferreting out details she had forgotten. While Miranda’s patience had been worn thin on many occasions, the long-lived elves took the interminable investigation as a matter of course.

The sounds of voices announced that Aglaranna and her advisers were coming to join her husband in their private quarters. The Queen, followed by Tathar, Acaila, Redtree, and Calin, entered.

Miranda and Pug bowed their heads, but the Queen said, “Court is over, my friends. We are here to discuss important issues in an informal fashion.”

Miranda said, “Thank the gods.”

Redtree scowled. “My familiarity with your race is limited”—he glanced at Acaila, who mouthed a word—“milady.” He pronounced the word as something
alien. “But this rushing to action I’ve observed in humans . . . it’s incomprehensible!”

“Rushing!” said Miranda, allowing her astonishment to show openly.

Pug said, “We have been dealing with the Pantathians for fifty years, Redtree.”

The old elf took an offered goblet of wine and said, “Well, you should have come up with some sense of the enemy, then.”

Suddenly Pug realized that the old elf had his own sense of humor. It was different from Acaila’s: while just as dry, it had a mocking edge. Pug grinned. “You remind me of Martin Longbow.”

Redtree smiled and years dropped from his face. “Now, there’s a human I like.”

“Where is Martin?” asked Tomas.

“Here,” came a voice as the old former Duke of Crydee climbed into view, mounting a flight of steps from below. “I don’t move quite as spryly as I once did.”

“You’re still a fair hand with a bow, Martin,” said Redtree. Then he added, “For a human.”

Martin was the oldest living human Redtree might call a friend. Nearly ninety years of age, Martin looked a man in his late sixties or early seventies. His powerful shoulders and chest were still broad, though his arms and legs were thinner than Pug remembered. His skin looked like old leather, sundried and wrinkled, and his hair was now completely white. But his eyes were still alert, and Pug realized that Martin, over the months he had stayed in Elvandar, continued to have his wits around him. There was no hint of the doddering in this old man. While not quite rejuvenating him, the magic of Elvandar kept him vigorous.

Nodding at Miranda, Martin smiled. “I’ve known the edhel,” he said, using the elves’ own term for their people, “since I was a baby, and their humor is often lost on humans.”

Miranda said, “As is their sense of haste.” She looked at Pug. “For months now, close to a year or more, you’ve been saying that we must be about this or that—mostly, ‘We must find Macros the Black’—yet I find us spending a great deal of time sitting around doing little.”

Pug’s eyes narrowed briefly. He knew Miranda was far older than she looked, perhaps even older than his own seventy-odd years, but often she displayed what he could only call an impatience that surprised him. He seemed about to say one thing, then another. At last he said, “Macros’s legacy to me included many things—his library, his commentaries, and, to some extent, his powers—but nothing could replace his experience. If anyone can help us unlock the mystery of what is behind all we face, it is he.” Pug stood before Miranda and looked into her eyes. “I cannot help but feel that behind all we have seen lurks another mystery, one far more profound and dangerous than what we yet know.” Then his tone lightened slightly as in a mock-chiding voice he added, “And I would expect you, as much as anyone, to realize that often when one is motionless, the most thought is being applied to the problems at hand.”

Miranda said, “I know, but I feel like a horse too long held under rein; I feel the need to be
doing
something!”

Pug turned to Tomas. “There we have the problem, don’t we?”

Tomas nodded, glancing at the oldest, wisest minds in the Council of Elvandar. “What is to be done?” he asked.

Pug said, “Once you found Macros by leading me into the Halls of the Dead. Would it be useful to return there?”

Tomas shook his head. “I don’t think so; do you?”

Pug shrugged. “Not really. I’m not even sure what I would say should we again face Lims-Kragma. I know more now than I did then, but of the nature of the gods and those other agents who serve, them I still feel ignorant. In any event, I’m grasping at straws.” He was silent a moment, frustration clearly evident on his features. Then he said, “No, the realm of the dead would be a waste of time.”

Acaila said, “Those beings are not meant for easy apprehension by those who live mortal spans. But indulge me one question, Pug: why would it be a waste of time to seek this person in the Halls of the Dead?”