The prince strode furiously down the corridor that led to the servants’ quarters, to a room used by the household scribes. The room was windowless and stood empty, as he knew it would be; everyone was in the streets, celebrating. When he shut and bolted the door, Ulvian had complete privacy. He turned up the wick on a guttering lamp and sat down at the scribes’ table. With shaking hands, he took the amulet from his clothing and set it on the table before him.
“Speak,” he said in a loud whisper. “Speak to me!”
Ulvian could barely form the words, so angry was he. Angry and, though he could hardly admit it even to himself, afraid. The prince was terrified by the adulation and acceptance Greenhands had received from the people of Qualinost. First he’d been banished to Pax Tharkas to be beaten and humiliated by the grunt gang, then he’d been terrorized by a lying sorcerer, and now, when all that he wanted should be within his grasp, now there was Greenhands.
The amulet was silent. The only voices Ulvian could hear were those of the people in the streets outside, still rejoicing.
“Are you trying to drive me mad?” he shrieked, flinging the onyx talisman against the far wall. It bounced off and rolled away. Ulvian buried his face in his hands.
I am not your servant. I do not come when ordered, said a haughty, cold voice inside the prince’s head.
He raised up with a jerk. “What? Are you there?”
You must learn self-discipline. This anger of yours gets out of control and serves you ill. Drulethen did not lose his temper so readily.
Ulvian got down on his knees and felt under the shelves loaded with scrolls. His fingers found the amulet. It was warm to the touch, like a living thing.
“Dru wasn’t so superior,” said the prince, shifting around to sit on the floor.
Yes, I know, his killer is the one who has stolen your birthright.
Ulvian set the amulet on the floor. “Greenhands,” he said with a sneer. “Now called Silveran—as if he deserves a royal name.”
He is your father’s son, but there is more to him than his ancestry. The power dwells within him. It is a danger to us.
“What power?”
The ancient power of order, which brings life to the world. It is not of the gods, but a more elemental force.
The prince shook his head. “This theology means nothing to me. All I want is what I was promised from birth: my place on the throne!”
Then Greenhands must die.
Put so bluntly, the idea gave Ulvian pause. He pondered the possibility for a long time and finally said, “No, Greenhands must not die. No matter how subtly it was done, suspicion would fall on me. That must not happen. I want this upstart discredited, not killed. I want the people, including my father, to want me on the throne.” His jaw clenched, he added in a whisper, “Especially my father.”
It was the amulet’s turn to fall silent. Then it said, You are a worthy successor to Drulethen.
Ulvian smiled, basking in the praise. “I shall surpass that lowborn sorcerer in every way,” he said smugly.
“I am most pleased to meet you, Prince Silveran.”
Senator Irthenie bowed to Kith-Kanan and his son. They were in the outer hall of the Thalas-Enthia tower. The Speaker was about to present his newest son to the senators of Qualinesti, and he knew they weren’t going to be as enthusiastic as the common folk had been.
The Kagonesti woman studied Silveran closely. He was dressed in a simple white robe, with a green sash at his waist. His long hair shone in the late morning sunlight that poured through the windows. “The public display yesterday was very clever,” said Irthenie. “How did you accomplish it?”
The elf once known as Greenhands gave her a blank look and said, “I don’t understand. I was very happy when I entered the city. The people were friendly to me. That’s all I know.”
“My son has certain gifts,” Kith-Kanan remarked. “They come from his mother’s side of the family.”
Verhanna, standing back by the wall, raised her eyebrows.
“A very useful talent,” Irthenie said. “But can he rule, Majesty? That is your plan, I know. Can this innocent in a grown elf’s body rule the nation?”
Kith-Kanan adjusted the folds of his creamy white robe distractedly. “He will learn. I—we—shall teach him.”
The rumble on the other side of the thick obsidian wall was the debate already raging about the Speaker’s new son and possible heir. The Loyalists were outraged, the New Landers were doubtful, and the Friends of the Speaker were completely in the dark about what to say or do.
“Where is Prince Ulvian?” Irthenie asked. “Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s sulking,” Verhanna snorted. “I offered to drag him here by his heels, but Father wouldn’t let me.”
“The Speaker has a kind heart and a wise mind. There is real danger in alienating Prince Ulvian and those who support him. I have not served this nation so long to see it torn apart by a dynastic war.”
“Do you think it will come to war?” asked Verhanna, sensitive to the larger issues.
“Not really,” the senator admitted. “The Loyalists want to exploit Ulvian in the name of tradition, for their own greed, but none of them would choose to die for him.”
“I pray you are right,” said the Speaker softly.
The ceremonial doors of the senate swung outward, and the steward of the chamber announced, “The Thalas-Enthia humbly requests that the Speaker of the Sun enter their house and address them.”
The ritual invitation was a signal to Kith-Kanan that the fight was at hand. Adjusting the drape of his clothing once more, the Speaker said quietly to Silveran, “Are you ready, Son?”
The young elf was quite composed, having no conception of the fight that lay ahead. “I am, Father.”
The Speaker raised an eyebrow at Irthenie. “Ready for yet another battle, my old friend?”
Hitching her wide, beaded belt off her narrow hips, the Kagonesti woman replied, “I say give them no quarter, Great Speaker.” Her eyes gleamed.
Kith-Kanan swept into the hushed senate chamber, followed by Silveran, then Irthenie. Verhanna remained outside. As the steward moved to close the huge, balanced doors, she heard the first voices rising in anger from within. Unable to bear the suspense of waiting here but having no desire to sit in on what she considered pointless arguing, Verhanna left the Thalas-Enthia tower and returned to the Speaker’s house.
There she was met by Tamanier Ambrodel, who looked harassed. “Lady,” he pleaded, “if you have any influence with these vulgar centaurs, will you please ask them to get out of the house? They’re wrecking it!”
She winked. “I’ll have a word with uncle Koth.”
The antechamber was in chaos. The centaurs had camped in the open room, changing it from an elegant greeting hall to a fancy stable. Somewhere they’d found some straw, which they had strewn about on the floor to give their hooves better purchase. All the ornamental vases and artfully grown plants had been broken, uprooted, or eaten.
When Verhanna entered, four centaurs were playing catch with a globe of flawless emerald taken from the stair baluster.
She intercepted a toss and caught the emerald. It was weightier than she expected. “Oof !” she grunted, bending low with the ten-inch sphere in her arms.
“Hail, sister cousin!” cried Koth. He sat by the far wall, his legs folded beneath him. A heap of fruit was piled up beside him. On the other side was an equally large pile of gnawed cores. Koth’s face was sticky with juice.
“Hello, uncle,” she said, setting the emerald down on the floor. “You fellows are having quite a good time, aren’t you?”
“This city of yours is paradise!”
The elder centaur burped loudly. “Why, only this morning, I went to the big open place with cousins Whip and Hennoc and found all this lovely fruit!”