Supported on a yew staff still green with living growth, the old elf totters to the middle of the hall floor and genuflects before the king. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Seer Tamnaeth,” Alderin says. “We have need of your unique skills.” He indicates the stranger with a quick nod and a tilted eyebrow. “This man claims to be—”
“Tell me not of his claims nor of your own suspicions,” the truthseer interrupts, cracking the end of his staff sharply against the stone floor. “I shall look. I shall see. I shall know.” His voice is like trilling birdsong and chattering squirrels, yet it is a voice none would dare contradict. Far too old, far too knowing for comfort.
Alderin inclines his head and backs away, motioning to both his nephew and the guards to do the same. A clear space opens around the stranger, who remains standing calmly, with his arms at his sides, his shirt hanging open, that awful scar still on display. The truthseer totters up to him, grunting and sniffing. He seems to take special interest in the scar at first, then shrugs and begins to circle the man, his footsteps unhurried. His little eyes, nearly lost behind the tangle of his own eyebrows, travel up and down the stranger’s frame, taking in every inch of him. I find I am holding my breath and force myself to release it in a slow, steady exhale. I don’t know what I’m hoping or wishing or fearing. I know only that I cannot bear to look away.
At last, the truthseer faces the stranger once more. He holds out one gnarled hand, long green nails curling from his fingertips. The man in black looks down at him. His mouth forms a grim line. For a fraction of a heartbeat, he seems to hesitate. Just enough that I notice. Just enough that I wonder,Is he lying after all? Is he not who he claims to be? Will I have to sit here and watch him be executed on the spot?
A sudden urge comes over me to leap from my chair and put a stop to this. But what can I do? What can I say? I have no power here. I am little better than a prisoner. Besides, why should I feel the need to defend this man who deceived me? And yet I cannot deny the impulse. I bite my lower lip so hard I taste blood.
As though coming to a decision, the stranger reaches out andclasps the hand of the old elf. Long fingers close around his, hard enough that he visibly winces. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the truthseer’s head rolls back, staring up at the ceiling overhead. His eyes are wide, brilliant lanterns of burning white, blazing with inner fire so bright, all thescintilsflicker and nearly go out. The branches in the elf’s hair and beard twist and turn like living things.
“You are Valtar Skylock,” the truthseer speaks, his voice no longer trilling but deep and hollow, like an echo rising from the deeps. “Prince of Inithana.”
The stranger swallows. Light from the truthseer’s eyes casts his face in strange, stark highlights. “Yes,” he replies.
“You will bring peace to Khylmira. At whatever cost.”
The stranger nods. “Yes.”
“You fear for your brother. He is lost to you. Lost in fire. Lost in pain.”
A stricken expression crosses the man’s face. He looks as though he will withdraw. Then he firms his stance and answers again: “Yes.”
The elf turns his head to one side. Though he still stares at the ceiling, in some inexplicable way, he seems to be studying the man before him. “There is darkness in your heart.”
The stranger’s body tenses.
“I see shadow and hellfire,” the truthseer continues, “rippling through your soul. The rage of dragons in your heart.”
The stranger’s teeth flash in a grimace. “Yes,” he replies.
A sharp intake of breaths hisses through the crowd. The courtiers have all backed away to the far walls, holding on to one another as they watch the scene taking place.
“And yet…” the old elf continues softly, musingly, “and yet you are not what you seem.”
The man does not answer. He remains still as stone, his hand gripped by those ancient fingers. The leaves and branches sprouting from the truthseer’s beard have grown, reaching and winding around the stranger’s legs and arms like so many curious tentacles. They touch him, prod him, stroke his face, drawing information through their leaves and stems, feeding it back to the old elf, who stands in silence for what feels like an age, still staring up at the ceiling above.
Then, with a sudden gasp of breath, the truthseer releases the stranger’s hand. All his leaves and branches instantly retreat, tucking away inside his beard once more as he takes several steps back. Panting hard, the old elf leans on his yew staff, shaking his heavy head.
“What is it?” Alderin demands. “What did you see?”
The seer breathes out a long, long sigh. While it might be nothing more than my imagination, it seems as though a breath of green, foresty perfume wafts through the hall. Then he turns to the king, blinking eyes which no longer glow like moon lanterns but are once more little brown sparks in his wrinkled face.
“There is death in this man’s heart,” he says, his voice trilling, a contrast to the words he speaks. “Yes, and darkness too. But that he must be allowed to participate in the trials, there can be no doubt. If he does not, Princess Roselle’s mission will surely fail.”
Immediate uproar follows this declaration. The watching courtiers gasp and whisper, and Taigan utters an inarticulate bellow of rage, echoed by the other champions. But when Alderin holds up both hands for quiet, they all subside once more. The king addresses his truthseer then, saying, “And is he Prince Valtar Skylock as he claims?”
The elf nods once.
“And is he one of the dracori?”
To this the truthseer offers no answer. He stands in place, clasping his staff, his body bowed down, his eyes closed. He’s so deeply sunk into himself, it’s clear no more answers will be had from him.
“Uncle,” Taigan says, stepping once more to the king’s side, “you cannot mean to let this man participate. Not on the word of that lunatic!”
Alderin shakes his head heavily. “A truthseer cannot speak anything less than the absolute truth. The power which moves through him when he gazes into the Beyond is too great to permit for any falsehood.” His shoulders lift and heave in a deep sigh. “If, as he says, this man’s participation in the trials is vital to the ultimate success of Roselle’s quest, we dare not intervene.”
