Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
"That is a most gracious offer, but I cannot accept it." I reached into a pouch on my swordbelt and pulled from it the silver bracelet I had labored to create over the week. "Cygestolia is the home of the Elves. I am not an Elf. I cannot remain here.
"This bracelet is what I am." I ran my thumb across the runes I had scored into its surface: Man, Mountain, Sword, Luck, and Friend. "Crudely made, just like me, and nothing in comparison with Elven majesty. It defines me completely and even has errors made in its manufacture, which lets you know I have a grasp on my worth and importance in the world."
I let the bracelet dangle from the fingers of my scarred hand. "Rather pitiful, I know, especially from your point of view, but it serves its purpose well. And that purpose is for it to remain here, so I will not be forgotten. When I leave Cygestolia this time, I don't count on returning."
I took a deep breath, then continued. "The Reithrese are out there. They will be looking to do to Men things so horrid that the Eldsaga will pale by comparison. I don't say that to inspire you to destroy Humanity before they do. I want you to know that savagery in the name of racial superiority is not your talent alone. I have seen the Reithrese at practice, I have heard stories, and I saw what Takrakor did to a party of your Lansorii. What comes will be lifeblack delivered in oceans."
I looked around the room, trying to meet as many pairs of eyes as I could. "You and the Dwarves and the Reithrese are all Elder races, but I do not hate you because of it. Hatred is too strong an emotion to be wasted on harmless differences such as race.
"Malevolence, however, deserves hatred. The Reithrese are malevolent. So it is that I hate them. I know, even as I stand here, they are preparing to destroy Humanity—if not this year, then next, or ten years from now or a century from now. They can and will destroy us because they choose to hate us over simple things. Perhaps that is a good definition of malevolence: hatred based on arbitrary and benign differences."
I held my arms open. "You have seen Mankind in me. Men have hopes and dreams, Just as you do. We have the petty and cruel, as you do, but we also have the noble, the kind, and the wise. We are not Elves, nor shall we ever be, but that does not mean we should be butchered by the Reithrese.
"My urgency, the urgency that sent me out to Jammaq, tells me that there is no room or time for compromise with the Reithrese. After they subdue Men, their suspicions will fall on you and the Dwarves. The Reithrese place themselves in service to death. There is no living in harmony with them. There can only be fearing when they will strike."
I let my hands sink back down by my side. "I am going to war. I am going to fight the Reithrese. When you judge my actions, do not look at me as a madman, but remember I am Custos Sylvanii. Do not ask why I choose to oppose the Reithrese, but remember I act as a Man and as a friend of the Sylvan Nation."
Lomthelgar stood out from the line of Elves near the front of the room. "This is the Final Time! In his voice he speaks for all others."
I did not understand the significance of the elder Elfs comment, but its effect on the Consilliarii was what I would have expected had he up and tossed a hornet's nest into the center of the room. Angry shouts in Elven echoed back and forth. Calarianne hammered her staff against the chamber floor a half-dozen times, but that only cut the volume of the discussion, not its virulence. Finally things calmed down, and two Elves were chosen to speak on whatever subject was at hand. The first went on at great length and with incredible eloquence, though I didn't understand a word of it, whereas the second man pointed at me, made a quick statement, and sat down again to a round of applause from the gallery and most of the other Consilliarii.
Calarianne polled the body and the side with the long-winded speaker lost decisively. She made a pronouncement, then looked over at me. "You are a curious man, Neal Elfward. We offer you hard choices, and you accept their burden without complaint. You offer us hard choices, and we are forced to fight before we accept the burden. It is maddening to many of us that centuries of discussion dissolve beneath your urgency and passion."
I wasn't certain how I should reply to that remark, so I said nothing.
"It is the decision of the Consilliarii that the Legionnairii Sylvanii will assemble and march on Reith for the purpose of destroying the Death-lovers. As you have protected and rescued us from them, we deem it our repayment to you to end the scourge of the Reithrese for all time."
I stood stunned for a moment; then I smiled and bowed to the Elves. "I am honored at your choice. When do we leave?"
