Elven Nations Trilogy

Volume One

Firstborn

Paul B. Thompson

& Tonya R. Carter

Prelude

Year of the Dolphin (2308 PC)

The great river Thon-Thalas flowed southward through the forests of

Silvanesti. Three-quarters of the way down its length, the broad waterway

branched and twin streams flowed around an island called Fallan. On this

island was the capital city of the elven nation, Silvanost.

Silvanost was a city of towers. Gleaming white, they soared skyward,

some dwarfing even the massive oak trees on the mainland. Unlike the

mainland, Fallan Island had few trees. Most had been removed to make

way for the city. The island's naturally occurring marble and quartz

formations had then been spell-shaped by the Silvanesti, transforming

them into houses and towers. Approaching the island from the west on the

King's Road, a traveler could see the marble city gleaming with pearly

light through the trees. At night, the city absorbed the starlight and

moonlight and radiated it softly back to the heavens.

On this particular night, scudding clouds covered the sky and a chill

rain fell. A brisk breeze swirled over the island. The streets of Silvanost,

however, were full. In spite of the damp cold, every elf in the city stood

outside, shouting, clapping, and singing joyfully. Many carried candles,

hooded against the rain, and the dancing lights added to the strange yet

festive air.

A wonderful thing had happened that evening in the capital. Sithel,

Speaker of the Stars, ruler of all Silvanesti, had become a father. Indeed

the great fortune of Speaker Sithel was that he had two sons. He was the

father of twins, an event rare among elves. The Silvanesti began to call

Sithel "Twice Blest." And they celebrated in the cool, damp night.

The Speaker of the Stars was not receiving well-wishers, however. He

was not even in the Palace of Quinari , where his wife, Nirakina, still lay in

her birthing bed with her new sons. Sithel had left his attendants and

walked alone across the plaza between the palace and the Tower of the

Stars, the ceremonial seat of the speaker's power. Though common folk

were not allowed in the plaza by night, the speaker could hear the echoes

of their celebrations. He strode through the dark outlines of the garden

surrounding the tower. Wending his way along the paths, he entered the

structure through a door reserved for the royal family.

Circling to the front of the great emerald throne, Sithel could see the

vast audience hall. It was not completely dark. Six hundred feet above him

was a shaft in the roof of the tower, open to the sky. Moonlight, broken by

clouds, filtered down the shaft. The walls of the tower were pierced by

spiraling rows of window slits and encrusted with precious jewels of every

description. These split the moonlight into iridescent beams, and the

beams bathed the walls and floor in a thousand myriad colors. Yet Sithel

had no mind for this beauty now. Seating himself on the throne he had

occupied for two centuries, he rested his hands on the emerald arms,

allowing the coolness of the stone to penetrate and soothe his heavy heart.

A figure appeared in the monumental main doorway. "Enter," said the

speaker, He hardly spoke above a whisper, but the perfect acoustics of the

hall carried the single word clearly to the visitor.

The figure approached. He halted at the bottom of the steps leading up

to the throne platform and set a small brazier on the marble floor. Finally

the visitor bowed low and said, "You summoned me, great Speaker:' His

voice was light, with the lilt of the north country in it.

"Vedvedsica, servant of Gilean," Sithel said. "Rise."

Vedvedsica stood. Unlike the clerics, of Silvanost, who wore white

robes and a sash in the color of their patron deity, Vedvedsica wore a

belted tabard of solid gray. His god had no temple in the city, because the

gods of Neutrality were not officially tolerated by the priests who served

the gods of Good.

Vedvedsica said, "May I congratulate Your Highness on the birth of

his sons?"

Sithel nodded curtly. "It is because of them that I have called you

here," he replied. "Does your god allow you to see the future?"

"My master Gilean holds in his hands the Tobril , the Book of Truth .

Sometimes he grants me glimpses of this book." From the priest's

expression it appeared this was not a practice he enjoyed.

"I will give you one hundred gold pieces," said the speaker. "Ask your

god, and tell me the fate of my sons."

Vedvedsica bowed again. He dipped a hand into the voluminous

pockets of his tabard and brought out two dried leaves, still shiny green,

but stiff and brittle. Removing the conical cover from the brazier, he

exposed hot coals and held the leaves by their stems over the dullyglowing

fire.

"Gilean, the Book! Gray Voyager! Sage of Truth, Gate of Souls! By

this fire, open my eyes and allow me to read from the book of all-truth!"

The cleric's voice was stronger now, resonating through the empty hall.

"Open the Tobril! Find for Speaker Sithel the fates of his two sons, born

this day!"

Vedvedsica laid the dry leaves on the coals. They caught fire

immediately, flames curling around them with a loud crackle. Smoke

snaked up from the brazier, thick, gray smoke that condensed as it rose.

Sithel gripped the arms of his throne and watched the smoke coil and

writhe. Vedvedsica held up his hands as if to embrace it.

Gradually the smoke formed into the wavering shape of an open

scroll. The back of the scroll faced Sithel. The front was for Vedvedsica

only. The cleric's lips moved as he read from the book that contained all

the knowledge of the gods.

In less than half a minute the leaves were totally consumed. The fire

flared three feet above the golden brazier, instantly dispelling the smoke.

In the flash of flame, the priest cried out in pain and reeled away. Sithel

leaped up from his throne as Vedvedsica collapsed in a heap.

After descending the steps from the throne platform, Sithel knelt

beside the cleric and carefully turned him over. "What did you see?" he

asked urgently. "Tell me–I command you!"

Vedvedsica took his hands from his face. His eyebrows were singed,

his face blackened. "Five words . . . I saw only five words, Highness," he

said falteringly.

"What were they?" Sithel nearly shook the fellow in his haste to

know.

"The Tobril said, 'They both shall wear crowns . . .' "

Sithel frowned, his pale, arching brows knotting together. "What does

it mean? Two crowns?" he demanded angrily. "How can they both wear

crowns?"

"It means what it means, Twice-Blest."

The speaker looked at the brazier, its coals still glowing. A few

seconds' glimpse into the great book had nearly cost Vedvedsica his sight.

What would the knowledge of Gilean's prophecy cost Sithel himself?

What would it cost Silvanesti?

1

Spring–Year of the Hawk

(2216 PC)

Clouds scattered before the wind, bright white in the brilliant

sunshine. In the gaps of blue that showed between the clouds, a dark,

winged form darted and wheeled. Far larger than a bird, the creature

climbed with powerful strokes of its broad wings. It reached a height

above the lowest clouds and hovered there, wings beating fast and hard.

The beast was a griffon, a creature part lion, part eagle. Its

magnificent eagle's head and neck gave way to the torso and hindquarters

of a lion. A plumed lion's tail whipped in the wind. Behind the beast's

fiercely beaked head and unblinking golden eyes, the leather straps of a

halter led back to a saddle, strapped to the griffon's shoulders. In the

saddle sat a helmeted figure clad in green and gold armor. An elven face

with brown eyes and snow-colored hair peered out from under the bronze

helmet.

Spread out below them, elf and griffon, was the whole country of

Silvanesti. Where wind had driven the clouds away, the griffon rider could

see the green carpet of forests and fields. To his right, the wandering silver

ribbon of the Thon-Thalas, the Lord's River, flowed around the verdant

Fallan Island . On this island was Silvanost, city of a thousand white

towers.

"Are you ready, Arcuballis?" whispered the rider to his mount. He

wound the leather reins tightly around his strong, slender hand. "Nowl" he

cried, drawing the reins sharply down.

The griffon put its head down and folded its wings. Down they

plummeted, like a thunderbolt dropped from a clear sky. The young elf

bent close to the griffon's neck, burying his fingers in the dense,

copper-hued feathers. The massive muscles under his fingers were taut,

waiting. Arcuballis was well trained and loyal to its master; it would not

open its wings again until told to do so. If its master so desired, the griffon

wouldplunge straight into the fertile soil of Silvanesti.

They were below the clouds, and the land leaped into clear view. The

rich green canopy of trees was more obvious now. The griffon rider could

see the pines and the mighty oaks reaching up, connecting soil to sky. It

was a view of the land few were ever granted.

He had dropped many thousands of feet, and only a few hundred

remained. The wind tore at his eyes, bringing tears. He blinked them

away. Arcuballis flexed its folded wings nervously, and a low growl

sounded in its throat. They were very low. The rider could see individual

branches in the trees, see birds fleeing from the griffon's rapidly growing

shadow.

"Nowl" The rider hauled back sharply on the reins. The broad wings

opened slowly. The beast's hindquarters dropped as its head rose. The

rider felt himself slide backward, bumping against the rear lip of the tall

saddle. The griffon soared up in a high arc, wings flailing. He let the reins

out, and the beast leveled off . He whistled a command, and the griffon

held its wings out motionless. They started down again in a steep glide.

The lower air was rough, full of eddies and currents, and the griffon

bobbed and pitched. The rider threw back his head and laughed.

They skimmed over the trees. Abruptly the woods gave way to

orderly rows of trees, orchards of cherry, plum, and fima nuts. Elves

working in the orchards saw only a large object hurtle over their heads,

and they panicked. Many tumbled down ladders, spilling baskets of fruit.

The rider put a brass horn to his lips, sounding a shrill note. The griffon

added its own eerie call, a deep, trilling growl that was also part lion, part

eagle.

The rider urged the beast up. The wings beat lazily, gaining a few

dozen feet of height. They banked right, swooping over the slow-flowing

waters of the Thon-Thalas. There were many watercraft plying the

river–flat log rafts poled by sturdy, sunbrowned elves, piled high with

pots and cloth to be traded in the wild south; the slender dugouts of the

fishers, the bottoms of which were silvered with the morning's catch. The

griffon swept over them in a flurry of wings. The rafters and fishers

looked up idly from their work. As travelers up and down the great

waterway, they were not easily impressed, not even by the sight of a

royal griffon in flight.

On they flew, across the river to Fallan Island . The rider wove his

flying steed among the many white towers so skillfully that the griffon

never once scraped a wingtip. Their shadow chased them down the

streets.

The rider approached the center point of the city, and the center

point of every elf's life and loyalty, the Tower of the Stars. At six

hundred feet, it was the tallest spire in Silvanost and the seat of power of

the Speaker of the Stars.

He steered the griffon in a quick circle around the white marble

tower. The horn was at his lips again, and he blew a rude, flat warning. It

was a lark, a bit of aerial fun, but halfway around the tower the rider

spied a lone figure on the high balcony, looking out over the city. He

reined back and sideslipped Arcuballis toward the tower. The

white-haired, white-robed figure was no one less than Sithel, Speaker of

the Stars.

Startled, the rider clumsily turned the griffon away. His eyes met

those of the elven monarch for a moment, then Sithel turned and

re-entered the tower. The griffon rider shook his head and made for

home. He was in trouble.

North of the tower, across the ornate Gardens of Astarin, stood the

Palace of Quinari . Here the descendants of Silvanos, the House Royal,

lived. The palace stood clear of the trees and consisted of three,

three-story wings radiating from a rose-colored marble tower. The tower

soared three hundred feet from base to pinnacle. The three wings of the

palace were faced with beautiful colonnades of green-streaked marble.

The columns spiraled gracefully upward from their bases, each in

imitation of a unicorn's horn.

The rider's heart raced as the palace came into view. He'd been away

four days, hunting, flying, and now he had an appointment to keep. He

knew there would be trouble with the speaker for his insolent behavior at

the Tower of the Stars, but for now thoughts of his upcoming rendezvous

made him smile.

He brought the griffon in with firm tugs on the reins. He steered

toward the eastern wing of the palace. Lion's claws behind and eagle's

talons in front touched down on the cool slate roof. With a tired shudder,

Arcuballis drew in its wings.

Servants in sleeveless tunics and short kilts ran out to take the beast's

bridle. Another elf set a wooden step ladder against the animal's side. The

rider ignored it, threw a leg over the griffon's neck, and nimbly dropped to

the rooftop. More servants rushed forward, one with a bowl of clean

water, the other with a neatly folded linen towel.

"Highness," said the bowl bearer, "would you care to refresh

yourself?"

"A moment." The rider pried off his helmet and shook his sweat-damp

hair. "How goes everything here?" he asked, dipping his hands and arms

in the clean water, once, twice, three times. The water quickly turned

dingy with dirt.

"It goes well, my prince," the bowl bearer replied. He snapped his

head at his companion, and the second servant proffered the towel.

"Any word from my brother, Prince Sithas?"

"In fact, yes, Highness. Your brother was recalled yesterday by your

father. He returned from the Temple of Matheri this morning."

Puzzlement knit the rider's pale brows. "Recalled? But why?"

"I do not know, my prince. Even now, the speaker is closeted with

Prince Sithas in the Tower of the Stars."

The rider tossed the towel back to the servant who'd brought it. "Send

word to my mother that I have returned. Tell her I shall see her presently.

And should my father and brother return from the tower before sunset, tell

them the same."

The servants bowed. "It shall be done, my prince."

The elf prince went briskly to the stair that led from the rooftop into

the palace. The servants hastened after him, sloshing dirty water from the

bowl as they went.

"Prince Kith-Kanan! Will you not take some food?" called the bowl

bearer.

"No. See to it Arcuballis is fed, watered, and brushed down."

"Of course–"

"And stop following me!"

The servants halted as if arrow-shot. Prince Kith-Kanan rattled down

the stone steps into the palace. As it was early summer, all the window

shutters were open, flooding the interior corridors with light. He strode

along, scarcely acknowledging the bows and greetings of the servants and

courtiers he met. The length of the shadows on the floor told him he was

late. She would be angry, being kept waiting.

Kith-Kanan breezed out the main entrance of the palace. Guards in

burnished armor snapped to attention as he passed. His mood lightened

with every step he took toward the Gardens of Astarin. So what if his

father dressed him down later? It wouldn't be the first time, by any means.

Any amount of lecturing was worth his hurried flight home to be on time

for his rendezvous with Hermathya.

The gardens bulked around the base of the great tower. Not long after

Silvanos, founder of the elven nation, had completed the Tower of the

Stars, priests of the god Astarin asked for permission to create a garden

around the structure. Silvanos gladly granted their request. The clerics laid

out a garden in the plan of a four-pointed star, each point aligned with one

of the cardinal directions. They wove spells granted to them by Astarin,

the Bard King, spells that formed the trees and flowers in wonderful ways.

Thornless red and white roses grew in delicate spirals around the trunks of

evergreen oaks. Wisteria dripped purple blossoms into still, clear pools of

water. Lilacs and camellias drenched the air with their perfume. Broad

leaves of ivy spread over the garden paths, shading them and protecting

strollers from all but the harshest rains. And most remarkably, laurels and

cedars grew in circular groves, their tops coming together to form perfect

shelters, where elves could meditate. Silvanos himself had favored a grove

of laurels on the west side of the garden. When the august founder of the

elven nation had died, the leaves on the laurels there changed from green

to gold, and they remained that way ever after.

Kith-Kanan did not enter the Gardens of Astarin by one of the paths.

In his deerskin boots, he crept silently beside the shoulder-high wall of

spell-shaped mulberry. He hoisted himself over the wall and dropped

down on the other side, still without a sound. Crouching low, he moved

toward the grove.

The prince could hear the impatient rustle of footsteps inside the

golden grove. In his mind he saw Hermathya pacing to and fro, arms

folded, her red-gold hair like a flame in the center of the gilded trees. He

slipped around to the entrance to the grove. Hermathya had her back to

him, her arms folded tight with vexation. Kith-Kanan called her name.

Hermathya whirled. "Kith! You startled me. Where have you been?"

"Hurrying to you," he replied.

Her angry expression lasted only a moment longer, then she ran to

him, her bright blue gown flying. They embraced in the arched entry of

Silvanos's retreat. The embrace became a kiss. After a moment,

Kith-Kanan drew back a bit and whispered, "We'd best be wary. My father

is in the tower. He might see us."

In answer, Hermathya pulled the prince's face down to hers and kissed

him again. Finally, she said breathlessly, "Now, let us hide." They entered

the shelter of the laurel grove.

Under the elaborate rules of courtly manners, a prince and a well-born

elf maiden could not consort freely, as Kith-Kanan and Hermathya had for

the past half-year. Escorts had to accompany both of them, if they ever

saw each other at all. Protocol demanded that they not be alone together.

"I missed you terribly," Hermathya said, taking Kith-Kanan's hand

and leading him to the gray granite bench. "Silvanost is like a tomb when

you're not here."

"I'm sorry I was late. Arcuballis had headwinds to fight all the way

home." This was not strictly true, but why anger her further? Actually

Kith-Kanan had broken camp late because he had stayed to listen to two

Kagonesti elves tell tall tales of adventures in the West, in the land of the

humans.

"Next time," Hermathya said, tracing the line of Kith-Kanan's jaw

with one slender finger, "take me with you."

"On a hunting trip?"

She nipped at his ear. Her hair smelled of sunshine and spice. "Why

not?"

He hugged her close, burying his face in her hair and inhaling deeply.

"You could probably handle yourself right enough, but what respectable

maiden would travel in the forest with a male not her father, brother, or

husband?"

"I don't want to be respectable."

Kith-Kanan studied her face. Hermathya had the dark blue eyes of the

Oakleaf Clan and the high cheekbones of her mother's family, the

Sunberry Clan. In her slender, beautiful face he saw passion, wit, courage–

"Love," he murmured.

"Yes," Hermathya replied. "I love you too."

The prince looked deep into her eyes and said softly, "Marry me,

Hermathya." Her eyes widened, and she pulled away from him, chuckling.

"What is funny?" he demanded.

"Why talk of marriage? Giving me a starjewel will not make me love

you more. I like things the way they are."

Kith-Kanan waved to the surrounding golden laurels. "You like

meeting in secret? Whispering and flinching at every sound, lest we be

discovered?"

She leaned close again. "Of course. That makes it all the more

stimulating."

He had to admit his life had been anything but boring lately.

Kith-Kanan caressed his lover's cheek. Wind stirred through the gilded

leaves as they drew closer. She entwined her fingers in his white hair. The

prince thought no more of marriage as Hermathya filled his senses.

* * * * *

They parted with smiles and quiet touches on each other's faces.

Hermathya disappeared down the garden path with a toss of bronze-red

hair and a swish of clinging silk. Kith-Kanan stood in the entrance of the

golden grove and watched her until she was lost from sight. Then, with a

sigh, he made for the palace.

The sun had set and, as he crossed the plaza, the prince saw that the

servants were setting lamps in the windows of the palace. All Silvanost

glimmered with light by night, but the Palace of Quinari , with its massive

tower and numerous tall windows, was like a constellation in the heavens.

Kith-Kanan felt very satisfied as he jauntily ascended the steps by the

main doors.

The guards clacked their spears against their shoulder armor. The one

on Kith-Kanan's right said, "Highness, the speaker bids you go to the Hall

of Balif."

'Well, I'd best not keep the speaker waiting," he replied. The guards

snapped to, and he passed on into the deep, arched opening. Even the

prospect of a tongue-lashing by his father did little to lower Kith-Kanan's

spirits. He still breathed the clean, spicy scent of Hermathya, and he still

gazed into the bottomless blue depths of her eyes.

The Hall of Balif, named for the kender general who had once fought

so well on behalf of the great Silvanos, took up an entire floor of the

central tower. Kith-Kanan swung up the broad stone stairs, clapping

servants on the back and hailing courtiers heartily. Smiles followed in the

elf prince's wake.

Oddly, two guards stood outside the high bronze doors of the Hall of

Balif. The doors were not usually guarded. As Kith-Kanan approached,

one guard rapped on the bronze panel behind him with the butt of his

spear. Silently Kith-Kanan stood by as the two soldiers pushed the heavy

portals apart for him.

The hall was indifferently lit by a rack of candles on the oval feasting

table. The first face Kith-Kanan saw did not belong to his father, Sithel.

"Sithas!"

The tall, white-haired young elf stood up from behind the table.

Kith-Kanan circled the table and embraced his twin brother heartily.

Though they lived in the same city, they saw each other only at intervals.

Sithas spent most of his time in the Temple of Matheri , where the priests

had been educating him since he was a child. Kith-Kanan was frequently

away, flying, riding, hunting. Ninety years they'd lived, and by the standards

of their race they were barely adults. Time and habit had altered the

twins, so much so that they were no longer exact copies of each other.

Sithas, elder by scant minutes, was slim and pale, the consequence of his

scholarly life. His face was lit by large hazel eyes, the eyes of his father

and grandfather. On his white robe he wore a narrow red stripe, a tribute to

Matheri, whose color it was.

Kith-Kanan, because of his outdoor life, had skin almost as brown as

his eyes. The life of a ranger had toughened him, broadened his shoulders

and hardened his muscles.

"I'm in trouble," he said ruefully.

"What have you done this time?" Sithas asked, loosening his grip on

his twin.

"I was out flying on Arcuballis–"

Have you been scaring the farmers again?"

"No, it's not that. I was over the city, so I circled the Tower of the

Stars–"

"Blowing your horn, no doubt."

Kith-Kanan sighed. "Will you let me finish? I went round the tower,

very gently, but who should be there on the high balcony but Fatherl He

saw me and gave me that look."

Sithas folded his arms. "I was there too, inside. He wasn't pleased."

His twin lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "What's this all

about? He didn't call me here to chastise me, did he? You wouldn't be here

for that."

"No. Father called me back from the temple before you came home.

He's gone upstairs to fetch Mother. He's got something to tell you."

Kith-Kanan relaxed, realizing he wasn't going to get dressed down.

"What is it, Sith?"

"I'm getting married," said Sithas.

Kith-Kanan, wide-eyed, leaned back on the table. "By E'li! Is that all

you have to say? 'I'm getting married?' "

Sithas shrugged. "What else is there to say? Father decided that it's

time, so married I get."

Kith-Kanan grinned. "Has he picked a girl?"

"I think that's why he sent for you and Mother. We'll all find out at the

same time."

"You mean, you don't know who it is yet?"

"No. There are fourteen suitable clans within House Cleric, so there

are many prospective brides. Father has chosen one based on the dowry

offered–and according to which family he wants to link with House

Royal."

His brother's eyes danced with merriment. "She will probably be ugly

and a shrew, as well."

"That doesn't matter. All that matters is that she be healthy, well-born,

and properly worship the gods," Sithas said calmly.

"I don't know. I think wit and beauty ought to count for something,"

Kith-Kanan replied. "And love. What about love, Sith? How do you feel

about marrying a stranger?"

"It is the way things are done."

That was so like him. The quickest way to insure Sithas's cooperation

was to invoke tradition. Kith-Kanan clucked his tongue and walked in a

slow circle around his motionless twin. His words rang off the polished

stone walls. "But is it fair?" he said, mildly mocking. "I mean, any scribe

or smith in the city can choose his mate himself, because he loves her and

she loves him. The wild elves of the woods, the green sea elves, do they

marry for duty, or do they take as mate a loving companion who'll bear

them children and be a strength to them in their ancient age?"

"I'm not any smith or scribe, much less a wild elf," Sithas said. He

spoke quietly, but his words carried as clearly as Kith-Kanan's loud

pronouncements. "I am firstborn to the Speaker of the Stars, and my duty

is my duty."

Kith-Kanan stopped circling and slumped against the table. "It's the

old story, isn't it? Wise Sithas and rash Kith-Kanan," he said. "Don't pay

me any heed, I'm really glad for you. And I'm glad for me, too. At least I

can choose my own wife when the time comes."

Sithas smiled. "Do you have someone in mind?"

Why not tell Sithas? he thought. His twin would never give him away.

"Actually," Kith-Kanan began, "there is–"

The rear door of the hall opened, and Sithel entered, with Nirakina at

his side.

"Hail, Father," the brothers said in unison.

The speaker waved for his sons to sit. He held a chair out for his wife,

then sat himself. The crown of Silvanesti, a circlet of gold and silver stars,

weighed heavily on his brow. He had come to the time in his life when age

was beginning to show. Sithel's hair had always been white, but now its

silky blondness had become brittle and gray. Tiny lines were etched

around his eyes and mouth, and his hazel eyes, the sign of the heritage of

Silvanos, betrayed the slightest hint of cloudiness. All these were small,

outward signs of the great burden of time Sithel carried in his lean, erect

body. He was one thousand, five hundred years old.

Though past a thousand herself, Lady Nirakina was still lithe and

graceful. She was small by elven standards, almost doll-like. Her hair was

honey brown, as were her eyes. These were traits of her family, Clan

Silver Moon. A sense of gentleness radiated from her, a gentleness that

soothed her often irritable husband. It was said about the palace that Sithas

had his father's looks and his mother's temperament. Kith-Kanan had inherited

his mother's eyes and his father's energy.

"You look well," Nirakina said to Kith-Kanan. "Was your trip

rewarding?"

"Yes, Lady. I do love to fly," he said, after kissing her cheek.

Sithel gave his son a sharp glance. Kith-Kanan cleared his throat and

bid his father a polite greeting.

"I'm glad you returned when you did," Sithel said. "Has Sithas told

you of his upcoming marriage?" Kith-Kanan admitted he had. "You will

have an important part to play as well, Kith. As the brother of the groom,

it will be your job to escort the bride to the Tower of the Stars—"

"Yes, I will, but tell us who it is," insisted the impatient prince.

"She is a maiden of exceptional spirit and beauty, I'm told," Sithel

said. "Well-educated, well-born–"

"Father!" Kith-Kanan pleaded. Sithas himself sat quietly, hands

folded on his lap. Years of training in the Temple of Matheri had given

him formidable patience.

"My son," Sithel said to Sithas, "Your wife's name is Hermathya,

daughter of Lord Shenbarrus of the Oakleaf Clan."

Sithas raised an eyebrow approvingly. Even he had noticed

Hermathya. He said nothing, but nodded his acceptance.

"Are you all right, Kith?" Nirakina asked. "You look quite pale."

To her surprise, Kith-Kanan looked as if his father had struck him

across the face. The prince swallowed hard and nodded, unable to speak.

Of all the eligible daughters, Hermathya was to marry Sithas. It was

incomprehensible. It could not happen!

None of his family knew of his love for her. If they knew, if his father

knew, he'd choose someone else.

"Ah," Kith-Kanan managed to say, "who–who else knows of this?"

"Only the bride's family," said Sithel. "I sent Shenbarrus acceptance

of the dowry this morning."

A sinking feeling gripped Kith-Kanan. He felt like he was melting

into the floor. Hermathya's family already knew. There was no going back

now. The speaker had given his word. He could not, in honor, rescind his

decision without gravely offending Clan Oakleaf.

His parents and brother began to discuss details of the wedding. A

tremor passed through Kith-Kanan. He resolved to stand up and declare

his love for Hermathya, declare that she was his and no one else's. Sithas

was his brother, his twin, but he didn't know her. He didn't love her. He

could find another wife. Kith-Kanan could not find another love.

He rose unsteadily to his feet. "I–" he began. All eyes turned to him.

Think, for once in your life! He admonished himself. What will they

say to you?

"What?" said his father. "Are you ill, boy? You don't look well."

"I don't feel too well," Kith-Kanan said hoarsely. He wanted to shout,

to run, to smash and break things, but the massive calm of his mother,

father, and brother held him down like a thick blanket. He cleared his

throat and added, "I think all that flying has caught up with me."

Nirakina stood and put a hand to his face. "You do feel warm.

Perhaps you should rest."

"Yes. Yes," he said. "That's just what I need. Rest." He held the table

edge for support.

"I make the formal announcement when the white moon rises tonight.

The priests and nobles will gather in the tower," Sithel said. 'You must be

there, Kith."

"I–I'll be there, Father," Kith-Kanan said. "I just need to rest."

Sithas walked with his brother to the door. Before they went out,

Sithel remarked, "Oh, and leave your horn at the palace, Kith. One act of

impudence a day is enough." The speaker smiled, and Kith-Kanan

managed a weak grin in reply.

"Shall I send a healer to you?" asked Nirakina.

"No. I'll be fine, Mother," Kith-Kanan said.

In the corridor outside, Sithas braced his brother's shoulders and said,

'Looks as if I'm to be lucky; both brains and beauty in my wife."

"You are lucky," Kith-Kanan said. Sithas looked at him in concern.

Kith-Kanan was moved to say, "Whatever happens, Sith, don't think too

badly of me."

Sithas frowned. "What do you mean?"

Kith-Kanan inhaled deeply and turned to climb up the stairs to his

room. "Just remember that nothing will ever separate us. We're two halves

of the same coin."

"Two branches of the same tree," Sithas said, completing the ritual the

twins had invented as children. His concern deepened as he watched

Kith-Kanan climb slowly up the stairs.

Kith-Kanan didn't let his brother see his face contort with pain. He

had only a scant two hours before Solinari, the white moon, rose above the

trees. Whatever he was going to do, he had to think of it before then.

* * * * *

The great and noble of Silvanesti filed into the open hall of the Tower

of the Stars. Rumors flew through the air like sparrows, between courtier

and cleric, noble clan father and humble acolyte. Such assemblies in the

tower were rare and usually involved a matter of state.

A pair of young heralds, draped in bright green tabards and wearing

circlets of oak and laurel, marched into the hall in perfect step. They

turned and stood on each side of the great door. Slender trumpets went to

their lips, and a stirring fanfare blared forth. When the horns ceased, a

third herald entered.

"Free Elves and True! Give heed to His Highness, Sithel, Speaker of

the Stars!"

Everyone bowed silently as Sithel appeared and walked to his

emerald throne. There was a spontaneous cry of "All hail the speaker!"

from the ranks of the nobles; the hall rang with elven voices. The speaker

mounted the steps, turned, and faced the assembly. He sat down, and the

hails died.

The herald spoke again. "Sithas, son of Sithel, prince heir!"

Sithas passed through the doorway, bowed to his father, and

approached the throne. As his son mounted the seven steps to the platform,

Sithel held out his hand, indicating his son should stand to the left of the

throne. Sithas took his place, facing the audience.

The trumpets blared again. "Lady Nirakina, wife, and Prince Kith-

Kanan, son of Sithel!"

Kith-Kanan entered with his mother on his arm. He had changed to

his courtly robes of sky-blue linen, clothing he rarely wore. He moved

stiffly down the center aisle, his mother's hand resting lightly on his left

arm.

"Smile," she whispered.

"I don't know four-fifths of them," Kith-Kanan muttered.

"Smile anyway. They know you."

When he reached the steps, the pommel of Kith-Kanan's sword poked

out from under his ceremonial sash. Nirakina glanced down at the weapon,

which was largely concealed by the voluminous folds of his robe.

"Why did you bring that?" she whispered.

"It's part of my costume," he replied. "I have a right to wear it."

"Don't be impertinent," his mother said primly. "You know this is a

peaceful occasion."

A large wooden chair, cushioned with red velvet, was set in place for

the speaker's wife on the left of Prince Sithas. Kith-Kanan, like his twin,

was expected to stand in the presence of his father, the monarch.

Once the royal family was in place, the assembled notables lined up to

pay their respects to the speaker. The time-honored ritual called for priests

first, the clan fathers of House Cleric next, and the masters of the city

guilds last. Kith-Kanan, far to the left of Sithel, searched for Hermathya in

the press of people. The crowd numbered some three hundred, and though

they were quiet, the shuffling of feet and the rustle of silk and linen filled

the tower. The heralds advanced to the foot of the speaker's throne and

announced each group as they formed up before Sithel.

The priests and priestesses, in their white robes and golden

headbands, each wore a sash in the color of their patron deity–silver for

E'li, red for Matheri, brown for Kiri Jolith, sky blue for Quenesti Pah, and

so on. By ancient law, they went barefoot as well, so they would be closer

to the sacred soil of Silvanesti.

The clan fathers shepherded their families past the speaker.

Kith-Kanan caught his breath as Lord Shenbarrus of Clan Oakleaf reached

the head of the line. He was a widower, so his eldest daughter stood beside

him.

Hermathya.

Sithel spoke for the first time since entering the Tower of the Stars.

"Lady," he said to Hermathya, "will you remain?"

Hermathya, clad in an embroidered gown the color of summer

sunlight, her striking face framed by two maidenly braids–which

Kith-Kanan knew she hated–bowed to the speaker and stood aside from

her family at the foot of the throne platform. The hiss of three hundred

whispering tongues filled the hall.

Sithel stood and offered a hand to Hermathya. She went up the stair

without hesitation and stood beside him. Sithel nodded to the heralds. A

single note split the air.

"Silence in the hall! His Highness will speak!" cried the herald.

A hush descended. Sithel surveyed the crowd, ending his sweep by

looking at his wife and sons. "Holy clerics, elders, subjects, be at ease in

your hearts," he said, his rich voice echoing in the vast open tower. "I have

called you here to receive joyous news. My son, Sithas, who shall be

speaker after me, has reached the age and inclination to take a wife. After

due consultation with the gods, and with the chiefs of all the clans of

House Cleric, I have found a maiden suitable to be my son's bride."

Kith-Kanan's left hand strayed to his sword hilt. A calm had

descended over him. He had thought long and hard about this. He knew

what he had to do.

"I have chosen this maiden knowing full well the disappointment that

will arise in the other clans," Sithel was saying. "I deeply regret it. If this

were a barbarian land, where husbands may have more than one wife, I

daresay I could make more of you happy." Polite laughter rippled through

the ranks of the nobles. "But the speaker may have only one wife, so one

is all I have chosen. It is my great hope that she and my son will be as

happy together as I have been with my Nirakina."

He looked at Sithas, who advanced to his father's side. Holding

Hermathya's left hand, the speaker reached for Sithas's right. The crowd

held its breath, waiting for him to make the official announcement.

"Stop!"

The couple's fingers were only a hairsbreadth apart when

Kith-Kanan's voice rang out. Sithel turned in surprise to his younger son.

Every eye in the hall looked with shock at the prince.

"Hermathya cannot marry Sithas!" Kith-Kanan declared.

"Be silent," Sithel said harshly. "Have you gone mad?"

No, Father," Kith-Kanan said calmly. "Hermathya loves me."

Sithas withdrew his hand from his father's slack fingers. In his hand

he held a starjewel, the traditional betrothal gift among elves. Sithas knew

something had been brewing. Kith-Kanan had been too obviously troubled

by the announcement of his bride-to-be. But he had not guessed at the

reason.

"What does this mean?" demanded Lord Shenbarrus, moving to his

daughter's side.

Kith-Kanan advanced to the edge of the raised floor. "Tell him,

Hermathya. Tell them all!"

Sithas looked to his father. Sithel's gaze was on Hermathya. Her

cheeks were faintly pink, but her expression was calm, her eyes cast down.

When Hermathya said nothing, Sithel commanded, "Speak, girl.

Speak the truth."

Hermathya lifted her gaze and looked directly at Sithas. "I want to

marry the speaker's heir," she said. Her voice was not loud, but in the tense

silence, every sound, every word was like a thunderclap.

"No!" Kith-Kanan exclaimed. What was she saying? "Don't be afraid,

Thya. Don't let our fathers sway you. Tell them the truth. Tell them who

you love."

Still Hermathya's eyes were on Sithas. "I choose the speaker's heir."

"Thya!" Kith-Kanan would have rushed to her, but Nirakina

interposed herself, pleading with her son to be still. He gently but firmly

pushed her aside. Only Sithas stood between him and Hermathya now.

"Stand aside, Brother," he said.

"Be silent!" his father roared. "You dishonor us all!"

Kith-Kanan drew his sword. Gasps and shrieks filled the Tower of the

Stars. Baring a weapon in the hall was a serious offense, a sacrilegious act.

But Kith-Kanan wavered. He looked at the sword in his hand, at his

brother's and father's faces, and at the woman he loved. Hermathya stood

unmoving, her eyes still fixed on his twin. What hold did they have on

her?

Sithas was unarmed. In fact no one in the hall was armed, except for

the flimsy ceremonial maces some of the clan fathers carried. No one

could stop him if he chose to fight. Kith-Kanan's sword arm trembled.

With a cry of utter anguish, the prince threw the short, slim blade

away. It skittered across the polished floor toward the assembled clerics,

who moved hastily out of its way. It was ritually unclean for them to touch

an edged weapon.

Kith-Kanan ran from the tower, blazing with frustration and anger.

The crowd parted for him. Every eye in the hall watched him go.

Sithas descended to the main floor and went to where Kith-Kanan's

sword lay. He picked it up. It felt heavy and awkward in his unpracticed

hand. He stared at the keen cutting edge, then at the doorway through

which Kith-Kanan had departed. His heart bled for his twin. This time

Kith had not merely been impudent or impetuous. This time, his deeds

were an affront to the throne and to the gods.

