26 #2
“It’s a rumor,” said his father, turning back to look at him. His pale orange hair was long, pulled back from his pointed ears in the front but hanging down his back. “Perhaps there’s no truth to it?”
Iahir said nothing.
His father chuckled. “Ah, well. He really did have the most annoying laugh, I have to say. And he was destroying the entire country.”
Iahir’s heart pounded against his chest. He did not know what to say. He had not thought his father would have heard rumors. He had not expected his father to be paying any attention to, well, anything. But apparently the way to get his father to notice things was to rip down the whole world.
Well, done, then. If you wanted his attention, you have gotten it. Is this why you did it?
They climbed two levels and then settled into a sitting room on that floor. His father rang for a servant but he said that it would be just as likely no one would come. “As I say, we are bleeding servants.” He settled into an easy chair and he gestured for Iahir to sit opposite him.
Iahir did so.
“Well,” said his father, “you cannot stay.”
Iahir’s lips parted. “But I am needed—”
“If they find you, they’ll likely want to punish you in some way.
I can stall that to some degree. I am still Sterlin nae Cirlahir.
People still hear my name and quake. But there is little power I have now, and you must see that.
Everything is in flux. It’s rather exciting, I must say.
I await news from the capital eagerly. I understand some upstart revolutionaries—and they are claiming they engineered the death of the High King—are negotiating with the orcs.
There may be some sort of agreement soon, and that will mean a semblance of order is returned.
But it will never go back to the way it was, of course.
” He sighed, scratching at the top of his head, a distant look in his eyes.
“Where was I?” He cleared his throat. “Right. Why did you do it? Were you acting at the behest of…” He snapped. “What is the name? Marthlis?”
Iahir licked his lips. “Well, to some degree, I suppose, but I don’t think Marthlis meant it. They were all… playing a game, I think. It was all academic, some sort of thought exercise, and I don’t think they realized what a revolution would really do to the comforts they enjoyed.”
“No, that is the weakness of the visionary,” said his father.
“The visionary sees a vision of a better future, but rarely also gets the vision of how things will be harmed when his vision is implemented. The visionary sees the destination, not the path. Sometimes that destination is impossible to reach.” He swallowed.
“I know this better than most. Once I set out to do what I wished to do, I could only see that beautiful future—your mother whole, your brother taking over as competent and strong. I never saw all the things that would happen in the pursuit of it.”
Iahir was not certain what to say.
“But look at you,” said his father, smiling at him. “Look at you, taking everything into your hands, going against the High King, starting all this.” He gestured around. “You have changed the world, my boy.”
Iahir licked his lips again. “I don’t think for the better.”
“Well, that is all a lie, I think, this idea of anything getting better. Things get different. Suffering shifts around. We Valaedor elves have evaded suffering for some time. Now, it will be our lot to bear it for a time. Overall, I don’t think things really get better.
” He tilted his head to one side. “Well, I cannot truly think that. One cannot be a visionary and really believe it’s all pointless.
Things must get better, mustn’t they?” His smile was wide and sunny, but he wasn’t looking at Iahir.
Perhaps his father was mad.
His father focused on him again. “You have not answered my question. Why did you do it?”
“I wanted you to meet me and talk in a sitting room instead of standing behind you while you sorted through the guts of some poor sod in your laboratory, I think,” said Iahir.
His father blinked at him.
“Imagine that, thinking your attention mattered.” Iahir stood up. “What a child I have been.” He started across the room to the door.
“Wait,” said his father.
Iahir turned to look at him.
“You’re not wrong. I have neglected you,” said his father. “And to the detriment of everything, for it is now quite obvious I will never prevail against whatever afflicts your mother. I will not have the resources nor the freedom, not in the world that we are moving swiftly towards.”
“You’re not angry with me for having done it?”
“I’ve never been angry with you,” said his father with a shrug. “I suppose if I’ve seemed angry, it’s only been… well, I wanted to solve it.” He rubbed his chin. “Anything getting in the way of solving the problem has been an annoyance. I suppose that has encompassed you. I am sorry.”
Iahir heard it, and he could tell his father was sincere, and it was maddening how it meant nothing, how it changed nothing, how he thought that hearing it would be something, and it was nothing. He let out a little pained gasp.
“You must go, of course,” said his father.
“They know it was you, and they are angry, and they want someone to blame. They will hurt you if they find you. Maybe they’ll just string you up from a tree, but I rather imagine it will be worse.
You must go far, far away, and you must not come back, not until things have settled, and that could be… years, really.”
“But then what becomes of you?” said Iahir. “What becomes of Mother, of Adalir?” That was his brother.
“I am not dead,” said his father. “I am here, and I am the evivtain, and the orcs are running quickly out of ammunition and supplies and everything else they need. They are disorganized and fueled entirely by rage. They have no idea how to negotiate. So, that part will be over soon, and it will be elves back in charge. But everything will be madness, still, and things will—” His father waved a hand at this.
“I am getting off topic. The point is, all I have to do is to retain enough servants to hold the castle. I can well do that.”
“Can you?” said Iahir.
“Well, better than you, when the servants find out that you killed the High King,” said his father. “You know they loved him better than we did.”
It was true that the servants did seem to find Findas to be some sort of champion of the poor and downtrodden, some sort of folk hero.
His father scratched the top of his head again. “Oh, convince me you can, my boy. Convince me that you can take over and I can go back to my laboratory and get back to work. Convince me?”
Iahir shook his head. “You know I cannot.”