Kindred Spirits

A glimmer of an idea began to form in Tanis's mind.

'You will remain in the hallway?' the half-elf asked.

Gilthanas sounded a little peeved. 'I'm supposed to represent Porthios's vanished childhood, so I really shouldn't be at the ceremony itself. But Miral says no one will notice if I crack the door just a bit to listen. After all, I'll be having my own Kentommen in only sixty years.'

Tanis had his plan now to stop Porthios's murderer.

They resumed their run to Qualinost. Finally, the path sloped downward. Drums and trumpets sounded again from the direction of the palace and Tower, and Gilthanas cried, 'We have to go faster! I'm late!'

Through the thinning aspens, Tanis could just barely see the western bridge arcing over the River of Hope. Without pausing to think, he misstepped and bumped into Gilthanas. When his cousin turned toward him, startled, the half-elf tackled him.

Five minutes later, a gray-robed figure emerged from a copse of trees. Behind him, the shrubbery jiggled and a muffled noise came forth, as if a large animal had been bound there. Someone who looked closely at the robed figure now trotting down the path would have seen the faint outline of a sword under the left side of the robe.

Tanis hoped no one would.

He pulled the hood over his face, broke into a run, and crossed the bridge.

Chapter 30

Converging on the Tower

Flint released the rope when he bounced off a pair of aspens, then slid to a stop on mud and moss. Fleetfoot ran a few more steps, then stopped to glare back at him. Flint shook a fist. 'You… you mule!' he cried.

He looked back at the crack in the rock, tempted to mark the place so that someday he could return to examine it more closely. He decided then that the secrets of the past- and the shadows that lurked there-were better left alone. Still, he wondered.

Far below him, in the cool depths of the earth, silence had cast its heavy mantle again over the empty halls and corridors. In the darkness, the shadows waited, as they had for centuries.

Flint heard the drums and trumpets blare in the distance.

Another memory popped to mind: the sight of the mage shoving a sleeve above his elbow as he showed the dwarf how to empty the wondrous bathtub at the palace. The dwarf had seen a small, star-shaped scar on Miral's forearm.

Finally, the dwarf remembered Ailea in her kitchen, the first time he'd taken Tanis to see her. She'd recounted tales of some of the births she'd attended, and she'd mentioned one that went awry, leaving the tiny infant with a star-shaped scar.

Soon, Flint knew, Miral would unleash the fury he had built in decades of resentment. The Speaker and his three children-assuming Gilthanas wasn't dead already-would die. Flint had no doubt that the portion of Miral that was still sane, the part that had lived on the surface for years, befriending dwarf and half-elf alike, would call, 'I'm sorry,' as he slew them.

'Weak mage, indeed,' he said, and grimaced. Deep lines of worry had etched themselves into his face.

Even on a mule, he'd never get to Qualinost in time. For that matter, he had no idea where in Qualinesti he had emerged-just that he was somewhere across the ravine, west of Qualinost. The area looked slightly familiar. He gazed around, trying to get his bearings. Fleetfoot edged closer to Flint, but the dwarf ignored her. He squinted and racked his brain. The Speaker's life hung in the balance.

There was no way he could get back in time-unless he found a shortcut.

Like the oak sla-mori!

He closed his eyes and tried to recall it all-the panic, the pursuit by the tylor, Fleetfoot's pounding hooves. He opened his eyes and examined the mule with more interest. She yanked a mouthful of grass and gazed back.

He turned. He was pretty sure the area where he met the lizard beast was southwest of here. If he just struck out that way, something might strike him-or the mule-as familiar. Mules were known for their sense of direction, if not for their intelligence, sweet breath, or tractable nature. He took a step and waved to Fleetfoot.

'Come on, sweetheart,' he crooned.

The mule continued to chew, a suspicious look in her eyes.

He plucked a handful of grass and held it out. 'Have a snack?' he asked.

A spark of interest stirred in the creature's face.

'Ah, well,' he said with an elaborate sigh, and turned away, casually flopping the morsel of grass across his un-wounded shoulder. 'I guess my poor old heart will break.' He feigned a sob.

A slippery muzzle caught him at the back of the neck, wrenched the grass out of his hand. He turned and let an expression of joy fill his face. 'Fleetfoot!' He threw his arms around her neck, reasoning that he could always bathe later, and swung himself up on her back.

Seconds later, they were trotting off to the southwest.

The guards at the city edge of the western bridge waved as Tanis ran by in Gilthanas's gray robe. 'You're late, Gilthanas!' one shouted. Tanis kept a tight hand on his hood, fearing that his momentum would send the headpiece flying and reveal his identity.

If so, the guards certainly would arrest him.

Tanis ran on through the tiled streets.

Miral stood gravely at the edge of the central area of the Tower of the Sun. The double mosaics soared six hundred feet above him, marble walls gleaming in the light of four hundred torches and the sunlight reflected by countless mirrors, fitted right into the wall. Already the hall was filling with nobles. Lord Litanas stood at the base of the rostrum. Lady Selena, whose hair looked distinctly blonder than the last time the mage had seen her, gazed at the new adviser with violet-eyed fondness from her position near the entry hall. She spared no glance for Ulthen, who sulked near the back.

Lord Tyresian obviously had found someone to repair the ceremonial sword he now wore at his side, as he stood next to Laurana, near the rostrum. Paying no attention to Tyresian, Laurana appeared nervous, continually looking around her.

As a coordinator of the Kentommen, Miral had been able to tell the nobles where to stand, implying that he was merely passing along the Speaker's will. Laurana's position would put her near Porthios and Solostaran when Miral released his magic, he mused.

It was a shame that Lauralanthalasa had refused his marriage offer. He would have changed so many of his plans for her. In fact, he'd delayed them for years, waiting for the day he could declare himself to her and receive her love. He would have given up the Speakership for Laurana; he wondered if he should have told her that. Women adored feeling that their suitors would give up the world for them. In Laurana's case, that was close to true; he might have.

'Weak mage,' he said hoarsely to himself, and laughed. He had been strong since he was a child-since he'd met the Graystone of Gargath in the caverns.

Miral moved toward the right of the rostrum, edging toward the stairs that spiraled upward between the marble inner wall and the gold outer wall of the Tower. Anyone who saw him would assume that the elf who was helping to coordinate Porthios's Kentommen was trying to get a better view of the proceedings from the second balcony, one level above the musicians. The crowd, however, wouldn't be able to see him when he released the magic that would open the top of the Tower and rain fire from above. And if someone saw him, it wouldn't matter anyway.

No one would be left alive to tell.

He stepped slowly up the steps, pausing to catch his breath. He'd become weaker of late. Like it or not, Xenoth's death by magic had drained him. But the tylor hunt had been such a splendid opportunity, once the adviser