Sithas saw only one proper thing to do. He went back to his father and

bride-to-be. Laying the naked blade at Sithel's feet, he took Hermathya's

hand. It was warm. He could feel her pulse throbbing against his own cool

palm. And as Sithas took the blue starjewel from the folds of his robe, it

seemed almost alive. It lay in his hand, throwing off scintillas of rainbow

light.

"If you will have me, I will have you," he said, holding the jewel out

to Hermathya.

"I will," she replied loudly. She took the starjewel and held it to her

breast.

The Tower of the Stars shook with the cheers of the assembled elves.

2

Later That Night

Sithel strode with furious energy down the corridors of the Palace of

Quinari. Servants and courtiers backed away from him as he went, so

fierce was the anger on his face. The assembly had ended on a triumphant

note, but the Speaker of the Stars could not forget the outrage his own son

had committed.

The corridor ended at the palace's great central tower. Sithel

approached the huge bronze doors that closed off the private rooms of his

family from the rest of the palace. The doors were eighteen feet high,

inlaid with silver runes that kept a protective spell on them. No one not of

the blood of Silvanos could open the doors. Sithel hit one door with each

palm. The immense portals, delicately balanced, swung inward.

"Where is he? Where is Kith-Kanan?" he demanded, setting his feet

wide apart and planting his fists on his hips. "I'll teach that boy to shame

us in front of a public assembly!"

Within the chamber, Nirakina sat on a low, gilded couch. Sithas bent

over her, proffering a goblet of sweet nectar. The prince straightened when

his father entered, but neither he nor his mother spoke.

"Well?" demanded Sithel.

Nirakina looked up from her goblet. Her large amber eyes were full of

sadness. "He is not in the palace," she said softly. "The servants looked for

him, but they did not find him."

Sithel advanced into the room. His hard footsteps were lost in the

deep carpets that covered the center of the floor, and his harsh words were

muffled by the rich tapestries covering the cold stone walls.

"Servants, bah, they know nothing. Kith-Kanan has more hiding

places than I've had years of life."

"He is gone," Sithas said at last.

"How do you know that?" asked his father, transferring his glare to

his eldest son.

"I do not feel his presence within the palace," Sithas said evenly. The

twins' parents knew of the close bond that existed between their sons.

Sithel poured a goblet of nectar, using this simple task to give himself

time to master his anger. He took a long drink.

"There is something else," Sithas said. His voice was very low. "The

griffon, Arcuballis, is missing from the royal stable."

Sithel drained his cup. "So, he's run away, has he? Well, he'll be back.

He's a clever boy, Kith is, but he's never been out in the world on his own.

He won't last a week without servants, attendants, and guides."

"I'm frightened," said Nirakina. "I've never seen him so upset. Why

didn't we know about this girl and Kith?" She took Sithas's hand. "How do

we know she will be a good wife for you, after the way she's behaved?"

"Perhaps she is unsuitable," Sithas offered, looking at his father. "If

she were, perhaps the marriage could be called off. Then she and

Kith-Kanan–"

"I'll not go back on my word to Shenbarrus merely because his

daughter is indiscreet," Sithel snapped, interrupting his son's thoughts.

"Think of Hermathya, too; shall we blacken her reputation to salve Kith's

wounded ego? They'll both forget this nonsense."

Tears ran down Nirakina's cheeks. "Will you forgive him? Will you

let him come back?"

"It's outside my hands," Sithel said. His own anger was failing under

fatherly concern. "But mark my words, he'll be back." He looked to Sithas

for support, but Sithas said nothing. He wasn't as sure of Kith-Kanan's

return as his father was.

* * * * *

The griffon glided in soundlessly, its mismatched feet touching down

on the palace roof with only a faint clatter. Kith-Kanan slid off

Arcuballis's back. He stroked his mount's neck and whispered

encouragement in its ear.

"Be good now. Stay." Obediently the griffon folded its legs and lay

down.

Kith-Kanan stole silently along the roof. The vast black shadow of the

tower fell over him and buried the stairwell in darkness. In his dark quilted

tunic and heavy leggings, the prince was well hidden in the shadows. He

avoided the stairs for, even at this late hour, there might be servants

stirring about in the lower corridors. He did not want to be seen.

Kith-Kanan flattened himself against the base of the tower. Above his

head, narrow windows shone with the soft yellow light of oil lanterns. He

uncoiled a thin, silk rope from around his waist. Hanging from his belt

was an iron hook. He tied the rope to the eye of the hook, stepped out from

the tower wall, and began to whirl the hook in an ever-widening circle.

Then, with practiced ease, he let it fly. The hook sailed up to the third

level of windows and caught on the jutting stonework beneath them. After

giving the rope an experimental tug, Kith-Kanan started climbing up the

wall, hand over hand, his feet braced against the thick stone of the tower.

The third level of windows–actually the sixth floor above ground

level–was where his private room was located. Once he'd gained the

narrow ledge where his hook had wedged, Kith-Kanan stood with his back

flat against the wall, pausing to catch his breath. Around him, the city of

Silvanost slept. The white temple towers, the palaces of the nobles, the

monumental crystal tomb of Silvanos on its hill overlooking the city all

stood out in the light of Krynn's two visible moons. The lighted windows

were like jewels, yellow topaz and white diamonds.

Kith-Kanan forced the window of his room open with the blade of his

dagger. He stepped down from the sill onto his bed. The chill moonlight

made his room seem pale and unfamiliar. Like all the rooms on this floor

of the tower, Kith-Kanan's was wedge-shaped, like a slice of pie. All the

miscellaneous treasures of his boyhood were in this room: hunting

trophies, a collection of shiny but worthless stones, scrolls describing the

heroic deeds of Silvanos and Balif. All to be left behind, perhaps never to

be seen or handled again.

He went first to the oaken wardrobe, standing by an inside wall. From

under his breastplate he pulled a limp cloth sack, which he'd just bought

from a fisher on the river. It smelled rather strongly of fish, but he had no

time to be delicate. From the wardrobe he took only a few things–a padded

leather tunic, a pair of heavy horse-riding boots, and his warmest set of

leggings. Next he went to the chest at the foot of his bed.

With no concern for neatness, he stuffed spare clothing into the sack.

Then, at the bottom of the chest, he found something he hadn't wanted to

find. Wrapped in a scrap of linen was the starjewel he'd bought for

Hermathya. Once exposed, it glittered in the dim light.

Slowly he picked it up. His first reaction was to grind the delicate

gem under his heel, but Kith-Kanan couldn't bring himself to destroy the

beautiful scarlet gem. Without knowing exactly why, he slipped it into the

fisher's bag.

From the rack by the door he took three items: a short but powerful

recurved bow, a full quiver of arrows, and his favorite boar spear.

Kith-Kanan's scabbard hung empty at his side. His sword, forged by the

priests of Kiri Jolith, he'd left in the Tower of the Stars.

The prince put the arrows and the unstrung bow in the sack and tied it

to the boar spear. The whole bundle he slung from his shoulder. Now for

the door.

The latch whispered backward in its slot. Kith-Kanan pulled the door

open. Directly across from his room was Sithas's sleeping chamber. A

strip of light showed under his brother's door. Kith-Kanan lowered his

bundle to the floor and reached out for the door handle.

Sithas's door opened silently. Inside, his white-robed twin was

kneeling before a small table, on which a single cut rose lay. A candle

burned on the fireplace mantle.

Sithas looked up. "Come in, Kith," he said gently, "I was expecting

you." He stood, looking hollow-eyed and gaunt in the candlelight. "I felt

your presence when you returned. Please, sit down."

"I'm not staying," Kith-Kanan replied bitterly.

"You need not leave, Kith. Beg Father for forgiveness. He will grant

it."

Kith-Kanan spread his hands. "I can't, Sith. It wouldn't matter if he

did forgive me, I can't stay here any longer."

"Because of Hermathya?" asked Sithas. His twin nodded. "I don't love

her, Kith, but she was chosen. I must marry her."

"But what about me? Do you care at all how I feel?"

Sithas's face showed that he did. "But what would you have me do?"

"Tell them you won't have her. Refuse to marry Hermathya."

Sithas sighed. "It would be a grave insult to Clan Oakleaf, to our

father, and to Hermathya herself. She was chosen because she will be the

best wife for the future speaker."

Kith-Kanan passed a hand over his fevered eyes. "This is like a

terrible dream. I can't believe Thya consented to all this."

"Then you can go upstairs and ask her. She is sleeping in the room

just above yours," Sithas said evenly. Kith-Kanan turned to go. "Wait,"

Sithas said. "Where will you go from here?"

"I will go far," Kith-Kanan replied defiantly.

Sithas leaped to his feet. "How far will you get on your own? You are

throwing away your heritage, Kith! Throwing it away like a gnawed apple

core!"

Kith-Kanan stood still in the open doorway. "I'm doing the only

honorable thing I can. Do you think I could continue to live here with you,

knowing Hermathya was your wife? Do you think I could stand to see her

each day and have to call her 'Sister?' I know I have shamed Father and

myself. I can live with shame, but I cannot live in sight of Hermathya and

not love her!"

He went out in the hall and stooped to get his bundle. Sithas raised the

lid of a plain, dark, oak chest sitting at the foot of his bed.

"Kith, wait." Sithas turned around and held out his brother's sword.

"Father was going to have it broken, he was so angry with you, but I

persuaded him to let me keep it."

Kith-Kanan took the slim, graceful blade from his brother's hands. It

slid home in his scabbard like a hand into a glove. Kith-Kanan instantly

felt stronger. He had a part of himself back.

"Thank you, Sith."

On a simultaneous impulse, they came together and clasped their

hands on each other's shoulders. "May the gods go with you, Brother,"

said Sithas warmly.

"They will if you ask them," Kith-Kanan replied wryly. "They listen

to you."

He crossed the hall to his old room and prepared to go out the

window. Sithas came to his door and said, "Will I ever see you again?"

Kith-Kanan looked out at the two bright moons. "As long as Solinari

and Lunitari remain in the same sky, I will–see you again, my brother."

Without another word, Kith-Kanan stepped out of the window and was

gone. Sithas returned to his sparsely furnished room and shut the door.

As he knelt again at his small shrine to Matheri, he said softly, "Two

halves of the same coin; two branches of the same tree." He closed his

eyes. "Matheri, keep him safe."

On the ledge, Kith-Kanan gathered up his rope. The room just above

his, Sithas had said. Very well then. His first cast fell short, and the hook

came scraping down the stone right at his face. Kith-Kanan flinched aside,

successfully dodging the hook, but he almost lost his balance on the

narrow ledge. The falling hook clattered against the wall below.

Kith-Kanan cursed soundlessly and hauled the rope back up.

The Tower of Quinari , like most elven spires, grew steadily narrower

as it grew taller. The ledges at each level were thus correspondingly

shallower. It took Kith-Kanan four tries to catch his hook on the seventh

floor ledge. When he did, he swung out into the cool night air, wobbling

under the burden of his sack and spear. Doggedly he climbed. The window

of the room above his was dark. He carefully set the bundle against the

outside wall and went to work on the window latch with his dagger.

The soft lead of the window frame yielded quickly to his blade. He

pushed the crystal panes in.

Already he knew she was in the room. The spicy scent she always

wore filled the room with a subtle perfume. He listened and heard short

sighs of breathing. Hermathya was asleep.

He went unerringly to her bedside. Kith-Kanan put out a hand and felt

the soft fire of her hair. He spoke her name once, quietly. "It is I, my

love."

"Kith! Please, don't hurt me!"

He was taken aback. He rose off his knees. "I would never, ever hurt

you, Thya."

"But I thought–you were so angry–I thought you came here to kill

me!"

"No," he said gently. "I've come to take you with me."

She sat up. Solinari peeked in the window just enough to throw a

silver beam on her face and neck. From his place in the shadows,

Kith-Kanan felt again the deep wound he'd suffered on her account.

"Go with you?" Hermathya said in genuine confusion. "Go where?"

"Does it matter?"

She pushed her long hair away from her face. "And what of Sithas?"

"He doesn't love you," Kith-Kanan said.

"Nor do I love him, but he is my betrothed now."

Kith-Kanan couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You mean, you

want to marry him?"

"Yes, I do."

Kith-Kanan blundered backward to the window. He sat down hard on

the sill. It seemed as though his legs would not work right. The cool night

air washed over him, and he breathed deeply.

"You cannot mean it. What about us? I thought you loved me!"

Hermathya walked into the edge of the shaft of moonlight. "I do,

Kith. But the gods have decided that I shall be the wife of the next Speaker

of the Stars." A note of pride crept into her voice.

"This is madness!" Kith-Kanan burst out. "It was my father who

decided this marriage, not the gods!"

"We are all only instruments of the gods," she said coolly. "I love

you, Kith, but the time has come to lay aside pranks and secret garden

passions. I have spoken with my father, with your father. You and I had an

exciting time together, we dreamed beautiful dreams. But that's all they

were–dreams. It's time to wake up now and think of the future. Of the

future of all Silvanesti."

All Kith-Kanan could think of at this moment was his own future. "I

can't live without you, Thya," he said weakly.

"Yes, you can. You may not know it yet, but you can." She came

toward him, and the moonlight made her nightdress no more than a

cobweb. Kith-Kanan squeezed his eyes shut and balled his hands into tight

fists.

"Please," Hermathya said. "Accept what will happen. We can still be

close." Her warm hand touched his cold, dry cheek.

Kith-Kanan seized her wrist and shoved her away. "I cannot accept

it," he said tersely, stepping up on the windowsill. "Farewell, Lady

Hermathya. May your life be green and golden."

The irony of his words was not lost on her. 'May your life be green

and golden' was what elven commoners said when taking leave of their

lords.

Kith-Kanan shouldered his sack and slipped over the stone ledge.

Hermathya stood for several seconds, gazing at the empty window. When

the tears came she did not fight them.

* * * * *

Faithful Arcuballis was his only companion now. Kith-Kanan tied the

sack to the saddle pillion and stuck the boar spear into the lance cup by his

right stirrup. He mounted Arcuballis, strapped himself to the saddle, and

turned the beast's head into the wind.

"Fly!" he cried, touching his heels into the griffon's brawny breast.

"Fly!"

Arcuballis unfolded its wings and sprang into the air. Kith-Kanan

whistled, and the griffon uttered its shrill cry. The least he could do,

Kith-Kanan decided, was to let them know he was going. He whistled

again and once more the griffon's trilling growl echoed between the white

towers.

Kith-Kanan put the waxing red moon on his right hand and flew

southwest, across the Thon-Thalas. The royal road stood out misty gray in

the night, angling away north from the city and south to the seacoast.

Kith-Kanan urged the griffon higher and faster. The road, the river, and

the city that had been his home vanished behind them. Ahead lay only

darkness and an endless sea of trees, green-black in the depths of night.

3

The Next Day

Kith-Kanan had no plans except to get away from Silvanost. More

than anything, he craved solitude right now. He pointed Arcuballis's beak

southwest, and gave the griffon its head.

Kith-Kanan dozed in the saddle, slumped forward over the griffon's

feathered neck. The loyal beast flew on all night, never straying from the

course its master had set. Dawn came, and Kith-Kanan awoke, stiff and

groggy. He sat up in the saddle and surveyed the land below. There was

nothing but treetops as far as the eye could see. He saw no clearings,

streams, or meadows, much less signs of habitation.

How far they had flown during the night Kith-Kanan could not guess.

He knew from hunting trips down the Thon-Thalas that south of Silvanost

lay the Courrain Ocean , the boundaries of which no elf knew. But he was

in the East; the rising sun was almost directly ahead of him. He must be in

the great forest that lay between the Thon-Thalas on the east and the plains

of Kharolis to the west. He'd never ventured this far before.

Looking at the impenetrable canopy of trees, Kith-Kanan licked his

dry lips and said aloud, “Well, boy, if things don't change, we can always

walk across the trees."

They flew for hours more, crisscrossing the leafy barrier and finding

no openings whatsoever. Poor Arcuballis was laboring, panting in deep,

dry grunts. The griffon had been flying all night and half the day. When

Kith-Kanan lifted his head to scan the horizon, he spied a thin column of

smoke rising from the forest, far off to his left. The prince turned

Arcuballis toward the smoke. The gap closed with agonizing slowness.

Finally, he could see that a ragged hole had been torn in the tapestry

of the forest. In the center of the hole, the gnarled trunk of a great tree

stood, blackened and burning. Lightning had struck it. The burned opening

was only ten yards wide, but around the base of the burning tree the

ground was clear and level. Arcuballis's feet touched down, its wings

trembled, and the beast shuddered. Immediately the exhausted griffon

closed its eyes to sleep.

Kith-Kanan untied his sack from the pillion. He crossed the narrow

clearing with the sack over one shoulder. Dropping to his feet, he squatted

down and started to unpack. The caw of a crow caught his ear. Looking

up at the splintered, smoldering trunk of the shattered tree, he spied a

single black bird perched on a charred limb. The crow cocked its head

and cawed again. Kith-Kanan went back to his unpacking as the crow

lifted off the limb, circled the clearing, and flew off.

He took out his bow and quiver, and braced a new bowstring. Though

only three feet long when strung, the powerful recursive bow could put an

iron-tipped arrow through a thick tree trunk. Kith-Kanan tied the quiver to

his belt. Taking the stout boar spear in both hands, he jammed it as high as

he could into the burned tree. He stuffed his belongings back in the sack

and hung the sack from the spear shaft. That ought to keep his things safe

from prowling animals.

Kith-Kanan squinted into the late afternoon sun. Using it as a guide,

he decided to strike out to the north a short distance to see if he could flush

any game. Arcuballis was safe enough, he figured; few predators would

dare tangle with a griffon. He put his back to the shattered tree and dove

into the deeply shadowed forest.

Though the elf prince was used to the woods, at least the woods

around Silvanost, he found this forest strangely different. The trees were

widely spaced, but their thick foliage made it nearly as dim as twilight

down below. So dense was the roof of leaves, the forest floor was nearly

barren. Some ferns and bracken grew between the great trees, but no

heavy undergrowth. The soil was thickly carpeted with dead leaves and

velvety moss. And even though the high branches stirred in the wind, it

was very still where Kith-Kanan walked. Very still indeed. Rings of

red-gilled mushrooms, a favorite food of deer and wild boar, grew

undisturbed around the bases of the trees. The silence soon grew

oppressive.

Kith-Kanan paused a hundred paces from the clearing and drew his

sword. He cut a hunter's sign, a "blaze," into the gray-brown bark of a

hundred-foot-high oak tree. Beneath the bark, the white flesh of the tree

was hard and tough. The elven blade chipped away at it, and the sound of

iron on wood echoed through the forest. His marker made, Kith-Kanan

sheathed his sword and continued on, bow in hand.

The forest seemed devoid of animals. Except for the crow he'd seen,

no other creature, furred or winged, showed itself. Every thirty yards or

so he made another blaze so as not to lose his way, for the darkness was

increasing. It was at least four hours until sunset, yet the shadowed

recesses of the forest were dimming to twilight. Kith-Kanan mopped the

sweat from his brow and knelt in the fallen leaves. He brushed them

aside, looking for signs of grazing by deer or wild pigs. The moss was

unbroken.

By the time Kith-Kanan had made his tenth blaze, it was dark as

night. He leaned against an ash tree and tried to see through the closely

growing branches overhead. At this point he'd just as soon have squirrel

for dinner as venison. That was growing more likely, too.

Tiny points of sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing as the

wind stirred the branches. It was almost like seeing the stars, only these

points of light moved. The effect was quite hypnotic, which only made

Kith-Kanan more tired than he already was. He'd dozed only fitfully in the

saddle and had eaten nearly nothing since the day before. Perhaps he'd

stop for a moment. Take a bit of rest. Overhead the points of light danced

and swayed.

Kith-Kanan's sword, resting in the crook of his arm, slipped from his

grasp and fell to the ground, sticking point first in the soft soil.

Points of light. Dancing. How very tired he was! His knees folded,

and he slid slowly down the trunk until he was sitting on his haunches,

back against the tree. His gaze remained on the canopy of leaves overhead.

What an odd forest this was. Not like home. Not like the woods of

Silvanost 

As in a dream, the prince saw the airy corridors of the Palace of

Quinari. The servants bowed to him, as they always did. He was on his

way to a feast in the Hall of Balif. There would be simmered roasts, legs

of lamb, fruits dripping with juice, fragrant sauces, and delicious drafts of

sweet nectar.

Kith-Kanan came to a door. It was just a door, like any other in the

palace. He pushed the door open, and there, in loving embrace, were

Sithas and Hermathya. She turned to face him, a smile on her face. A

smile for Sithas.

"No!"

He leaped forward, landing on his hands and knees. His legs were

completely numb. It was pitch dark around him, and for a few seconds

Kith-Kanan didn't know where he was. He breathed deeply. Night must

have fallen, he realized. But the dream had seemed so real! The elf's

senses told him he’d broken some spell, one that had come over him as he

looked at the patterns of light and shadow up in the trees. He must have

been dreaming for hours.

After a long minute waiting for the feeling to return to his legs,

Kith-Kanan cast about for his sword. He found it sticking in the moss. He

freed the weapon and shoved it into its scabbard. A vague sense of

urgency turned him back to the blasted clearing. His last blaze was visible

in the night, but the second to last was almost gone. New bark was

covering the cut he'd made. The next mark was a mere slit, and the one

after that he found only because he remembered the oddly forked trunk of

the ash tree he'd hacked it into. There were no more to find after that. The

cuts had healed.

For a moment the elf prince knew fear. He was lost in the silent forest

at night, hungry, thirsty, and alone. Had enough time passed for the cuts to

heal naturally, or was the grove enchanted? Even the darkness that

surrounded him seemed, well, darker than usual. Not even his elven

eyesight could penetrate very far.

Then the training and education of a prince reasserted itself, banishing

much of the fear. Kith-Kanan, grandson of the great Silvanos, was not

about to be bested on his first night in the wilderness.

He found a dry branch and set about making a torch to light his way

back to the clearing. After gathering a pile of dead leaves for tinder,

Kith-Kanan pulled out his flint and striker. To his surprise, no sparks flew

off the iron bar when he grated the flint against it. He tried and tried, but

all the fire seemed to have gone out of the flint.

There was a flutter of black wings overhead. Kith-Kanan leaped to his

feet in time to see a flock of crows take up perches on a limb just out of

reach. The dozen birds watched him with unnerving intelligence.

"Shoo!" he yelled, flinging a useless branch at them. The crows

flapped up and, when the branch had passed, settled again in the same

place and posture.

He pocketed his flint and striker. The crows followed his movements

with unblinking eyes. Tired and bewildered, he addressed the birds

directly. "I don't suppose you can help me find my way back, can you?"

One by one, the birds took wing and disappeared into the night.

Kith-Kanan sighed. I must be getting desperate if I'm talking to birds, he

concluded. After drawing his sword, he set off again, cutting new blazes

as he hunted for the clearing where he had left Arcuballis. That way, at

least he could avoid walking in circles.

He smote the nearest elm twice, chipping out palm-sized bits of bark.

He was about to strike a third time when he noticed the shadow of his

sword arm against the gray tree trunk. Shadow? In this well of ink?

Kith-Kanan turned quickly, sword ready. Floating six feet off the ground,

more than a dozen feet away, was a glowing mass the size of a wine

barrel. He watched, half anxious, half curious, as the glowing light came

toward him. It halted two feet from his face, and Kith-Kanan could clearly

see what it was.

The cool yellow mass of light was a swarm of fireflies. The insects

flew in circles around each other, creating a moving lamp for the lost

prince. Kith-Kanan stared at them in shock. The glowing mass moved

forward a few yards and halted. Kith-Kanan took a step toward them, and

they moved on a bit farther.

"Are you leading me back to the clearing?" the prince asked in

wonder. In response, the fireflies moved another yard forward.

Kith-Kanan followed warily, but grateful for the soft sphere of light the

fireflies cast around him.

In minutes, they had led him back to the clearing. The blasted tree

was just as he remembered  but Arcuballis was gone. Kith-Kanan ran to

the spot where the griffon had lain to rest. The leaves and moss still

carried the impression of the heavy beast, but that was all. Kith-Kanan was

astonished. He couldn't believe Arcuballis had flown off without him.

Royal griffons were bonded to their riders, and no more loyal creatures

existed on Krynn. There were tales of riders dying, and their griffons

following them into death out of sheer grief. Someone or something must

have taken Arcuballis. But who? Or what? How could such a powerful

creature be subdued without sign of a struggle?

Sick in his heart, Kith-Kanan wandered to the lightningseared tree.

More bad news! His boar spear remained stuck in the trunk, but the sack

containing his possessions was ~ gone. Angrily, he reached up and

wrenched the spear free. He stood in the clearing, gazing at the dark circle

of trees. Now he was truly alone. He and Arcuballis had been companions

for many years. More than a means of transport, the griffon was a trusted

friend.

He sagged to the ground, feeling utterly wretched. What could he do?

He couldn't even find his way around the forest in broad daylight.

Kith-Kanan's eyes brimmed, but he steadfastly refused to weep like some

abandoned child.

The fireflies remained by his head. They darted forward, then back, as

if reminding him they were there.

"Get away!" he snarled as they swooped scant inches from his nose.

The swarm instantly dispersed. The fireflies flew off in all directions, their

tiny lights flitting here and there, and then were gone.

* * * * *

“Won't you come in? You'll catch a chill.”

Sithel drew a woolen mantle up over his shoulders. "I am warmly

dressed," he said. His wife pulled a blanket off their bed, wrapped it

around her own shoulders, and stepped out on the balcony with him.

Sithel's long white hair lifted off his neck as a chill wind passed over

the palace tower. The private rooms of the speaker and his consort took up

the penultimate floor of the palace's tower. Only the Tower of the Stars

provided a higher vantage point in Silvanost.

"I felt a faint cry not long ago," Sithel said.

"Kith-Kanan?" The speaker nodded. “Do you think he is in danger?"

asked Nirakina, drawing her blanket more closely about herself.

"I think he is unhappy. He must be very far away. The feeling was

faint."

Nirakina looked up at her husband. "Call him, Sithel. Call him home.”

"I will not. He offended me, and he offended the noble assembly. He

broke one of our most sacred laws by drawing a weapon inside the Tower

of the Stars.”

“These things can be forgiven," she said quietly. “What else is it that

makes it so hard for you to forgive him?”

Sithel stroked his wife's soft hair. "I might have done what he did, had

my father given the woman I loved to another. But I don't approve of his

deed, and I will not call him home. If I did, he wouldn't learn the

discipline he must have. Let him stay away a while. His life here has been

too easy, and the outside world will teach him to be strong and patient.”

"I'm afraid for him," Nirakina said. "The world beyond Silvanost is a

deadly place."

Sithel raised her chin so their eyes met. "He has the blood of Silvanos

in his veins. Kith-Kanan will survive, beloved, survive and prosper."

Sithel looked away, out at the dark city. He held out his arm. "Come, let us

go in."

They lay down together, as they had for more than a thousand years.

But while Nirakina soon fell asleep, Sithel lay awake, worrying.

4

Three Days Later

After three sunrises, Kith-Kanan was in despair. He’d lost his griffon

and his spare clothing. When he tried his flint and striker again, he

managed to start a small fire. It comforted him somewhat, but he found no

food whatsoever to cook. On his third morning in the forest, he ran out of

water, too.

There was no point remaining in the clearing, so he shouldered his

spear and set out to find food and water. If the maps he remembered were

correct, the Kharolis River lay to the west. It might be many miles, but at

least it was something to aim for.

The only animals he saw on the way were more crows. The black

birds stayed with him, flitting from tree to tree, punctuating their flight

with short, sharp caws. The crows were Kith-Kanan's only company, so he

started talking to them. It helped keep his spirits up.

"I don't suppose you know where my griffon is?" he asked. Not

surprisingly, the birds didn't answer, but continued to fly from tree to tree,

keeping up with him.

The day dragged on and grew hotter. Even down in the eternal shade

of the deep forest, Kith-Kanan sweltered, because no breeze stirred the air.

The lay of the land grew rougher, too, with hills and gullies running north

to south along his line of march. This encouraged him at first, because

very often springs and brooks could be found at the bottom of ravines. But

as he scrambled up one hill and down another, he found only moss and

stones and fallen trees.

After skidding down a hillside into the nineteenth gully, Kith-Kanan

paused to rest. He sat on a fallen tree, dropping the spear in front of him.

He licked his dry lips again and fought down the rising feeling that he had

made a grave mistake by running away. How could he have been so

foolish to abandon his life of privilege for this? As soon as he asked

himself the question the vision of Hermathya marrying his brother rose up

in his mind, horribly vivid. Pain and loss welled up inside. To dispel the

image, he stood up abruptly and started off again, shouldering his boar

spear. He took two steps across the bottom of the ravine, and his feet sank

an inch or so into mud, covered by a thin layer of dead leaves.

Where there's mud, there’s water, he realized happily. Kith-Kanan

went along the ravine to his right, looking for the water that must be there

somewhere. He could see the ravine widen up ahead. Perhaps there was a

pool, a pool of clear, sweet water . . . .

The ravine converged on several others, making a steepsided bowl in

the hills. Kith-Kanan slogged through the increasingly wet mud. He could

smell water ahead. Then he could see it  a small pool, undisturbed by a

ripple. The sight drew him like magic. The mud rose above his knees but

he plunged on, right to the center of the pool. Cupping his hands, he filled

them with water and raised them to his lips.

Immediately he spit the water out again. It tasted vile, like rotted

leaves. Kith-Kanan stared down at his reflection in the water. His face

twisted with frustrated rage. It was no use. He would just have to keep

going.

His leg wouldn't come up out of the pool. He tried the other. It was

also stuck. He strained so hard to pull them up, he nearly lost his balance.

Arms flailing, Kith-Kanan twisted his hips from side to side, trying to

work himself free. Instead he sank deeper into the mire. He glanced

around quickly for a tree branch to grab, or a trailing vine. The nearest

trees were ten feet away.

The mud was soon up to his waist. He began to sink even faster.

"Help!" he cried desperately. "Is there anyone to hear?"

A flock of crows settled on the hillside facing Kith-Kanan. They

watched with unnerving calm as he foundered in the killing mud.

You won't pick my eyes, he vowed silently. When the end comes, I'll

duck under the mud before I let you black carrion eaters pick me over.

“They're not really so bad once you get to know them," said a voice.

Kith-Kanan jerked as if struck by lightning.

"Who's there?" he shouted, looking around at the still trees. "Help!"

"I can help you. I don't know that I will." It was a high, childish voice,

full of smugness.

In replying, the speaker had given himself away. Kith-Kanan spotted

him, to his left, in a tree. Sitting comfortably on a thick branch, his back

propped against the ancient oak trunk, was a slender young person, clad in

mottled green-brown tunic and hose. A hood was drawn up over his head.

The tan face that showed under the hood was painted with loops and lines,

done in bright red and yellow pigment.

"Help me!" Kith-Kanan shouted. "I can reward you handsomely!"

"Really? What with?"

"Gold. Silver. Jewels.” Anything, he vowed to himself. Anything in

all of Krynn.

"What is gold?"

The mud was halfway up Kith-Kanan's chest. The pressure against his

body made it difficult to draw breath. "You're mocking me," he gasped.

“Please! I haven't much time!"

"No, you haven't," noted the hooded figure uninterestedly. “What else

would you give me if I help you?"

"My bow! Would you like that?"

"I can pick that out of the mire once you're gone.”

Blast the fellow! "I haven't anything else!" The cold muck was nearly

at his shoulders. "Please, for the gods' sake, help me!"

The hooded figure rolled nimbly forward onto his feet. "I will help

you, for the gods' sake. They often do things for me, so it seems only fair I

do something for their sake now and again."

The stranger walked heel to toe along the branch until he was almost

directly over Kith-Kanan. The prince's shoulders were in the mud, though

he held his arms above his head to keep them free until the last possible

second. The fellow in the tree unwrapped a belt from his waist. It had

circled his slim body several times and, when unwound, was over ten feet

long. Lying flat on the branch, he lowered the leather strap to Kith-Kanan.

The prince caught it in his left hand.

"What are you waiting for? Pull me out!" Kith-Kanan ordered.

"If you can't pull yourself out, I cannot do it for you," his rescuer

remarked. He looped the belt around the tree limb a few times and secured

it with a knot. Then he lay on the branch, his head propped on one hand,

awaiting the outcome.

Kith-Kanan grimaced and started to haul himself out by the strap.

With much gasping and cursing, Kith-Kanan climbed out of the deadly

mire and pulled himself up to the tree branch. He threw a leg over the

branch and lay panting.

"Thank you," he finally said, a little sarcastically.

The young fellow had moved several feet back toward the oak tree

and sat with his knees drawn up. “You’re welcome,” he replied. Behind

the barbarous face paint, his eyes were brilliant green. He pushed back his

hood, revealing himself to be a boy with a shock of bone-white hair. His

high cheekbones and tapered ears bespoke his heritage. Kith-Kanan sat up

slowly, astride the branch.

"You are Silvanesti," he said, startled.

"No, I am Mackeli."

Kith-Kanan shook his head. "You are of the race of the Silvanesti, as

am I."

The elf boy stood on the branch. "I don't know what you mean. I am

Mackeli."

The branch was too narrow for Kith-Kanan to stand on, so he inched

his way forward to the tree trunk. The deadly mud below was hidden once

more under its covering of water. He shuddered as he looked down upon

it. "You see we are alike, don't you?"

Mackeli, hopping nimbly along the branch, glanced back at

Kith-Kanan and said, "No. I don't see that we are alike.”

Exasperated and too tired to continue, Kith-Kanan gave up that line of

conversation.

They climbed down to solid ground. Kith-Kanan followed the

scampering boy slowly. Even so, he lost his grip on the trunk and fell the

last few feet. He landed on his rear with a thud and groaned.

"You are clumsy," Mackeli observed.

"And you are rude. Do you know who I am?" the prince said

haughtily.

"A clumsy outlander.” The elf boy reached around his back and

brought back a gourd bottle, laced tightly with deerskin. He poured a

trickle of clear water into his open mouth. Kith-Kanan watched intently,

his throat moving with imaginary swallows.

“May I  may I have some water?" he pleaded.

Mackeli shrugged and handed him the bottle. Kith-Kanan took the

gourd in his muddy hands and drank greedily. He drained the bottle in

three gulps.

"May the gods bless you," he said, handing the empty container to the

boy.

Mackeli upended the bottle, saw that it was indeed completely dry,

and gave Kith-Kanan a disgusted look.

"I haven't had any water in two days," Kith-Kanan explained. “Nor

have I eaten. Do you have any food?"

"Not with me. There is some at home."

"Would you take me there?"

Mackeli raised his hood again, hiding his startlingly white hair. With

it covered, he was superbly camouflaged, blending into the forest. "Won't

know if that would be right. Ny might not like it."

"I appeal to you, friend. I am desperate. I have lost my steed and my

way, and I cannot seem to find any game in this accursed forest. If you

don’t help me, I shall starve in this wilderness.”

The elf boy laughed, a pleasant sound in the still air. "Yes, I heard

there was an outlander blundering about in these parts. The corvae told me

about you.”

"Corvae?"

Mackeli pointed to the crows, still watching from the nearby hillside.

"They know everything that happens in the forest. Sometimes, when

something strange occurs, they tell me and Ny about it.”

Kith-Kanan remembered the unnerving attention the crows had paid

him. “Do you truly speak with birds?”

"Not only birds.” Mackeli held up a hand and made a shrill cawing

sound. One of the black birds flew over and alighted on his arm, like a

falcon returning to its master.

"What do you think?" the boy asked the bird. "Can I trust him?" The

crow cocked its head and uttered a single sharp screech. Mackeli frowned.

The whorls above his eyes contracted as he knitted his brow together.

"He says you carry an object of power. He says you cut the trees with

it.”

Kith-Kanan looked down at his mud-caked scabbard. “My sword is

not magical," he said. "It's just an ordinary blade. Here, you can hold it."

He reversed his grip and held the pommel out to Mackeli. The elf boy

reached out tentatively. The crows chorused as if in warning, but Mackeli

ignored them. His small hand closed over the diamond-shaped pommel.

"There is power here," he said, snatching his hand back. "It smells

like death!"

"Take it in your hands," Kith-Kanan urged. "It won’t hurt you.”

Mackeli grasped the handle in both hands and lifted it out of the

prince's hand. "So heavy! What is it made of?" he grunted.

"Iron and brass.” Mackeli's face showed that he did not know iron or

brass, gold or silver. “Do you know what metals are, Mackeli?"

