The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (9 page)

“You said you felt a taint in me.”
Baleron flexed and clenched his left hand. “I think he’s inside me, Logran. I
think he’s the one that stabbed you.”

“Are you sure it was not your
Doom?”

“I’m sure. Otherwise why would
Gilgaroth have had me chop off my hand,
then
reattach
it? See the scars if you don’t believe me.”

Logran looked noncommittal.

Baleron’s mind returned to
Kenbrig
. Baleron and his brother had never been
particularly close, but he would miss him.

A more pressing issue faced him,
though: what did it mean that
Jered
had been slain?
Did the Dark One betray him after he’d fulfilled his Doom? Would Gilgaroth do
the same to Baleron? But surely
Jered’s
purpose had
not been fulfilled, or Logran would have told him that news first.

“The Queen, the City,” he said,
just to make sure. “How do they fare?”

“Clevaris stands, but barely.
Grudremorq has fouled the River and corrupted the
Larenthellan
;
he sends his sons into the moat and their heat boils it away. It kills them,
but they weaken it, and he’s dammed up the Larenth upstream. The elves would’ve
run out of water by now, but Queen
Vilana
stopped the
flow in time, and since then a dam has been constructed at the northern end of
the City, and they have water enough to last . . . for a time. But
Larenthellan
, the moat that protects Clevaris—it no longer
serves as a barrier, and the Fire God can now lead his troops across it to
assault the walls of the City directly. Meanwhile the
Whiteworms
and Swans protect the City from the air, but their numbers dwindle, and the
Darkworms
and glarumri seem endless—although where these
Worms come from I can’t imagine. There should not be so many . .
. ”

Then
Jered
had not accomplished his task. The mystery of his death deepened, and Baleron
was determined to find out the why of it. After all, the spawn of Oslog knew
not to slay Baleron, so why didn’t they know to spare
Jered
?
Was it because Baleron was
ul Ravast
and
Jered
simply a pawn?

“Several of
Vilana’s
highest and most powerful elves have been murdered,” Logran continued. “Right
in the Palace, too. There’s a traitor amok, and no one has any idea who.”

A sudden headache bloomed fiercely,
yet the prince managed to say, “I don’t think he’ll kill anyone else,” before
the pain overwhelmed him and he fell back, gasping.

Logran knelt over him and placed a
hand on Baleron’s head. The Archmage concentrated, closing his eyes, and
quickly Baleron began to feel better, but Logran gasped and hastily removed his
hand. He staggered back, as though afraid of Baleron.

“What—?” asked
Baleron.

Logran let out a shuddering breath.
“The Wolf’s touch,” he murmured. “I felt it upon you . . .”

Baleron maintained eye contact.
Slowly, steadily, he said, “I don’t serve him, Logran. I don’t. It’s Rauglir,
he’s in me. It sounds absurd, but it must be.”

“You’re tainted . . .”

“
He’s
the taint. Don’t you see? Give me a
sword,
I’ll chop off my own hand right now.
Then
you’ll trust me, and I’ll be free . . . of Rauglir, at least. My Doom will
still—”

“I doubt anyone’s going to give you
a sword again, Baleron, not for a long, long time.”

“But you believe me, right? I’m.
Not.
Evil.”

Logran regarded him sadly. “I don’t
know what you are, Baleron.” He gathered himself together and stared at the
chained prince with sad brown eyes. “Your father has instructed me to determine
your status, whether good, evil, or other. Tell me truly, Baleron. Are you an
agent of the Wolf?”

Baleron paused, lowered his eyes.
“Almost, Logran.
Almost.
Even now
I’m not sure what the right thing to do is,
if
there is a right thing. But no, I’m not working with the Enemy, though later I
might wish I had. Just by cooperating with you, I’m . . . well, you would not
believe me if I told you, but trust me, it will have terrible consequences on
someone I love.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because it’s me,
Logran.
You’ve known me all my life. You know what I would or wouldn’t
do. You must trust me.”

