The cave mouth was low, and both elves had to duck to enter. Kemian tried to go in ahead of his monarch, but Kith-Kanan gestured him back.
Compared to the brightly flashing display outside, the tunnel was velvet blackness. Kith-Kanan eased his feet along, sword point leading, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The curving floor was like glass, and his iron-shod feet slid all too easily. Kemian lost his balance and fell backward, landing with a loud clang. Shamefaced, he rolled to his hands and knees and hissed, “Forgive me, Majesty!”
Kith-Kanan waved away his apology and asked, “Can you stand?”
The young general rose slowly. “Come,” whispered the Speaker.
A yellow glimmer appeared far ahead. Kith-Kanan’s breath froze on the chin guard of his helmet. The feeble light grew and picked out a thin coating of frost on the tunnel walls. No wonder it was so hard to walk! Kith-Kanan put out a hand to halt Kemian. The warrior stopped.
Carefully the Speaker replaced his sword in its scabbard. Tied to the upper hanger ring of the scabbard was a small leather bag, closed with a drawstring. Kith-Kanan removed the bag from its ring. It held powdered resin, which sword-armed warriors used to coat the grips of their weapons. During battle, blood and sweat conspired to make sword grips treacherous, so a generous layer of pine resin made a warrior’s hold more secure.
Kemian watched, fascinated, as Kith-Kanan sprinkled resin on the soles of his metal-clad boots. The white powder clung to everything it touched. Kith-Kanan indicated that Kemian should imitate his action. The younger elf did so.
It was fortunate they applied the gum to their feet, for only a short way ahead, the tunnel floor sloped downward at such an angle that walking without the resin would have been impossible. By now, both elves could smell torches burning—and something else. They heard a low drone, not of conversation, but of a male voice singing.
The Speaker stopped short. He squatted, using his sword for balance. Far out in the center of the great chamber ahead, a lone figure huddled under a ragged brown cloak, rocking back and forth, humming.
“It’s the prince!” Kemian breathed.
There was no sign of Drulethen, which worried Kith-Kanan greatly, though he was relieved to see his son alive. “Stay hidden, General. I will approach my son.”
“No, sire!” Kemian caught the Speaker’s arm. “It could be a ruse to draw you out!”
“He is my son.” The Speaker’s brown eyes bored into Kemian’s blue ones. The general dropped his gaze and his restraining grip.
“The other warriors should be in position by now,” Kith-Kanan said encouragingly.
He stepped down the passage, his sword still sheathed. Kemian braced his hands against the walls and waited in an agony of suspense, fearing something would spring out and attack the Speaker.
Kith-Kanan emerged into the chamber. The array of skulls, the detritus of Drulethen’s former furnishings, failed to distract him. In a moderate tone, he called out, “Ulvian?”
The prince’s sagging head jerked up, and he swiveled his neck to face his father. Cuts and bruises marred his bearded face. Ulvian’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s clever,” he said, his words slurred and rather high-pitched. “Assuming the shape of my father, eh? Well, it won’t work!”
He slashed at the air with an antique short sword.
Kith-Kanan glanced at the other tunnel mouths. The dark circles were all empty. He saw no sign of his other warriors.
“Son, it’s truly me. Where is Drulethen?”
Ulvian staggered to his feet. He needed two hands to keep the sword pointed at his father. “I won’t give you the amulet,” he snarled. “I won’t!”
Kith-Kanan walked slowly forward, hands wide and devoid of weapons. “Ullie, this is your father. I’ve come to save you. I’ve come to take you home.” He spoke soothingly, and the prince listened, his head hanging like a ponderous weight on his shoulders. The Speaker came within an arm’s length of his son.
“You’re not my father,” croaked the exhausted Ulvian. Awkwardly he thrust at Kith-Kanan. The Speaker easily sidestepped the blow and grappled with his bleary son. Kemian and all the other warriors, still hidden in the tunnels, burst from the openings, believing their Speaker was in danger. No sooner had they shown themselves than a blast of wind roared down from the ceiling, flattening the warriors and sweeping them head over heels back into the tunnels. Their cries echoed from far up the passages. The wind ceased blowing, and Kith-Kanan and Ulvian were alone in the chamber. Almost.
“Well, well,” said the voice of Dru. “The sovereign of Qualinesti has come to see me. I’m flattered. I knew there would be pursuit, but I hardly dared imagine the Speaker of the Sun himself would seek me out.”
“Show yourself, Drulethen,” Kith-Kanan commanded. “Or do you prefer to hide like some eavesdropping servant?”
“Here I am!”
Kith-Kanan whirled awkwardly, supporting Ulvian in his arms. The sorcerer had appeared behind them, on the opposite side of the firepit. Drulethen now wore a crimson robe. A band of shining black silk flowed across his chest and over his shoulder, trailing on the floor behind him. A ruby pin glittered in the silk on the sorcerer’s left breast, and his blond hair was shiningly clean and combed back from his forehead. All trace of the slave of Pax Tharkas called Dru was gone. He was Drulethen of Black Stone Peak once more.
“By your command, Great Speaker,” he said mockingly. He wore the onyx ring portion of the amulet around his neck on a strand of braided black silk. He bore no obvious weapons.
“You will surrender now to the authority of the Speaker of the Sun and the Thalas-Enthia of Qualinesti,” Kith-Kanan said. “Surrender or face the consequences.”
Dru chuckled. “Surrender? To one elf and one halfbreed? I think not. Your troops are scattered, Speaker, and cannot enter this place unless I wish it. And you cannot compel me to do anything.”
Never taking his eyes from the sorcerer, Kith-Kanan lowered Ulvian to the floor. The prince was unconscious from sheer exhaustion. The Speaker drew his own formidable blade.
“Swords don’t frighten me! I have only to wish it, and I’ll go where you’ll never see me or find me. That will leave you and your worthless son to fall asleep or starve. In either case, you will be at my mercy.”
The Speaker stared hard at Drulethen’s face. He knew from experience that magical disappearance was an illusion, a misdirection of the watcher’s attention. The sorcerer wasn’t going to fool him easily.
“So why don’t you go?” asked Kith-Kanan.
Drulethen stepped down from the hearth and circled around, coming closer. His scarlet raiment rustled softly. Kith-Kanan kept himself between the sorcerer and Ulvian. “I merely hoped that you could be reasonable,” purred the Silvanesti. “Perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”
Stall. Think, thought Kith-Kanan. Give Kemian a chance to do something. “Such as what?” the Speaker said.
“Inside your son’s shirt is a small golden box. It holds the other half of my amulet, and I cannot get it myself. If you give me the rest of my amulet, I will swear to serve you for, say, fifty years.”
“Serve me how? I do not traffic in black magic.”
Drulethen smiled pleasantly. He looked sleek and well groomed in his new attire, not at all like the wretched prisoner who had hauled stones from the Kharolis quarries. “If it’s definitions that bother you, then I’ll stipulate that I shall perform only the whitest of magic, exactly as Your Majesty orders. Isn’t that fair?”