"No." He tried to swing Kith-Kanan's sword, but it was too heavy for

him to control. The point dropped to the ground.

"I thought as much." Gently the prince took the sword back and slid it

into its sheath. "Are you satisfied I’m not dangerous?"

Mackeli sniffed his hands and made a face. "I never said you were

dangerous," he said airily. "Except maybe to yourself."

He set off and kept up a brisk pace, slipping in and out of the big

trees. Mackeli never walked straight more than a few yards. He pushed off

from the massive trunks, hopped over fallen limbs, and scampered like a

squirrel. Kith-Kanan trudged along, weighed down by hunger and several

pounds of stinking mud. Several times Mackeli had to double back to find

the prince and guide him along. Kith-Kanan watched the boy's progress

through the forest and felt like a tired old man. He'd thought he was such a

fine ranger. This boy, who could be no more than sixty years old, made

the foresters of Silvanost look like blundering drunkards.

The trek lasted hours and followed no discernible path. Kith-Kanan

got the strong impression Mackeli didn't want him to know where they

were going.

There were elves who dwelt entirely in the wilderness, the Kagonesti.

They were given to the practice of painting their skin with strange

patterns, as Mackeli did. But they were dark-skinned and dark-haired; this

boy's features were pure Silvanesti. Kith-Kanan asked himself why a boy

of the pure blood should be out here in the deep forest. Runaway? Member

of a lost tribe? He finally imagined a secret forest hideaway, inhabited by

outlaws driven from Silvanesti by his grandfather Silvanos's wars of

unification. Not everyone had followed the great leader to peace and unity.

Suddenly Kith-Kanan realized that he no longer heard Mackeli's light

tread in the carpet of fallen leaves. Halting, he looked ahead, then spied

the boy a score of yards away, on his right. Mackeli was kneeling, his

head bowed low. A hush had fallen over the already quiet forest.

As he observed the boy, wonderingly, a feeling of utter peace flowed

over Kith-Kanan, a peace he'd never known before. All the troubles of

recent days were washed away. Then Kith-Kanan turned and saw what

had brought this tranquility, what had brought Mackeli to his knees.

Framed by ferns and tree trunks wrapped in flowering vines was a

magnificent animal with a single white horn spiraling from its head. A

unicorn  rarest of the rare, more scarce than the gods themselves. The

unicorn was snowy white from her small, cloven hooves to the tips of her

foaming mane. She radiated a soft light that seemed the essence of peace.

Standing on a slight rise of ground, fifteen yards away, her eyes met Kith--

Kanan's and touched his soul.

The elf prince sank to his knees. He knew he was being granted a rare

privilege, a glimpse of a creature thought by many to be only legend.

"Rise, noble warrior." Kith-Kanan raised his head. "Rise, son of

Sithel." The voice was deep and melodic. Mackeli, still bowed, gave no

sign that he had heard.

Kith-Kanan stood slowly. "You know me, great one?"

"I heard of your coming." So enticing was the majestic creature, he

wanted very badly to approach her, to see her more closely, to touch her.

Before he could put the thought into action, she said sharply, "Stand where

you are! It is not permitted for you to come too near." Kith-Kanan

involuntarily took a step back. "Son of Sithel, you have been chosen for an

important task. I brought you and the boy Mackeli together, so he could be

your guide in the forest. He is a good boy, much skilled in the ways of

beast and bird. He will serve you well!”

“What do you wish me to do?” Kith-Kanan asked with sudden

humility.

The unicorn tossed her head, sending pearly waves of mane cascading

along her neck. "This deep forest is the oldest in the land. It was here that

leaf and limb, animal and bird first lived. The spirits of the land are strong

here, but they are vulnerable, too. For five thousand risings of the sun

special ones have lived in the forest, protecting it from despoilers. Now a

band of interlopers has come to this land, bringing fire and death with

them. The spirits of the old forest cry out for help to me, and I have found

you as the answer. You are the fated one, the one who carries iron. You

must drive the despoilers out, son of Sithel."

At that moment, Kith-Kanan would have fought armies of dragons

had the unicorn but asked. “Where will I find these interlopers?" he said,

his hand coming to the pommel of his sword.

The unicorn took a step backward. "There is another, who lives with

the boy. Together, you three shall cleanse the forest."

The unicorn took another step backward, and the forest itself seemed

to close around her. Her alabaster aura shone briefly, and then she was

gone, vanished into the secret depths of the greenwood.

After a few seconds Kith-Kanan recovered himself and ran to

Mackeli. When he touched the boy's shoulder, Mackeli shook himself as if

coming out of a trance.

“Where is the Forestmaster?" he whispered.

"Gone," said Kith-Kanan regretfully. "She spoke to me!"

A look of awe spread over Mackeli’s sharp face. "You are greatly

favored, outlander! What did the Forestmaster say?"

"You didn't hear?" Mackeli shook his head. Apparently the unicorn’s

message was for him alone. He wondered how much to tell the boy and

finally decided to keep his own counsel.

"You are to take me to your camp," he said firmly. “I will need to

learn everything you know about living in the woods."

"That I will gladly teach you,” Mackeli said. He shivered with

excitement. "In all my life, I have never seen the Forestmaster! There were

times I sensed her passing, but never have I been so close!" He grasped

Kith-Kanan's hand. "Come! Let's hurry. I can't wait to tell Ny about this!"

Kith-Kanan glanced at the spot where the Forestmaster had stood.

Flowers had burst up where her hooves had touched the ground. Before he

could react, Mackeli had jerked him into motion. At breakneck speed, the

sure-footed boy drew Kith-Kanan deeper into the forest. The undergrowth

got thicker, the trees larger and closer together, yet Mackeli never faltered.

At times he and Kith-Kanan had to wriggle through gaps in the trees so

tight and low they had to go on hands and knees.

Just before sunset, when the crickets had begun to sing, Mackeli

reached a large clearing and stopped.

“We are home," said the boy.

Kith-Kanan went to the center of the open space, more than forty

paces across, and turned a circle on one heel. “What home?" he asked.

Mackeli grinned, the effect weirdly emphasized by the red lines of

paint dabbed on his cheeks. Jauntily he walked forward to the base of a

truly massive oak. He grasped at a patch of relatively smooth bark and

pulled. A door opened in the trunk of the tree, a door made from a curving

section of oak bark. Beyond the open door was a dark space. Mackeli

waved to Kith-Kanan.

"Come in. This is home," the boy said as he stepped into the hollow

tree.

Kith-Kanan had to duck to clear the low opening. It smelled like

wood and spice inside, pleasant but strange to his city-bred nose. It was so

black he could barely make out the dim curve of the wooden walls. Of

Mackeli he could see nothing.

And then the boy's hand touched his, and Kith-Kanan flinched like a

frightened child. "Light a candle or a lamp, will you?" he said,

embarrassed.

"Do what?”

“Light a  never mind. Can you make a fire, Mackeli? I can't see a

thing in here."

"Only Ny can make fire."

"Is Ny here?"

“No. Gone hunting, I think."

Kith-Kanan groped his way along the wall. 'Where does Ny build his

fires?" he asked.

“Here.” Mackeli led him to the center of the room. Kith-Kanan 's foot

bumped a low hearth made of rocks plastered together with mud. He

squatted down and felt the ashes. Stone cold. No one had used it in quite a

while.

"If you get me some kindling, I'll make a fire," he offered.

"Only Ny can make fire," Mackeli repeated doubtfully.

"Well, I may not be the stealthiest tracker or the best forester, but, by

Astarin, I can make fire!"

They went back out and gathered armfuls of windblown twigs and

small, dead branches. A weak bit of light cut into the hollow tree through

the open door as Kith-Kanan arranged the dry sticks in a cone over a heap

of bark and shavings he had whittled off with his dagger. He took out his

flint and striker from the pouch at his waist. Leaning on his knees on the

stone hearth, he nicked the flint against the roughened iron striker. Sparks

fell on the tinder, and he blew gently on them. In a few minutes he had a

weak flicker of flame and not long after that, a crackling fire.

“Well, boy, what do you think of that?" the prince asked Mackeli.

Instead of being impressed, Mackeli shook his head. "Ny's not going

to like this.”

Lightened by the fire, the interior of the hollow tree was finally

visible to Kith-Kanan. The room was quite large, five paces wide, and a

ladder led up through a hole to the upper branches and the outside of the

tree. Smoke from the fire also went out through this hole. The walls were

decorated with the skulls of animals  rabbit, squirrel, a fierce-looking

boar with upthrust tusks, a magnificent eight-point buck, plus a host of

bird skulls Kith-Kanan could not identify. Mackeli explained that

whenever Ny killed an animal not killed before, the skull was cleaned and

mounted on a peg on the wall. That way the spirit of the dead beast was

propitiated and the god of the forest, the Blue Phoenix, would grant

success to future hunts.

"Which of these did you kill?” Kith-Kanan asked.

“It is not permitted for me to shed the blood of animals. That’s Ny's

work.” The elf boy slipped back his hood. “I talk to the animals and listen

to what they say. I do not shed their blood.”

Kith-Kanan sat down on a pallet filled with moss. He was weary and

dirty and very hungry. Mackeli fidgeted about, giving the prince frequent

looks of displeasure. Eventually, Kith-Kanan asked Mackeli what was

wrong.

“That’s Ny’s place. You must not sit there,” the boy said irritatedly.

Kith-Kanan heaved himself off. “This Ny has more privileges than the

Speaker of the Stars,” he said, exasperation clearing his voice. "May I sit

here?" He indicated the floor of the hollow tree, which was covered with

pine needles. Mackeli nodded.

Soon after that exchange, Kith-Kanan asked for something to eat. The

elf boy scampered up the ladder and, leaning out to the center of the

hollow space, pushed aside various gourds and skin bags that hung by

thongs from the ceiling. He found the one he wanted and brought it down.

Sitting cross-legged beside Kith-Kanan, Mackeli bade the prince hold out

his hands. He did, and the boy filled them with roasted wild chestnuts,

neatly peeled.

"Do you have any meat?” Kith-Kanan asked.

“Only Ny eats meat.”

The prince was getting tired of the litany of things only Ny could do.

Too tired, in fact, to dispute with the boy, Kith-Kanan ate chestnuts in

silence. He was grateful for whatever he could get.

“Do you know," he said at last, "you've never asked me my name?"

Mackeli shrugged. “I didn't think you had one."

"Of course I have a name!" The elf boy rubbed his nose, getting

yellow paint on his fingers. “My name is Kith," the prince said, since

Mackeli obviously wasn't going to ask.

Mackeli shook more chestnuts into his paint-stained palm. "That's a

funny name," he noted and popped a chestnut into his mouth.

5

Five Weeks Later

"Lady Nerakina, wife of the Speaker,” annnounced the maidservant.

Hermathya looked up from her mirror and nodded. The servant opened the

door.

"Time is short, Lady,” Nirakina cautioned as she entered.

"I know.” Hermathya stood motionless in the center of a maelstrom of

activity. Servants, dressmakers, and perfumers dodged and weaved around

her, each trying to make final, finishing touches before the wedding

ceremony began.

“You look beautiful,” Nirakina said, and she was not merely being

polite to her daughter-to-be. The finest creators of beauty in Silvanost had

labored for weeks to make Hermathya's wedding gown and to compound

the special oils and perfumes that would be hers alone.

The gown was in two parts. The first was an overdress in sheerest

linen, too light to be worn alone and maintain modesty. Beneath this,

Hermathya was wrapped in a single swath of golden cloth, many yards

long. Six members of the Seamstress Guild had begun the winding

Hermathya wore at her neck. A huge drum of gold was slowly wound

around her, closely over her breasts and torso, more loosely over hips and

legs. She had been forced to stand with her arms raised for two hours

while the elf women worked.

Her feet were covered by sandals made from a single sheet of gold,

beaten so thin it felt and flexed like the most supple leather. Golden laces

crisscrossed her legs from ankle to knee, securing the sandals.

The elf's hair and face had been worked over, too. Gone were the

maidenly braids framing her face. Her coppery hair was waved, then

spread around her shoulders. In the elven custom, it was the husband who

gave his new wife the first of the clasps with which she would ever after

bind her tresses.

The bride's skin was smoothed of every roughness or blemish with

aromatic oils and bone-thin soapstone. Her nails were polished and gilded,

and her lips were painted golden. As befitted her noble rank and wealthy

family, Hermathya wore sixteen bracelets  ten on her right arm and six on

her left. These were all gifts from her parents, her siblings, and her female

friends.

"That's enough,” Nirakina said to the agitated servants. "Leave us.”

With much bowing and flourishing, the mob funneled out the doors of the

Hall of Balif. "All of you," said the speaker's wife. The regular palace

servants withdrew, closing the doors behind them.

"So much work for such a brief ceremony," Hermathya said. She

turned ever so slowly, so as not to disturb her hair or gown. "Is this as

great as your wedding, Lady?"

"Greater. Sithel and I were married during the Second Dragon War,

when there was no time or gold to spare on fancy things. We didn't know

then if we'd be alive in a year, much less know if we'd have an heir to see

married."

"I have heard stories of those times. It must have been terrible.”

"The times make those who live in them," Nirakina said evenly. Her

own dress, as the speaker's wife and mother of the groom, was quite

conservative  white silk embroidered in silver and gold with the arms of

House Royal. But with her honey-brown hair and liquid eyes she had a

serene beauty all her own.

There was a loud, very masculine knock at the door. Nirakina said

calmly, "Come in."

A splendidly attired warrior entered the hall. His armor was burnished

until it was almost painful to look at. Scarlet plumes rose from his helmet.

His scabbard was empty  the ceremony was one of peace, so no weapons

were allowed  but his fierce martial splendor was no less imposing.

“My ladies,” announced the warrior, "I am Kencathedrus, chosen by

Lord Sithas to escort you to the Tower of the Stars."

"I know you, Kencathedrus,” replied Nirakina. "You trained Prince

Kith-Kanan in the warrior arts, did you not?”

"I did, my lady."

Hermathya was glad she was facing away. Mention of Kith-Kanan

brought a rush of color to her powdered face. It wasn't so much that she

still loved him, she decided. No, she was over that, if she ever did truly

love him. But she knew that Kencathedrus, a mere soldier, was performing

the duty Kith-Kanan should be doing. To escort the bride was a duty

brother owed to brother.

Hermathya composed herself. This was the moment. She turned. "I

am ready."

In the corridor outside the Hall of Balif an honor guard of twenty

warriors was drawn up, and farther down the hall twenty young elf girls

chosen from the families of the guild masters stood ready to precede the

honor guard. And beyond them, filling the other end of the corridor, were

twenty elf boys dressed in long, trailing white robes and carrying sistrums.

The size of the escort took Hermathya back for a moment. She looked out

at the sea of expectant faces. It was rather overwhelming. All these people,

and thousands more outside, awaited her. She called upon the core of

strength that had carried her through troubles before, put on her most

serene expression, and held out her hand. Kencathedrus rested her hand on

his armored forearm, and the procession to the Tower of the Stars began.

Nirakina walked three steps behind them, and after her the honor

guard fell in with the clank and rattle of armor and metal sandals. The

boys led the procession in slow step, banging their sistrums against their

hands. To this steady rhythm the elf girls followed, strewing flower petals

in the path of the bride.

Outside, the sun was high and bright, and every spire in Silvanost

boasted a streaming banner. When Hermathya appeared on the steps of the

Palace of Quinari, the assembled crowd let out a shout of greeting.

“What do I do?" Hermathya murmured. "Do I wave?"

"No, that would be vulgar. You must be above it all," said Nirakina

softly.

A phalanx of pipers, clad in brilliant green, formed in front of the

sistrum-bearing boys and played a bright fanfare. The music settled into a

march as the procession wound around the Gardens of Astarin, following

the circular road. According to ritual, the bride was first taken to the

temple of Quenesti Pah, where she underwent a rite of purification. At the

same time, the groom was receiving similar rites in the temple of E’li.

Then the two came together before the speaker in the Tower of the Stars,

where they exchanged golden rings shaped to resemble twining branches

and where their joining was finally accomplished.

The sun shone down from a spring sky unsullied by a single cloud,

and the marble buildings glowed in the midst of velvety green foliage. The

crowd cheered mightily for the spectacle. Perhaps, Hermathya thought

idly, in time they will cheer so for me. . . .

"Careful, Lady," warned Kencathedrus. The flower petals were being

trodden to mush, and the road was getting a bit treacherous. Hermathya's

golden sandals were stained with the crushed pulp. She lifted the hem of

her diaphanous white gown out of the debris.

The squat, conical tower of the Temple of E’li appeared ahead on her

right. Hermathya could see Sithas's guard of honor-at least a hundred

warriors-drawn up on the. Steps. Just as her own attendants were bedecked

in gold and white, so Sithas's attendants wore gold and green. She tried to

keep her eyes straight ahead as they passed the temple, but she was drawn

irresistibly to look in the open doors. It was dark inside the house of

worship, and though she could see torches blazing on the wall, she could

see neither Sithas nor anyone else within.

As the bride's entourage rounded the curve, the press of the crowd

became greater and the cheering intensified. The shadow cast by the

Tower of the Stars fell across the street. It was thought to be good luck to

stand in the structure's shadow, so hundreds were crammed into the

narrow space.

On a sudden impulse, Hermathya abandoned her distant, serene

demeanor and smiled. The cheering increased. She raised her free hand

and waved, once to the people of Silvanost. A roar went up such as the

'City had never heard, a roar that excited her.

In the Temple of E’li, Sithas heard the roar. He was kneeling before

the high priest, about to be anointed with sacred oils. He raised his head

slightly and turned one ear toward the sound. The warrior who knelt

behind him whispered, "$ball I see what is thematter, Lord?"

"No" replied Sithas levelly. "I believe the people have just met the

bride.”

* * * * *

The Temple of Quenesti Pah, goddess of health and fertility, was a

1ight, airy vault with a roof of transparent tortoiseshell. There was no

great central tower, as in most of the other temples. Instead, four thin

spires rose from the comers of the roof, solid columns of rock that reached

skyward. Though not as imposing as the House of E'li, or as somber as the

Temple of Matheti, Mermathya thought the Temple of Quenesti Pah the

prettiest building in Silvanost.

The pipers, sistrum players, and flower girls all turned aside and

flanked the entrance to the temple. The honor guard halted at the foot of

the steps.

Nirakina stepped up beside Hermathya. "If you have finished

performing for the crowd, we will go in." In her tone couldbe detected a

sharpness, and Hermathya hid a smile. Without replying, Hermathya gave

the crowd one last wave before she entered the temple.

Nirakina watched her ascend the steps. She was really trying to get

along with the girl, but every passing moment added to her irritation. For

Sithas's sake, she wanted the marriage to be a success, but her

overwhelming feeling was that Hermathya was a spoiled child.

Inside, the ritual was brief, consisting of little more than prayers and

the washing of Hermathya's hands in scented water. Nirakina hovered over

her, her distaste for the younger woman's behavior just barely concealed.

But Hermathya had understood Nirakina's annoyance, and she found that

she enjoyed it. It added to her sense of excitement.

The ritual done, the bride rose to her feet and thanked Miritelisina, the

high priestess. Then, without waiting for Nirakina, she walked swiftly

from the temple. The crowd was waiting breathlessly for her reappearance,

and Hermathya did not disappoint them. A thunder of approval built from

the back of the crowd, where the poorest elves stood. She flashed them a

smile, then moved with quick grace down to Kencathedrus. Nirakina

hurried after her, looking harassed and undignified.

The procession reformed, and the pipers played "Children of the

Stars," the ancient tune that every elf knew from childhood. Even

Hermathya was surprised, however, when the people began to sing along

with the pipers.

She slowed her pace and gradually stopped. The procession strung out

until the pipers in the fore realized that those behind had halted. The music

swelled higher and louder until Harmathya felt that she was being lifted by

it.

With little prelude, the bride sang. At her side, Kencathedrus looked

at her in wonder. He glanced over his armored shoulder to Lady Nirakina,

who stood silent and straight, arms held rigidly at her sides. Her

voluminous sleeves covered her tightly clenched fists.

Some in the crowd ceased their own singing that they might hear the

bride. But as the last verse of the song began, they all joined in; once more

the sound threatened to raise the city from its foundations. When the last

words of "Children of the Stars" faded in the throats of thousands, silence

fell over Silvanost. The silence seemed more intense because of the tumult

earlier. Everyone assembled in the street, every elf on rooftops and in

tower windows had his or her eyes on Hermathya.

Casually the bride took her hand from Kencathedrus's arm and walked

through the procession toward the Tower of the Stars. The flower girls and

sistrum-bearers parted in complete silence. Hermathya walked with calm

grace through the ranks of the pipers. They stood aside, their silver flutes

stilled. Up the steps of the Tower of the Stars she moved, appearing in the

doorway alone.

Sithas stood in the center of the hall, waiting. With much less fanfare,

he had come from the Temple of E'li with his retainers. Farther inside,

Sithel sat on his throne. The golden mantle that lay on the speaker’s

shoulders spread out on the floor before him, trailing down the two steps

of the dais, across the platform and down the seven steps to where Sithas

stood. In front of the throne dais was an ornate and intricately carved

golden tray on a silver stand. On the tray rested the golden rings the

couple would exchange.

Hermathya came forward. The silence continued as if the entire elven

nation was holding its breath. Part of the sensation was awe, and part was

amazement. The bride of the speaker's heir had broken several traditions

on her way to the tower. The royal family had always maintained an

aloofness, an air of unbreachable dignity. Hermathya had flaunted herself

before the crowd, yet the people of Silvanost seemed to love her for it.

Sithas wore ceremonial armor over his robe of gold. The skillfully

worked breastplate and shoulder pieces were enameled in vibrant green.

Though the cuirass bore the arms of Silvanos, Sithas had attached a small

red rosebud to his sleeve, a small but potent symbol of his devotion to his

patron deity.

When Hermathya drew near, he said teasingly, “Well, my dear, has

the celebration ended?"

“No," she said, smiling sweetly. "It has just begun."

Hand in hand, they went before Sithel.

* * * * *

The feasting that began that evening continued for four days. It grew

quite wearing on the newlyweds, and after the second day they retired to

the fifth floor of the Quinari tower, which had been redecorated as their

living quarters. At night, Hermathya and Sithas stood on their balcony

overlooking the heart of the city and watched the revelries below.

“Do you suppose anyone remembers what the celebration is for?"

asked Hermathya.

"They don't tonight. They will tomorrow," Sithas said forcefully.

Yet he found it difficult being alone with her. She was so much a

stranger to him  and always, in the back of his mind, he wondered if she

compared him to Kith-Kanan. Though they were nearly identical in looks,

Sithel's heir knew that he and his brother were worlds apart in

temperament. Sithas grasped the balcony rail tightly. For the first time in

his life he was at a loss as to what to do or say.

"Are you happy?" Hermathya asked after a long, mutual silence.

“I am content,” he said carefully.

“Will you ever be happy?" she asked coyly.

Sithas turned to his wife and said, “I will endeavor to try."

"Do you miss Kith-Kanan?"

The calm golden eyes clouded for a moment. "Yes, I miss him. Do

you, Lady?"

Hermathya touched the starjewel she wore pinned to the throat of her

gown. Slowly she leaned against the prince and slipped an arm about his

waist. "No, I don't miss him," she said a little too strongly.

6

The Same Day, in the Forest

Shorn of his armor and city-made clothes, Kith-Kanan padded

through the forest in a close-fitting deerskin tunic and leggings such as

Mackeli wore. He was trying to circle Mackeli's house without the boy

hearing him.

“You're by the gray elm," Mackeli's voice sang out. And so

Kith-Kanan was. Try as he might, he still made too much noise. The boy

might keep his eyes closed so he wouldn't see the heat of Kith-Kanan's

body, but Mackeli's keen ears were never fooled.

Kith-Kanan doubled back six feet and dropped down on his hands.

There was no sound in the woods. Mackeli called, "You can't steal up on

anyone by sitting still."

The prince stepped only on the tree roots that humped up above the

level of the fallen leaves. In this way he went ten paces without making a

sound. Mackeli said nothing, and the prince grinned to himself. The boy

couldn't hear him! At last.

He stepped far out from a root to a flat stone. The stone was tall

enough to allow him to reach a low limb on a yew tree. As silently as

possible, he pulled himself up into the yew tree, hugging the trunk. His

green and brown tunic blended well with the lichen-spotted bark. A hood

concealed his fair hair. Immobile, he waited. He'd surprise the boy this

time!

Any second now, Mackeli would walk by and then he'd spring down

on him. But something firm thumped against his hood. Kith-Kanan raised

his eyes and saw Mackeli, clinging to the tree just three feet above him.

He nearly fell off the branch, so great was his surprise.

"By the Dragonqueen!" he swore. "How did you get up there?”

"I climbed,” said Mackeli smugly.

"But how? I never saw  "

“Walking on the roots was good, Kith, but you spent so much time

watching your feet I was able to slip in front of you."

“But this tree! How did you know which one to climb?"

Mackeli shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I made it easy for you. I

pushed the stone out far enough for you to step on and climbed up here to

wait. You did the rest.”

Kith-Kanan swung down to the ground. "I feel like a fool. Why, your

average goblin is probably better in the woods than I am."

Mackeli let go of the tree and fell in a graceful arc. He caught the low

branch with his fingertips to slow his descent. Knees bent, he landed

beside Kith-Kanan.

"You are pretty clumsy," he said without malice. "But you don't smell

as bad as a goblin."

“My thanks.” said the prince sourly.

"It's really just a matter of breathing."

"Breathing? How?"

"You breathe like this." Mackeli threw back his shoulders and puffed

out his thin chest. He inhaled and exhaled like a blacksmith's bellows. The

sight was so absurd, Kith-Kanan had to smile. "Then you walk the way

you breathe." The boy stomped about exaggeratedly, lifting his feet high

and crashing them into the scattered leaves and twigs.

Kith-Kanan's smile flattened into a frown. "How do you breathe?" he

asked.

Mackeli rooted about at the base of the tree until he found a cast-off

feather. He lay on his back and placed it on his upper lip. So smoothly did

the elf boy draw breath, the feather never wavered.

"Am I going to have to learn how to breathe?" Kith-Kanan demanded.

"It would be a good start," said Mackeli. He hopped to his feet. “We

go home now."

Several days passed slowly for Kith-Kanan in the forest. Mackeli was

a clever and engaging companion, but his diet of nuts, berries, and water

did not agree with the elf prince's tastes. His belly, which was hardly

ample to start with, shrank under the simple fare. Kith-Kanan longed for

meat and nectar. Only Ny could get meat, the boy insisted. Yet there was

no sign of the mysterious "Ny."

There was also no sign of the missing Arcuballis. Though Kith-Kanan

prayed that somehow they could be reunited, he knew there was little hope

for this. With no idea where the griffon had been taken and no way of

finding out, the prince tried to accept that Arcuballis was gone forever.

The griffon, a tangible link with his old life, was gone, but Kith-Kanan

still had his memories.

These same memories returned to torment the prince in his dreams

during those days. He heard once more his father announce Hermathya's

betrothal to Sithas. He relived the ordeal in the Tower of the Stars, and,

most terrible of all, he listened to Hermathya's calm acceptance of Sithas.

Kith-Kanan filled his days talking with and learning from Mackeli,

determined to build a new life away from Silvanost. Perhaps that life

would be here, he decided, in the peace and solitude of the ancient forest.

One time Kith-Kanan asked Mackeli where he'd been born, where

he'd come from.

"I have always been from here," Mackeli replied, waving absently at

the trees.

"You were born here?"

"I have always been here," he replied stubbornly.

At that, Kith-Kanan gave up. Questions about the past stymied the

boy almost as much as queries about the future. If he stuck to the

present  and whatever they were doing at the moment  he could almost

have a conversation with Mackeli.

In return for Mackeli's lessons in stealth and survival, Kith-Kanan

regaled his young friend with tales of Silvanost, of the great wars against

the dragons, and of the ways of city-bred elves.

Mackeli loved these stories, but more than anything, metal fascinated

him. He would sit cross-legged on the ground and hold some object of

Kith-Kanan's  his helmet, a greave, a piece from his armor  and rub his

small brown fingers against the cold surface again and again. He could not

fathom how such hard material could be shaped so intricately. Kith-Kanan

explained what he knew of smithy and foundry work. The idea that metal

could be melted and poured absolutely astounded Mackeli.

"You put metal in the fire," he said, "and it doesn't burn? It gets soft

and runny, like water?"

“Well, it's thicker than water."

"Then you take away the fire, and the metal gets hard again?"

Kith-Kanan nodded. "You made that up!" Mackeli exclaimed. “Things put

in the fire get burned."

"I swear by E’li, it is the truth."

Mackeli was too slight to handle the sword, but he was able to draw

the bow well enough to shoot. He had an uncanny eye, and Kith-Kanan

wished he would use some of that stealth to bring down a deer for dinner.

But it was not to be; Mackeli didn't eat meat and he refused to shed blood

for Kith-Kanan. Only Ny . . .

On a gray and rainy morning, Mackeli went out to gather nuts and

roots. Kith-Kanan remained in the hollow tree, stoking the fire, polishing

his sword and dagger. When the rain showed signs of letting up, he left his

weapons below and climbed the ladder to the upper part of the oak tree.

He stood on a branch thicker around than his waist and surveyed the

rain-washed forest. Drops fell from the verdant leaves, and the air had a

clean, fertile smell. Deeply the prince inhaled. He had found a small

measure of peace here, and the meeting with the Forestmaster had foretold

great adventure for his future.

Kith-Kanan went back down and immediately noticed that his sword

and dagger were gone. His first thought was that Mackeli had come back

and was playing a trick on him, but the prince saw no signs the boy had

returned. He turned around and was going back up the tree when

something heavy struck him from behind, in the middle of his back.

He crashed against the trunk, spun, and saw nothing. "Mackeli!" he

cried, "This isn't funny!" Neither was the blow on the back of his head that

followed. A weight bore Kith-Kanan to the ground. He rolled and felt

arms and legs around him. Something black and shiny flashed by his nose.

He knew the move of a stabbing attack, and he put out both hands to seize

the attacker's wrist.

His assailant's face was little more than a whorl of painted lines and a

pair of shadowed eyes. The flint knife wavered, and as Kith-Kanan

backhanded the knife wielder, the painted face let out a gasp of pain.

Kith-Kanan sat up, wrenched the knife out of its owner's grasp, and pinned

his attacker to the ground with one knee.

"The kill is yours," said the attacker. His struggles faded, and he lay

tense but passive under Kith-Kanan's weight.

Kith-Kanan threw the knife away and stood up. “Who are you?"

"The one who is here. Who are you?" the painted elf said sharply.

“I am Kith, formerly of Silvanost. Why did you attack me?"

"You are in my house."

Understanding quickly dawned. "Are you Ny?"

"The name of my birth was Anaya." There was cool assurance in the

voice.

He frowned. "That sounds like a female name."

Anaya got up and kept a discreet distance from Kith-Kanan. He

realized she was a female elf of the Kagonesti race. Her black hair was cut

close to her head, except in back, where she wore a long braid. Anaya was

shorter than Kith-Kanan by a head, and much slimmer. Her green-dyed

deerskin tunic ended at her hips, leaving her legs bare. Like her face, her

legs were covered with painted lines and decorations.

Her dark, hazel eyes darted left and right. “Where is Mackeli?"

"Out gathering nuts, I think,” he said, watching her keenly.

“Why did you come here?"

"The Forestmaster sent me," the prince stated flatly.

In less time than it takes to tell, Anaya bolted from the clearing. She

ran to an oak tree and, to Kith-Kanan's astonishment, ran right up the

broad trunk. She caught an overhead limb and swung into the midst of the

leaves. Gaping, he made a few flatfooted steps forward, but the wild elf

was completely lost from view.

"Anaya! Come back! I am a friend! The Forestmaster  "

“I will ask the Master if it is so." Her clear, high voice came from

somewhere above his line of sight. "If you speak the truth, I will return. If

you say the Master's name in vain, I will call down the Black Crawlers on

you."

“What?" Kith-Kanan spun around, looking up, trying to locate her. He

could see nothing. "Who are the Black Crawlers?" But there was no

answer, only the sighing of the wind through the leaves.

* * * * *

Night fell, and neither Mackeli nor Anaya had returned. Kith-Kanan

began to fear that something might have happened to the boy. There were

interlopers in the forest, the Forestmaster had said. Mackeli was clever,

but he was innocent of the ways of ambush and murder. If the boy was in

their hands . . . and Anaya. There was a strange creature! If he hadn't

actually fought with her, felt the solidness of her flesh, he would have

called her a wraith, a forest spirit. But the bruise on his jaw was

undeniably real.

Growing tired of the closeness of the hollow tree, the prince cleared a

spot in the leaves to build a fire outside. He scraped down to bare soil and

laid some stones for a hearth. Soon he had a fine fire blazing. The smoke

wafted into the darkness, and sparks floated up, winking off like dying

stars.

Though it was summer, Kith-Kanan felt a chill. He held his hands out

to the fire, warming them. Crickets whirred in the dark beyond the

firelight. Cicadas stirred in the trees, and bats swooped into the clearing to

catch them. Suddenly the prince felt as if he was in the center of a

seething, crawling pot. His eyes flicked back and forth, following odd

rustlings and scrapings in the dry leaves. Things fluttered overhead,

slithered behind his back. He grasped the unburned end of a stick of wood

and pulled it out of the fire. Dark things seemed to leap back into the

shadows when Kith-Kanan brought the burning torch near.

He stood with his back to the fire, breathing hard. With the blazing

brand before him like a noble blade, the elf kept the darkness at bay.

Gradually the incessant activity lessened. By the time Solinari rose above

the trees, all was still.

After throwing the stump of the burned limb back on the dying fire,

Kith-Kanan sat down again and faced the red coals. Like a thousand

lonely travelers before him, the prince whistled a tune to keep the

loneliness away. It was a tune from his childhood: "Children of the Stars."

The chorus died when his lips went dry. He saw something that froze

him completely. Between the black columns of two tree trunks were a pair

of red staring eyes.

He tried to think what it could be. The possibilities were not good:

wolf, bear, a tawny panther. The two eyes blinked and disappeared.

Kith-Kanan jumped to his feet and snatched up a stone from the outside

edge of his campfire. He hurled it at the spot where he'd last seen the eyes.

The rock crashed into the underbrush. There was no other sound, Even the

crickets had ceased their singing.

Then Kith-Kanan sensed he was being watched and turned to the

right. The red eyes were back, creeping forward a foot or so off the

ground, right toward him.

Darkness is the enemy, he suddenly realized. Whatever I can see, I

can fight . Scooping up a double handful of dead leaves, he threw them on

the embers of the fire. Flames blazed up. He immediately saw a long, lean

body close to the ground. The advance of the red eyes stopped, and

suddenly they rose from the ground.

It was Anaya.

"I have spoken with the Forestmaster," she said a little sulkily, her

eyes glowing red in the light from the flames. “You said the truth.” Anaya

walked sideways a few steps, never taking her eyes off Kith-Kanan.

Despite this good news, he felt that she was about to spring on him. She

dropped down on her haunches and looked into the fire. The leaves were

consumed, and their remains sank onto the heap of dully glowing ashes.

"It is wise you laid a fire," she said. "I called the Black Crawlers to

watch over you while I spoke with the Forestmaster."

He straightened his shoulders with studied nonchalance. "Who are the

Black Crawlers?"

"I will show you.” Anaya picked up a dead dry branch and held it to

the coals. It smoked heavily for an instant, then burst into flame. She

carried the burning branch to the line of trees defining the clearing.

Kith-Kanan lost his hard-won composure when Anaya showed him what

was waiting beyond the light.

Every tree trunk, every branch, every square inch of ground was

covered with black, creeping things. Crickets, millipedes, leaf hoppers,

spiders of every sort and size, earwigs, pill bugs, beetles up to the size of

his fist, cockroaches, caterpillars, moths, flies of the largest sort,

grasshoppers, cicadas with soft, pulpy bodies and gauzy wings . . .

stretching as far as he could see, coating every surface. The horde was

motionless, waiting.

Anaya returned to the fire. Kith-Kanan was white-faced with

revulsion. “What sort of witch are you?" he gasped. "You command all

these vermin?"

"I am no witch. This forest is my home, and I guard it closely. The

Black Crawlers share the woodland with me. I gave them warning when I

left you, and they gathered to keep you under watchful eyes.”

"Now that you know who I am, you can send them away," he said.

"They have already departed. Could you not hear them go?" she

scoffed.