“
You stabbed me in the back.
” Logran breathed heavily. After some
moments to calm himself down, he said, “I clearly can’t let you walk around
freely, can I? Your father has given me custody of you. He says that since it
was my life you tried to steal, you are
mine
now.”

“Your sorcerers have already tested
me.”

“Tested and failed, but there are
further tests we can do . . . though they won’t, I fear,
be
pleasant.” Logran sighed. “I need to rest. We’ll see each other again soon. Try
not to kill anyone in the meantime.”

“No, wait! What of Rondthril? Why
do you need it? I must know.”

Logran paused, seemed to steel his
resolve, then disappeared out the door. It shut with a harsh clang, and Baleron
was left alone once more.

Sinking back to the floor, he eyed
his left hand. Could it really be Rauglir? Once again, he flexed and clenched
it, and it obeyed him . . . but for how long?

“You don’t fool me,” he told it.

Suddenly he heard dark, familiar
laughter inside him, and his eyes widened.

“So it’s true! You’re really
here
.
Gods!”

More laughter.

Something cold crawled up Baleron’s
spine, like little spiders made of ice.
My
body is not my own.
Without warning, a feeling of utter horror overwhelmed
him, and he shook in a sudden convulsion, lifted his head and screamed. His
voice echoed off the walls of the crypt, and the guards looked nervously in at
him, but they did not enter. Hastily they slammed and bolted the door.

For the rest of the morning Baleron
languished in the catacombs, contemplating his hand, before finally he received
his second and last visitor.

King Grothgar entered the crypt and
stared down at him, still chained to the floor. Baleron, who had been brooding
unproductively, trying to mentally grapple with the alien spirit inside him,
glanced up with astonishment as the door flew open and his father marched in
accompanied by half a dozen guards, two of which held crossbows aimed at his
breast.

For a long moment, father and son
just stared at each other. Baleron could feel the disappointment radiating off
the king like heat off a hot road.

“Your brother
Jered
is dead,” Albrech said abruptly.

“Logran told me.”

“Did you also know that
Kenbrig
had died, murdered by the same fiend that took your
mother and possessed your sister—the same fiend that you rescued from the
depths of Gulrothrog and led amongst us—not once but twice?”

The prince’s head hung a bit. “I
know.”

“You,” said Albrech in disgust,
“are now the Heir.”

Baleron had heard it before from
the sorcerer, but he’d been so focused on the mystery of his hand that he had
not had time to think much on it.

“Have you formally announced it?”
he asked.

“No,” said Albrech. “I haven’t
wanted to. I thought you dead, or worse. It turns out to be the latter. When I
heard you were back, I wanted to see if you demonstrated any characteristics
that would lend you to the job, and you can see the result of that. I suppose
I’ll have to circumvent tradition and appoint one of your sisters in your
place; there is one or two that seem competent enough, though the
lot are
involved in typical womanish schemes and silliness.”

“Appoint one of them, then. I’m
clearly not fit for the job.”

“You’re a creature of the Dark
One!”

“You said yourself that you know
it’s me.”

“Yes, and you’ve
given
yourself to him. You’re weak,
selfish,
base
.” The king began pacing like a caged
lion. Suddenly he stopped and stared at his son acutely. “What were you
gibbering about your sister the other day?”

“Would you
believe me if I told you?”

Again the king stared at him
sharply, appraisingly. “No,” he grunted at last.
“Probably
not.”
He cleared his throat. “You missed her funeral, by the way. It was
a small affair—one among many. We didn’t have the time to stage anything more
elaborate, and it would’ve seemed crass to do so what with all the others.
So many funerals, Baleron.
So much death and destruction,
and here we are in the End Days when we will see even more. Soon Glorifel will
fall. I should not say it, but of that I have no doubt. Tell me, Baleron, how
does one have a funeral for a city?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,
Father. Take your people north. Regroup with our allies. Build up your
strength, then strike and strike hard. It’s the only way you’re going to win.
Trust me. I know what you face.”

