“I came next to you. You have heard nothing then?” Kelevandros looked anxiously at the king.
“No,” said Gilthas. The word made no sound as it left his pallid lips.
“We are about to learn something more, I believe,” said Planchet, his ear cocked. “That is Medan’s heavy tread on the staircase. His footsteps shake the house. He comes quickly.”
They could hear the stamp of the guards’ feet as they came to attention, hear the thud of their spears strike the floor. One of the guards started to knock, but the knock was never finished.
Medan, accompanied by one of his bodyguards—helmed and wearing black leather armor—thrust the door open, strode into the room.
“Your Majesty—”
Gilthas lunged from his chair. He covered the distance between himself and the marshal in two great bounds. Catching hold of the startled Medan by the throat, Gilthas slammed the human back against the wall, while Planchet accosted the bodyguard. Seizing hold of the man’s arm, Planchet twisted it behind his back, held a knife to his ear.
“What have you done with my mother?” Gilthas demanded, his voice hard and grim. “Tell me!” He tightened his grip on Medan’s throat. “Tell me!”
The marshal had been caught flat-footed by the king’s sudden assault. Medan did not move. The young king’s fingers were exceptionally strong, and he appeared to know precisely what he was doing.
The marshal was by no means afraid. He had his hand on the handle of his dirk and could at any moment draw the weapon and plunge it into the king’s belly. That was not, however, what Medan had come here to accomplish.
He stared at Gilthas long moments without speaking, then said, as best he could for being choked, “Either the pup has grown into a wolf, or I am in the presence of a consummate actor.” Noting the fearless determination in the young elf’s eyes, the resolution in the jaw, the firmness of the fingers and the expertness of the hold, Medan had his answer. “I tend to think the latter,” he gasped.
“My mother, sir!” Gilthas said through clenched teeth. “Where is she?”
“I am here, Gilthas,” Laurana replied, her voice echoing inside the helm of the Neraka Knights.
“Queen Mother!” Planchet gasped. He dropped the knife he had been holding and fell to his knees. “Forgive me! I had no idea.”
“You weren’t supposed to, Planchet,” Laurana said, removing the helm. “Let the marshal go, Gilthas. I am safe. For the moment. As safe as any of us.”
Gilthas let loose of Medan, who stepped away from the wall, massaging his bruised throat.
“Mother, are you hurt?” Gilthas demanded. “Did he harm you? If he did, I swear—”
“No, my son, no!” Laurana reassured him. “The marshal has treated me with all possible respect. With great kindness, even. He took me to his house last night. This morning, he provided me with this disguise. The marshal fears my life may be in peril. He took me into custody for my own safety.”
Gilthas frowned as if he found all this difficult to believe.
“Mother, sit down. You look exhausted. Planchet, bring my mother some wine.”
While Planchet went to fetch the wine, the marshal walked over to the door. Flinging it open, he stepped out into the hallway. The guards scrambled to attention.
“Guards, the rebel force has been reported within the city limits. His Majesty’s life is in danger. Clear the household. Send all the servants home. Everyone. No one is to remain within the palace. Is that understood? I want guards posted at all the entrances. Admit no one, with the exception of my aide. Send him to king’s chambers directly upon his arrival. Go!”
The guards departed, and soon their voices could be heard loudly ordering everyone to leave the palace. The voices of the servants rose in perplexity or consternation. It was early morning, breakfast was prepared but had not been served, the floors had yet to be swept. The guards were firm. There was a hubbub of voices, the household staff exclaiming loudly and fearfully, the scream of an overexcited maid. The guards herded everyone out the doors and took up their positions outside as ordered.
Within a few moments, the palace was strangely, unnaturally quiet.
Medan reentered the room. “Where do you think you are going?” he demanded, finding Kelevandros about to depart.
“I must take this news to my brother, my lord,” Kelevandros said. “He is frantic with worry—”
“You are not taking this news to him or to anyone. Go sit down and keep quiet.”
Laurana glanced up swiftly at this, looked searchingly at Kelevandros. The elf glanced at her uncertainly and then did as he was told.
Medan left the door open behind him. “I want to be able to hear what is going on outside. Are you all right, madam?”
“Yes, thank you, Marshal. Will you join me in a glass of wine?”
“With His Majesty’s permission.” The marshal made a slight bow.
“Planchet,” Gilthas said, “pour the marshal some wine.” The king continued to stand protectively beside his mother, continued to glower at the marshal.
Medan raised his glass in a toast. “I congratulate you, Your Majesty. I have been duped for the first and only time in my life. That weak, vacillating, poetry-loving act of yours took me in completely. I have long wondered how and why so many of my best plans were thwarted. I believe that I now have the answer. Your health, Your Majesty.”
Medan drank the wine. Gilthas turned his back on the man.
“Mother, what is going on?”
“Sit down, Gilthas, and I will tell you,” Laurana said. “Or better yet, you may read for yourself.”
She looked to Medan. He reached inside his armor, produced the scroll sent by the dragon, and handed it, with a new and marked show of respect, to the king.
Gilthas walked to the window, unrolled the parchment. He held it to the waning twilight and read it slowly and carefully.
“The dragon cannot mean this,” he said, his voice strained.
“She means it,” said Medan grimly. “Erase all doubt from your mind, Your Majesty. Beryl has long been seeking an excuse to destroy Qualinesti. The rebel attacks grow bolder. She suspects the elves of keeping the Tower of Wayreth from her. The unfortunate fact that Palin Majere was discovered hiding in the house of the queen mother merely confirms the dragon’s suspicions that the elves and the sorcerers are in collusion to rob her of her magic.”
“We pay her tribute—” Gilthas began.
“Bah! What is money to her? She demands tribute only because it pleases her to think she is inflicting a hardship on you. Magic is what she lusts after, magic of the old world, magic of the gods. It is a pity this blasted device ever came into his land. A pity you sought to keep it from me, madam.” The marshal’s voice was stem. “Had you turned it over to me, this tragedy might have been averted.”
Laurana sipped her wine, made no answer.
Medan shrugged. “But, you did. Spilled ale, as they said. Now you must fetch the device back. You must, madam,” he reiterated.
“I have done what I can to stall for time, but I have bought us only a few days. Send your griffon messenger to the Citadel. Instruct Palin Majere to turn over the device and the kender who bears it. I will take them to the dragon personally. I may be able to stave off this doom that hangs over us—”
“Us!” Gilthas cried in anger. “You hold the executioner’s axe, Marshal! The axe hangs poised over our heads, not yours!”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Medan replied with a low bow. “I have lived in this land for so long that it has come to seem like my home.”