"No, I couldn't.” Kith-Kanan glanced around at the dark forest,

blotting sweat from his face with his sleeve. He focussed his attention on

the fascinating elf woman and blotted out the memory of the Crawlers.

With her painted decorations, grime, and dyed deerskin, Kith-Kanan

wasn't sure how old Anaya might be, or even what she really looked like.

She perched on her haunches, balancing on her toes. Kith-Kanan fed some

twigs to the fire, and the scene slowly lightened.

"The Forestmaster says you are here to drive away the intruders,"

Anaya said. "I have heard them, smelled them, seen the destruction they

have caused. Though I have never doubted the word of the great unicorn, I

do not see how you can drive anyone away. You are no ranger; you smell

of a place where people are many and trees few."

Kith-Kanan was tired of the Kagonesti's casual rudeness. He excused

it in Mackeli, who was only a boy, but it was too much coming from this

wild woman.

"I am a prince of House Royal," he said proudly. "I am trained in the

arts of the warrior. I don't know who or how many of these intruders there

are, but I will do my best to find a way to get rid of them. You need not

like me, Anaya, but you had better not insult me too often.” He leaned

back on his elbows. "After all, who wrestled whom to the ground?"

She poked the dancing bowl of flames. "I let you take my knife

away," she said defensively.

Kith-Kanan sat up. "You what?"

"You seemed such a clumsy outlander, I did not think you were

dangerous. I let you get the advantage to see what you would do. You

could not have cut my throat with that flint blade. It was dull as a cow's

tooth.”

Despite his annoyance, Kith-Kanan found himself smiling. "You

wanted to see if I was merciful, is that it?"

"That was my purpose," she said.

"So I guess I really am a slow, dumb outlander," he said.

"There is power in your limbs,” she admitted, "but you fight like a

falling stone."

"And I don't breathe properly either.” Kith-Kanan was beginning to

wonder how he had ever lived to the age of ninety, being so inept.

Mentioning breathing reminded the prince of Mackeli, and he told

Anaya the boy still hadn't returned.

"Keli has stayed away longer than this before,” she said, waving a

hand dismissively.

Though still concerned, Kith-Kanan realized that Anaya knew

Mackeli's ways far better than he did. The prince's stomach chose that

moment to growl, and he rubbed it, his face coloring with embarrassment.

"You know, I am very hungry," he informed her.

Without a word, Anaya went inside the hollow oak. She returned a

moment later with a section of smoked venison ribs wrapped in curled

pieces of bark. Kith-Kanan shook his head; he wondered where those had

been hiding all these weeks.

Anaya dropped down by the fire, in her characteristic crouch, and

slipped a slender flint blade out of her belt pouch. With deft, easy strokes,

she cut the ribs apart and began eating.

"May I have some?" the prince inquired desperately. She promptly

flung two ribs at him through the fire. Kith-Kanan knew nicety of manner

was lost on the Kagonesti, and the sight of the meat made his mouth water.

He picked up a rib from his lap and nibbled it. The meat was hard and

tangy, but very good. While he nibbled, Anaya gnawed. She cleaned rib

bones faster than anyone he'd ever seen.

"Thank you,” he said earnestly.

"You should not thank me. Now that you have eaten my meat, it is for

you to do as I say," she replied firmly.

“What are you talking about?" he said, frowning. "A prince of the

Silvanesti serves no one but the speaker and the gods."

Anaya dropped the clean bones in the fire. “You are not in the Place

of Spires any longer. This is the wildwood, and the first law here is, you

eat what you take with your own hands. That makes you free. If you eat

what others give you, you are not a free person; you are a mewling child

who must be fed.”

Kith-Kanan got stiffly to his feet. "I have sworn to help the

Forestmaster, but by the blood of E’li, I'll not be anyone's servant!

Especially not some dirty, painted savage!"

"Being a prince does not matter. The law will be done. Feed yourself,

or obey me. Those are your choices," she said flatly.

Anaya walked to the tree. Kith-Kanan grabbed her by the arm and

spun her around. “What have you done with my sword and dagger?" he

demanded.

"Metal stinks." Anaya jerked her arm free. "It is not permitted for me

to touch it. I wrapped a scrap of hide around your metal and carried it from

my house. Do not bring it in again."

He opened his mouth to shout at her, to rail against her unjust

treatment of him. But before he could, Anaya went inside the tree. Her

voice floated out. "I sleep now. Put out the fire.”

When the fire was cold and dead, the prince stood in the door of the

tree. “Where do I sleep?" he asked sarcastically.

"Where you can fit,” was Anaya's laconic reply. She was curled up by

the wall, so Kith-Kanan lay down as far from her as he could, yet still be

in the warmth of the tree. Thoughts raced through his head. How to find

Arcuballis and get out of the forest. How to get away from Anaya. Where

Mackeli was. Who the interlopers were.

"Don't think so loud," Anaya said irritatedly. "Go to sleep." With a

sigh, Kith-Kanan finally closed his eyes.

7

High Summer, Year of the Hawk

Elves from all corners of Silvanesti had come to Silvanost for Trial

Days, that period every year when the Speaker of the Stars sat in judgment

of disputes, heard the counsel of his nobles and clerics, and generally tried

to resolve whatever problems faced his people.

A platform had been built on the steps of the Temple of E’li. Upon it,

Sithel sat on a high, padded throne, under a shimmering white canopy. He

could survey the entire square. Sithas stood behind him, watching and

listening. Warriors of the royal guard kept the lines orderly as people

made their way slowly up the line to their ruler. Trial Days were

sometimes amusing, often irritating, and always, always lengthy.

Sithel was hearing a case where two fishers had disputed a large carp,

which hit both of their hooks at the same time. Both elves claimed the fish,

which had been caught weeks before and allowed to rot while they

debated its ownership.

Sithel announced his judgment. "I declare the fish to be worth two

silver pieces. As you own it jointly, you will each pay the other one silver

piece for permitting it to spoil.”

The gaping fishers would have complained but Sithel forestalled

them. "It is so ordered. Let it be done!" The trial scribe struck a bell,

signaling the end of the case. The fishers bowed and withdrew.

Sithel stood up. The royal guards snapped to attention. "I will take a

short rest," he announced. "In my absence, my son, Sithas, will render

judgment."

The prince looked to his father in surprise. In a low voice he said,

"Are you sure, Father?"

“Wy not? It will give you a taste of the role."

The speaker went to the rear of the platform. He watched Sithas

slowly seat himself in the chair of judgment. "Next case," declared his son

ringingly.

Sithel ducked through a flap in the cloth wall. There he saw his wife,

waiting at a small table laden with food and drink. Snowy white linen

walled off this end of the platform on three sides. The rear was open to the

temple. The formidable facade loomed over them, fluted columns and

walls banded with deep blue, bright rose, and grassy green stone. The heat

of midday was upon the city, but a breeze wafted through the canopied

enclosure.

Nirakina stood and dismissed a serving boy who had been posted at

the table. She poured her husband a tall goblet of nectar. Sithel picked a

few grapes from a golden bowl and accepted the goblet.

"How is he doing?" Nirakina asked, gesturing to the front of the

platform.

“Well enough. He must get used to rendering decisions.” Sithel

sipped the amber liquid. "Weren't you and Hermathya attending the debut

of Elidan's epic song today?"

"Hermathya pleaded illness and the performance was postponed until

tomorrow."

"What's wrong with her?" The speaker settled back in his chair.

Nirakina's face clouded. "She would rather visit the Market than

remain in the palace. She is proud and willful, Sithel."

"She knows how to get attention, that's certain," her husband said,

chuckling. “I hear the crowds follow her in the streets."

Nirakina nodded. "She throws coins and gems to them  just often

enough for them to cheer her madly." She leaned forward and put her hand

over his where it rested on the goblet. "Sithel, did we make the right

choice? So much unhappiness has come about because of this girl. Do you

think all will be well?"

Sithel released his grip on the cup and took his wife's hand. "I don't

think any harm will come of Hermathya's follies, Kina. She's drunk with

acclaim right now, but she will tire of it when she realizes how empty and

fleeting the adulation of the mob is. She and Sithas should have children.

That would slow her down, give her something else on which to

concentrate."

Nirakina tried to smile, though she couldn't help but notice how the

speaker had avoided mention of Kith-Kanan at all. Her husband had a

strong will. His anger and disappointment were not easily overcome.

The sound of raised voices swelled over the square. Sithel ate a last

handful of grapes. "Let's see what disturbs the people," he said.

He stepped around the curtain and walked to the front edge of the

platform. The crowd, in its orderly lines, had parted down the center of the

square. There, between two lines of soldiers, were twenty to thirty

newcomers. They were injured. Some were being carried on litters, others

wore blood-stained bandages. The injured elves, male and female,

approached the foot of the speaker's platform slowly and painfully. Guards

moved forward to keep them away, but Sithel ordered that they be allowed

to come.

“Who are you?" he asked.

"Great speaker," said a tall elf at the head of the group. His face was

sun-browned and his body muscled from outdoor work. His corn-colored

hair was ragged and sooty, and a dirty bandage covered most of his right

arm. "Great speaker, we are all that is left of the village of Trokali. We

have come almost two hundred miles to tell you of our plight."

“What happened?"

“We were a peaceful village, great speaker. We tended our trees and

fields and traded with all who came to the market in the town square. But

on the night of the last quarter of Lunitari, a band of brigands appeared in

Trokali. They set fire to the houses, broke the limbs off our fruit trees,

carried off our women and children  " Here the elf's voice broke. He

paused a moment to master his emotions, then continued. “We are not

fighters, great speaker, but the fathers and mothers of Trokali tried to

defend what was ours. We had sticks and hoes against swords and arrows.

These here," he waved a hand in the direction of the battered group behind

him, “are all that live out of a villageof two hundred.”

Sithas left the platform and went down the temple steps until he was

on the level with the tall elf from Trokali.

“What is your name?" Sithas demanded.

"Tamanier Ambrodel."

“Who were these brigands, Tamanier?"

The elf shook his head sadly. "I do not know, sire.”

"They were humans!" cried an elf woman with a badly burned face.

She pushed her way through the crowd. "I saw them!" she hissed. "They

were humans. I saw the hair on their faces!"

"They weren't all human," Tamanier said sharply. He raised his

wounded arm. "The one who cut me was Kagonesti!”

"Kagonesti and humans in the same band?" Sithas said in

consternation. Murmurs surged through the crowd. He turned to look up at

his father.

Sithel held up his hands. The scribe had to strike his bell four times

before the crowd was quiet. “This matter requires further attention,” he

proclaimed. "My son will remain here for the trials, while I will conduct

the people of Trokali to the Palace of Quinari, where each shall give

testimony."

Sithas bowed deeply to his father as an escort of twelve warriors

formed in the square to convey the survivors of Trokali to the palace. The

lame and sick made it a slow and difficult procession, but Tamanier

Ambrodel led his people with great dignity.

Sithel descended the steps of the Temple of E’li, with Nirakina by his

side. Courtiers scrambled to keep pace with the speaker's quick stride. The

murmuring in the square grew as the people of Trokali trailed after.

Nirakina glanced back over her shoulder at the crowd. "Do you think

there will be trouble?” she asked.

"There is already trouble. Now we must see what can be done to

remedy it," Sithel answered tersely.

In short order they entered the plaza before the palace. Guards at the

doors, responding to the speaker's brief commands, summoned help.

Servants flooded out of the palace to aid the injured elves. Nirakina

directed them and saw to the distribution of food and water.

Out of deference to Tamanier's weakened condition, Sithel took him

no farther than the south portico. He bade Tamanier sit, overlooking the

protocol that required commoners to stand in the presence of the speaker.

The tall elf eased himself into a finely carved stone chair. He exhaled

loudly with relief.

"Tell me about the brigands," Sithel commanded.

"There were thirty or forty of them, Highness," Tamanier said,

swallowing hard. "They came on horseback. Hardlooking, they were. The

humans wore mail and carried long swords."

"And the Kagonesti?"

“They were poor-looking, ragged and dirty. They carried off our

women and children . . . " Tamanier covered his face with his hands.

"I know it is difficult,” Sithel said calmly. "But I must know. Go on.”

"Yes, Highness." Tamanier dropped his hands, but they shook until he

clenched them in his lap. A quaver had crept into his voice. "The humans

set fire to the houses and chased off all our livestock. It was also the

humans who threw ropes over our trees and tore off their branches. Our

orchards are ruined, completely ruined."

"Are you sure about that? The humans despoiled the trees?"

"I am certain, great speaker."

Sithel walked down the cool, airy portico, hands clasped behind his

back. Passing Tamanier, he noticed the thin gold band the elf wore around

his neck.

"Is that real gold?" he asked abruptly.

Tamanier fingered the band. "It is, Highness. It was a gift from my

wife's family."

"And the brigands didn't take it from you?"

Realization slowly came to Tamanier. "Why, no. They never touched

it. Come to think of it, great speaker, no one was robbed. The bandits

burned houses and broke down our trees, but they didn't plunder us at all!"

He scratched his dirty cheek. “Why would they do that, Highness?"

Sithel tapped two fingers against his chin thoughtfully. "The only

thing I can think of is they didn't care about your gold. They were after

something more important." Tamanier watched him expectantly, but the

speaker didn't elaborate. He rang for a servant. When one appeared he told

him to take care of Tamanier. "We will talk again," he assured the tall elf.

"In the meantime, do not speak of this with anyone, not even your wife."

Tamanier stood, leaning crookedly, favoring his wounded side. "My

wife was killed," he said stiffly.

Sithel watched him go. An honorable fellow, he decided. He would

do well to keep an eye on Tamanier Ambrodel. The Speaker of the Stars

could always use such an honorable man at court.

He entered the palace through a side door. A steady stream of servants

trooped by, carrying buckets and soiled towels. Healers, who were clerics

of the goddess Quenesti Pah, had arrived to tend the injured. Sithel looked

over the bustle of activity. Trokali was two hundred miles from Silvanost.

No human raiders had ever penetrated so far. And in the company of Kagonesti

elves . . .

The Speaker of the Stars shook his head worriedly.

* * * * *

After finishing the day's trials, Sithas dismissed the court. Though he

had listened to each case fairly, he could not keep his thoughts away from

the attack on the village of Trokali. When he returned to his rooms in the

palace, everyone, from his mother to the humblest servant, was talking

about the raid and its portent.

Hermathya waited for him in their room. No sooner had he entered

than she jumped to her feet and exclaimed, "Did you hear about the raid?"

“I did," Sithas said with deliberate nonchalance, shrugging off his

dusty outer robe. He poured cool water into a basin and washed his hands

and face.

“What's to be done?" she prodded.

"Done? I hardly think that's our concern. The speaker will deal with

the problem."

“Why do you not do something yourself?" Hermathya demanded,

crossing the room. Her scarlet gown showed off the milky paleness of her

skin. Her eyes flashed as she spoke. "The entire nation would unite behind

the one who would put down the insolent humans."

"The 'one'? Not the speaker?" asked Sithas blandly.

"The speaker is old," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Old people

are beset with fears.”

Dropping the towel he'd used to dry his hands, Sithas caught

Hermathya's wrist and pulled her close. Her eyes widened, but she didn't

shrink back. Sithas's eyes bored into hers.

"What you say smacks of disloyalty," he rumbled icily.

"You want what is best for the nation, don't you?" she replied, leaning

into him. “If these attacks continue, all the settlers to the west will flee

back to the city, as did the elves of Trokali. The humans of Ergoth will

settle our land with their own people. Is that good for Silvanesti?"

Sithas's face hardened at the thought of humans encroaching on their

ancient land. “No," he said firmly.

Hermathya put her free hand on his arm. "How then is it disloyal to

want to end these outrages?"

"I am not the Speaker of the Stars!”

Her eyes were the deep blue of the sky at dusk as Hermathya moved

to kiss her husband. "Not yet," she whispered, and her breath was sweet

and warm on his face. "Not yet"

8

Late Spring, in the Forest

Mackeli had been gone three days when Anaya showed KithKanan

where she had secreted his sword and dagger. There could be no question

now that something had happened to him and that they had to go to his

rescue.

“There is your metal," she said. "Take it up. You may have need of

it."

He brushed the dead leaves off the slim, straight blade of his sword

and wiped it with an oily cloth. It slid home in its scabbard with only a

faint hiss. Anaya kept back when he held the weapons. She regarded the

iron blades with loathing, as if they were the stinking carcasses of long

dead animals.

"Mackeli's been gone so long, I hope we can pick up his trail,"

Kith-Kanan said. His eyes searched the huge trees.

"As long as Mackeli lives, I will always be able to find him.” declared

Anaya. "There is a bond between us. He is my brother."

With this pronouncement she turned and went back to the hollow tree.

Kith-Kanan followed her. What did she mean  brother? Were the two

siblings? He'd wondered at their relationship, but certainly hadn't noticed

any family resemblance. Anaya was even less talkative on the subject than

Mackeli had been.

He went to the door of the tree and looked in. Squatting before a piece

of shiny mica, Anaya was painting her face. She had wiped her cheeks

clean  relatively clean, anyway  with a wad of damp green leaves and

now was applying paint made from berries and nut shells. Her brush was a

new twig, the end of which she'd chewed to make it soft and pliable.

Anaya went from one gourd full of pigment to another, painting zigzag

lines on her face in red, brown, and yellow.

“What are you doing? Time is wasting,” Kith-Kanan said impatiently.

Anaya drew three converging lines on her chin, like an arrowhead in

red. Her dark hazel eyes were hard as she said, "Go outside and wait for

me."

Kith-Kanan felt anger rising at her casual tone of command. She

ordered him about like a servant, but there was nothing for him to do but

stew. When Anaya finally emerged, they plunged into the deep shade of

the woods. Kith-Kanan found his anger at her dissolving as he watched

her move gracefully through the wood. She never disturbed a leaf or twig,

moving, as Mackeli had said, like smoke.

They finally paused to rest, and Kith-Kanan sat on a log to catch his

breath. He looked at Anaya as she stood poised, one foot atop the fallen

log. She wasn't even breathing heavily. She was a muscular,

brown-skinned, painted Kagonesti  quite savage by Silvanesti

standards  but she was also practical and wise in the ways of the forest.

Their worlds were so different as to be hostile to each other, but he felt at

that moment a sense of security. He was not so alone as he had believed.

"Why do you look at me that way?" Anaya asked, frowning.

“I was just thinking how much better it would be for us to be friends,

instead of enemies," said Kith-Kanan sincerely.

It was her turn to give him a strange look. He laughed and asked,

"Now why are you looking at me like that?"

"I know the word, but I've never had a friend before,” Anaya said.

* * * * *

Kith-Kanan would not have believed it, but the place Anaya led him

through was even thicker with trees than any part of the forest he'd seen so

far. They were not the giants of the old forest where she lived, but of a size

he was more accustomed to seeing. They grew so close together, however,

that it soon became impossible for him to walk at all.

Anaya grasped an oak tree trunk with her bare hands and feet and

started up it like a squirrel. Kith-Kanan gaped at the ease with which she

scaled the tree. The leaves closed around her.

"Are you coming?" she called down,

"I can't climb like that!" he protested.

“Wait then." He saw a flash of her red leg paint as she sprang from an

oak branch to a nearby elm. The gap between branches was more than six

feet, yet Anaya launched herself without a moment's hesitation. A few

seconds later she was back, flitting from tree to tree with the ease of a

bird. A twined strand of creeper, as thick as the prince's two thumbs, fell

from the oak leaves and landed at his feet. This was more to his liking.

Kith-Kanan spat on his palms and hauled himself up, hand over hand. He

braced his feet against the tree trunk and soon found himself perched on

an oak limb thirty feet from the forest floor.

"Whew!" he said, grinning. "A good climb!" Anaya was patently not

impressed. After all, she had made the same climb with no vine at all.

Kith-Kanan hauled up the creeper, coiling it carefully around his waist.

"It will be faster to stay in the treetops from now on," Anaya advised.

“How can you tell this is the way Mackeli went?"

She gathered herself to leap. "I smell him. This way."

Anaya sprang across to the elm. Kith-Kanan went more slowly,

slipping a good deal on the round surface of the tree limb. Anaya waited

for him to catch up, which he did by grasping an overhead branch and

swinging over the gap. A dizzy glimpse of the ground flashed beneath his

feet, and then Kith-Kanan 's leg hooked around the elm. He let go of the

oak branch, swung upside-down by one leg, and gradually worked his way

onto the elm.

"This is going to take a long time," he admitted, panting for breath.

They continued on high in the treetops for most of the day. Though

his hands were by no means soft, accustomed as they were to swordplay

and his griffon's reins, Kith-Kanan's palms became scraped and sore from

grasping and swinging on the rough-barked branches. His feet slipped so

often that he finally removed his thick-strapped sandals and went barefoot

like Anaya. His feet were soon as tender as his hands, but he didn't slip

again.

Even at the slow pace Kith-Kanan set, they covered many miles on

their lofty road. Well past noon, Anaya called for a rest. They wedged

themselves high in a carpeen tree. She showed him how to find the elusive

fruit of the carpeen, yellow and pearlike, hidden by a tightly growing roll

of leaves. The soft white meat of the carpeen not only sated their hunger, it

was thirst-quenching, too.

"Do you think Mackeli is all right?" Kith-Kanan asked, the worry

clear in his voice.

Anaya finished her fruit and dropped the core to the ground. "He is

alive.” she stated flatly.

Kith-Kanan dropped his own fruit core and asked, "How can you be

certain?"

Shifting around the prince with careless ease, Anaya slid from her

perch and came down astride the limb where he sat. She took his scraped

hand and held his fingertips to her throat.

"Do you feel the beat of my heart?" she asked him.

"Yes.” It was strong and slow.

She pushed his hand away. "And now?"

"Of course not. I'm no longer touching you,” he replied.

"Yet you see me and hear me, without touching me."

"That's different.”

She raised her eyebrows. "Is it? If I tell you I can feel Mackeli's heart

beating from far off, do you believe me?"

"I do,” said Kith-Kanan. "I've seen that you have many wonderful

talents.”

"No!" Anaya swept a hand through the empty air. "I am nothing but

what the forest has made me. As I am, so you could be!"

She took his hand again, holding his fingertips against the softly

pulsing vein in her neck. Anaya looked directly in his eyes. "Show me the

rhythm of my heart,” she said.

Kith-Kanan tapped a finger of his other hand against his leg. "Yes,"

she coaxed. "You have it. Continue."

Her gaze held his. It was true  between them he felt a connection.

Not a physical bond, like the grasp of a hand, but a more subtle

connection  like the bond he knew stretched between himself and Sithas.

Even when they were not touching and were many miles apart he could

sense the life force of Sithas. And now, between Anaya's eyes and his,

Kith-Kanan felt the steady surge of her pulse, beating, beating . . .

"Look at your hands," urged Anaya.

His left was still tapping out the rhythm on his leg. His right lay palm

up on the tree limb. He wasn't touching her throat any longer.

"Do you still feel the pulse?" she asked.

He nodded. Even as he felt the surging of his own heart, he could feel

hers, too. It was slower, steadier. Kith-Kanan looked with shock at his idle

hand. “That's impossible!" he exclaimed. No sooner had he said this than

the sensation of her heartbeat left his fingertips.

Anaya shook her head. "You don't want to learn," she said in disgust.

She stood up and stepped from the carpeen tree to the neighboring oak.

"It’s time to move on. It will be dark before long, and you aren't skilled

enough to treewalk by night."

This was certainly true, so Kith-Kanan did not protest. He watched

the wiry Anaya wend her way through the web of branches, but the

meaning of her lesson was still sinking in. What did it mean that he had

been able to keep Anaya's pulse? He still felt the pain of his separation

from Hermathya, a hard, cold lump in his chest, but when he closed his

eyes and thought of Hermathya for a moment  a tall, flame-haired elf

woman with eyes of deepest blue  he only frowned in concentration, for

there was nothing, no bond, however slight, that connected him with his

lost love. He could not know if she was alive or dead. Sadness touched

Kith-Kanan's heart, but there was no time for self-pity now. He opened his

eyes and moved quickly to where Anaya had stopped up ahead.

She was staring at a large crow perched on a limb near her head.

When the crow spied Kith-Kanan, it abruptly flew away. Anaya's

shoulders drooped.

"The corvae have not seen Mackeli since four days past," she

explained. "But they have seen something else  humans.”

"Humans? In the wildwood?"

Anaya nodded. She lowered herself to a spindly limb and furrowed

her brow in thought. "I did not smell them sooner because the metal you

carry stinks in my nose too much. The corvae say there's a small band of

humans farther to the west. They're cutting down the trees, and they have

some sort of flying beast, of a kind the corvae have never seen."

"Arcuballis! That's my griffon! The humans must have captured it,"

he said. In fact, he couldn't imagine how; as far as he could determine they

were miles from the spot where he'd first landed, and it would have been

very difficult for strangers, especially humans, to handle the spirited

Arcuballis.

"How many humans are there?" Kith-Kanan inquired.

Anaya gave him a disdainful look. "Corvae can't count," she stated

contemptuously.

They started off again as twilight was falling. For a brief time it

actually brightened in the trees, as the sinking sun lanced in from the side.

Anaya found a particularly tall maple and climbed up. The majestic tree

rose even above its neighbors, and its thick limbs grew in an easy step

pattern around the massive trunk. Kith-Kanan had no trouble keeping up

with the Kagonesti in the vertical climb.

At the top of the tree Anaya stopped, one arm hooked around the

gnarled peak of the maple. Kith-Kanan worked his way around beside her.

The maple's pinnacle swayed under his additional weight, but the view

was so breathtaking he didn't mind the motion.

As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the green tops of

trees. The horizon to the west was darkening from pink to flame red.

Kith-Kanan was enchanted. Though he had often seen great vistas from

the back of Arcuballis, his appreciation for such sights had been increased

by the weeks he'd spent in this forest, where a glimpse of sky was a rare

treat.

Anaya was not enraptured. She narrowed her sharp eyes and said,

"There they are.”

"Who?"

"The intruders. Do you not see the smoke?"

Kith-Kanan stared in the direction she pointed. To the north, a faint

smudge of gray marred the sky's royal blue. Even as he stared at it,

Kith-Kanan wasn't sure the smoke was really there. He blinked several

times.

"They are burning the trees," Anaya said grimly. "Savages!"

The prince refrained from saying that to most of the civilized people

of Krynn, it was she who was the savage. Instead he asked, “Which way to

Mackeli?"

"Toward the smoke," she said. "The humans have taken him after all.

I will see them bleed!"

Though Kith-Kanan was surprised at the depth of her feeling, he had

no doubt she meant what she said.

They stayed in the treetops until the prince had begun to miss his

handholds and then nearly fell forty feet to the ground. It was too dark to

continue aloft, so Anaya and Kith-Kanan descended to the forest floor

once more. They walked perhaps a mile in silence, Anaya gliding through

the black tree trunks like a runaway shadow. Kith-Kanan felt the tension

rising. He had never fought humans  he'd only met a few of them in

Silvanost, and all of them were aristocrats. For that matter, he'd never

fought anyone for real, in a fight where death was the likely outcome. He

wondered if he could do it, actually thrust his sword through someone's

body, or use the edge to cut them. . . . He reminded himself that these

humans were holding Mackeli prisoner, and probably his royal griffon,

too.

Anaya froze, silhouetted between two large trees. Her hand was out

stiffly behind her, a signal for Kith-Kanan to halt. He did and heard what

had stopped her. The tinny sound of a flute drifted through the forest,

borne along by the smells of wood smoke and roasting meat.

When he looked toward Anaya she'd vanished. He waited. What was

he supposed to do? Kith-Kanan shook himself mentally. You, a prince of

House Royal, wanting directions from a Kagonesti savage! You are a

warrior  do your duty!

He charged through the underbrush. At the first gleam of a campfire,

Kith-Kanan drew his sword. Another twenty steps, and he burst into a

clearing hewn from the primeval woodland. A large campfire, almost a

bonfire, blazed in the center of the clearing. A dozen ruddy faces  thickly

fleshed human faces, with their low foreheads, broad cheeks, and wide

jaws  turned toward the elf prince. Some had hair growing on their faces.

All stared at him in utter astonishment.

One of the humans, with pale brown hair on his face, stood up.

“Terrible spirit, do not harm us!" he intoned. "Peace be with you!"

Kith-Kanan relaxed. These weren't desperate brigands. They were

ordinary men and, by the looks of their equipment, woodcutters. He

dropped his sword point and stepped into the firelight.

"It's one of them!" declared another human. “The Elder Folk!"

"Who are you?" demanded Kith-Kanan.

"Essric's company of woodmen. I am Essric," said the brown-haired

human.

Kith-Kanan surveyed the clearing. Over thirty large trees had been

felled in this one place, and he could see a path had been cut through the

forest. The very biggest trees were trimmed of their branches and were

being split into halves and quarters with wedges and mallets. Slightly

smaller trees were being dragged away. Kith-Kanan saw a rough pen full

of broad-backed oxen.

"This is Silvanesti land,” he said. "By whose grant do you cut down

trees that belong to the Speaker of the Stars?"

Essric looked to his men, who had nothing to tell him. He scratched

his brown beard ruefully. "My lord, we were brought hither and landed on

the south coast of this country by ships commanded by Lord Ragnarius of

Ergoth. It is Lord Ragnarius's pleasure that we fell as many trees as his

ships can carry home. We didn't know anyone owned these trees!”

Just then, an eerie howl rippled across the fire-lit clearing. The

humans all stood up, reaching for axes and staves. Kith-Kanan smiled to

himself. Anaya was putting a scare into the men.

A clean-shaven man to Essric's left, who held a broadaxe in his meaty

hands, suddenly let out a cry and staggered backward, almost falling in the

fire. Instead, he dropped into the arms of his comrades.

"Forest spirits are attacking!" Kith-Kanan shouted. His declaration

was punctuated by a hair-raising screech from the black trees. He had to

struggle to keep from laughing as the twelve humans were driven from

their fire by a barrage of sooty stones. One connected with the back of one

man's head, stretching him out flat. Panic-stricken, the others didn't stop to

help him, but fled pell-mell past the ox pen. Without torches to light their

way, they stumbled and fell over stumps and broken branches. Within

minutes, no one was left in the clearing but Kith-Kanan and the prone

woodcutter.

Anaya came striding into the circle of light. Kith-Kanan grinned at

her and held up a hand in greeting. She stalked past him to where the

human lay. The flint knife was in her hand.

She rolled the unconscious human over. He was fairly young and had

a red mustache. A thick gold ring gleamed from one earlobe. That, and the

cut of his pants, told Kith-Kanan that the man had been a sailor at one

time.

Anaya put a knee on the man's chest. The human opened his eyes and

saw a wildly painted creature, serrated flint knife in hand, kneeling on

him. The creature's face stared down with a ferocious grimace twisting its

painted designs. The man's eyes widened in terror, showing much white.

He tried to raise an arm to ward off Anaya, but Kith-Kanan was holding

his wrists.

"Shall I cut out your eyes?" Anaya said coldly. “They would make

fine decorations for my home."

"No! No! Spare me!” gibbered the man.

“No? Then tell us what we want to know," Kith-Kanan warned.

“There was a white-haired elf boy here, yes?"

"Yes, wonderful lord!"

"And a griffon  a flying beast with an eagle's forepart and a lion's

hindquarters?"

"Yes, yes!"

“What happened to them?"

"They were taken away by Voltorno,” the man moaned.

“Who's Voltomo?" asked Kith-Kanan.

"A soldier. A terrible, cruel man. Lord Ragnarius sent him with us."

"Why isn't he here now?" Anaya hissed, pushing the ragged edge of

her knife against his throat.

"He  He decided to take the elf boy and the beast back to Lord

Ragnarius's ship."

Anaya and Kith-Kanan exchange looks. "How long ago did this

Voltorno leave?" persisted Kith-Kanan.

“This morning," the unfortunate sailor gasped.

"And how many are there in his party?"

"Ten. S  Six men-at-arms and four archers."

Kith-Kanan stood up, releasing the man's hands. "Let him up.

"No," disagreed Anaya. “He must die.”

"That is not the way! If you kill him, how will you be any different

from the men who hold Mackeli captive? You cannot be the same as those

you fight and have any honor. You must be better."

"Better?" she hissed, looking up at the prince. "Anything is better than

tree-killing scum!"

"He is not responsible," Kith-Kanan insisted. "He was ordered  ”

“Whose hand held the axe?" Anaya interrupted.

Taking advantage of their argument, the sailor shoved Anaya off and

scrambled to his feet. He ran after his comrades, bleating for help.

"Now you see? You let him get away," Anaya said. She gathered

herself to give chase, but Kith-Kanan told her, "Forget those humans!

Mackeli is more important. We'll have to catch up with them before they

reach the coast." Anaya sullenly did not reply. "Listen to me! We’re going

to need all your talents. Call the corvae, the Black Crawlers, everything.

Have them find the humans and try to delay them long enough so that we

can catch up.”

She pushed him aside and stepped away. The big fire was dying, and

the hacked out clearing was sinking into darkness. Now and then an ox

grunted from the makeshift pen.

Anaya moved to the felled trees. She put a gentle hand on the trunk of

one huge oak. “Why do they do it?" she asked mournfully. “Why do they

cut down the trees? Can’t they hear the fabric of the forest split open each

time a tree falls?" Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. "There are spirits

in the wildwood, spirits in the trees. They have murdered them with their

metal." Her haunted eyes looked up at the prince.

Kith-Kanan put a hand on her shoulder. "There's much to be done. We

must go." Anaya drew a shuddering breath. After giving the tree a last

gentle touch, she stooped to gather up her throwing stones.

9

Late Summer

Summer was fading. The harvests were coming in, and the markets of

Silvanost were full of the fruits of the soil. Market week always brought a

great influx of visitors to the city, not all of them Silvanesti. From the

forests to the south and the plains to the west came the swarthy, painted

Kagonesti. Up the Thon Thalas came thick-walled boats from the dwarven

kingdom, tall-masted, deep-sea vessels from the human realms in the far

west. All these ascended the river to Fallan Island where Silvanost lay. It

was an exciting time, full of strange sights, sounds, and smells. Exciting,

that is, for the travelers. For the Silvanesti, who regarded these races

flooding their land with distaste and distrust, it was a trying time.

Sithel sat on his throne in the Tower of the Stars, weary but attentive

as clerics and nobles filed up to him to voice their complaints. His duties

did not allow him respite from the incessant arguing and pleading.

"Great Sithel, what is to be done?" asked Firincalos, high priest of

E’li. "The barbarians come to us daily, asking to worship in our temple.

We turn them away and they grow angry, and the next day a new batch of

hairy-faced savages appears, asking the same privilege."

"The humans and dwarves are not the worst of it," countered

Zertinfinas, of the Temple of Matheri. "The Kagonesti deem themselves

our equals and cannot be put off from entering the sacred precincts with

filthy hands and feet and noxious sigils painted on their faces. Why,

yesterday, some wild elves roughed up my assistant and spilled the sacred

rosewater in the outer sanctum."

"What would you have me do?" Sithel asked. "Place soldiers around

all the temples? There are not enough royal guardsmen in House Protector

to do that  not to mention that most of them are sons or grandsons of

Kagonesti themselves."

"Perhaps an edict, read in the Market, will convince the outsiders not

to attempt to force their way into our holy places," Firincalos noted. A

murmur of approval ran through the assembly.

"All very well for you," said Mhibelisina, high priestess of Quenesti

Pah. "How can we who serve the goddess of healing turn away eager

supplicants? It is part of our trust to admit the sick and injured. Can we

discriminate between Silvanesti and Kagonesti, human, dwarf, and

kender?”

“Yes. You must," declared a voice silent until now.

All heads turned to the speaker's left, where Sithas had been standing.

He had been listening to the different factions present their views. A long

time he'd been listening, and now he felt he must speak. The prince

stepped down to floor level, with the assembled clerics, and faced his

father.

"It is vital that the purity of our temples and our city be preserved,"

he said with fervor. “We, the oldest and wisest race of Krynn, the longest

lived, the most blessed, must keep ourselves above the hordes of lesser

peoples who flood in, trying to partake of our grace and culture." He lifted

his hands. "Where there is not purity, there can be no Silvanost and no

Silvanesti."

Some of the clerics  not those of Quenesti Pah  bowed in

appreciation of Sithas’s declaration. Behind them, however, the

guildmasters looked distinctly unhappy. Sithel, looking down on his son,

was nodding slowly. He looked over the prince's head at the guildmasters,

and bade them come forward.

