require,” he says, “to become the Archmage.”
And then, with a word of magic, he vanishes. She sits alone in the room in shock. She is playing with a magical storm beyond her understanding.
13
A week passes. Then a month. Tomoril continues to bring her food and clothing. He ensures she’s comfortable but won’t tell her the prince’s whereabouts. He provides neither conversation nor distraction. Meiri paces the room, unable to wait in peace as the days drag by. Stress and worry slowly dissolve into boredom. She spends most of her time sitting at the window, looking out over the towers, drinking the wine Tomoril brings. Can one die of boredom? she thinks. She grows soft and plump in places that had been hard and lean. She wonders if she could run across the shoreline or pilot a fishing boat like she used to, or would she lose her breath?
Every day she asks Tomoril, “Do you think he’s forgotten me?”
And every day, Tomoril replies, “No he has not. I am sure of it. Be patient, my lady.”
Then one day loud cracking sounds echo through the city from the streets. She rushes to the window to see what is happening.
Fire burns outside, and smoke rises between the towers. She sees elf battling elf, wands raised to direct elemental fury down upon each other.
“What’s happened?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Everything Prince Kaladan has worked for is coming to fruition. All because he can’t help but love you.”
She wonders if she hears bitterness in Tomoril’s voice. Bitterness that eats away at his loyalty.
Then she sees him. Across the way, on a bridge between two neighboring towers, stands Prince Kaladan. Fury contorts his face, and he is terrible to behold. He confronts another elf, this one with white hair and a crown of floating jewels. The lines of age frame his eyes, and she guesses this one is older than the prince.
“You betray us all!” says the elder.
“Our ancestors sprang from humanity’s greatest dreams,” Kaladan tells him. “And by forbidding us to know them, you have denied us the greatest beauty. The love of our creators.”
“Blasphemy!” the elder spits. “You are no longer my son. You are saldaka, you and all your followers. You create saldaka and then lead them here in defiance of our ancient traditions. Never before has one of the sidhe defied the Imperium.”
There are more?
“You cannot stop us, Father. Your magic is weak. Unprepared. I challenge you for the mantle of Archmage.”
The elder sneers. “You cannot create such beauty as I. I have no equal in the magical arts.” He raises his wand and creates a vision of such indescribable splendor that Meiri weeps from where she watches at the window.
Beside her, Tomoril whispers in her ear, “By tradition, the prince will build his own vision of beauty. If his is greater, the Archmage must concede. Or the prince will stand down.” Tomoril sounds hopeful.
Prince Kaladan shakes his head. “I can never concede to your lack of vision. You know not what I have seen in the human soul.”
The prince points his wand, and Meiri wonders what vision he’ll evoke that he’s so sure he’ll best his father.
Meiri gasps and Tomoril utters a cry of disbelief. Lightning erupts from Kaladan’s wand, seizing his father in its current. Sheets of electricity cascade over the Archmage’s writhing form, and the old elf screeches in agony. Smoke rises from cooking flesh, and Kaladan holds his wand steady until his father falls silent. The dead body continues to writhe in the lightning’s grasp before Kaladan finally releases the magic.
Princess Uendil appears on the bridge across from her father’s corpse. Her wand is raised, as if ready to strike back at the prince, but then she sees the Archmage lying in lingering smoke. Her lips press together, and she lowers her wand. “It is already done,” she laments. “Your followers have slain most of the elders. It’s been generations since we’ve needed spells of war
And then, with a word of magic, he vanishes. She sits alone in the room in shock. She is playing with a magical storm beyond her understanding.
13
A week passes. Then a month. Tomoril continues to bring her food and clothing. He ensures she’s comfortable but won’t tell her the prince’s whereabouts. He provides neither conversation nor distraction. Meiri paces the room, unable to wait in peace as the days drag by. Stress and worry slowly dissolve into boredom. She spends most of her time sitting at the window, looking out over the towers, drinking the wine Tomoril brings. Can one die of boredom? she thinks. She grows soft and plump in places that had been hard and lean. She wonders if she could run across the shoreline or pilot a fishing boat like she used to, or would she lose her breath?
Every day she asks Tomoril, “Do you think he’s forgotten me?”
And every day, Tomoril replies, “No he has not. I am sure of it. Be patient, my lady.”
Then one day loud cracking sounds echo through the city from the streets. She rushes to the window to see what is happening.
Fire burns outside, and smoke rises between the towers. She sees elf battling elf, wands raised to direct elemental fury down upon each other.
“What’s happened?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Everything Prince Kaladan has worked for is coming to fruition. All because he can’t help but love you.”
She wonders if she hears bitterness in Tomoril’s voice. Bitterness that eats away at his loyalty.
Then she sees him. Across the way, on a bridge between two neighboring towers, stands Prince Kaladan. Fury contorts his face, and he is terrible to behold. He confronts another elf, this one with white hair and a crown of floating jewels. The lines of age frame his eyes, and she guesses this one is older than the prince.
“You betray us all!” says the elder.
“Our ancestors sprang from humanity’s greatest dreams,” Kaladan tells him. “And by forbidding us to know them, you have denied us the greatest beauty. The love of our creators.”
“Blasphemy!” the elder spits. “You are no longer my son. You are saldaka, you and all your followers. You create saldaka and then lead them here in defiance of our ancient traditions. Never before has one of the sidhe defied the Imperium.”
There are more?
“You cannot stop us, Father. Your magic is weak. Unprepared. I challenge you for the mantle of Archmage.”
The elder sneers. “You cannot create such beauty as I. I have no equal in the magical arts.” He raises his wand and creates a vision of such indescribable splendor that Meiri weeps from where she watches at the window.
Beside her, Tomoril whispers in her ear, “By tradition, the prince will build his own vision of beauty. If his is greater, the Archmage must concede. Or the prince will stand down.” Tomoril sounds hopeful.
Prince Kaladan shakes his head. “I can never concede to your lack of vision. You know not what I have seen in the human soul.”
The prince points his wand, and Meiri wonders what vision he’ll evoke that he’s so sure he’ll best his father.
Meiri gasps and Tomoril utters a cry of disbelief. Lightning erupts from Kaladan’s wand, seizing his father in its current. Sheets of electricity cascade over the Archmage’s writhing form, and the old elf screeches in agony. Smoke rises from cooking flesh, and Kaladan holds his wand steady until his father falls silent. The dead body continues to writhe in the lightning’s grasp before Kaladan finally releases the magic.
Princess Uendil appears on the bridge across from her father’s corpse. Her wand is raised, as if ready to strike back at the prince, but then she sees the Archmage lying in lingering smoke. Her lips press together, and she lowers her wand. “It is already done,” she laments. “Your followers have slain most of the elders. It’s been generations since we’ve needed spells of war
Similar Books