Vorrin stood forward. "This is our battle now, Elfward. Your part in this is finished. You will not go."
Lomthelgar opposed him. "Vorrin Consilliari, Neal is the Man who has spoken with Three Voices."
"Superstition. It does not apply."
Thralan shook his head. "If it did not apply, Vorrin, why did it make you change your position from your earlier votes on this subject?" He ignored the Elf's stammered defense. "You understand the significance of this—all of you do. This is the reason, the last sign. Because of him we embark on the Second Great Crusade. You deny this because it marks a time of chrysalis and you do not wish to face all that entails."
"He is a Man. This is a War of Elders."
"He is Custos Sylvanii and, therefore, not to be dismissed for his Humanity." Thralan pointed toward me. "Neal wields Divisator. By his hand the snake will lose its head."
Vorrin hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "We cannot chance Divisator falling into Reithrese possession. He could lose it."
"I'll tie a lanyard from my hilt to my wrist."
Lomthelgar clapped at my suggestion and a few other Elves laughed. Vorrin became furious. "And if one of them takes your arm? What then?"
I stared right back at him. "Then I place my trust for the world and the future in the hands of the Elven Legions. If each warrior fights only a tenth as well as Aarundel Imperator, a thousand swords like Cleaveheart could not delay the destruction of the Reithrese. Mark me, Vorrin Consilliari, auguries and prophecies, signs and fears be damned. I will be there to destroy the Reithrese. The question for you is this: will you wait here to be told later how the day was won, or will you fight at my side and guarantee victory?"
Gena followed the emperor back through the generations of Berengar's family to the main imperial line and then on deeper to his own chambers. When they reached the corridor with vaulted ceilings, Gena straightened up, as did Berengar, but Hardelwick still hunched a bit. While older than Berengar by a good bit, Gena did not think the Man so old that his skeleton had begun to deteriorate. She decided, instead, that his hunch came from long years spent poring over manuscripts or haunting the corridors of the stone genealogy.
The emperor's own chambers confirmed her guess concerning his stoop-shouldered posture. If not for the profusion of two items she would have thought the room belonged to a soldier who could only be comfortable in the spare, spartan surroundings of a campaign tent. The bed, wardrobe, desk, and most chairs were little more than pieces of wood hastily cobbled together. Functionality superseded form, and the desk itself looked solid enough to support the weight of the whole palace.
The two things that dominated the high-ceilinged room were books and mirrors. Shelves had been built into every wall, and bookcases started to form a labyrinth in two corners. Every available surface, save but one chair and the center of the desk, had books stacked on it, around it, or above it. The sour scent of the straw in the mattress mingled with the more powerful, musky scent of a Man, making Gena wonder if—absent the necessities of entertaining visitors—the emperor ever left the room.
The mirrors hung all over the room, suspended from the ceiling by slender cords. Other cords secured them one to another, and anchored them to the shelves. None of them were low enough to provide the emperor with a good image of himself, though she suspected the man hardly cared how he looked when or if he dressed for a special occasion.
She also felt a spell woven into the room. The sensation of the spell was maddeningly familiar, but it took a quick, surreptitious casting of a diagnostic spell to tell her what it was. When she got the answer to the mystery, she smiled and blushed. "Of course, a fire-dampening spell. You do not want to chance losing these books."
The emperor nodded distractedly. "Exactly. No fire in this room."
"And the mirrors, they collect the light from the windows and direct it to your desk."
"Yes, Genevera. I work from dawn to dusk, while there is light." The emperor pulled himself up to his full height. "These tomes contain all I have been able to reconstruct of the empire's history. That shelf there, those half-dozen books, those are all I have been able to collect about Neal. I have some questions for you, if you don't mind. . . ."
"Highness, you were going to show us something?" An edge crept into Berengar's voice. "Cleaveheart."