"Highness," said the master of the Jewelers Guild, “the outsiders bring

many things we in Silvanesti do not have. The dwarves trade us the finest

metal on Krynn for our foodstuffs and nectars. The humans bring expertly

carved wood, the softest of leathers, wine, and oil. Even the kender

contribute their share."

"Their share of larceny," muttered one of the clerics. Soft laughter

rippled through the tower.

"Enough " Sithel commanded. His gaze rested once more on his son.

“How do you propose we keep the foreigners out of our temples without

losing their trade, which our nation does need?”

Sithas took a deep breath. “We can build an enclave here on Fa’lan

Island, outside the city, and confine all trading to that point. No outsiders

except valid ambassadors from other countries will be admitted within

Silvanost's walls. If the humans and others wish to pay homage to the

gods, let them put up their own shrines in this new enclave."

Sithel leaned back on his throne and stroked his chin. “An interesting

notion. Why should the foreigners agree to it?"

“They do not want to lose the goods they get from us," Sithas

reasoned. “If they don't agree, they will be turned away." The clerics

looked at him with undisguised admiration.

"A perfect solution!" Zertinfinas exclaimed.

"Proof of the wisdom of the speaker's heir," added Firincalos

unctuously.

Sithel looked past them to the guildmasters. "What say you, good

sirs? Does this notion of my son's appeal to you?"

It did indeed. If the traders had to land at one specified point on

Fallan, then the guilds could more easily impose landing fees on them.

The various guildmasters voiced their approval loudly.

"Very well, let the plans be made," Sithel decided. “The forming of

the docks and walls I leave to the guild of master builders. Once the plans

are chosen, the forming of the stones can begin." As Sithel stood up,

everyone bowed. "If that is all, then this audience is at an end." The

speaker gave Sithas a thoughtful look, then turned and left the hall by the

door behind the throne.

The clerics closed around Sithas, congratulating him. Miritelisina

asked him if he had a name in mind for the new trading enclave.

Sithas smiled and shook his head. "I have not considered it in such

detail yet."

"It should be named for you," Firincalos said exuberantly. “Perhaps

'Sithanost, the city of Sithas’. "

"No," the prince said firmly. “That is not proper. Let it be something

the outsiders will understand. ‘Thon-car, village on the Thon,' something

simple like that. I do not want it named after me."

After freeing himself from the crowd, Sithas mounted the steps and

went out the same door by which his father had left. His sedan chair

awaited him outside. He climbed in and ordered, "to Quinari, at once."

The slaves hoisted the carrying bars to their broad shoulders and set off at

a trot.

Hermathya was waiting for him. The news had moved quickly

through the palace, and she was brimming with delight at her husband's

triumph.

"You've won them," she crowed, pouring Sithas a cup of cool water.

“The clerics look upon you as their champion."

"I said only what I believed," Sithas noted quietly.

"True enough, but they will remember what you did, and they will

support you in the future," she insisted.

Sithas dampened his fingers in the last drops of the water and touched

his face with his fingertips. “Why should I need their support?"

Hermathya looked surprised. "Haven't you heard? Lady Nirakina has

suggested to the Speaker that you be appointed as co-ruler, to share the

burden of power with your father."

Sithas was taken aback. "You've been listening from balconies again,"

he said with displeasure.

"I have only your interests in my heart," she said, a trifle coolly.

There was a long silence between them. Not much affection had

grown between the firstborn and his beautiful wife since their marriage,

and Sithas was growing more skeptical of her devotion with each passing

day. Hermathya's ambition was as obvious as the Tower of the Stars and

twice as big.

"I will go and speak with my father," Sithas said at last. Hermathya

moved to join him. "Alone, Lady. I go alone."

Hermathya turned away from him, her face blazing crimson.

* * * * *

A servant announced the prince, and Sithel gave permission for him

to enter. It was mid-afternoon, and the speaker was immersed in a

steaming hot pool, his head resting on a folded towel. His eyes were

closed.

"Father?"

Sithel opened one eye. "Get in, why don't you? The water is good and

hot.”

"No, thank you.” Sithas took the direct approach. "Father, what is this

I hear about mother wanting you to appoint me co-ruler?”

Sithel raised his head. "You do have your spies, don't you?"

"Only one, and I do not pay her. She works on her own account."

"Hermathya." Sithel smiled when the prince nodded. "She has spirit,

that girl. I daresay if it were possible she’d want to be co-ruler, too."

"Yes, and bring the rest of Clan Oakleaf to rule with her. She already

replaces palace servers with her own relatives. Soon we won't be able to

walk the halls without tripping over some Oakleaf cousin or other,” Sithas

said.

“This is still House Royal," replied his father confidently.

At that, Sithel sat up, roiling the hot mineral water. He reached for a

beaker sitting on the rim of the pool, then shook a handful of brown and

white crystals into the water. The steam was immediately scented with a

rare, spicy musk. "Do you know why your mother asked me to make you

co-ruler?"

"No," Sithas replied.

"It was part of a compromise, actually. She wants me to call

Kith-Kanan home  "

"Kith!” exclaimed Sithas, interrupting his father. “That is an excellent

idea!”

Sithel held up a hand. "It would cause great dissent among the clerics

and nobles. Kith-Kanan broke some of our most ardent laws. He

threatened the very foundations of the House Royal. My anger with him

has faded, and I could bring him home  if he would properly apologize.

There are many, though, who would oppose my lenience."

"But you are speaker," Sithas argued. “What difference do the

grumblings of a few priests make to you?"

Sithel smiled. "I cannot tear apart the nation for love of my son. Your

mother said that to assuage the clerics I should name you co-ruler. Then

they would be assured Kith-Kanan would have no part of the throne after

my death.” Sithel gazed long into his eldest son's troubled eyes. "Do you

still want me to dismiss Lady Nirakina's suggestion to make you my

co-ruler?"

Sithas drew a long breath and let it out slowly. He knew that there

was only one path to choose. He turned from the window. "If you seat me

beside you on the throne, the people will say there is no Speaker of the

Stars in Silvanost," he said quietly.

"Explain that."

"They will say great Sithel is old, not strong enough to rule alone.

And they will say Sithas is too young and has not the wisdom to be sole

speaker. Two halves do not a speaker make." He looked down at his

father's strong face. "You are the Speaker of the Stars. Do not relinquish

one drop of your power or, as from a pinhole in a waterskin, it will all leak

out and you will have nothing."

"Do you know what this decision means?" Sithel demanded.

The prince made a fist and pressed it against his mouth. There were

other words he wanted to say; he wanted to have Kith home and let the

consequences be damned. But Sithas knew he must not let these words

out. The future of Silvanesti was at stake.

"Then I will be Speaker, and will remain sole Speaker until the day

the gods call me to a higher plane," Sithel said after a long silence.

"And . . . Kith-Kanan?"

"I will not call him," Sithel said grimly. "He must return on his own,

as a supplicant begging for forgiveness."

"Will mother be angry with you?" Sithas asked softly.

The speaker sighed and scooped steaming water up in his hands,

letting it trickle down over his closed eyes. "You know your mother," he

said. "She will be hurt for a while, then she will find a cause to which she

can devote herself, something to help her forget her pain."

"Hermathya will be angry." Of this, Sithas had no doubt.

"Don't let her bully you," counseled Sithel, wiping his face with his

hands.

Sithas flushed. "I am your son. No one bullies me."

"I'm glad to hear it.” After a pause, Sithel added, "I've just thought of

another reason why you ought not want to be speaker just yet. I'm a

husband, father, and monarch. So far, you’re only a husband." A wry

smile quirked his lips. "Have children. That will bring age and hasten

wisdom."

10

Four Days on the Trail

Kith-Kanan and Anaya paused in their pursuit of Voltorno’s band.

The half-human and his followers were headed almost due south, straight

for the seacoast. Kith-Kanan was surprised when Anaya called a

temporary halt. He was ready for anything, from a stealthy approach to a

headlong, pitched battle. True, his feet ached and his hands were covered

with cuts, but the knowledge that this Voltorno held not only Mackeli but

his griffon steeled the prince to go on.

When he asked if she'd sensed Mackeli was near, Anaya said, "No. I

smell animals nearby. It's time to hunt. You stay here and don't move

around. I will return soon.”

Kith-Kanan settled down with his back against a tree. In short order,

he fell asleep. The next thing he knew, Anaya had tossed a brace of rabbits

in his lap.

"You snore," she said irritably. "I could have had us venison, but your

roaring chased the deer away. All I could get were these rabbits." She

frowned at the scrawny little animals. "These must have been deaf.”

Quickly Anaya gutted and skinned the animals, then speared them

over a twig fire. Kith-Kanan was impressed; her deftness was amazing.

She dressed each rabbit in two strokes and started a fire with one nick of

her flint against a blue fieldstone. Kith-Kanan doubted he could strike a

spark at all against such a common, frangible rock.

She bent to tend the fire. Kith-Kanan watched her back for a moment,

then he put down the rabbit. Quietly he unbuckled his sword belt and let it

down soundlessly to the ground. He added his dagger to the pile. Then,

using the steps Mackeli had taught him, he crept up behind Anaya.

She straightened, still with her back to him. When he was two feet

from her, she whirled, presenting the point of her knife to his face.

"You smell better without the metal, but you still breathe too loud,"

she said.

He pushed the flint knife aside and finished the step that brought them

nose to nose. “Perhaps it's not my breathing you hear, but my heart. I can

hear yours, too," he said teasingly.

Her brows knotted. “Liar."

Kith-Kanan put a finger to her cheek and began tapping lightly. “Is

that the rhythm?” he said. It was, and the look of consternation on Anaya's

face was delightful to him. She pushed him away.

"We've no time for games," she said. "Pick up your metal. We can

walk and eat at the same time."

She moved on through the trees. Kith-Kanan watched her curiously as

he buckled his swordbelt. Funny-looking Anaya, with painted face and

most of her hair cropped shorter than his. He found himself taking

pleasure in watching the easy way she wove through her forest home.

There was a certain nobility about her.

The corvae circled ceaselessly, bringing Anaya news of the humans.

Kith-Kanan and Anaya had followed them hotly all day, while the humans

moved in a more leisurely manner. The prince felt ragged with fatigue, but

he would not show weakness as long as Anaya remained bright and quick.

Trouble was, she didn't show any signs of tiring.

It was well past midday, and for the fourth time she had held up her

hand and bid Kith-Kanan be still while she scouted ahead. Sighing, he sat

down on a lichen-spotted boulder. Anaya vanished into the pallid green

saplings as Kith-Kanan took out his dagger and absently began cleaning

his fingernails.

Seconds lengthened into minutes, and the prince began to think Anaya

was taking too long. Her reconnaissance forays never took more than a

minute or two, sometimes only a few seconds. He slipped his dagger into

the top of his leggings and listened hard. Nothing.

A crow alighted at his feet. He stared down at the black bird, which

regarded him silently, its beady eyes seeming quite intelligent. Kith-Kanan

stood up, and the crow flapped into the air, circled around, and settled on

his shoulder. He spared a nervous glance at the bird's sharp, pointed beak

so close to his face. “You have something to show me?" he whispered.

The crow cocked its head first left, then right. "Anaya? Mackeli?" The

crow bobbed its head vigorously.

Kith-Kanan set out along the same path Anaya had gone down just a

few minutes earlier. The crow actually directed him with pokes of its

sharp beak. One hundred paces from a large boulder, Kith-Kanan heard

the clinking of metal on metal. Ten steps more, and the faint whiff of

smoke came to his nose. The crow plucked at his ear. Its beak stabbed

painfully, and Kith Kanan resisted the urge to swat the bird away. Then he

saw what the crow was warning him about.

Ahead on the ground was a net, spread flat and covered with leaves.

He knew the type; he'd often set such traps himself, for wild boar.

Kith-Kanan squatted by the edge of the net and looked for trip lines or

snare loops. He couldn't see any. Circling to his left, he followed the

perimeter of the trap until the ground dropped away into a dry wash

ravine. From there the smell of wood smoke was stronger. Kith-Kanan

skidded a few feet down the bank and crept along, his head just below the

level of the ground. Every now and then he would peek up and see where

he was going. The third time he did this, Kith-Kanan got quite a shock. He

put his head up and found himself staring into the eyes of a human  a

dead human, lying on his back with his eyes wide and staring. The

human's throat had been cut by a serrated knife.

The man wore rough woolen clothing, the seams of which were white

with dried salt. Another sailor. There was a tattoo of a seahorse on the

back of the dead man's hand.

Rough laughter filtered through the trees. As Kith-Kanan climbed out

of the ravine and made for the sound, the crow spread its wings and flew

away.

More ugly, cruel-sounding laughter. Kith-Kanan moved to his right,

keeping a thick-trunked pine tree between him and the source of the

sound. He dropped down to the ground and looked around the tree.

He saw six men standing in a glade. A smoky little fire burned on the

right. On the left, wrapped in the folds of a heavy rope net, was Anaya.

She looked defiant and unharmed.

"Are you sure it's female?" queried one of the men who held a

crossbow.

"It 'pears to be. 'Ere, tell us what you are!" said another. He poked at

Anaya with the tip of his saber. She shrank from the blade.

“What'll we do with her, Parch?" asked a third human.

"Sell 'er, like the other. She's too ugly to be anything but a slave,"

noted the crossbowman. The men roared with coarse laughter.

Through the loops in the net, Anaya's eyes shone with hatred. She

looked past her tormentors and saw, peeking around a tree, Kith-Kanan.

He put a hand to his lips. Quiet, he willed her. Keep quiet.

"Smells a bit, don't she?" sneered the crossbowman called Parch, a

lanky fellow with a drooping yellow mustache. He put down his weapon

and picked up a heavy wooden bucket full of water. He flung the water on

Anaya.

Kith-Kanan thought quickly. The leader, Voltorno, didn't seem to be

present; these men acted callous and loud, like many soldiers did when

their commander was absent. Retreating a few yards, the prince started

around the glade. He hadn't gone more than a half-score steps when his

foot snagged a trip line. Kith-Kanan dodged a spike-studded tree limb that

was released, but the noise alerted the men. They bared their weapons and

started into the woods, leaving one man to guard Anaya.

Standing with his back hard against a sticky pine, Kith-Kanan drew

his sword. A human came crunching through the fallen leaves, appallingly

noisy. The salty-fishy smell of his sailor's jersey preceded him.

Kith-Kanan timed the man's steps and, when he was close, sprang out

from behind the tree.

"By the dragon's beard!” exclaimed the man. He held out his saber

warily. Without any preliminaries, Kith-Kanan attacked. Their blades

clanged together, and the human shouted, "Over here, over here!” Other

shouts echoed in the forest. In moments, Kith-Kanan would be hopelessly

outnumbered.

The human's saber had little point for thrusting, so the elf prince

jabbed his blade straight at the man, who gave ground clumsily. He was a

seaman, not a warrior, and when he stumbled over a stone as he was

backing away, Kith-Kanan ran him through. This was the first person he'd

ever killed, but there was no time for reflection. As quietly as he could the

prince ran to the glade. The other men were converging on their dead

comrade, so that meant only one man stood between him and Anaya.

He hurtled into the glade, sword upraised. The guard  the one called

Parch  gave a shrill cry of fright and reached for his weapon, a crossbow.

Kith-Kanan was on him in a flash. He struck the crossbow from Parch’s

hands with a single sweep of his sword. The man staggered back, groping

for the dagger he wore at his waist. Kith-Kanan advanced on him. Parch

drew the dagger. Kith-Kanan easily beat aside the far shorter weapon and

left poor Parch bleeding on the ground.

"Are you all right?" he shouted to Anaya as he hacked open the net. It

spilled open, and Anaya nimbly leaped out.

"Filthy humans! I want to kill them!” she snarled.

"There's too many. Better to hide for now," Kith-Kanan cried.

She ignored him and went to the fire, where her flint knife lay on the

ground. Before Kith-Kanan could protest, she drew the sharp stone across

her arm, drawing scarlet blood. "They will die!” she declared. And with

that, she dashed into the woods.

"Anaya, wait!" Kith-Kanan frantically followed her.

A hoarse scream sounded from his left. Feet churned through the

leaves, running. A human, still holding his saber, ran toward the prince,

his bearded face a mask of fear. Kith-Kanan stood in his way. The man

traded cuts with him briefly, then threw his sword away and ran for his

life. Confused, the Silvanesti trotted in the direction from which the

bearded man had come, then stumbled upon the corpse of the man who

had poked Anaya with his saber. No wonder the bearded human had been

terrified. This other man's throat had been cut from ear to ear. Kith-Kanan

clenched his teeth and moved on. He found another human, killed in the

same manner.

The woods had fallen quiet, and the elf prince stepped carefully,

suspecting an ambush. What he found instead nearly stopped his heart.

Anaya had caught a third human and killed him, but not before the man

had put a crossbow quarrel into her hip. She had dragged herself a few

yards and had come to rest with both arms around an oak sapling.

Before Kith-Kanan knelt by her, he shoved his sword in its scabbard

and gently pulled the blood-soaked deerskin away from her wound. The

head of the quarrel had missed her hip bone, thank E'li, and was buried in

the flesh between her hip and ribs. A nasty wound, but not a fatal one.

"I must take the arrow out," he explained. "But I can't pull it out the

way it came in. I'll have to push it through."

"Do what must be done,” she gasped  her eyelids squeezed shut.

His hands shook. Though he had seen hunters and soldiers injured

before, never had Kith-Kanan had to deal with their wounds personally.

He tore the leather fletching off the arrow and placed his hands on it.

Steeling himself, he pushed on the nock end. Anaya stiffened and sucked

air in sharply through her clenched teeth. He pushed until he could feel the

iron arrow head in his other hand, beneath her body.

She didn’t utter a sound, which made Kith-Kanan marvel at her

courage. Once the quarrel was free, he threw it away. Then he unslung his

waterskin and gently washed the wound clean. He needed something to

bind it with. Under the green leather tunic Mackeli had fashioned for him,

he still wore his shirt of linen. At last Kith-Kanan pulled off his tunic and

tore the fine Silvanost linen into strips.

He tied the longest strips together to make a bandage, then began to

wind it around Anaya's waist. Kith-Kanan split and tied the ends of the

bandage, then gently hoisted Anaya in his arms. She was very light, and he

carried her easily back to the glade. There he laid her in a patch of soft

ferns, then dragged the dead men into the covering of the woods.

Anaya called for water. He put the skin to her lips, and she drank.

After a few gulps she said weakly, “I heard them say Mackeli and your

flying beast had been taken ahead to the ship. They knew we were

following them. Their master, Voltorno, is half-human, and by means of

magic he knew we were coming after them."

“Half-human?" Kith-Kanan asked. He had heard whisperings of such

crossbreeds, but had never seen one.

"Voltorno had his men stay behind to trap us." Kith-Kanan put the

skin to her mouth again. When she had finished, she added, "You must

leave me and go after Mackeli."

He knew she was right. "Are you sure you will be all right by

yourself?"

"The forest won't hurt me. Only the intruders would do that, and they

are ahead of us, carrying Mackeli. You must hurry."

With little delay the elf prince left the Kagonesti the waterskin and

laid one of the men’s abandoned cloaks over her. "I'll be back soon,” he

promised. “With Mackeli and Arcuballis.”

The sun was sinking fast as Kith-Kanan plunged into the brush. He

made great speed and covered a mile or more in minutes. There was a

salty smell in the air. The sea was near.

Ahead, moonlight glinted off metal. As he ran, Kith-Kanan spied the

backs of two men dragging a smaller person through the brush. Mackeli!

He had a halter tied around his neck, and he stumbled along behind his

much taller captors. The prince shouldered the crossbow and put a quarrel

in the back of the human who was leading Mackeli. The second man saw

his partner fall and, without pausing, he grabbed the halter rope and ran,

jerking Mackeli forward.

Kith-Kanan followed. He leaped over the man he'd shot and let out

the wailing cry elven hunters use when on the chase. The weird cry was

too much for the man leading Mackeli. He flung the rope away and ran as

hard as he could. Kith-Kanan loosed a quarrel after him, but the human

passed between some trees and the shot missed.

He reached Mackeli, pausing long enough to cut the strangling rope

from the boy's neck.

"Kith!” he cried. "Is Ny with you?"

“Yes, not far away," Kith-Kanan said. “Where's my griffon?"

"Voltorno has him. He put a spell on your beast to make him obey."

Kith-Kanan gave Mackeli the dagger. “Wait here. I'll come back for

you."

"Let me go too! I can help!” the boy said.

"No!” Mackeli looked stubborn, so Kith-Kanan added, "I need you to

stay here in case Voltorno gets past me and comes back this way.”

Mackeli's belligerence vanished, and he nodded. He positioned himself on

guard with his dagger as Kith-Kanan ran on.

The boom of the surf rose above the sound of the wind. The forest

ended abruptly atop a cliff, and Kith-Kanan had to dig in his heels to avoid

plunging over the precipice. The night was bright. Solinari and Lunitari

were up; moonlight and starlight silvered the scene below. With his keen

vision, Kith-Kanan could see a three-masted ship wallowing in the

offshore swells, its sails furled tightly against the yards.

A path led down the cliffside to the beach below. The first thing

Kith-Kanan saw was Arcuballis, picking its way along the narrow path.

The griffon's glow stood out strongly against the fainter ones of its

captors. A red-caped figure  presumably the half-human Volterno  led

the griffon by its bridle. A human trailed restlessly behind the beast.

Kith-Kanan stood up against the starry sky and loosed a quarrel at him.

The man felt the quarrel pass through the sleeve of his tunic, and he

screamed. Right away a swarm of men appeared on the beach. They

moved out from the base of the cliff and showered arrows up at

Kith-Kanan.

"Halloo," called a voice from below. Kith-Kanan cautiously raised his

head. The figure in the red cape moved away from the captive griffon and

stood out on the beach in plain sight. "Halloo up there! Can you hear me?"

“I hear you," Kith-Kanan shouted in reply. "Give me back my

griffon!”

"I can't give him back. That beast is the only profit I'll realize on this

voyage. You've got the boy back, leave the animal and go on your way.”

"No! Surrender Arcuballis! I have you in my sight," Kith-Kanan

warned.

"No doubt you do, but if you shoot me, my men will kill the griffon.

Now, I don't want to die, and I'm certain you don't want a dead griffon

either. What would you say to fighting for the beast in an honorable

contest with swords?"

"How do I know you won't try some treachery?”

The half-human flung off his cape. "I doubt that will be necessary.”

Kith-Kanan didn't trust him, but before the elf could say anything

more, the half-human had taken a lantern from one of his men and was

striding up the steep path to the top of the cliff, leading the griffon as he

came. Arcuballis, usually so spirited, hung its head as it walked. The

powerful wings had been pinioned by leather straps, and a muzzle made

from chain mail covered the griffon's hooked beak.

"You have bewitched my animal," Kith-Kanan said furiously.

Voltorno tied the bridle to a tree and set the lantern on a waist-high

boulder. "It is necessary.” As the half-human faced Kith-Kanan, the elf

studied him carefully. He was quite tall, and in the lantern’s glow his hair

was golden. A fine, downy beard covered his cheeks and chin, revealing

his human heritage, but Voltorno’s ears were slightly pointed, denoting

elven blood. His clothes and general bearing were far more refined than

any of the humans with him.

"Are you sure you have enough light to see?" Kith-Kanan asked

sarcastically, gesturing at the lantern.

Voltorno smiled brilliantly. “0h, that isn't for me. It's for my men.

They would hate to miss the show.”

When Kith-Kanan presented his sword, Voltorno complimented him

on the weapon. “The pattern is a bit old-fashioned, but very handsome. I

shall enjoy using it after you're dead,” he smirked.

The sailors lined the beach below to watch the duel. They cheered

Voltorno and jeered Kith-Kanan as the two duelists circled each other

warily. The half-human's blade flickered in, reaching for Kith-Kanan's

heart. The elf parried, rolled the slim Ergothian rapier aside, and lunged

with his stouter elven point.

Voltorno laughed and steered Kith-Kanan's thrust into the ground. He

tried to stomp on the prince's blade, to snap the stiff iron, but Kith-Kanan

drew back, avoiding the seafarer's heavy boots.

"You fight well,” Voltorno offered. “Who are you? Despite the rags

you wear, you are no wild elf."

"I am Silvanesti. That is all you need to know," Kith-Kanan said

tightly.

Voltorno smiled, pleasantly enough. "So much pride. You think I am

some renegade.”

"It is easy to see which race you have chosen to serve," Kith-Kanan

said.

"The humans, for all their crudity, have appreciation for talent. In

your nation I would be an outcast, lowest of the low. Among the humans, I

am a very useful fellow. I could find a place for you in my company. As I

rise, so could you. We would go far, elf.”

Voltorno spoke in an increasingly obvious lilt. His words rose and fell

in a sort of sing-song intonation that Kith-Kanan found peculiar. The

half-human was only a few feet from Kith-Kanan, and the elf prince saw

that he was making small, slow gestures with his free hand.

"I owe my allegiance elsewhere," Kith-Kanan stated. His sword felt

heavy in his hand.

“Pity." With renewed vigor, Voltorno attacked. Kith-Kanan fought

him off clumsily, for the very air was beginning to seem thick, impeding

his movements. As their blades tangled, Kith-Kanan lost his plan of

defense and Voltorno's steel slipped by his hilt and pierced his upper arm,

The half-human stepped back, still smiling like a beneficent cleric.

The weapon fell from Kith-Kanares numb hand. He stared at it in

dawning horror. His fingers had no more feeling than wood or wax. He

tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick. A terrifying lethargy gripped him.

Though in his mind he was yelling and fighting, his voice and limbs would

not obey. Magic . . . it was magic. Voltorno had bewitched Arcuballis,

now him.

Voltorno sheathed his own sword and picked up Kith-Kanan's. "How

splendidly ironic it will be to kill you with your own sword," he noted.

Then he raised the weapon 

And it flew from his hand! Voltorno looked down at his chest and the

quarrel that had suddenly appeared there. His knees buckled, and he fell.

Mackeli stepped out of the dark ring of trees, a crossbow in his hands.

Kith-Kanan staggered back away from the half-human. His strength was

returning, in spite of the wound in his arm. Like a river freed from a dam,

feeling rushed back into his body. He picked up his sword and heard

shouts from the beach. The humans were coming to aid their fallen leader.

"So,” said the half-human through bloody lips, "you triumph after

all.” He grimaced and touched his fingers to the quarrel in his chest. "Go

ahead, end it."

Already the humans were running up the steep path toward them.

"I've no time to waste on you," spat Kith-Kanan contemptuously. He

wanted to sound strong, but his narrow escape had left him shaken.

He took Mackeli by the arm and hurried to Arcuballis. The boy hung

back as Kith-Kanan removed the muzzle from the griffon's beak and cut

the leather pinions from its wings. The fire was returning to the griffon's

eyes. The creature clawed the ground with its talons.

Kith-Kanan touched his forehead to the beast's feathered head and

said, "It's good to see you, old fellow." He heard the commotion as the

humans came roaring up the cliffside. Mounting the griffon, Kith-Kanan

slid forward in the saddle and said, "Climb on, Mackeli." The elf boy

looked uncertain. "Hurry, the spell is broken but Voltorno's men are

coming!”

After another second’s hesitation, Mackeli grasped Kith-Kanan's hand

and swung into the saddle behind him. Armed sailors appeared on top of

the cliff, and they rushed to Voltorno. Behind them came a tall human

with a full, red-brown beard. He pointed to the elves. "Stop them!" he

cried in a booming voice.

"Hold on!” shouted Kith-Kanan. He slapped the reins across

Arcuballis's neck, and the griffon bounded toward the men. They dropped

and scattered like leaves in a whirlwind. Another leap and Arcuballis

cleared the edge of the cliff. Mackeli gave a short, sharp cry of fear, but

Kith-Kanan yelled with pure joy. Some of the humans got to their feet and

loosed arrows at them, but the distance was too great. Kith-Kanan steered

Arcuballis out over the foaming surf, turned, and gained height. As they

swept past the site of the duel, he saw the red-bearded fellow raise

Voltorno to his feet. That one wasn't going to die easily, the prince noted.

“It’s good to see you!” Kith-Kanan shouted over his shoulder. "You

saved my life, you know." There was no response from Mackeli and

Kith-Kanan asked, "Are you well?"

“I was weller on the ground," Mackeli said, his voice high with

anxiety. He tightened his fierce grip on Kith-Kanan’s waist as he asked,

“Where are we going?"

"To fetch Anaya. Hold tight!"

The griffon gave voice to its own triumphant cry. The trilling roar

burst over the wildwood, announcing their return to the waiting Anaya.

11

Early Autumn, Year of the Hawk

The traditional way across the river to Silvanost was by ferry. Large,

flat-bottomed barges were drawn back and forth across the Thon-Thalas

by giant turtles. Some time in the distant past, priests of the Blue Phoenix,

god of all animal life, had woven the spells that brought the first giant

turtles into being.

They had taken a pair of common river turtles, usually the size of a

grown elf's palm, and worked their spells over them until they were as big

as houses. Thereafter, the priests bred their own giants, creating quite a

sizeable herd. The vast green domes of the turtles' shells had become a

common sight as the placid beasts gave faithful service for many

centuries.

Lady Nirakina stood on the riverbank, watching a barge of refugees,

pulled by just such a turtle, arrive from the west bank. Beside her stood

Tamanier Ambrodel, his arm still in a sling. A month had passed since the

Trial Days, and during that time more and more settlers from the western

plains and forests had retreated to Silvanost for protection.

"How many does that make?" asked Nirakina, shading her eyes to see

the crowded barge.

Tamanier checked the tally he was keeping. "Four hundred and

nineteen, my lady," he said. "And more coming all the time."

The settlers were mostly from the poorer families of Silvanesti who

had gone west to work new land and make new lives for themselves.

Though largely unharmed, they were footsore, exhausted, and

demoralized. Their stories were all the same: bands of humans and

Kagonesti elves had burned down their houses and orchards and ordered

them to leave. The Silvanesti, unarmed and unorganized, had little choice

but to pack their meager belongings and trek back to Silvanost.

Nirakina had received her husband's blessing to organize relief for the

displaced settlers. A field along the southern end of the city was set aside

for them, and a shanty town of tents and lean-tos had sprung up in the last

few weeks. Nirakina had persuaded many of the city guilds and great

temples to contribute food, blankets, and money for the care of the

refugees.

Sithel was doing all he could for the refugees, too, but his job was

made far more complicated by the demands of the state. The Tower of the

Stars was filled daily with petitioners who entreated the speaker to call

together the army and clear the plains of the raiders. Sithel quite rightly

realized this was not a practical solution. A big, slow-moving army would

never catch small, mobile raider bands.

"Our neighbors to the west, Thorbardin and Ergoth, would be very

unhappy to see an elven army on their borders," Sithel told his more

bellicose nobles. "It would be an invitation to war, and that is an invitation

I will not countenance."

So the refugees continued to come, first in a trickle, then in a steady

stream. As he was acquainted with them and knew first-hand the problems

they faced, Tamanier Ambrodel was chosen by Lady Nirakina to be her

chief assistant. He proved a tireless worker, but even with his efforts, the

camp along the riverbank became dirty and rowdy as more and more

frightened settlers swelled its ranks. A pall of smoke and fear hovered

over the refugee camp. It did not take long for the residents of Silvanost to

lose their sympathy and regard the refugees with disgust.

This day Nirakina had gone down to the water's edge to speak to the

refugees as they came ashore. The weary, grimy travelers were amazed to

see the speaker's wife waiting on the muddy bank, her richly made gown

trailing in the mud, only Tamanier Ambrodel standing beside her.

“They are so sad, so tired," she murmured to him. He stood by her

side making notations on a wax tablet.

“It's a sad thing to lose your home and those you love best, my lady."

Tamanier filled a square of twenty and blocked it off. "That makes two

hundred and twenty in one barge, including sixty-six humans and

half-humans." He eyed her uncertainly. "The speaker will not be pleased

that those not of our blood are entering the city."

"I know the speaker's heart," Nirakina said a little sharply. Her slight

figure bristled with indignation. "It is the others at court who want to

cause trouble for these poor folk."

An elf woman struggled ashore from a small boat, carrying a baby in

her arms. She slipped and fell to her knees in the muddy water. Other

exhausted refugees tramped past her. Nirakina, without hesitation, waded

into the press of silent people and helped the elf woman to her feet. Their

eyes met, and the raggedly dressed woman said, "Thank you, my lady."

With nothing else to say, she held her child to her shoulder and

slogged ashore. Nirakina was standing, openly admiring the woman's

dogged courage, when a hand touched her arm.

"You'd best be careful, Lady," Tamanier said.

Unheeding, Nirakina replied, "The priests and nobles will fume about

this, about the mixed-blood people especially.” Her serene expression

darkened. “They should all be made to come here and see the poor

innocents they would deny comfort and shelter!”

Tamanier gently tugged Lady Nirakina back to the riverbank.

On the other side of the city, the Tower of the Stars rang with

denunciations of the refugees.

“When the gods created the world, they made our race first, to be the

guardians of right and truth," declared Firincalos, high priest of E’li. "It is

our sacred duty to preserve ourselves as the gods made us, a pure race,

always recognizable as Silvanesti."

“Well said! Quite true!” The assembly of nobles and clerics called out

in rising voices.

Sithas watched his father. The speaker listened placidly to all this, but

he did not look pleased. It was not so much that his father disagreed with

the learned Firincalos; Sithas had heard similar sentiments espoused

before. But he knew the speaker hated to be lectured to by anyone, for any

reason.

Since the Trial Days, Sithas had been at his father's side daily, taking

a hand in the day-to-day administration of the country. He'd learned new

respect for Sithel when he saw how his father managed to balance the

pleas of the priests, the ideas of the nobles, and the needs of the guilds

against his own philosophy of what was best for Silvanesti.

Sithas had learned respect  but not admiration. He believed his father

was too flexible, gave in too often to the wrong people. It surprised him,

for he had always thought of Sithel as a strong ruler. Why didn't he simply

command obedience instead of constantly compromising?

Sithel waved for the assembled elves to be quiet. Miritelisina, high

priestess of Quenesti Pah, was standing, seeking the speaker’s grant to

comment. The hall quieted, and Sithel bade Miritelisina begin.

"I must ask the pure and righteous Firincalos what he would do with

the husbands, wives, and children now languishing in huts along the

riverbank, those who are not pure in our blood yet who have the deepest

ties to some number of our race?" Her rich voice filled the high tower. In

her youth, Miritelisina had been a renowned singer, and she played upon

her listeners with all her old skills. "Shall we throw them into the river?

Shall we drive them from the island, back onto the swords and torches of

the bandits who drove them east?"

A few harsh voices cried "Yes!” to her questions.

Sithas folded his arms and studied Miritelisina. She cut a regal figure

in her sapphire headband and white robe with its trailing, sky-blue sash.

Her waist-length, flaxen hair rippled down her back as she swept a

pointing finger over the mostly male crowd of elves.

"Shame on you all!” she shouted. "Is there no mercy in Silvanost?

The humans and half-humans are not here because they want to be! Evil

has been done to them, evil that must be laid at someone's door. But to

treat them like animals, to deny them simple shelter, is likewise evil. My

holy brothers, is this the way of rightness and truth of which the honorable

Firincalos speaks? It does not sound that way to me. I would more expect

to hear such harsh sentiments from devotees of the Dragonqueen!"

Sithas stiffened. The willful priestess had gone too far! Firincalos and

his colleagues thought so, too. They pushed to the front of the crowd,

outraged at being compared to the minions of the Queen of Evil. The air

thickened with denunciations, but Sithel, sitting back on his throne, did

nothing to restrain the angry clerics.

Sithas turned to his father. "May I speak?" he asked calmly.

"I've been waiting for you to take a stand," Sithel said impatiently.

"Go ahead. But remember, if you swim with snakes, you may get bitten."

Sithas bowed to his father. “This is a hard time for our people," he

began loudly. The wrangling on the floor subsided, and the prince lowered

his voice. "It is evident from events in the West that the humans, probably

with the support of the emperor of Ergoth, are trying to take over our

plains and woodland provinces, not by naked conquest, but by displacing

our farmers and traders. Terror is their tool, and so far it is working far

better than they could have dreamed. I tell you this first and ask you all to

remember who is responsible for the situation in which we now find

ourselves."

Sithel nodded with satisfaction. Sithas noted his father's reaction and

went on.