“And I know that every word that
comes out of your mouth is suspect. Either you’re a willing agent or, as Logran
tells me, you’re tainted, whatever that means—but either way I can’t afford to
trust you. What I can do, however, is acknowledge you’re still family, and
allow you to
Jered’s
funeral this afternoon—not that
you’d know what time it is from this infernal night that hangs over us
constantly.”

“
Jered’s
. . . funeral? But isn’t his body at Clevaris?”

“It is, and it will be buried
there. The Queen feels most strongly about that; he was truly like a son to her—more
so than to me, I’m sure. She builds his tomb even now. But we will hold a
ceremony here, as well, for he was after all our kin, not hers.” Albrech moved
towards the door,
then
turned back. “We’ll have some
of your clothes brought down. You don’t want to be wearing
that
to see your brother off in.”

“Rolenya—does she also have a
tomb?”

The king looked pained. “She does,”
he admitted.
“Thanks to you.”
His voice turned sour.
“Never forget that it was you who caused this, Baleron. Her death, our fall,
all of it—it’s on your head.”

Scowling, he swept from the room,
taking his men with him, and they slammed the door shut behind them.

An hour later, a full dozen guards
escorted the prince—now washed and in clean attire, which was a relief—up into
the street that ran before the palace, where there waited a long string of
black coaches pulled by black horses. Baleron was led into the back of a prison
coach, nearly the last vehicle in the funeral procession, where he was locked
inside, and, with a cry and the crack of whips, the procession was off.

They wound through the war-torn
city, and Baleron gazed out from his barred window at the desolation of
Glorifel. They passed the Street of the Arts, and

At last the procession reached the
royal cemetery, and Baleron (under heavy guard) was led with the others to the
newly built tomb—surely less impressive than the one the Queen of Larenthi was
having built, but handsome just the same—where an empty coffin would be
installed on the dais within. Griffons, Great Swans and
Whiteworms
were carved into the tomb and wound along its white pillars.

A chill wind blew, black clouds
blotted out the sun, and thunder rolled.

The funeral was a slow, solemn
affair, as the royal family, or what was left of it, huddled together in the
cold and listened to a priest of Brunril and Illiana say kind words about
Prince
Jered
and his brave sacrifice defending the
world against evil. Baleron ignored the sermon. He wondered how
Jered
had handled being in thrall to Gilgaroth, and why
he’d died. It must have been a mistake, Baleron decided, a bloodthirsty
Grudremorqen caught in the heat of battle.

Saddened by
Jered’s
death, Baleron found himself disappointed that he would never get to discuss
Dooms with the legendary Prince of Clevaris who’d been the golden son, and yet
not a son, of Felias and
Vilana
. Baleron had thought
of
Jered
as his golden shadow, the prince who was
everything a prince should be, and loved and renowned. But now it was Baleron,
corrupt and rash and broken, that had survived. He wondered if perhaps
Jered
had simply found the only way out he could: to die in
battle with a worthy foe. Baleron knew he would be lucky to do the same.

The funeral ended and the royals
picked their way back to their coaches. No
Glorifelans
had been told of Prince
Jered’s
true identity, so
there was no one to console the royal family, no crowd of supporters.

The king intercepted Baleron.

“I’ve been to many funerals of
late,” Albrech said.
“Most of them my own kin.
My
wife, my sons, Rolenya, even two true daughters lost when the castle fell.
Baleron, you and I have never been close, but you’re the only son I have left,
and I don’t want to attend your funeral, too. Neither will I allow a son of
mine to rot in prison if I can help it. Report to Logran at once. He’s told me
that there
is
a procedure he can
perform—a Purging, he calls it. I won’t
lie
to you,
son. It may kill you. He says it kills many. And it’s very painful. But perhaps
it can burn this demon out . . . and
your
Doom, as
well.” He paused. “I’ll let it be your decision. Either make the dungeon your
home, or submit to this Purging. Decide now.”