"Yes, yes, that's it." The emperor, hunched over once again, waved them on through a door that led out into the courtyard and the Reithrese tower. "I'd not have found it again if your uncle's vague hints about Reithra worship had not made me compare some accounts from the time of the empire's founding. Of course, the story of Neal having destroyed the Emperor's Legion of Immortal Bodyguards in battle right here is well-known, after which he killed the emperor himself and crowned Beltran on these steps, but I have always been suspect of it. An architect at the time, Xerstan was his name, kept a diary concerning his projects, especially the ones involving changes to the tower here. He had copies made for his family and prospective clients, which is how I happen to have his account, since the original was likely lost well before the fire."
The emperor led them up the steps to the doors of the tower, but required Berengar's help in opening one sufficiently wide to permit them entry. The darkness inside threatened to stop them in the entryway, but Gena conjured a floating witchlight sphere that gave off a cold blue light as it preceded them through the quiet halls. The place felt quite dead to her, but grit grinding beneath her feet and a profusion of shovels, picks, and axes leaning against the walls made her think the tower saw a certain amount of activity from time to time.
"Xerstan mentions meeting Neal and undertaking for him, with the emperor's blessings, a special job. He refuses to give any details about that job, citing confidentiality and honor. He notes, in another place, having helped Lady Larissa of Woodspire complete a monument to Neal, but I found no record of such a thing being created, or any sort of public event being held to memorialize Neal—at least none at which Lady Larissa was present. Xerstan, who was something of a moralist, also devoted a number of pages to the foul business of Reithra worship, and he took great delight in pointing out the tricks and oddities built into the Reithra chapels, one of which every good Reithrese maintains in his home for her worship."
The animation on the emperor's face as he spoke made him seem more alive than ever before, even despite the washed-out, bone-white pallor the witchlight poured into his face. Berengar's impatience narrowed his eyes, and Gena felt convinced he would have swatted the emperor had the man not been leading them further into the dark tower. Gena smiled at the emperor and found she was not forcing it at all, because she actually did find the man's information fascinating.
"Xerstan said each chapel had a firehole. He notes this was a circular pit anywhere from three to six feet in diameter. Plain ones extended down for twice their diameter and were kept burning by the family tossing wood, coal, rubbish, bones, and anything else that would burn down into it. Some of the more sophisticated ones tapped into natural gas vents to keep them burning, and more than one pit actually led down into subterranean tunnels that could be used for a variety of purposes."
Berengar could contain himself no longer. "How does this pertain to Cleaveheart?"
"Always the impatient ones." The emperor stopped and lilted his head to be eye to eye with Berengar. "It occurred to me, Berengar, that Xerstan said every Reithrese dwelling had such a chapel and such a firepit, but I had never seen such in this tower. Xerstan reported that he had learned all he knew about Reithrese chapels by destroying them, which led me to believe that if there had been one in here, he had destroyed it. I began poring over architectural drawings of this tower and remeasuring everything, and I found where the chapel used to be. Therein, I believe, I have found Cleaveheart's resting place."
"You could have said that in the first place."
"Those who only want answers will never learn how to find answers." The emperor yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his left hand. "I have had men excavating the chapel. Wizards I brought in said they felt two foci for magick, so we dug to them first. I think you will find both fascinating. Come."
The emperor held aside a huge tapestry, and Gena saw an opening where bricks had been knocked out of the wall in a haphazard pattern. She sent the witchlight in first, and it revealed a low, narrow tunnel shored up with stout timbers. Gaps on the sides showed her that the architect had used almost anything as fill for the chapel, including broken masonry, bones, dirt, and metal that had been reduced to rusty streaks. Dust clung to everything, and Gena regretted ever having changed out of her road clothes.
At the far end the tunnel opened out into an area that had been entirely cleared of debris and cleaned up substantially. She could see details on the walls, and as she sent the witchlight upward, she got a shock when it revealed a face looking back down at her. She kept the witchlight up there until the emperor emerged from the tunnel. Berengar followed him, rubbing at his forehead.
The emperor looked up. "That, I believe, is the face of Tashayul. He is carved up there, akin to a pate mold." The man laughed lightly. "I believe this is the room in which Neal killed the emperor, and I am certain the irony of having Tashayul watch it all was not lost upon him."