“The refugees come to Silvanost seeking our protection, and we

cannot fail to give it. It is our duty. We protect those not of our race

because they have come on bended knee, as subjects must do before their

lords. It is only right and proper that we shield them from harm, not only

because the gods teach the virtue of mercy, but also because these are the

people who grow our crops, sell our goods, who pay their taxes and their

fealty." A murmur passed through the assembly. Sithas's calm, rational

tone, so long honed in debates with the priests of Matheri, dampened the

anger that had reigned earlier. The clerics relaxed from their previous

trembling outrage. Miritelisina smiled faintly.

Sithas dropped his hands to his hips and looked over the gathering

with stern resolve. "But make no mistake! The preservation of our race is

of the greatest importance. Not merely the purity of our blood, but the

purity of our customs, traditions, and laws. For that reason, I ask the

speaker to decree a new place of refuge for the settlers, on the western

bank of the Thon-Thalas, for the sole purpose of housing all humans and

half-humans. Further, I suggest that all non-Silvanesti be sent across to

there from the current tent village."

There was a moment of silence as the assembly took in this idea, then

the tower erupted with calls of “Well spoken! Well said!”

"What about the husbands and wives who are full-blooded

Silvanesti?” demanded Miritelisina.

“They may go with their families, of course,” replied Sithas evenly.

“They should be made to go,” insisted Damroth, priest of Kiri Jolith.

"They are an insult to our heritage."

Sithel rapped the arm of his throne with his massive signet ring. The

sound echoed through the Tower of the Stars. Instant silence claimed the

hall.

"My son does me honor," the speaker said. "Let all he has said be

done." The priestess of Quenesti Pah opened her mouth to protest, but

Sithel rapped on his throne again, as a warning. "Those Silvanesti who

have taken humans as mates will go with their kin. They have chosen their

path, now they must follow it. Let it be done."

He stood, a clear signal that the audience was over. The assembly

bowed deeply as one and filed out. In a few minutes, only Sithel and

Sithas were left.

"That Miritelisina," said Sithel wryly. "She's a woman of extreme

will.”

"She's too sentimental," Sithas complained, coming to his father's

side. "I didn't notice her offering to take the half-breeds into her temple."

"No, but she's spent a third of the temple treasury on tents and

firewood, I hear." The speaker rubbed his brow with one hand and sighed

gustily. "Do you think it will come to war? There's no real proof Ergoth is

behind these attacks."

Sithas frowned. "These are not ordinary bandits. Ordinary bandits

don't scorn gold in favor of wrecking fruit trees. I understand this new

emperor, Ullves X, is an ambitious young schemer. Perhaps if we confront

him directly, he would restrain the 'bandits' now at liberty in our western

lands."

Sithel looked doubtful. "Humans are difficult to deal with. They have

more guile than kender, and their rapaciousness can make a goblin pale.

And yet, they know honor, loyalty, and courage. It would be easier if they

were all cruel or all noble, but as it is, they are mostly . . . difficult.”

Rising from the throne, the speaker added, "Still, talk is cheaper than war.

Prepare a letter to the emperor of Ergoth. Ask him to send an emissary for

the purpose of ending the strife on the plains. Oh, you’d better send a

similar note to the king of Thorbardin. They have a stake in this, too."

"I will begin at once," Sithas assented, bowing deeply.

* * * * *

Usually, diplomatic notes to foreign rulers would be composed by

professional scribes, but Sithas sat down at the onyx table in his private

room and began the letter himself. He dipped a fine stylus in a pot of black

ink and wrote the salutation. "To His Most Excellent and Highborn

Majesty, Ullves X, Emperor, Prince of Daltigoth, Grand Duke of Colem,

etc., etc.” The prince shook his head. Humans dearly loved titles; how they

piled them after their names. “From Sithel, Speaker of the Stars, Son of

Silvanos. Greetings, Royal Brother."

Hermathya burst into the room, red-gold hair disheveled, mantle

askew. Sithas was so startled he dropped a blot of ink on the page, spoiling

the fine vellum.

"Sithas!” she exclaimed breathlessly, rushing toward him. "They are

rioting!”

“Who's rioting?” he growled irritably.

"The farmers  the settlers lately come from the West. Word got out

that the speaker was going to force them to leave Silvanost, and they

began to smash and burn things. A band of them attacked the Market!

Parts of it are on fire!”

Sithas rushed to the balcony. He threw aside the heavy brocade

curtain and stepped out. His rooms faced away from the Market district,

but through the muggy autumn air he caught the distant sounds of

screaming.

"Has the royal guard been turned out?” he asked, returning inside

quickly.

Hermathya inhaled deeply, her pale skin flushed as she tried to get her

breathing under control. “I think so. I saw warriors headed that way. My

sedan chair was blocked by a column of guards, so I got out and ran to the

palace."

“You shouldn't have done that," he said sternly. Sithas imagined

Hermathya running down the street like some wild Kagonesti. What

would the common folk think, seeing his wife dashing through town like a

wild thing?

When she planted her hands on her hips, the prince noticed that

Hermathya's mantle had slipped down, leaving one white shoulder bare.

Her flame-bright hair had escaped its confining clasp and tendrils

streamed around her reddened face. Her blush deepened at Sithas's words.

“I thought it important to bring you the news!”

“The news would have come soon enough," he stated tersely. He

pulled a bell cord for a servant. An elf maid appeared with silent

efficiency. "A bowl of water and a towel for Lady Hermathya," Sithas

commanded. The maid bowed and departed.

Hermathya flung off her dusty mantle. “I don't need water!” she

exclaimed angrily. "I want to know what you're going to do about the

riot!”

"The warriors will quell it," the prince stated flatly as he returned to

the table. When he saw that the parchment was ruined, Sithas frowned at

the letter.

“Well, I hope no harm comes to Lady Nirakina!” she added.

Sithas ceased twirling the stylus in his fingers. “What do you mean?"

he asked sharply.

"Your mother is out there, in the midst of the fighting!”

He seized Hermathya by the arms. His grip was so tight, a gasp was

wrenched from his wife. “Don't lie to me, Hermathya! Why should Mother

be in that part of the city?"

"Don't you know? She was at the river with that Ambrodel fellow,

helping the poor wretches."

Sithas released her quickly, and she staggered back a step. He thought

fast. Then, turning to an elegant wardrobe made of flamewood, he pulled

his street cloak off its peg and flipped it around his shoulders. On another

peg was a sword belt holding a slender sword, the twin of his brother's. He

buckled the belt around his waist. It settled lopsidedly around his narrow

hips.

"I'm going to find my mother," he declared.

Hermathya grabbed her mantle. "I'll go with you!”

"You will not," he said firmly. "It isn't seemly for you to roam the

streets. You will stay here."

"I will do as I please!”

Hermathya started for the door, but Sithas caught her wrist and pulled

her back. Her eyes blazed furiously.

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even know about the danger!” she

hissed.

Voice tight with control, Sithas replied, "Lady, if you wish to remain

in my good graces, you will do as I say."

She stuck out her chin. "Oh? And if I don't, what will you do? Strike

me?" Sithas felt impaled by her deep blue eyes and, in spite of his anxiety

about his mother, he felt a surge of passion. The starjewel at Hermathya's

throat flashed. There was color in her cheeks to match the heat in her eyes.

Their life together had been so cold. So little fire, so little emotion. Her

arms were smooth and warm in Sithas's hands as he leaned close. But in

the instant before their lips met, Hermathya whispered, "I will do as I

please!”

The prince pushed his wife back and turned away, breathing deeply to

calm himself. She used her beauty like a weapon, not only on the

commoners, but even on him. Sithas closed the collar of his cloak with a

trembling hand.

"Find my father. Tell the speaker what has happened and what I

intend to do.”

“Where is the speaker?" she said sulkily.

He snapped, “I don't know. Why don't you look for him?" Without

another word, Sithas hurried from the room.

On his way out, the prince passed the servant as she returned with a

bowl of tepid water and a soft, white towel. The elf maiden stood aside to

let Sithas pass, then presented the bowl to Hermathya. She scowled at the

girl, then, with one hand, knocked the basin from the servant's hands. The

bronze bowl hit the marble floor with a clang, splashing Hermathya's feet

with water.

12

Idyll at the End of Summer

Arcuballis lowered its head to the clear water and drank. Not far from

the hollow tree, where Anaya and Mackeli lived, a spring welled up from

deep underground, creating a large, still pool. The water spilled over the

lip of one side of the pool, cascading down natural steps of granite and

bluestone.

It was two days after Kith-Kanan had flown them all safely home. He

had come to the pool daily since then to bathe his wounded arm. Though

tender, it was a clean wound and showed every sign of healing well.

Despite her own injury, Anaya would not let Kith-Kanan carry her to

the pool. Instead, she directed Mackeli to bring her certain roots and

leaves, from which she made a poultice. As Kith-Kanan watched her chew

the medicinal leaves herself, he listened for the fourth time to Mackeli's

tale of capture and captivity.

"And then Voltorno told the woodcutters there were no evil spirits in

the forest, and they believed him, until they came running back down the

trail, screaming and falling on their hairy faces."

"Do you suppose we could give him back?" Anaya iuterrupted with a

bored expression.

"I think so," offered Kith-Kanan. "The ship may not have sailed yet."

Mackeli looked at the two of them open-mouthed. "Give me back!”

he said, horrified. Slowly the boy smiled. “You're teasing me!”

"I'm not," said Anaya, wincing as she applied the chewed leaves and

root paste to her wound. Mackeli's face fell until Kith-Kanan winked at

him.

"Come with me to the spring," the prince said. It was better to leave

Anaya alone. Her wound had made her testy.

Kith-Kanan led Arcuballis through the woods by its reins. Mackeli

walked beside him.

“There is one thing I’m not clear about," Kith-Kanan said after a time.

"Was it Voltorno who cast the spell on me that first night, the night he

stole Arcuballis from me?"

"It must have been," Mackeli guessed. "His men were starved for

meat, so Voltorno worked up a spell to enthrall any warmblooded

creatures in the area. The deer, rabbits, boar, and other animals had long

since fled, warned of the humans by the corvae. All he got for his trouble

was your griffon, which he knew was rare and valuable.”

As Arcuballis drank its fill, the elf prince and the Kagonesti boy sat

on a bluestone boulder and listened to the water cascading from the pool.

"I'm glad you and Ny are getting along," Mackeli noted. "She is not

easy to live with."

“That I know."

The Kagonesti tossed a twig into the water and watched as it was

drawn down the miniature falls.

"Mackeli, what do you remember about your parents? Your mother

and father  what were they like?"

Mackeli's forehead wrinkled with deep thought. "I don't know. I must

have been a baby when they left."

"Left? Do you mean died?"

"No. Ny always said our parents left us and meant to come back some

day," he said.

She and Mackeli looked so completely different, it was hard for

Kith-Kanan to believe they were blood relatives.

"You know, Kith, I watched you fight with Voltorno. It was really

something! The way you moved, swish, clang, swish!” Mackeli waved his

hand in the air, holding an imaginary sword. “I wish I could fight like

that."

"I could teach you," said Kith-Kanan. "If Anaya doesn't mind.”

Mackeli wrinkled his nose, as if he smelled something bad. "I know

what she'll say: ‘Get out of this tree! You stink like metal!' "

“Maybe she wouldn't notice." The boy and the prince looked at each

other and then shook their heads in unison. “She’d notice," Kith-Kanan

said. “We'll just have to ask her.”

They walked back to the clearing. Anaya had limped, no doubt

painfully, out of the tree into the one sunny spot in the clearing. An ugly

smear of greenish paste covered her wound.

"Ny, uh, Kith has something to ask you," Mackeli said quickly.

She opened her eyes. “What is it?"

Kith-Kanan tied Arcuballis to a tree in the shaded end of the clearing.

He came to where Anaya was reclining and squatted down beside her.

“Mackeli wants to learn the use of arms, and I’m willing to teach him.

Is that agreeable to you?"

"You wish to take up metal?" she said sharply to the boy. Mackeli

nodded as his sister sat up, moving stiffly. "A long time ago, I made a

bargain with the spirits of the forest. In return for their allowing me to hear

and speak with the animals and trees, I was to be their guardian against

outsiders, and those who would despoil the forest are my enemies. And the

forest told me that the worst of these intruders carried metal, which is

soulless and dead, torn from the deep underground, burned in fire, and

used only to kill and destroy. In time the very smell of metal came to

offend my nose.”

"You find it acceptable for me to carry a sword and dagger," noted

Kith-Kanan.

"The Forestmaster chose you for a task, and I cannot fault her

judgment. You drove the intruders out, saving my brother and the forest.”

She looked at Mackeli. "The choice is yours, but if you take up metal, the

beasts will no longer speak to you. I may even have to send you away."

Mackeli's face showed shock. "Send me away?" he whispered. He

looked around. The hollow oak, the shaded clearing, and Anaya were all

he had ever known of home and family. "Is there no other way?"

"No," Anaya said flatly, and tears sprang up in Mackeli's eyes.

Kith-Kanan couldn't understand the elf woman's hardness. “Don't

despair, Mackeli," he said consolingly. "I can teach swordsmanship using

wooden staves in place of iron blades." He looked at Anaya and added a

bit sarcastically, "Is that allowed?"

She waved one hand dismissively.

Kith-Kanan put a hand on Mackeli's shoulder. “What do you say, do

you still want to learn?" he asked.

Mackeli blotted his eyes on his sleeve and sniffed, "Yes."

* * * * *

As summer lay down like a tired hound and autumn rose up to take its

place, Kith-Kanan and Mackeli sparred with wooden swords in the

clearing. It was not harmless fun, and many bruises and black eyes

resulted from unguarded blows landed on unprotected flesh. But there was

no anger in it, and the boy and the prince developed more than fighting

skill on those sunny afternoons. They developed a friendship. Bereft of

home and family, with no real plans for the future, Kith-Kanan was glad to

have something to fill his days.

Early on, Anaya watched them dance and dodge, shouting and

laughing as the wooden "blades" hit home. Her side healed quickly, more

quickly than Kith-Kanan thought natural, and before long Anaya retreated

to the woods. She came and went according to her own whims, often

returning with a dressed out hart or a snare line of rabbits. Kith-Kanan

believed she had finally come to accept his presence in her home, but she

did not join in the easy camaraderie that grew between him and her

brother.

One day, as the first leaves were changing from green to gold,

Kith-Kanan went down to the spring. Mackeli was off collecting from a

rich harvest of fall nuts, and Anaya had been gone for several days. He

patted Arcuballis’s flank in passing, then plunged into the cool shade

along the path to the pool.

His newly sharpened senses caught the sound of splashing in the

water halfway down the path. Curious, he slipped into the underbrush.

Kith-Kanan crept along soundlessly  for his walking and breathing were

much improved, also  until he came to the high ground overlooking the

pool.

Treading water in the center of the pool was a dark-haired elf woman.

Her raven-black tresses floated on the surface around her like a cloud of

dense smoke. It took Kith-Kanan a moment to realize he was looking at

Anaya. Her hair was free of its long braid, and all her skin paint was

washed off; he nearly didn't recognize her clean-scrubbed features.

Smiling, he sat down by the trunk of a lichen-encrusted oak to watch her

swim.

For all her stealth on land, Anaya was not a graceful swimmer. She

paddled back and forth, using a primitive stroke. The fishers of the

Thon-Thalas could teach her a thing or two, Kith-Kanan decided.

When she climbed out of the water onto a ledge of granite,

Kith-Kanan saw that she was naked. Accustomed though he was to the

highly prized pallor of city-dwellers, he found her sun-browned body

oddly beautiful. It was lithe and firmly muscled. Her legs were strong, and

there was an unconscious, easy grace in her movements. She was like a

forest spirit, wild and free. And as Anaya ran her hands through her hair

and hummed to herself, Kith-Kanan felt the stirrings of emotions he had

thought dead months ago, when he'd fled Silvanost.

Anaya lay down on the rock ledge, pillowing her head with one arm.

Eyes closed, she appeared to sleep. Kith-Kanan stood up and meant to slip

around the far side of the pool in order to surprise her. But the hill was

steep, and the vines were green enough to be slippery when his sandals

crushed them. That Kith-Kanan was watching Anaya, not his footing,

made the going even more treacherous. He took two steps and fell, sliding

feet first down the hill into the pool.

He surfaced, choking and spitting. Anaya hadn't moved, but she said,

"You go to a lot of trouble just to see me bathe."

"I  " the prince sneezed violently "  heard someone in the spring

and came to investigate. I didn't know it was you." Despite the weight of

his clothes and sword, he swam in long strokes to the ledge where she lay.

Anaya made no move to cover herself, but merely moved over to give him

room to sit on the rock.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Only my pride hurts." He stood up, averting his eyes from her. "I'm

sorry I intruded, I'll go."

"Go or stay. It doesn't matter to me." When he hesitated, Anaya

added, "I am not modest in the fashion of your city females."

"Yet you wear clothes," he felt obliged to say. Uncomfortable as he

was with her nudity, he felt strangely unwilling to leave her.

"A deerskin tunic is good protection from thorns.” Anaya watched

Kith-Kartan with some amusement as his gaze flickered over her and

away for a third time. “It bothers you. Give me your tunic." He protested,

but she insisted, so he removed his wet tunic.

She pulled it over her head. The tunic covered her to her knees. “Is

that better?"

He smiled sheepishly. "I can't get over how different you look," he

said. “Without lines painted on your face, I mean." It was true. Her hazel

eyes were large and darker than his twin's. She had a small, full-lipped

mouth and a high forehead.

As if in response, Anaya stretched lazily, like a big cat. She put more

into, and seemed to get more out of, a simple stretch than anyone

Kith-Kanan had ever seen. “Don't the women of your race adorn

themselves?" she inquired.

“Well, yes, but not to the point of disguising themselves," he said

earnestly. "I like your face. Seems a pity to cover it."

Anaya sat up and looked at him curiously. “Why do you say that?"

"Because it's true," he said simply.

She shook herself. "Don't talk nonsense."

"I hope you're not angry with me any more for teaching Mackeli how

to fight," he said, hoping to draw the conversation out a little longer. He

was enjoying talking with her.

She shrugged. “My injury made me short-tempered. I wasn't angry

with you." She gazed out at the clear water. After a moment, she said

slowly, “I am glad Mackeli has a friend."

He smiled and reached a hand out to touch her arm. "You have a

friend, too, you know."

Quickly Anaya rolled to her feet and pulled his tunic off. Dropping it,

she dove into the pool. She stayed under so long that Kith-Kanan began to

worry. He was about to dive in after her when Mackeli appeared on the

other side of the pool, his bag bursting with chestnuts.

"Hello, Kith! Why are you all wet?"

"Anaya went in the water and hasn't come back up!"

Mackeli heaved the heavy sack to the ground. "Don't worry," he said.

"She's gone to her cave.” Kith-Kanan looked at him blankly. "There's a

tunnel in the pool that connects to a cave. She goes down there when she's

upset about something. Did you two have words?"

“Not exactly," Kith-Kanan said, staring at the water’s surface. "I just

told her I liked her face and that I was her friend.”

Mackeli scratched his cheek skeptically. “Well, there’s no use waiting

there. She may not come up for days!” He hoisted the sack onto his

narrow shoulder and added, “The cave is Ny's secret place. We can’t get

in.”

Kith-Kanan picked up his tunic and circled around the pool to where

Mackeli stood. They walked up the path to the clearing. Every third step

or so, Kith-Kanan looked back at the quiet spring. The forest woman was

so difficult to understand. He kept hoping she would reappear, but she

didn't.

* * * * *

The sun set, and Mackeli and Kith-Kanan roasted chestnuts in the fire.

When they were full, they lay on their backs in the grass and watched a

fall of stars in the sky. The stars trailed fiery red tails across the black

night, and Kith-Kanan marveled at the beauty of the sight. Living indoors

in Silvanost, Kith-Kanan had seen only a few such falls. As the elf prince

stared into the sky, a gentle wind tickled the branches of the trees and

ruffled his hair.

Kith-Kanan sat up to get another handful of chestnuts. He saw Anaya

sitting crosslegged by the fire and almost jumped out of his skin.

“What are you playing at?" he asked, irritated at being so startled.

"I came to share your fire."

Mackeli sat up and poked a few roasted nuts from the ashes with a

stick. Though they were hot, Anaya casually picked one up and peeled the

red husk from the nut meat.

"Your task is long done, Kith," she said in a low voice. “Why haven't

you returned to Silvanost?"

He chewed a chestnut. "I have no life there," he said truthfully.

Anaya's dark eyes looked out from her newly painted face. “Why not?

Any disgrace you committed can be forgiven,” she said.

"I committed no disgrace!” he said with heat.

“Then go home. You do not belong here.” Anaya rose and backed

away from the fire. Her eyes glowed in the firelight until she turned away.

Mackeli gaped. "Ny has never acted so strangely. Something is

troubling her," he said as he jumped to his feet. "I'll ask  "

"No." The single word froze Mackeli in his tracks. "Leave her alone.

When she finds the answer, she'll tell us."

Mackeli sat down again. They looked into the red coals in silence for

a while, then Mackeli said, "Why do you stay, Kith?"

"Not you, too!”

"Your life in the City of Towers was full of wonderful things. Why

did you leave? Why do you stay here?"

“There's nowhere else I want to go right now, and I've made friends

here, or at least one friend." He smiled at Mackeli. "As for why I left  "

Kith-Kanan rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. "Once I was in

love with a beautiful maiden, in Silvanost. She had wit and spirit, and I

believed she loved me. Then it came time for my brother, Sithas, to marry.

His wife was chosen for him by our father, the Speaker of the Stars. Of all

the suitable maidens in the city, my father chose the one I loved to be my

brother's bride." He pulled his dagger and drove it to the hilt in the dirt.

"And she married him willingly! She was glad to do it!”

“I don't understand," admitted Mackeli.

“Neither do I. Hermathya  " Kith-Kanan closed his eyes, seeing her

in his mind and savoring the feel of her name on his lips "  seemed to

love the idea of being the next speaker's wife more than being married to

one who loved her. So, I left home. I do not expect to see Silvanost again."

The elf boy looked at Kith-Kanan, whose head hung down. The

prince still gripped his dagger hilt tightly. Mackeli cleared his throat and

said sincerely, “I hope you stay, Kith. Ny could never have taught me the

things you have. She never told me the kind of stories you tell. She's never

seen the great cities, or the warriors and nobles and priests."

Kith-Kanan had raised his head. “I try not to think beyond today,

Keli. For now, the peace of this place suits me. Strange, after being used to

all the comforts and extravagances of royal birth . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Perhaps we can make a new kingdom, here in the wildwood.”

Kith-Kanan smiled. "A kingdom?" he asked. "Just us three?"

With complete earnestness, Mackeli said, "Nations must begin

somewhere, yes?"

13

Day of Madness

Sithas rode up the Street of Commerce at a canter, past the guild hall

towers that filled both sides. He reined in his horse clumsily  for he

wasn't used to riding  when he spied the guild elves standing in the street,

watching smoke rise from the Market quarter.

"Has the royal guard come this way?" he called at them.

Wringing his hands, a senior master with the crest of the Gemcutters

Guild on his breast replied, "Yes, Highness, some time ago. The chaos

grows worse, I fear  "

"Have you seen my mother, Lady Nirakina?"

The master gemcutter picked at his long dark hair with slim fingers

and shook his head in silent despair. Sithas snorted with frustration and

twisted his horse's head away, toward the rising pillar of smoke. "Go back

inside your halls," he called contemptuously. "Bolt your doors and

windows."

“Will the half-breeds come here?" asked another guild elf

tremulously.

"I don't know, but you'd better be prepared to defend yourselves."

Sithas thumped his horse's sides with his heels, then mount and rider

clattered down the street.

Beyond the guild halls, in the first crossing street of the commoners'

district, he found the way littered with broken barrows, overturned sedan

chairs, and abandoned pushcarts. Sithas picked his way through the debris

with difficulty, for there were many common folk standing in the street.

Most were mute in disbelief, though some wept at the unaccustomed

violence so near their homes. They raised a cheer when they saw Sithas.

He halted again and asked if anyone had seen Lady Nirakina.

“No one has come through since the warriors passed this way," said a

trader. "No one at all.”

He thanked them, then ordered them off the street. The elves retreated

to their houses. In minutes, the prince was alone.

The poorer people of Silvanost lived in tower houses just as the rich

did. However, their homes seldom rose more than four or five stories.

Each house had a tiny garden around its base, miniature versions of the

great landscape around the Tower of the Stars. Trash and blown rubbish

now tainted the lovingly tended gardens. Smoke poisoned the air. Grimly

Sithas continued toward the heart of this madness.

Two streets later, the prince saw his first rioters. A human woman and

a female Kagonesti were throwing pottery jugs onto the pavement,

smashing them. When they ran out of jugs, they went to a derelict potter’s

cart and replenished their supply.

"Stop that," Sithas commanded. The dark elf woman took one look at

the speaker's heir and fled with a shriek. Her human companion, however,

hurled a pot at Sithas. It shattered on the street at his horse's feet, spraying

the animal with shards. That done, the impudent human woman dusted her

hands and simply walked away.

The horse backed and pranced, so Sithas had his hands full calming

the mount. When the horse was once more under control, he rode ahead.

The lane ended at a sharp turn to the right.

The sounds of fighting grew louder as Sithas rode on, drawing his

sword.

The street ahead was full of struggling people  Silvanesti, Kagonesti,

human, kender, and dwarves. A line of royal guards with pikes held flat in

both hands were trying to keep the mass of fear-crazed folk back. Sithas

rode up to an officer giving orders to the band of warriors, who numbered

no more than twenty.

“Captain! Where is your commander?" shouted Sithas, above the roar

of voices.

"Highness!” The warrior, himself of Kagonesti blood, saluted crisply.

"Lord Kencathedrus is pursuing some of the criminals in the Market."

Sithas, on horseback, could see far over the seething sea of people.

"Are all these rioters?" he asked, incredulous.

"No, sire. Most are merchants and traders, trying to get away from the

criminals who set fire to the shops," the captain replied.

'Why are you holding them back?"

"Lord Kencathedrus’s orders, sire. He didn't want these foreigners to

flood the rest of the city."

When the prince asked the captain if he'd seen his mother, the warrior

shook his helmeted head. Sithas then asked if there was another way

around, a way to the river.

"Keep them back!" barked the captain to his straining soldiers. "Push

them! Use your pike shafts!” He stepped back, closer to Sithas, and said,

“Yes, sire, you can circle this street and take White Rose Lane right to the

water."

Sithas commended the captain and turned his horse around. A spatter

of stones and chunks of pottery rained over them. The captain and his

troops had little to fear; they were in armor. Neither Sithas nor his horse

were, so they cantered quickly away.

White Rose Lane was narrow and lined on both sides by high stone

walls. This was the poorest section of Silvanost, where the house-towers

were the lowest. With only two or three floors, they resembled squat stone

drums, a far cry from the tall, gleaming spires of the high city.

The lane was empty when Sithas entered it. Astride his horse, his

knees nearly scraped the walls on each side. A thin trickle of scummy

water ran down the gutter in the center of the lane. At the other end of the

alley, small groups of rioters dashed past. These groups of three or four

often had royal guards on their heels. Sithas emerged from White Rose

Lane in time to confront four desperate-looking elves. They stared at him.

Each was armed with a stone or stick.

Sithas pointed with his sword. "Put down those things. Go back to

your homes!" he said sternly.

"We are free elves! We won't be ordered about! We've been driven

from our homes once, and we'll not let it happen again!” cried one of the

elves.

"You are mistaken,” Sithas said, turning his horse so none of them

could get behind him. “No one is driving you from here. The Speaker of

the Stars has plans for a permanent town on the west bank of the

Thon-Thalas."

"That's not what the holy lady said," shouted a different elf.

"What holy lady?"

"The priestess of Quenesti Pah. She told us the truth!”

So, the riot could be laid at Miritelisina's door. Sithas burned with

anger. He whipped his sword over his head. "Go home!” he shouted. "Go

home, lest the warriors strike you down!"

Someone flung a stone at Sithas. He batted it away, the rock clanging

off the tempered iron blade. One smoke-stained elf tried to grab the horse's

bridle, but the prince hit him on the head with the flat of his blade. The elf

collapsed, and the others hastily withdrew to find a more poorly armed

target.

Sithas rode on through the mayhem, getting hit more than once by

thrown sticks and shards. A bearded fellow he took for human swung a

woodcutter's axe at him, so Sithas used the edge, not the flat, of his sword.

The axe-wielder fell dead, cleaved from shoulder to heart. Only then did

the prince notice the fellow's tapering ears and Silvanesti coloring. A halfhuman,

the first he'd ever seen. Pity mixed with revulsion welled up inside

the speaker's heart.

Feeling a bit dazed, Sithas rode to the water's edge. There were dead

bodies floating in the normally calm river, a sight that only added to his

disorientation. However, his dazed shock vanished instantly when he saw

the body of an elf woman clad in a golden gown. His mother had a gown

like that.

Sithas half-fell, half-jumped from horseback into the shallow water.

He splashed, sword in hand, to the gowned body. It was Nirakina. His

mother was dead! Tears spilling down his cheeks, the prince pulled the

floating corpse to shallower water. When he turned the body over he saw

to his immense relief that it was not his mother. This elf woman was a

stranger to Sithas.

He released his hold on the body, and it was nudged gently away by

the Thon-Thalas. Sithas stood coughing in the smoke, looking at the

nightmare scene around him. Had the gods forsaken the Silvanesti this

day?

"Sithas. . . . Sithas. . . .”

The prince whirled as he realized that someone was calling his name.

He ran up the riverbank toward the sound. Once ashore, he was engulfed

by the row of short towers that lined the riverbank. The tallest of these, a

four-story house with conical roof and tall windows, was to his right. A

white cloth waved from a top floor window.

"Sithas?” With relief the prince noted that it was his mother’s voice.

He mounted the horse and urged it into a gallop. Shouts and a loud

crashing sound filled the air. On the other side of a low stone wall, a band

of rioters was battering at the door of the four-story tower. Sithas raced the

horse straight at the wall, and the animal jumped the barrier. As they

landed on the other side, Sithas shouted a challenge and waved his sword

in the air. Horse and rider thundered into the rioters' midst. The men

dropped the bench they had been using as a battering ram and ran off.

Overhead, a window on the street side opened. Nirakina called down,

"Sithas! Praise the gods you came!"

The door of the house, which was almost knocked to pieces, opened

inward. A familiar-looking elf emerged warily, the broken end of a table

leg clutched in his hand.

"I know you," said Sithas, dismounting quickly.

The elf lowered his weapon. "Tamanier Ambrodel, at your service,

Highness,” he said quietly. "Lady Nirakina is safe."

Nirakina came down the building's steps, and Sithas rushed to

embrace her.

“We were besieged," Nirakina explained. Her honey-brown hair was

in complete disarray, and her gentle face was smeared with soot.

"Tamanier saved my life. He fought them off and guarded the door."

“I thought you were dead,” Sithas said, cupping his mother's face in

his scratched, dirty hands. "I found a woman floating in the river. She was

wearing your clothes."

Nirakina explained that she had been giving some old clothing to the

refugees when the trouble started. In fact she and Tamanier had been at the

focus of the riot. One reason they had escaped unharmed was that many of

the refugees knew the speaker's wife and protected her.

"How did it start?" demanded Sithas. "I heard something about

Miritelisina."

"I'm afraid it was her," Tamanier answered. "I saw her standing in the

back of a cart, proclaiming that the speaker and high priests were planning

to send all the settlers back across the river. The people grew

frightened  they thought they were being driven from their last shelter by

their own lords, sent to die in the wilderness. So they rose up, with the

intention of forestalling a new exile."

Fists clenched, Sithas declared, "This is treason! Miritelisina must be

brought to justice!”

"She did not tell them to riot,” his mother said gently. "She cares

about the poor, and it is they who have suffered most from this."

Sithas was in no mood to debate. Instead, he turned to Tamanier and

held out his hand. Eyes wide, the elf grasped his prince's hand. "You shall

be rewarded,” said Sithas gratefully.

"Thank you, Highness.” Tamanier looked up and down the street.

“Perhaps we can take Lady Nirakina home now.”

It was much quieter. Kencathedrus's warriors had herded the rioters

into an ever-tightening circle. When the mob was finally subdued, the fire

brigade was able to rush into the Market quarter. That occurred far too

late, though; fully half of the marketplace had already been reduced to

ruin.

* * * * *

The justice meted out by Sithel to his rebellious subjects was swift

and severe. The rioters were tried as one and condemned.

Those of Silvanesti or Kagonesti blood were made slaves and set to

rebuilding what they had destroyed. The humans and other non-elven

rioters were driven from the city at pike point and forbidden ever to return,

upon pain of death. All merchants who participated in the madness had

their goods confiscated. They, too, were banished for life.

Miritelisina was brought before the speaker. Sithas, Nirakina,

Tamanier Ambrodel, and all the high clerics of Silvanost were present.

She made no speeches, offered no defense. Despite his respect for her, the

speaker found the priestess guilty of petty treason. He could have made

the charge high treason, for which the penalty was death, but Sithel could

not bring himself to be that harsh.

The high priestess of Quenesti Pah was sent to the dungeon cells

under the Palace of Quinari. Her cell was large and clean, but dark. Layers

of inhibiting spells were placed around it, to prevent her from using her

magical knowledge to escape or communicate with the outside world.

Though many saw this as just, few found the sentencing a positive thing;

not since the terrible, anarchical days of Silvanos and Balif had such a

high-ranking person been sent to the dungeon.

"Is it right, do you think, to keep her there?" Nirakina asked her

husband and son later, in private.

"You surprise me," said Sithel in a tired voice. “You, of all people,

whose life was in the balance, should have no qualm about her sentence."

Nirakina's face was sad. "I am sure she meant no harm. Her only

concern was for the welfare of the refugees."

"Perhaps she did not mean to start a riot,” Sithas said sympathetically,

"but I'm not certain she meant no harm. Miritelisina sought to undermine

the decree of the speaker by appealing to the common people. That, in

itself, is treason."

"Those poor people,” Nirakina murmured.

The speaker's wife retired to her bed. Sithel and his son remained in

the sitting room.

"Your mother has a kind heart, Sith. All this suffering has undone her.

She needs her rest.” Sithas nodded glumly, and the speaker went on. "I am

sending a troop of fifty warriors under Captain Coryamis to the west. They

are to try to capture some of the brigands who've been terrorizing our

settlers and to bring them back alive. Perhaps then we can find out who's

truly behind these attacks." Sithel yawned and stretched. “Coryamis leaves

tonight. Within a month, we should know something."

Father and son parted. Sithel watched the prince descend the far stairs,

not the route to the quarters that he shared with Hermathya. "Where are

you going, Sith?" he asked in confusion.

Sithas looked distinctly uncomfortable. "My old rooms, Father.

Hermathya and I are  we are not sharing a bed these days," he said stiffly.

Sithel raised one pale brow in surprise.

"You’ll not win her over by sleeping apart," he advised.

“I need time to contemplate," Sithas replied. With a gruff good-night,

he went on his way. Sithel waited until his son's footsteps had faded from

the stone stairwell, then he sighed. Sithas and Hermathya estranged  for

some reason that fact bothered him more than having to send Miritelisina

to the dungeon. He knew his son, and he knew his daughter-in-law, too.

They were both too proud, too unbending. Any rift between them was only

likely to widen over time. Not good. The line of Silvanos required stability

and offspring to ensure its continuation. He would have to do something.

A prodigious yawn racked the speaker’s body. For now, though, there

was his own bed, his own wife, and sleep.

* * * * *

In the weeks following the rioting in the Market, a regular patrol of

royal guards walked the streets. A squad of four warriors, moving through

the city very late one night, spied a body lying on the steps of the Temple

of Quenesti Pah. Two elves ran over and turned the body face-up. To their

astonishment, they knew the dead elf well. He was Nortifinthas, and he

was of their own company, sent with forty-nine other warriors to the

western provinces. No word had been heard from the fifty warriors in over

two weeks.

The night watch picked up their fallen comrade and hastened to the

Palace of Quinari. Other patrols saw them and joined with them as they

went. By the time the group reached the main door of the palace, it was

over thirty strong.

Stankathan, the major-domo, arrived at the palace door in response to

the vigorous pounding of the guards. He stood in the open doorway,

holding aloft a sputtering oil lamp.

"Who goes there?" Stankathan said in a voice husky with sleep. The

officer who had found Nortifinthas explained the situation. Stankathan

looked at the corpse, borne on the shoulders of his fellow warriors. His

face paled.

“I will fetch Prince Sithas," he decided.

Stankathan went to Sithas's bachelor quarters. The door was open, and

he saw the prince asleep at a table. The elder elf shook his head. Everyone

knew that Prince Sithas and his wife were living apart, but still it saddened

the old servant.

"Your Highness?" he said, touching Sithas lightly on the back. "Your

Highness, wake up; there's been an . . . event.”

Sithas raised his head suddenly. "What? What is it?”

"The night watch has found a dead warrior in the streets. Apparently

he is one of the soldiers the speaker sent out weeks ago.”

Sithas pushed back his chair and stood, disoriented by his sudden

awakening. "How can that be?" he asked. He breathed deeply a few times

to clear his head. Then, adjusting his sleep-twisted robe, the prince said, “I

will see the warriors."

The major-domo led Sithas to the main door. There the prince heard

the story of the finding of the body from the night watch officer.

"Show me," ordered Sithas.

The warriors laid the body gently down on the steps. Nortifinthas had

numerous knife and club wounds, which had sufficed to drain his life

away.

Sithas looked over the array of grim, concerned faces. "Take the body

to the cellar and lay it out. Tomorrow perhaps the learned clerics can

discover what happened,” he said in a subdued voice.

Four guards hoisted Nortifinthas on their shoulders and went up the

steps. Stankathan showed them the way to the palace cellar. After a time,

when Stankathan returned with the bearers, Sithas dismissed the guards.

To the major-domo he said, “When the speaker rises tomorrow, tell him at

once what has occurred. And send for me."

"It shall be done, Highness."

* * * * *

The day dawned cool, and gray clouds piled up in the northern sky.

Sithas and Sithel stood on opposite sides of the table where the body of

Nortifinthas had been laid out. Everyone else had been banished from the

cellar.

Sithel bent over and began to examine the dead elf’s clothes with

minute care. He fingered every seam, looked in every pocket, even felt in

the corpse's hair. Finally Sithas could contain himself no longer.

“What are you doing, Father?"

"I know Captain Coryamis would not have sent this warrior back to us

without some kind of message.”

"How do you know he was sent? He could be a deserter."

Sithel stood up. "Not this fellow. He was a fine warrior. And if he had

deserted, he wouldn't come back to Silvanost." Just then, Sithel froze. He

reached for the shielded candle that was their only source of light, then

held it close to the dead elf's waist.

"There!” The speaker hastily thrust the candle holder into Sithas's

hand. Eagerly, Sithel unclasped the sword belt from the corpse. He held it

up to Sithas. “Do you see?"

Sithas squinted hard at the inside of the belt. Sure enough, there were

letters scratched in the dark leather, but they appeared random and

meaningless. "I don’t understand," he protested. "I see writing, but it's just

gibberish.”

Sithel removed the empty scabbard from the belt and gently laid it on

the corpse's chest. Then he coiled the belt and tucked it inside his robe.

"There are many things you have yet to learn, things that only come from

experience. Come with me, and I’ll show you how the dead can speak to

the living without magic."

They left the cellar. An entire corps of courtiers and servants stood

waiting for the two most important people in Silvanost to reappear. Sithel

promptly ordered everyone to return to their tasks, and he and his son went

alone to the Tower of the Stars.

“This palace is like an anthill," Sithel said, striding briskly across the

Processional Road. "How can anything remain secret for very long?"

The prince was puzzled, but he covered his bewilderment with the

meditative mask he had learned from the priests of Matheri. It was not

until they were alone, locked inside the audience hall of the tower, that his

father spoke again.

"Coryamis sent the soldier back as a courier," confided Sithel. "Let us

see what he brought us.”

The emerald throne of the speaker was not simply made of that stone.

The natural faceted gems were interspersed with hand-turned columns of

rare and beautiful wood. These were of varying lengths and thicknesses,

and some were even inlaid with gold and silver. Sithas looked on in mute

wonder as his father detached piece after piece of wood from the ancient,

sacred throne. Each time he removed a cylinder of wood, he would wind

the dead soldier’s belt around it, spiral fashion. The speaker would then

stare at the writing on the belt for a second, remove the belt, and re-fit the

wooden piece back into the throne. On the fifth attempt, Sithel gave a cry

of triumph. He read up the length of the cylinder, turned it slightly, and

read the next row of letters. When he was done, the Speaker of the Stars

looked up, ashen faced.

“What is it, Father?" Sithas asked. The speaker handed him the rod

and belt as a reply.

Now the prince understood. The message had been written on the belt

while it was wound around a shaft of identical thickness to this one. When

the belt was removed, the letters became a meaningless jumble. Now

Sithas could read the last message sent by Coryamis.

There were many abbreviations in the writing. Sithas read the

message out loud, just to be certain he had it right. " 'Great speaker,' " it

said, " 'I write this knowing I may not be alive tomorrow, and this is the

only chance I have to tell what has happened. Two days ago we were

attacked by a body of humans, elves, and mixed-bloods. The horsemen

trapped us between the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains and the falls of

the Keraty River. There are only fifteen of us left. I will send this message

with my best fighter, Nortifinthas. Great speaker, these men and elves are

not bandits, they are formidable cavalry. They also knew where to ambush

us and how many we were, so I feel, too, that we were betrayed. There is a

traitor in Silvanost. Find him or all shall perish. Long live Silvanesti!’ "

Sithas stared at his father in horrified silence for a long moment.

Finally, he burst out, "This is monstrous!”

"Treachery in my own city. Who could it be?" Sithel asked.

"I don't know, but we can find out. The greater question is, who pays

the traitor? It must be the emperor of Ergoth!” declared his son.

"Yes." Surely there was no one else with the money or reason to wage

such an underhanded campaign against the elven nation. Sithel looked at

the prince, who suddenly seemed much older than before. "I do not want

war, Sithas. I do not want it. We have not yet received a reply from the

emperor or from the king of Thorbardin regarding our request for a

conference. If both nations agree to come and talk, it will give us a chance

for peace.”

"It may give the enemy the time they need, too," said Sithas.

The speaker took the belt and wooden cylinder from his son. He

restored the cylinder to its place in the side of the throne. The belt he

fastened around his own waist. Sithel had regained his calm, and the years

fell away once more when resolve filled his face.

"Son, I charge you with the task of finding the traitor. Male or female,

young or old, there can be no mercy.”

"I shall find the traitor," Sithas vowed.

* * * * *

Dinner each night in the Quinari Palace was held in the Hall of Balif.

It was as much a social occasion as a meal, for all the courtiers were

required to attend and certain numbers of the priestly and noble classes,

too. Speaker Sithel and Lady Nirakina sat in the center of the short locus

of the vast oval table. Sithas and Hermathya sat on Nirakina's left, and all

the guests sat to the left of them in order of seniority. Thus, the person to

Sithel's right was always the most junior member of the court. That seat

fell to Tamanier Ambrodel nowadays; for saving Lady Nirakina's life

during the riot, he'd been granted a minor title.

The hall was full, though everyone was still standing when Tamanier

and Hermathya arrived together. Sithel had not yet come, and no one

could sit until the speaker did so himself. For his part, Sithas stood behind

his chair, impassive. Hermathya hoped he might react jealously upon

seeing her on the arm of the stalwart Tamanier, but the prince kept his

pensive gaze focused on the golden plate set before him.

Sithel entered with his wife. Servants pulled the tall chairs for the

speaker and Nirakina, and Sithel took his place. “May the gods grant you

all health and long life," he said quietly. The vast hall had been

constructed so that conversation at one end could be heard by parties at the

other. The traditional greeting before meals carried easily to the entire oval

table.

“Long life to you, Speaker of the Stars," the diners responded in

unison. Sithel sat. With much shuffling and squeaking of chairs, the guests

sat down, too.

A troop of servers appeared, bearing a large pot. The pot swung on a

long pole supported on the shoulders of two elves. Behind these servants,

two more servers carried a slotted bronze box, from which a dull glow

radiated. The box was full of large hearthstones that had been banked

against the kitchen fires all day. Two servants set the bronze box on a

stone slab, and the pot carriers eased the great cauldron onto the box. Now

the soup would stay hot all through dinner  which could last several

hours.

Young elf maidens clad in shifts of opaque yellow gauze slipped in

and out among the seated guests, filling their bowls with steaming turtle

soup. For those not inclined to soup, there was fresh fruit, picked that

morning in the vast orchards on the eastern shore. Elf boys staggered

under the weight of tall amphorae, brimming with purple-red nectar. The

goblets of the guests were kept full.

With the first course served, Stankathan signaled to the servants at the

doors of the hall. They swung them open, and a trio of musicians entered.

The players of flute, lyre, and sistrum, arranged themselves in the far

comer of the hall as conversation in the room began in earnest.

"I have heard," opened old Rengaldus, guildmaster of the gemcutters,

"that there is to be a conclave with representatives of Ergoth."

“That's old news," said Zertinfinas, the priest. He hacked open a juicy

melon and poured the seedy center pulp onto his plate. “The dwarves of

Thorbardin are invited, too."

"I have never seen a human close up,”remarked Hermathya. "Or

talked to one.”

"You haven't missed much, Lady," Rengaldus replied. "Their

language is uncouth and their bodies thick with hair.”

"Quite bestial," agreed Zertinfinas.

"Those are your opinions," Tamanier interjected. Many eyes turned to

him. It was unusual for the junior noble to speak at all. "I knew humans

out on the plains, and many of them were good people."

“Yes, but aren’t they inherently treacherous?" asked the guildmaster

of the sandalmakers. “Do humans ever keep their word?"

"Frequently." Tamanier looked to his patron, Sithas, for signs of

displeasure. The speaker’s son, as usual, ate sparingly, picking grapes one

at a time from the cluster on his plate. He did not seem to have heard

Tamanier's comments, so the favored young courtier continued. "Humans

can be fiercely honorable, perhaps because they know so many of their

fellows are not."

"They are unredeemably childish in their tempers," Zertinfinas

asserted. "How can they not be? With only seventy or so years of life how

can they accumulate any store of wisdom or patience?"

"But they are clever," noted Rengaldus. He slurped a mouthful of

nectar and wiped his chin with a satin napkin. "A hundred years ago there

wasn't a human alive who could cut a diamond or polish a sapphire. Now

craftsmen in Daltigoth have learned to work gems, and they have undercut

our market! My factors in Balifor say that human-cut gems are selling well

there, mainly because they are far cheaper than ours. The buyers care less

about quality than they do about the final price.”

“Barbarians," muttered Zertinfinas into his cap.

The second course was brought out: a cold salad of river trout with a

sweet herb dressing. Murmurs of approval circled the great table. Loaves

of pyramid-shaped bread were also provided, smeared with honey, a

confection greatly loved by elves.

"Perhaps one of the learned clerics can tell me," Hermathya said,

cutting herself a chunk of warm bread, "why humans have such short

lives?" Zertinfinas cleared his throat to speak, but from the opposite side

of the table, a new voice answered the lady's question.

"It is generally considered that humans represent a middle race,

farther removed from the gods and closer to the realm of the animals. Our

own race  the first created, longer lived, and possessing a greater affinity

for the powers of magic  is closest to the gods.”

Hermathya tilted her head to get a better look at the softspoken cleric.

"I do not know you, holy one. Who are you?"

"Forgive me, Lady, for not introducing myself. I am Kamin Oluvai,

second priest of the Blue Phoenix.” The young elf stood and bowed to

Hermathya. He was a striking-looking fellow, in his brilliant blue robe and

golden headband, with its inlay of a blue phoenix. His golden hair was

long even by elven standards. Sithas studied him circumspectly. This

Kamin Oluvai had not been to many royal dinners.

“What about these humans?" complained Zertinfinas loudly,

beginning to feel his nectar. "What is to be done about them?”

"I believe that is a matter best left to the speaker," Sithas replied. One

hundred and fifty pairs of eyes looked to Sithel, who was listening with

great care while eating his fish.

"The sovereignty of Silvanesti will be preserved," the speaker said

calmly. "That is why the conclave has been called."

The prince nodded, then asked, "Is it true, Ambrodel, that there are

more humans living in our western provinces than Silvanesti and

Kagonesti?”

“More than the Silvanesti, Highness. But the true number of the

Kagonesti is difficult to state. So many of them live in the remote parts of

the forest, mountains, and plains."

"Humans breed at any point past age fifteen,” blurted Zertinfinas.

“They regularly have five and six children in a family!" Whispers of

surprise and concern circled the table. Elven parents seldom had more than

two children in their entire, lengthy lifetimes.

"Is that true?" Nirakina queried Tamanier.

"At least in the wild country it is. I cannot say what families are like

in the more settled areas of Ergoth. But many of the children do not

survive into adulthood. Human knowledge of the healing arts is not nearly

so advanced as ours."

The musicians completed their program of light tunes and began to

play "The Sea-Elf’s Lament." The main course was served.

It came rolling in on a large cart, a huge sculpture of a dragon done in

golden-brown pie crust. The “beast" reared up five feet high. His back was

scaled with mint leaves, his eyes and talons made red with pomegranates.

The head and spiky tail of the dragon were covered with glazed nut meats.

The diners applauded this culinary creation, and Sithel himself

smiled. "You see, my friends, how the cook is master of us all," he

proclaimed, rising to his feet. “For centuries the dragons preyed upon us,

and now we have them to dinner."

Stankathan stood by the pastry dragon, a sword in his hand. He jerked

his head, and servants positioned a golden tray under the dragon's chin.

With a force that belied his age, the servant lopped off the dragon's head.

A flight of live sparrows burst from the open neck of the creation, each

bird having silver streamers tied to its legs. The assembly gave a collective

gasp of admiration.

"I trust the rest of the insides are more thoroughly cooked," quipped

Sithel.

The servants bore the head of the dragon to the speaker. With smaller

knives, they carved it to pieces. Under the crusty pastry skin, the head was

stuffed with delicate meat paste, whole baked apples, and sweet glazed

onions.

Stankathan attacked the rest of the pastry like some culinary thespian

portraying the mighty Huma slaying a real dragon. The body of the beast

was filled with savory sausages, stuffed peppers, whole capons, and

vegetable torts. The room filled with noise as every diner commented on

the elegance of this evening's feast.

Zertinfinas, rather loudly, called for more nectar. The serving boy had

none left in his amphora, so he ran to the door to fetch more. Sithas called

to the servant as he passed, and the elf boy dropped to one knee by the

prince's chair.

"Yes, Highness?"

“The holy one has had too much to drink. Have the cellar master cut

the nectar with water. Half for half," ordered Sithas in a confidential tone.

"As you command, sire."

“The cook really has outdone himself," Hermathya remarked. “It is a

wonderful feast.”

"Is it a special occasion?" asked Rengaldus.

"The calendar does not list a holiday," Kamin Oluvai noted. "Unless it

is a special day for the speaker."

“It is, holy one. By this feast we do honor to a dead hero," Sithel

explained.

Nirakina set down her goblet, puzzled. “What hero, my husband?"

"His name was Nortifinthas.”

Head wobbling, Zertinfinas asked, “Was he a companion of Huma

Dragonsbane?"

"No," Kamin Oluvai assisted. "He sat in the first great Synthal-Elish,

did he not?"

“You are both mistaken," Sithel replied. "Nortifinthas was a simple

soldier, a Kagonesti who died nobly in service to this house."

Conversation around the table had died just as the flutist trilled the high

solo from the lament.

"This morning," the speaker continued, "this soldier named

Nortifinthas returned to the city from the western province. He was the

only survivor of the fifty warriors I sent out to find the bandits who have

troubled our people lately. All his comrades were slain. Even though he

was fearfully wounded, the brave Nortifinthas returned with the last

dispatch of his commander." Sithel looked around the table, meeting

each guest eye to eye. The prince sat very still, his left hand clenched

into a fist in his lap. "One of you here, one of you seated at my table

eating my food, is a traitor."

The musicians heard this declaration and ceased playing. The

speaker waved a hand to them to continue, and they did so, awkwardly.

"You see, the force that wiped out my fifty warriors was not a band

of hit-and-run bandits, but a disciplined troop of cavalry who knew

where and when my soldiers would come. It was not a battle. It was a

massacre."

"Do you know who the traitor is, Speaker?" Hermathya asked with

great earnest.

"Not yet, but the person will be found. I spent most of my day

compiling a list of those who could have known the route of my

warriors. At this point, I suspect everyone.”

The speaker looked around the large table. The gaiety was gone from

the dinner, and the diners looked at the delicacies on their plates without

enthusiasm.

Sithel picked up his knife and fork. "Finish your food," he

commanded. When no one else emulated him, he held up his hands

expressively and said, “Why do you not eat? Do you want this fine meal to

go to waste?"

Sithas was the first to take up his fork and resume eating. Hermathya

and Nirakina did likewise. Soon, everyone was eating again, but with

much less good humor than before.

“I will say this," Sithel added pointedly, cutting the glazed

pomegranate eye from the pastry dragon's face. "The traitor's identity is

suspected.”

By now the elf boy had returned, his amphora full of diluted nectar.

Into the absolute silence that followed his own last statement, the speaker

said loudly, "Zertinfinas! Your nectar!”

The cleric, his head snapping up at the sound of his name, had to be

pounded on the back several times to save him from choking on a piece of

pastry.

Sithas watched his father as he ate. The speaker's every movement

was graceful, his face serene with resolve.

14

While the Speaker Dined

The Wildwood slowly regained its lively character. No longer was

there that absence of animal life that Kith-Kanan had found so puzzling

when he first arrived. Daily, deer came to graze in the clearing. Rabbits

and squirrels cavorted in and around the trees. Birds other than the

ubiquitous corvae appeared. Bears, boars, and panthers roared in the night.

As Mackeli had said, they'd been warned of the humans. Now that the

humans were gone, the animals had returned.

On this particular day, Mackeli wedged his tongue between his teeth

and concentrated on lashing an arrowhead to a shaft. Kith-Kanan was

teaching him the bow now. It was not something to which the boy took

readily. As he tied off the end of the whipcord, the flint arrowhead sagged

badly out of line.

“That's not tight enough,” Kith-Kanan cautioned. He handed the boy

his dagger. "Start again and make it tight."

Neither of them had seen Anaya for over a week. It didn't bother

Mackeli a whit, but Kith-Kanan found himself missing the strange forest

woman. He wondered if he should go and look for her. Mackeli said, and

Kith-Kanan did not doubt, that the prince would never find her unless she

wanted to be found.

“What do you do if you need her in a hurry?" Kith-Kanan asked

ingeniously. "I mean, suppose you got hurt or something. How would you

call her?"

"If I really need Ny, she knows it and comes for me.” Mackeli had

almost finished his tying of the arrow.

"You mean, you just will her to come, and-she does?"

The boy knotted the tough silk string. "Mostly." With a proud smile,

he handed Kith-Kanan the newly lashed arrow. Kith shook it to see if the

head would loosen. It didn't.

"Good," he said, handing the arrow back. "You only need twenty

more to fill your quiver."

* * * * *

Late the next afternoon the Wildwood rang with laughter and

splashing as Kith-Kanan and Mackeli swam in the pool. Mackeli was

progressing well under the prince’s tutelage, so they had decided to finish

their day with a swim in the crystal waters.

Mackeli was treading water and looking around the pool for

Kith-Kanan. The boy was a better swimmer than his sister, but not so

skilled as the elf prince.

"Where'd you go, Kith?" he said, eyeing the surface of the water

uncertairnly. Suddenly a hand closed on his left ankle and Mackeli gave a

yelp. He found himself lifted up and launched skyward. Laughing and

yelling all the way, he flew several feet and landed back in the pool with a

loud splash. He and Kith-Kanan surfaced at the same time.

“It's not fair," Mackeli said, flinging his streaming hair from his eyes.

"You’re bigger than me!”

Kith-Kanan grinned. "You'll catch up someday, Keli," he said.

Twisting gracefully in the water, the prince turned and swam toward the

granite ledge on shore.

As Kith-Kanan hoisted himself up on the ledge, Mackeli called to

him, "I want to learn to swim like you. You move like a fish!”

"Another result of my misspent youth." Kith-Kanan stretched out full

length on the warm ledge and closed his eyes.

Minutes later, something moved to block the sunlight. Without

opening his eyes, Kith-Kanan said, "I know you're there, Keli. I heard you

walk up. You'd better not  Hey!”

With a cry, the prince sat up. A very sharp spear point had been poked

into his bare stomach. Squinting in the bright light, he looked up. Several

pairs of moccasin-clad feet were gathered around Kith-Kanan, and their

owners  four dark figures  loomed over him.

"Mackeli, my sword!" he called, leaping to his feet.

The boy, still in the pool, looked at his friend and laughed. "Calm

down, Kith! It's only White-Lock.”

Kith-Kanan stared. Shading his eyes, he realized that the four dark

figures were Kagonesti males. They were brown-skinned, hard-muscled,

and wore breechcloths of deerskin. Bows, quivers of arrows, and deerskin

bags were slung over their muscled backs. Their exposed skin was covered

by red, yellow, and blue loops and whorls of paint.

The tallest of the four  he topped Kith-Kanan by several inches  had

a streak of white in his midnight-black hair. He and his comrades were

looking at the Silvanesti nobleman with amused curiosity.

Naked and still damp from his swim, Kith-Kanan drew the tattered

shreds of his dignity about himself. He pulled on his clothes as Mackeli

came out of the pool and greeted the four strange elves.

"Blessings of Astarin upon you, White-Lock, you and yours," Mackeli

said. He placed his hands over his heart and then held them in front of

him, palms up.

The Kagonesti called White-Lock repeated the gesture. "And upon

you, Mackeli," he said to the boy, in a deep and solemn voice, though he

continued to watch Kith-Kanan. “Do you now bring the Settled Ones to

the sacred forests?"

Kith-Kanan knew that the term "Settled Ones" was meant as an insult.

The Kagonesti were nomadic and never built permanent habitations.

Before he could retort, Mackeli said, “Kith is my friend and my guest,

White-Lock. Do the People no longer value courtesy to guests?"

A smile quirked White-Lock's lips and he said, "Blessings of Astarin

upon you, guest of Mackeli."

"Would you and your hunting party honor me with a visit,

White-Lock?" Mackeli asked. He pulled his clothes on.

White-Lock glanced at his companions. Kith-Kanan neither saw nor

heard any exchange between them, but the tall Kagonesti said, "My

companions and I do not wish to intrude upon the Keeper of the Forest."

"It is no intrusion," Mackeli replied politely.

Kith-Kanan was mildly surprised at the change that seemed to have

come over the irrepressible boy. He spoke to the Kagonesti in a very

composed and adult manner. They, in turn, treated him with great respect.

Mackeli went on. “The keeper is away at present. Were she here, I know

she would wish to make you welcome. Come, we can share stories. I have

had a great adventure since we last met.”

White-Lock looked once more to his three companions. After a

moment's hesitation, he nodded and they all set out for the clearing.

As they walked, Kith-Kanan brought up the rear and studied these

new acquaintances. In his travels around the western provinces of

Silvanesti, he had met several Kagonesti. Those elves, however, had given

up their nomadic and isolated ways to trade with the humans and

Silvanesti who lived in the West. Many of them no longer painted their

bodies, and they wore civilized clothing. These four were obviously not of

that ilk.

As they made their way to the clearing, Mackeli introduced

Kith-Kanan to the others in the group. There was Sharp-Eye, brown-haired

and some inches shorter than White-Lock; Braveheart, who had sandy

hair; and Otter. The latter was shorter than the rest, a head shorter than

Kith-Kanan, and his pale yellow eyes twinkled with inner mirth. He was

the only one who smiled outright at the elf prince. It was a merry smile,

and Kith-Kanan returned it.

In the clearing, Mackeli bade them all be seated by the oak. He went

inside and returned shortly with nuts, berries, and fruit. White-Lock took

only a handful of red berries, though his comrades dug in with gusto.

"So, guest of Mackeli, how do you come to be in the wildwood?"

White-Lock asked, staring at the Silvanesti prince.

Kith-Kanan frowned. "I am a traveler, White-Lock. And my name is

Kith. You would honor me by using it,” he replied testily.

White-Lock nodded and looked pleased. Kith-Kanan remembered

then that the more primitive Kagonesti didn't believe it was polite to use a

person's name unless they'd been given leave to. He cudgeled his brain,

trying to recall what else he knew about their race.

"White-Lock!” called a startled voice behind Kith-Kanan. “What in

the name of the forest is this?"

They turned. The one called Otter was standing at the far end of the

clearing, staring in awe at Arcuballis. The griffon was lying in the shade

of a big tree. The beast opened one golden eye and regarded the amazed

Kagonesti.

“That is Arcuballis," Kith-Kanan said proudly. With an inward smile,

he uttered a sharp whistle. Arcuballis got quickly to its feet, and Otter

nearly fell over backward as he stumbled away from the tall beast.

Kith-Kanan gave another whistle, at first high-pitched, then sliding down

the scale. The griffon unfolded its wings to their full extent and uttered a

trilling call in imitation of Kith-Kanan's whistle. Otter jumped back again.

At another whistle from the prince, Arcuballis folded its wings and made

its way daintily across the clearing, coming to a stop several feet from the

group.

Kith-Kanan was pleased to see that even White-Lock looked

impressed. The Kagonesti leader told Otter to rejoin the group. “What is

this beast, Kith?" White-Lock asked wonderingly.

"Arcuballis is a griffon. He's my mount and my friend." Kith-Kanan

whistled once more and Arcuballis lay down where it was. In seconds, the

beast closed its eyes in sleep again.

"He is beautiful, Kith!” Otter said enthusiastically. "He flies?"

"He does indeed.”

"I should be honored if you would take me for a ride!”

"Otter," White-Lock said sharply.

Regret replaced the joy on Otter's face, and he subsided. Kith-Kanan

smiled kindly at the yellow-eyed elf as the Kagonesti called Sharp-Eye

spoke into the silence.

“Mackeli, you said you had a tale to share," he said. "Tell us of your

great adventure."

All four Kagonesti settled down to listen. Even Otter tore his gaze

from Arcuballis and gave his full attention to Mackeli. The Kagonesti

were great ones for storytelling, Kith-Kanan knew. They rarely, if ever,

wrote anything down. Their history, their news, all was passed orally from

one generation to the next. If they liked Mackeli's story, it would be

swapped between tribes until years hence, when it might be heard by

every Kagonesti on Krynn.

Mackeli's green eyes widened. He looked at each of them in turn and

began his story. "I was kidnapped by an evil wizard named Voltorno," he

said softly.

Kith-Kanan shook his head bemusedly. Mackeli finally had a fresh

audience for his tale. And the boy didn't let them down. None of the four

Kagonesti moved so much as a finger during Mackeli’s long recital of his

kidnap, the pursuit by Kith-Kanan and Anaya, and the prince's duel with

Valtorno. The silence was broken only by Otter’s exclamation of triumph

when Mackeli told how he and Kith-Kanan had flown away from

Voltorno's men on Arcuballis.

When the story was finished, the Kagonesti looked at Kith-Kanan

with new respect. The prince preened slightly, sitting up straighter.

"You fought well against the humans, Kith,” Sharp-Eye concluded.

The other Kagonesti nodded.

"We are sorry to have missed the Keeper of the Forest, Mackeli,"

White-Lock said. "To see the keeper is a great honor and pleasure. She

walks with the gods and speaks with great wisdom.”

A snort of laughter was surprised out of Kith-Kanan. "Anaya?" he

exclaimed in disbelief. He was immediately sorry. The Kagonesti,

including the fun-loving Otter, turned looks of stern reproach upon him.

"You are disrespectful of the keeper, Kith.” White-Lock glowered.

"I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect," Kith-Kanan said apologetically.

“White-Lock, I’m curious. I've met Kagonesti elves before but they

weren't like you. They were more  uh  "

“Where did you meet these others?" White-Lock cut in.

"In the West," replied Kith-Kanan. “The western provinces of

Silvanesti.”

"Settled Ones," Sharp-Eye said with much disgust. Braveheart rubbed

his hands together as if washing them, then flung them away from himself.

"Those you met have taken up the ways of the Settled Ones,” said

White-Lock, his voice hard. "They have turned their backs on the true

ways."

Kith-Kanan was surprised by the loathing they all expressed.

Deciding it did not behoove him to anger Mackeli's friends, he changed

the subject. "Braveheart, how did you come by your name?"

Braveheart gestured to White-Lock. Kith-Kanan wondered if he'd

committed another social breach by inquiring about the Kagonesti's name.

White-Lock, though, didn't seem upset. He answered, "Braveheart was

born mute, but his skill as a hunter and fighter earned him his adult name.”

Amusement danced in the hunter's eyes. "Are all your people so curious,

Kith?"

Kith-Kanan looked chagrined. "No, White-Lock. My curiosity has

gotten me in trouble before."

They all laughed, and the four Kagonesti hunters stood up.

White-Lock brought his hands up to cover his heart and then held them

out palms-up, first to Mackeli and then to Kith-Kanan. The boy and the

prince returned the gesture.

“The blessings of Astarin upon you both," White-Lock said warmly.

"Give our respects to the keeper.”

"We shall, White-Lock. Blessings upon you all," Mackeli returned.

"Good-bye" Kith-Kanan called after them. With a last wave from

Otter, the hunters disappeared into the forest.

Mackeli gathered up the uneaten food and stowed it back in the tree.

Kith-Kanan remained standing, looking after the departed Kagonesti.

"They're a strange lot," Kith-Kanan mused aloud. "And they certainly

don't care for their more 'settled' brothers. I thought the others I met were a

lot less primitive.” He chuckled. "And the way they talked about Anaya-as

if she were a goddess!"

"They are good elves," Mackeli said when he returned. "They only

want to live in peace with the forest, as they have for centuries. But most

humans treat them like savages." The green eyes that looked up at

Kith-Kanan were hard. "And from what you've told me about your people,

the Silvanesti do no better.”

* * * * *

Several more weeks went by. The episode of the Kagonesti stayed

with Kith-Kanan, and he continued to think on Mackeli's words. However,

he was growing more and more worried about Anaya. He questioned

Mackeli, but the boy remained unconcerned. Though Kith-Kanan knew

she could take care of herself, he still fretted. At night, he began to dream

of her deep in the woods, calling to him, saying his name over and over.

He would then follow her voice through the black forest, but just when he

thought he'd found her, he would wake up. It was frustrating.

After a time Anaya began to monopolize his waking thoughts as well.

The prince had told her he was her friend. Was it more than that? What

Kith-Kanan felt for the Kagonesti woman was certainly different from

what he felt for Mackeli. Could he be in love with her? They had barely

gotten to know each other before she'd disappeared. But still the prince

worried about her, and dreamed about her, and missed her.

Kith-Kanan and Mackeli were sleeping outside the tree one pleasant

night. The prince slept deeply and, for once, dreamlessly  until something

unseen tugged at his mind. He opened his eyes and sat bolt-upright,

turning his head from side to side. It was as if a sudden clap of thunder

had wakened him. Yet Mackeli slept on beside him. Night creatures

chirped and whirred softly in the forest, also undisturbed.

Kith-Kanan straightened his tunic  for he slept fully clothed  and

lay back down. He was completely awake when the nameless something

called to him once more. Drawn by something he couldn't see, the prince

got up and crossed the clearing. The going was not easy, since the silver

moon had set and the red moon was almost down. It was an eerie crimson

orb just barely visible through the trees.

Kith-Kanan followed the path to the spring. Whatever was pulling

him brought him to that place, but when he arrived, there seemed to be no

one around. He dipped a hand in the cold water and threw it on his face.

As the Silvanesti prince stared at his reflection in the pool, a second

dark image appeared in the water next to it. Kith-Kanan leaped back and

turned, his hand on his dagger hilt. It was Anaya, standing a few feet

away.

"Anaya!” he uttered with relief. "You're all right. Where have you

been?"

"You called me," she said evenly. Her eyes seemed to have a light of

their own. “Your call was very strong. I couldn't stay away, no matter how

I tried."

Kith-Kanan shook his head. "I don't understand," he said truthfully.

She stepped closer and looked up into his eyes. Her unpainted face

was beautiful in the red moonlight. "Your heart spoke to mine, Kith, and I

could not refuse to come. We were drawn together."

At that moment, Kith-Kanan thought he did understand. The idea that

hearts could speak to each other was something he had heard about. His

people were said to be able to perform a mysterious summons known as

"the Call.” It was said to work over great distances and was reputed to be

irresistible. Yet Kith-Kanan had never known anyone who had actually

done it.

He stepped closer and put a hand to her cheek. Anaya was trembling.

"Are you afraid?" he asked quietly.

"I have never felt like this before," she whispered.

"How do you feel?”

"I want to run!" she declared loudly. But she didn't move an inch.

"You called to me too, you know. I was asleep in the clearing just

now and something woke me, something drew me down here to the

spring. I couldn't resist it." Her cheek was warm, despite the coolness of

the night. He cupped it in his hand. "Anaya, I have been so worried about

you. When you didn’t come back, I thought something might have

happened to you."

"Something did," she replied softly. "All these weeks, I have been

meditating and thinking of you. So many feelings were tumbling inside of

me."

"I have been troubled also," the prince confessed. "I've lain awake at

night trying to sort out my feelings.” He smiled at her. "You've even

intruded on my dreams, Anaya."

Her face twisted in pain. "It isn't right.”

“Why not? Am I so unappealing?"

"I am born of the forest! For ten times the length of your life I have

lived in the Wildwood, on my own and of my own. I did not take Mackeli

until a short time ago."

"Take Mackeli? Then, he is not your brother by blood, is he?"

Anaya looked at Kith-Kanan desperately. "No. I took him from a

farmer's house. I was lonely. I needed someone to talk to . . . .”

The emptiness in her eyes, the pain in her voice, touched

Kith-Kanan's heart. He gripped Anaya's shoulders with both hands. In

return, she put her arms around his waist and embraced him passionately.

After a moment, Anaya pulled back and said softly, "I want to show

you something." She stepped into the pool.

“Where are we going?" he asked as he joined her in the cool spring.

"To my secret place." She took his hand and warned, “Don’t let go."

They slid under the water's surface. It was as cold and as black as

Takhisis's heart in the pool, but Anaya swam down, kicking with her feet.

Something hard brushed Kith-Kanan's shoulder; he put a hand out and felt

solid rock. They were in a tunnel. After a moment, Anaya planted her feet

on the bottom and thrust upward. Kith-Kanan let himself be pulled along.

Suddenly their heads broke the surface.

Treading water, Kith-Kanan looked around in wonder. A soft, white

light illuminated a vaulted ceiling that rose some fifteen feet above the

pool's surface. The ceiling was smooth and pure white. All around the

edge of the vault were painted the most beautiful murals Kith-Kanan had

ever seen. They showed a variety of woodland scenes: misty glens, roaring

waterfalls, and deep, dark forests.

"Come," Anaya said, drawing him along by the hand. He kicked

forward until his toes bumped rock. It was not the sloping bottom of a

natural pool. Kith-Kanan felt round-nosed steps cut into the rock as he and

Anaya climbed out of the water.

The steps and floor of the cave were made of the same stone as the

ceiling, a glassy white rock Kith-Kanan couldn't identify.

The cave itself was divided down the center by a row of graceful

columns, deeply fluted and tapering to their tops. They appeared to be

joined solidly into the floor and ceiling.

Anaya let go of his hand and let him wander forward on his own. He

went to the source of the gentle white light, the third column in from the

water’s edge. A subtle glow and warmth emanated from the column.

Hesitantly Kith-Kanan put out a hand to touch the translucent stone.

He turned to the Kagonesti, smiling. "It feels alive!”

"It is," she beamed,

The walls to the right of the colonnade were decorated with

remarkable bas-reliefs, raised carvings that depicted elven women. There

were four of them, life-sized, and between each relief was a carving of a

different type of tree.

Anaya stood close beside the prince, and he put an arm around her

waist. "What do these mean?" he said, gesturing at the reliefs.

"These were the Keepers of the Forest," she said proudly “Those that

came before me. They lived as I live now, guarding the Wildwood from

harm." Anaya went to the image farthest from the pool. "This was

Camirene. She was Keeper of the Forest before me.” Anaya moved to the

right, to the next figure. “This was Ulyante.” She slipped sideways to the

third figure. "Here is Delarin. She died driving a dragon from the wildwood.”

Anaya touched the warm stone relief lightly with her fingertips.

Kith-Kanan regarded the carved image with awe.

"And this,” Anaya said, facing the figure nearest the pool, “is Ziatia,

first guardian of the wildwood.” She put her hands together and bowed to

the image. Kith-Kanan looked from one relief to the next.

"It is a beautiful place," he said with awe.

“When I am troubled, I come here to rest and think," Anaya said,

gesturing around her.

"Is this where you've been these past weeks?" he asked.

"Yes. Here, and in the wildwood. I  I watched you sleep many

nights." She looked deep into his eyes.

Kith-Kanan could hardly take it all in. This beautiful cave, the many

answers it provided and the mysteries it held. It was like the beautiful elf

woman before him. She had provided him with answers this night, but in

her deep eyes were even more mysteries and questions unanswered. For

now, he gave himself up to the joy he felt, the joy at finding someone who

cared for him, someone that he cared for. And he did care for her.

"I think I love you, Anaya,” Kith-Kanan said tenderly, caressing her

cheek.

She laid her head on his chest. "I begged the Forestmaster to send you

away, but she would not. 'You must make the decision' she said." She

clasped Kith-Kanan with frightening strength.

He tilted her face up to his and bent down to kiss her. Anaya was no

soft and timid elf maiden. The hard life of the wildwood had made her

tough and strong, but as they kissed, Kith-Kanan could feel the tremors

echoing through her body.

She broke the kiss. “I will not be a casual love," she vowed, and her

eyes bored into his. "If we are to be together, you must swear to be mine

always."

Kith-Kanan remembered how he had searched for her in his dreams,

how frightened and alone he'd felt when he couldn't find her. “Yes, Anaya.

Always. I wish I still had my starjewel, but Voltorno took it with my other

belongings. I wish I could give it to you." She did not understand, and he

explained the significance of the starjewel.

She nodded. "We have no jewels to give in the wildwood. We make

our most sacred vows in blood." She took his hand and knelt by the pool,

drawing him down beside her. Laying her palm against the sharp edge of

the rock, she pressed down hard. When she pulled her hand back, it was

bleeding. Kith-Kanan hesitated a moment, then he too cut his hand on the

hard, glassy rock. They joined hands once more, pressing the wounds

together. The blood of the Silvanesti House Royal flowed together with

that of the forest-born Kagonesti.

Anaya plunged their joined hands into the water. "By blood and

water, by soil and sky, by leaf and limb, I swear to love and keep you,

Kith, for as long as I walk, for as long as I breathe."

“By Astarin and E’li, I swear to love and keep you, Anaya, for all my

life." Kith-Kanan felt light-headed, as if a great weight had been taken

from him. Perhaps it was the weight of his anger, laid across his shoulders

when he'd left Silvanost in a rage.

Anaya drew their hands out of the water, and the cuts were healed.

While he marveled at this, she said, "Come."

Together they moved to the rear of the cave, away from the pool.

There, the glassy stone walls ended. In their place was a solid wall of tree

roots, great twining masses of them. A sunken place in the floor,

oval-shaped, was lined with soft furs.

Slowly, very slowly, she sank into the furs, looking up at him with

eyes full of love. Kith-Kanan felt his heart beat faster as he sat beside his

love and took her hands into his. Raising them to his lips, he whispered, “I

didn't know."

“What?"

“I didn't know that this is what love truly feels like." He smiled and

leaned closer to her. Her breath was warm in his face. "And," he added

gently, “ didn't know that you were anything but a wild maiden, one who

liked to live in the woods."

"That's exactly what I am," said Anaya.

* * * * *

She and Kith-Kanan talked of many things in the night and day they

spent in the secret cave. He told her of Hermathya and of Sithas, and he

felt his heart lighten as he confessed all. The anger and frustration were

gone as if they'd never existed. The youthful passion he'd felt for

Hermathya was completely unlike the deep love he now felt for Anaya. He

knew there were those in Silvanost who would not understand his love for

a Kagonesti. Even his own family would be shocked, he was sure.

But he didn’t dwell on that. He filled his mind with only good

thoughts, happy thoughts.

One thing Kith-Kanan insisted upon, and to which Anaya eventually

agreed, was that she tell Mackeli of his true origins. When they left the

cave and returned to the oak tree, they found the boy sitting on a low

branch, eating his evening meal.

When he saw the couple, he jumped from the branch and landed

lightly in front of them. He took in their happy faces and the fact that they

walked hand-in-hand, and demanded, "Are you two finally friends?"

Anaya and Kith-Kanan looked at each other, and a rare thing

happened. Anaya smiled. "We are much more than friends," she said

sweetly.

The three of them sat down with their backs to the broad oak's trunk.

As Anaya told Mackeli the truth about his past, the sun dodged in and out

of the clouds and red autumn leaves fell around them.

"I'm not your brother?" Mackeli asked when she had finished.

"You are my brother," Anaya replied firmly, "but we are not of the

same blood."

"And if I was taken from my parents," he went on slowly, "who were

you taken from, Ny?”

"I don't know, and I never shall. Camirene took me from my mother

and father, just as I took you." She looked to the ground, embarrassed. "I

needed a girl child to be the next Keeper of the Forest. I moved so hastily,

I didn't take time to notice that you were a boy."

Kith-Kanan put an arm on Mackeli's shoulder. "You won't be too

angry?"

Mackeli stood up and walked slowly away from them. His

ever-present hood slipped down, revealing his white, Silvanesti hair. "It's

all so strange," he said, confused. "I've never known any other life than the

one I've had in the wildwood.” He looked at Anaya. "I guess I'm not

angry. I'm ... stunned. I wonder what I would have been if I  if Anaya  "

"A farmer," said Anaya. 'Your parents were farmers. They grew

vegetables.”

She went on to explain that once she realized she'd taken a boy-child

instead of a girl, she tried to return the infant Mackeli to his parents, but

their house was abandoned when she went back. So she had raised

Mackeli as her brother.

Mackeli still seemed dazed by the tale of his abduction, Finally he

asked, rather hesitantly, “Will you have to find a girl to raise to be keeper

after you?"

Anaya looked beyond him to Kith-Kanan. "No. This time the Keeper

of the Forest will give birth to her successor." Kith-Kanan held out a hand

to her. When she took it, Mackeli quietly clasped his small hands around

both of theirs.

15

Three Moons’ Day, Year of the Hawk

The ambassador from Thorbardin arrived in Silvanost on Three-Moons'

Day, midway between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. The

dwarf’s name was Durtbarth, but he was called Ironthumb by most who

knew him. In his youth he had been a champion wrestler. Now, in old age,

he was esteemed as the most level-headed of all the counselors to the king

of Thorbardin.

Dunbarth traveled with a small entourage: his secretary, four scribes,

four dispatch riders, a crate of carrier pigeons, and sixteen warrior

dwarves as his personal guard. The ambassador rode in a tall, closed coach

made entirely of metal. Even though the brass, iron, and bronze panels

were hammered quite thin, with all the skill characteristic of the dwarven

race, the coach was still enormously heavy. A team of eight horses drew

the conveyance, which held not only Dunbarth, but his staff. The warrior

escort rode sturdy, short-legged horses, not swift but blessed with

phenomenal endurance. The dwarven party was met on the western bank

of the Thon-Thalas by Sithas and an honor guard of twelve warriors.

"Good morrow to you, Lord Dunbarth!" Sithas said heartily. The

ambassador stood on one of the steps hanging below the coach door. From

there he was high enough to clasp arms with Sithas without the

embarrassment of making the far taller elf bend over.

"Life and health to you, speaker's son,” Dunbarth rumbled. His

leggings and tunic were brown cloth and leather, but he sported a short

purple cape and broad-brimmed light brown hat. A short feather plumed

out from his hatband and matched in color the wide, bright blue belt at his

waist. His attire offered a striking contrast to the elegant simplicity of

Sithas's robe and sandals.

The prince smiled. "We have arranged ferries for your company."

With a sweep of his hand he indicated the two large barges moored at the

river's edge.

“Will you ride with me, son of Sithel?" asked Dunbarth importantly.

"I would be honored.”

The dwarf climbed back into his coach, then Sithas grasped the

handrail and stepped up into the metal wagon. The top was high enough

for him to stand erect in. Nevertheless, Dunbarth ordered his secretary, a

swarthy young dwarf, to surrender his seat to Sithas. The elf prince sat.

The escort filed in behind the coach, pennants whipping from the tips of

their gilded pikes.

"A remarkable thing, this coach," Sithas said politely. "Is it made

entirely of metal?"

"Indeed, noble prince. Not one speck of wood or cloth in the whole

contraption!"

Sithas felt the silver curtains that hung in front of the side windows.

The dwarves had woven them of metal so fine it felt like cloth.

“Why build it so?" he asked. “Wouldn't wood be lighter?"

Dunbarth folded his hands across his broad, round belly. "It would

indeed, but this is an official coach for Thorbardin ambassadors traveling

abroad, so it was made to show off the skills of my people in

metal-working," he replied proudly.

With much shouting and cracking of whips, the ponderous coach

rolled onto a barge. The team of horses was cut loose and brought

alongside it. Finally, the coach and the warrior escorts were distributed on

board.

Dunbarth leaned forward to the coach window. “I would like to see

the elves who are going to row this ferry!"

“We have no need for such crude methods," Sithas said smoothly.

"But watch, if it pleases your lordship."

Dunbarth leaned his elbow on the window edge and looked out over

the starboard side of the barge. The ferry master, an elf long in years with

yellow hair and mahogany skin, mounted the wooden bulwark and put a

brass trumpet to his lips. A long, single note blurted out, sliding down the

scale.

In the center of the river, a round green hump broke the surface for an

instant, then disappeared again. Large ripples spread out from that

point  large enough that when they reached the riverbank they all but

swamped a string of canoes tied to the stone pier. The great barge rocked

only slightly in the swell.

Again the green hump broke the surface, and this time it rose. The

hump became a dome, green and glistening, made up of a hundred angular

plates. In front of the dome, the brow of a massive, green head appeared.

A large, orange eye with a vertical black pupil the size of a full-grown

dwarf appraised the stationary barge. At the tip of the triangular head, two

nostrils as big as barrels spewed mist into the air.

"It's a monster!” Dunbarth cried. "By Reorx!” His hand went to his

waist, reaching for a sword he'd forgotten he did not wear.

"No, my lord," Sithas said soothingly. "A monster it may be, but a

tame one. It is our tow to the far shore.”

The dwarven warriors on the barge fingered their heavy axes and

muttered to each other. The giant turtle, bred by the elves for just this job,

swam to the blunt bow of the ferry and waited patiently as the ferry master

and two helpers walked across its huge shell to attach lines to a stout brass

chain that encircled the monster's shell. One of the turtle's hind legs

bumped the barge, knocking the feet out from under the nervous warrior

dwarves. The coach creaked backward an inch or two on its iron axles.

“What a brute!" Dunbarth exclaimed, fascinated. "Do such monsters

roam freely in the river, Prince Sithas?"

"No, my lord. At the command of my grandfather, Speaker Silvanos,

the priests of the Blue Phoenix used their magic to breed a race of giant

turtles to serve as beasts of burden on the river. They are enormously

strong, of course, and quite longlived." Sithas sat back imperiously in his

springy metal seat.

The ferry master blew his horn again, and the great reptile swung

toward the shore of Fallan Island, a mile away. The slack went out of the

tow line, and the barge lurched into motion. Sithas heard a loud clatter and

knew that the warriors had been thrown off their feet again. He suppressed

a smile. "Have you ever been to Silvanost before, Lord Dunbarth?" he

asked deferentially.

“No, I've not had the pleasure. My uncle, Dundevin Stonefoot, did

come to the city once on behalf of our king.”

"I remember," Sithas mused. “I was but a boy.” It had been fifty years

before.

The ferry pitched up and down as they crossed the midpoint of the

river. A freshening wind blew the barge sideways, but the turtle paid no

attention, paddling steadily on its familiar course. The barge, loaded with

tons of coach, dwarves, Dunbarth, Sithas, and the prince's small honor

guard, bobbed on its lines like a cork.

Gray clouds scudded before the scouring wind, hurrying off to the

north. Sithas watched them warily, for winter was usually the time of

storms in Silvanost. Vast cyclones, often lasting for days, sometimes

boiled up out of the Courrain Ocean and lashed across Silvanesti. Wind

and rain would drive everyone indoors and the sun would appear only

once in two or three weeks. While the countryside suffered during these

winter storms, the city was protected by spells woven by the clerics of

E’li. Their spells deflected most of the natural fury away to the western

mountains, but casting them for each new storm was a severe trial for the

priests.

Dunbarth took the bumpy ride in good stride, as befits an ambassador,

but his young secretary was not at all happy. He clutched his recording

book to his chest and his face went from swarthy to pale to light green as

the barge rocked.

"Drollo here hates water," Dunbarth explained with an amused glint

in his eye. "He closes his eyes to take a bath!"

"My lord!" protested the secretary.

“Never fear, Master Drollo,” Sithas said. "It would take far worse

wind than this to upset a craft of this size."

The ferry master tooted another command on his horn, and the turtle

swung the barge around. Lord Dunbarth's guard rattled from one bulwark

to the other, and the horse team whinnied and shifted nervously as the

deck moved beneath them. The mighty turtle butted his shell against the

bow of the ferry and pushed it backward toward the dock. Elves on the

dock guided the barge in with long poles. With a short, solid bump, the

ferry was docked.

A ramp was lowered into the barge, and the dwarven guard mustered

together to march ashore. They were much disheveled by the bumpy

crossing. Plumes were broken off their helmets, capes were stained from

the guards' falls into the scupper, armor was scuffed, but with

commendable dignity, the sixteen dwarves shouldered their battle-axes

and marched up the ramp to dry land. The horses were re-hitched to the

coach and, as whips cracked, they hauled the coach up the ramp.

It began to rain as they rolled through the streets. Dunbarth peered

through the curtains at the fabled capital of the elves. White towers

gleamed, even under the lowering sky. The peaks of the tallest  the

Tower of the Stars and the Quinari Palace  were clothed in murky clouds.

Dunbarth, his face as open with wonder as a child's, admired the intricate

spell-formed gardens, the graceful architecture, the almost musical

harmony embodied by Silvanost’s sights. Finally, he drew the curtains

tight to keep out the gusting rain, then turned his attention to Sithas.

"I know you are heir to the Speaker of the Stars, but how is it you

have the task of greeting me, noble Sithas?" he asked diplomatically. "Isn't

it more usual for the younger son to receive foreign ambassadors?"

"There is no younger son in Silvanost," Sithas replied calmly.

Dunbarth smoothed his iron-gray beard. "Forgive me, Prince, but I

was told the speaker had two sons."

Sithas adjusted the folds of his rain-spattered robes. “I have a twin

brother, several minutes younger than I. His name is Kith-Kanan." Saying

the name aloud was strange for Sithas. Though his twin was seldom far

from his thoughts, it had been a very long time since the prince had had

reason to speak his name. He said it silently to himself: Kith-Kanan.

"Twins are most uncommon among the elven race," Dunbarth was

saying. With effort, Sithas focused on the conversation at hand. "Whereas,

among humans, they are not at all uncommon." Dunbarth lowered his

gaze. “Where is your brother, speaker's son?" he asked solemnly.

"He is in disgrace.” Dunbarth's face registered only polite attention.

Sithas inhaled deeply. "Do you know humans well?" he asked, eager to

change the subject.

"I have made a number of journeys as emissary to the court of Ergoth.

We’ve had many disputes with the humans over exchange rates of raw

iron, copper, tin … but that's ancient history.” Dunbarth leaned forward,

close to Sithas. "It is a wise person who listens twice to everything a

human says,” he said softly. "Their duplicity knows no bounds!”

"I shall keep that in mind," Sithas responded.

By the time the coach arrived at the palace, the storm had

strengthened. There was no flashing lightning or crashing thunder, but a

swirling, howling wind drove buckets of rain through the city. The coach

pulled up close to the north portico of the palace, where there was some

shelter from the wind and rain. There, an army of servants stood poised in

the downpour, ready to assist the ambassador with his luggage. Lord

Dunbarth stepped heavily down from his conveyance, his short purple

cape lashing in the wind. He doffed his extravagant hat to the assembled

servants.

“My lord, I think we should dispense with the amenities for now,"

Sithas shouted over the wind. “Our rainy season seems to have come early

this year."

"As you wish, noble prince," Dunbarth bellowed.

Stankathan waited inside for the dwarven ambassador and Sithas. He

bowed low to them and said, "Excellent lord, if you will follow me, I will

show you to your quarters.”

"l.ead on,” said Dunbarth grandly. Behind him, the drenched Drollo

let out a sneeze.

The ground floor of the north wing housed many of the pieces of art

that Lady Nirakina had collected. The delicate and lifelike statues of

Morvintas, the vividly colored tapestries of the Women of E’li, the

spell-molded plants of the priest Jin Fahrus  all these lent the north wing

an air of otherworldly beauty. As the dwarves passed through, servants

discreetly mopped the marble floor behind them, blotting away all the mud

and rainwater that had been tracked in.

Dunbarth and his entourage were lodged on the third floor of the

north wing. The airy suite, with its curtains of gauze and mosaic tile floor

in shades of gold and sea-green, was quite unlike any place in the dwarven

realm of Thorbardin. The ambassador stopped to stare at a two-foot-long

wooden model of a dove poised over his bed. When Drollo set Dunbarth's

bags on the bed, the cloth-covered wings of the dove began to beat slowly,

wafting a gentle breeze over the bed.

"By Reorx!" exclaimed the secretary. Dunbarth exploded with

laughter.

"A minor spell," Stankathan explained hurriedly. "Activated when

anything or anyone rests on the bed. If it bothers your lordship, I shall

have it stopped.”

"No, no. That's quite all right,” Dunbarth said merrily.

"If you require anything, my lord, simply ring the bell," said

Stankathan.

The elves withdrew. In the hallway beyond Dunbarth’s closed door,

Stankathan asked when the human delegation was expected.

"At any time," answered Sithas. "Keep the staff alert."

The major-domo bowed. "As you command, sire."

* * * * *

Lord Dunbarth dined that night with the Speaker of the Stars in a

quiet, informal dinner that included only the closest confidantes of both

sides. They talked for a long time about nothing of importance, taking the

measure of each other. Lady Nirakina, in particular, seemed to find the

elderly dwarf engaging.

"Are you married, my lord?" she asked at one point.

"No; Lady, never again!" Dunbarth boomed. He shrugged. "I am a

widower."

"I am sorry.”

"She was a good wife, my Brenthia, but a real terror at times." He

drained a full cup of elven nectar. Smoothly, a servant stepped forward to

refill his goblet.

"A terror, my lord?" asked Hermathya, intrigued.

"Quite so, Lady. I remember once she burst into the Council of

Thanes and dressed me down for being late for supper five nights in a row.

It took years for me to live that down, don't you know. The Daewar

faction used to taunt me, when I was speaking in the council, by saying,

'Go home, Ironthumb, go home. Your dinner is ready.' " He laughed

loudly, his deep bass voice echoing in the nearly empty Hall of Balif.

“Who are these Daewar?" asked Hermathya. “They sound rude.”

“The Daewar are one of the great clans of the dwarven race," Sithel

explained smoothly. He prided himself on his knowledge of dwarves and

their politics. “You are yourself of the Hylar clan, are you not, Lord

Dunbarth?”

The ambassador's blue eyes twinkled with happy cunning. "Your

Highness is most knowledgeable. Yes, I am Hylar, and cousin to many

kings of Thorbardin." He slapped a blunt hand on the back of his

secretary, who was seated on his right. "Now, Drollo here, is

half-Theiwar, which accounts for his dark looks and strange

temperament." Drollo looked studiously at his plate and said nothing.

“Is it usual for dwarves to marry outside their class?” asked Sithas

curiously.

"Not really. Speaking of such things," Dunbarth said languorously, "I

hear tales that some elves have married humans.”

A sharp silence fell in the hall. Sithel leaned back in his tall chair and

put a finger to his lips. "It is unfortunately true," said the speaker tersely.

"In the wilds of our western provinces, some of the Kagonesti have taken

humans as mates. No doubt there is a shortage of suitable elven spouses.

The practice is pernicious and forbidden by our law.”

Dunbarth bowed his head, not in agreement, but in recognition of

Sithel's admirable powers of restraint. The mixed-race issue was a very

sensitive one, as the dwarf well knew. His own people were race-proud

too, and no dwarf had ever been known to intermarry with another race.

"I met many half-humans among the refugees who lately came to our

city for shelter from bandits," Lady Nirakina said gently. "They were such

sad folk, and many were quite presentable. It seems wrong to me to blame

them for the follies of their parents."

"Their existence is not something we can encourage," Sithel

countered with noticeable vigor. "As you say, they are known to be

melancholy, and that makes them dangerous. They often figure in acts of

violence and crime. They hate the Silvanesti because we are pure in blood,

while they languish with human clumsiness and frailty. I suppose you in

Thorbardin have heard of the riot we had in late summer?"

"There were mutterings of such an event,” said Dunbarth casually.

"It was all due to the violent natures of some humans and half-humans

we had unwisely allowed on the island. The riot was quelled, and the

troublemakers driven away." Nirakina sighed noticeably. Sithel ignored

his wife as he continued to make his point. "There can never be peace

between Silvanesti and human, unless we keep to our own borders  and

our own beds."

Dunbarth rubbed his red, bulbous nose. He had a heavy ring on each

of his fingers, and they glittered in the candlelight. "Is that what you will

tell the emissary from Ergoth?”

“It is,” Sithel said vehemently.

"Your wisdom is great, Sithel Twice-Blest. My king has given me

almost exactly the same words to speak. If we present a united front to the

humans, they will have to accede to our demands."

The dinner ended quickly. Toasts were made to the health of the king

of Thorbardin and to the hospitality of the Speaker of the Stars. That done,

Lord Dunbarth and Drollo withdrew.

Sithas strode to the door after it closed behind the ambassador. "That

old fox! He was trying to make an alliance with you before the humans

even arrive! He wants to promote a conspiracy!"

Sithel dipped his hand in a silver bowl of rosewater held by a servant.

"My son, Dunbarth is a master of his craft. He was testing our eagerness to

compromise. Had he behaved otherwise, I would have thought King

Voldrin a fool to have sent him.”

"This all seems very confusing to me," complained Lady Nirakina.

“Why don't you all speak the truth and work from there!"

Sithel did a rare thing. He burst out laughing. "Diplomats tell the

truth! My dear Kina, the stars would fall from heaven and the gods would

faint with horror if diplomats started speaking the truth!"

* * * * *

Later that night came a knock on Sithas's door. A storm-drenched

warrior strode in, bowed, and said in a ringing voice, "Forgive this

intrusion, Highness, but I bring word of the emissary from Ergoth!"

"Yes?" said Sithas tensely. There was so much talk of treachery, he

feared foul play had befallen the humans.

“Highness, the ambassador and his party are waiting on the bank of

the river. The ambassador demands that he be met by a representative of

the royal house.”

"Who is this human?” Sithas asked.

"He gave his name as Ulwen, first praetor of the emperor of Ergoth,”

replied the soldier.

“First praetor, eh? Is the storm worse?” Sithas questioned.

"It is bad, Highness. My boat nearly sank crossing the Thon-Thalas."

"And yet this Ulwen insists on crossing immediately?"

The soldier said yes. "You will pardon me, sire, for saying so, but he

is very arrogant, even for a human.”

"I shall go," Sithas said simply. "It is my duty. Lord Dunbarth was

met by me, and it is only just that I greet Praetor Ulwen likewise."

The prince left with the soldier, but not before sending word to the

clerics of E’li, to ask them to begin working their spells to deflect the

storm. It was unusual for so strong a storm to come before the winter

season. The conference promised to be difficult enough without the added

threat of wind and water.

16

While the Storm Raged

How wonderful this time is, Kith-Kanan thought. Not only did he

have his growing love for Anaya, which was sweeter than anything he'd

ever known, but his friendship with Mackeli, as well. They had become a

family  Anaya, his wife, and Mackeli, like a son.

It was not an easy life, by any means. There was always work to be

done, but there was time to laugh too, to swim in the pool, to take short

flying excursions on Arcuballis, to tell stories around the fire at night.

Kith-Kanan had began to understand the Silvanesti who had left Silvanost

to start new lives in the wilderness. T'he days ran their own course in the

forest. There were no calendars and no clocks. There was no social

hierarchy either; there were no rich and no poor. You hunted for yourself,

provided for your own needs. And no one stood between an elf and the

gods. As he looked over a forest glade, or knelt by a brook, Kith-Kanan

felt closer to the gods than he ever had in the cold, marble precincts of

Silvanost's temples.

No priests, no taxes, no protocol. For a long time, Kith-Kanan had

believed that his life had ended the day he'd left Silvanost. Now he knew it

had been a new beginning.

As the weeks went by, hunting grew poorer and poorer. Anaya went

out, sometimes for two or three days at a time, and returned only with a

brace of rabbits, squirrels, or other small game. At one point she had been

reduced to catching pigeons, a poor return for her days in the woods.

Nothing like this had ever happened before, according to Mackeli.

Usually, Anaya went out and set a snare or trap and a likely prize would

practically fall into it. Now, the animals were nowhere to be seen. In hopes

of adding to the meager hunting, Kith-Kanan worked harder to develop his

woodland skills. He hunted frequently, but had yet to bring anything back.

This day a lone hart moved slowly through the forest, its small hooves

sinking deep into drifts of fallen leaves. Its black nose twitched as the

wind brought smells from far away.

Kith-Kanan, wedged ten feet off the ground into the fork of a linden

tree, was motionless. He willed the deer not to smell him, not to see him.

Then, as slowly as possible, the prince drew his bow and swiftly let fly.

His aim was true. The hart leaped away, but only for a few yards before it

collapsed into the leaves.

Kith-Kanan let out a yell of triumph. Eight months in the wildwood,

and this was his first hunting success. He skittered down the tree and ran

to the fallen deer. Yes! The arrow had hit the beast right in the heart.

He dressed the carcass. As he slung it over his shoulder, Kith-Kanan

realized that he couldn't stop grinning. Wouldn't Anaya be surprised?

The air was chill, and under his burden Kith-Kanan panted, sending

little puffs of vapor from his nostrils and mouth. He walked quickly,

making a lot of noise, but it didn't matter now. He had made a kill! He'd

been walking for some time when the first flakes of snow began to fall. A

sort of steady hiss pervaded the forest as the light flakes filtered down

through the bare tree limbs. It wasn't a heavy fall, but as the prince's trek

continued, the brown leaves on the forest floor gradually acquired a thin

frosting of white.

He climbed the hill to the clearing, meeting Mackeli on the way.

"Look what I have!" Kith-Kanan exclaimed. “Fresh meat!"

"Congratulations, Kith. You've worked hard to get it," the boy said,

but a frown creased his forehead.

“What's the matter?"

Mackeli looked at him and blinked. "It's snowing."

Kith-Kanan shifted the weight of the carcass to a more comfortable

position. “What's wrong with that? It is winter, after all.”

"You don't understand," said the boy. He took Kith-Kanan’s quiver

and bow, and together they proceeded up the hill. "It never snows in our

clearing." They gained the crest of the hill. The clearing was already

lightly dusted with snow.

With a stone axe, Kith-Kanan removed the rib section and gave it to

Arcuballis. The griffon had been brought to the hollow oak, and a roof of

hides had been stretched from the overhead limbs to keep the rain off the

mount. The noble eagle head of Arcuballis protruded from the crude

shelter. The beast repeatedly ruffled its neck feathers and shook its head,

trying to shake off the snowflakes. Kith-Kanan dropped the meat at the

griffon’s feet.

“This is no weather for you, eh boy?” he said, scratching the animal’s

neck through its thick feathers. Arcuballis made hoarse grunting sounds

and lowered its head to its meal.

Kith-Kanan left his dagger and sword in a covered basket inside

Arcuballis’s shelter. Brushing the snow off his shoulders, he ducked into

the tree. It was snug and warm inside, but very close. A small fire burned

on the hearth. As the prince sat crosslegged by the fire and warmed his

hands, Mackeli scuttled about in the stores of nuts and dried fruit

overhead.

After a short time, the bark-covered door swung open. Anaya stood in

the doorway.

"Hello!” Kith-Kanan cried cheerfully. “Come in out of the cold. I had

good hunting today!”

Anaya pulled the door closed behind her. When autumn arrived, she

had changed from her green-dyed buckskins to natural brown ones. Now,

coated with snow, she looked small and cold and unhappy. Kith-Kanan

went to her and pushed back the hood from her head. "Are you all right?"

he asked quietly, searching for an answer in her eyes.

"It's snowing in my clearing,” she said flatly.

“Mackeli said that this is unusual. Still, remember that the weather

follows its own laws, Anaya." Kith-Kanan tried to soothe the hopeless

look on her face; after all, it was only a little snow. “We'll be fine. Did you

see the deer I took?” He'd hung the quarters of meat outside to cool.

"I saw it," she said. Anaya’s eyes were dull and lifeless. She pulled

free of Kith-Kanan's arms and unlaced her rawhide jacket. Still standing

by the door, she looked at him. "You did well. I didn't even see a deer,

much less take one. Something is wrong. The animals no longer come as

they used to. And now snow in the clearing . . .”

The keeper threw her jacket on the floor and looked up at the chimney

hole. Dry, cold flakes fell in, vanishing in the column of rising smoke

before they reached the fire. "I must go to the cave and commune with the

forest. The Forestmaster may know what has happened," she said, then

sighed. "But I am so tired now. Tomorrow. I will go tomorrow ."

Kith-Kanan sat by the fire and pulled Anaya gently down beside him.

When she put her head in his lap and closed her eyes, the prince leaned

back against the side of the tree, intending to keep an eye on the fire. He

continued to stroke Anaya's face. In spite of her distress over the snow,

Kith-Kanan couldn't believe that anything was really wrong. He had seen

snow in the streets of Silvanost after many years of none. As he'd said, the

weather followed its own laws. Kith-Kanan's eyes closed, and he dozed.

The fire shrank in its circle of stones, and the first flakes of snow reached

the floor of the tree, collecting on Anaya's eyelashes.

Kith-Kanan awoke with the slow realization that he was cold. He tried

to move and discovered he was buried under two bodies  Anaya on his

left and Mackeli on his right. Though asleep, the need for warmth had

drawn them together. Furs were piled up around them, and as Kith-Kanan

opened his eyes, he saw that more than half a foot of snow had collected in

the tree. The snowfall had extinguished the coals of the fire and drifted

around the sleeping trio.

“Wake up," he said thickly. When neither Anaya nor Mackeli moved,

Kith-Kanan patted his wife's cheek. She exhaled sharply and turned over,

putting her back to him. He tried to rouse Mackeli, but the boy only started

to snore.

"By Astarin," he muttered. The cold had obviously numbed their

senses. He must build a fire.

Kith-Kanan heaved himself up, pushing aside the inch of snow that

had fallen across his lower legs. His breath made a long stream of fog.

There was dry kindling in one of the wattle baskets, against the wall and

out of the way of the falling snow. He dug the snow out of the hearth with

his bare hands and laid a stand of twigs and bark shavings on the cold

stones. With a flint and strike stone, he soon had a smoldering pile of

tinder. Kith-Karen fanned it with his breath, and soon a crackling fire was

burning.

It had stopped snowing, but the bit of sky he could glimpse through

the chimney hole was gray and threatening. Reluctantly the prince eased

the door open, even against the resistance from the two feet of snow that

had drifted against the tree.

The clearing had been transformed. Where formerly the forest had

been wrought in green and brown, now it was gray and white. An

unbroken carpet of snow stretched across the clearing. All the

imperfections of the ground were lost under the blanket of white.

A snuffling sound caught his ear. Kith-Kanan walked around the

broad tree trunk and saw Arcuballis huddled under its flimsy shelter,

looking miserable.

“Not like your warm stall in Silvanost, is it, old friend?" Kith-Kanan

said. He untied the griffon’s halter and led it out a few yards from the tree.

"Fly, boy. Warm yourself and come back.” Arcuballis made a few

faltering steps forward. "Go on. It's all right.”

The griffon spread its wings and took to the air. It circled the clearing

three times, then vanished upward into the low gray clouds.

Kith-Kanan examined the venison haunches he'd hung up the day

before. They were frozen solid. He untied one and braced it on his

shoulder.

Back inside the tree, it was already much warmer, thanks to the fire.

Anaya and Mackeli were nestled together like spoons in a drawer.

Kith-Kanan smiled at them and knelt to saw two cutlets from the venison

haunch. It was hard going, but soon he had whittled the steaks out and had

them roasting on a spit over the fire.

"Mmm.” Anaya yawned. Eyes still closed, she asked, "Do I smell

venison roasting?"

Kith-Kanan smiled again. "You certainly do, wife. I am making our

dinner."

She stretched long and hard. "It smells wonderful.” She yawned

again. "I'm so tired."

"You just lie there and rest," he replied. "I'll provide for us this time.”

The prince gave his attention to the venison cutlets. He turned them

carefully, making sure they were cooked all the way through. When they

were done, he took one, still on its stick, and knelt by Anaya. "Dinner is

served, my lady," he said and touched her shoulder.

Anaya smiled and her eyelids fluttered open. She raised her head and

looked at him.

Kith-Kanan cried out in surprise and dropped the steak onto the wet

ground.

Anaya's dark hazel. eyes had changed color. They had become.

vividly green, like two shining emeralds.

17

Quartered with a Gentleman

Rain, driven sideways by the wind, tore at the elves who stood on the

stone pier at the river's edge. The far bank of the Thon-Thalas could not be

seen at all, and the river itself was wild with storm-tossed waves. Through

this chaos wallowed the great barge, drawn as before by a giant turtle.

The more Sithas saw of the growing storm, the more he was

convinced it was not natural. His suspicion fell upon the waiting humans

from Ergoth. Their emperor was known to have a corps of powerful

magicians in his service. Was this premature, violent storm the result of

some dire human magic?

"Surely, Highness, you should not risk this crossing!" warned the

commander of the escort standing with Sithas.

The prince held his sodden cloak closed at his throat. “The

ambassador from Ergoth is waiting, Captain," he replied. The turtle turned

end-on to the storm waves, which crashed in green torrents over its

high-domed shell. "It is important that we show these humans we are

masters of our own fate,” Sithas continued levelly. "Praetor Ulwen does

not expect us to venture out in the storm to meet him. If we don't, when

the storm ends he can rail long and loud about the timidity of elves."

Sithas blotted water off his face with his wet cloak. "I will not cede that

advantage to the humans, Captain.”

The dark-haired Kagonesti did not look convinced.

The barge was close now. The thick wooden hull squeezed a swell of

water between itself and the shore. This swell, some ten feet high, fell over

Sithas and his escort, drenching them further. The guards cursed and

muttered, shuffling about the pier. Sithas stood imperturbable, his pale

hair running in rivulets down the back of his emerald cloak.

The ferry master shouted from the deck, "I can't moor in this swell,

Highness!”

Sithas looked to the captain. "Follow me," he advised. Turning back

the flaps of his cloak, Sithas gathered up the lower edge, so as not to

entangle his legs. With a running start, he leaped the gap between the pier

end and the heaving barge. The prince hit, rolled, and got to his feet again.

The soldiers gaped in amazement.

"Come on! Are you fighters or farmers?" Sithas called.

The captain squared his shoulders. If the heir to the throne was going

to kill himself, then he would die, too. Once the captain was across, he and

Sithas stationed themselves to grab the hurtling warriors as they, too,

landed on the barge.

The ferry's deck rose and fell like the chest of a breathing beast. When

everyone was safely aboard, the ferry master blew his trumpet. The

implacable mammoth turtle paddled away from shore.

Rain swirled and lashed at them. The scuppers ran full, and all sorts of

loose debris sloshed back and forth on the ferry's deck. The ferocious

pounding near the shore lessened as the raft gained the deeper water in the

center of the river. Here the danger was from the churning current, as the

wind drove the surface water against the natural flow of the river. The

thick chains that secured the barge to the towing turtle snapped hard, first

the port, then to starboard. The giant reptile rolled with these blows, which

sometimes lifted one of its thick green flippers out of the water. As if

resenting this challenge to its strength, the turtle put its head down and

pulled even harder for the western bank.

The captain of the escort struggled forward to report to Sithas. "Sire,

there's a lot of water coming into the boat. Waves are breaking over the

sides." Unperturbed, the-prince asked the ferry master what they should

do.

“Bail,” was all he had to say.

The soldiers got on their knees and scooped water in their helmets. A

chain was formed, each elf passing a full helmet to the leeward side and

handing an empty helmet back to the first fellow bailing.

"There’s the shore!” sang out the ferry master. When Sithas squinted

into the rain, he could make out a gray smudge ahead. Slowly the

shoreline grew more distinct. On the slight hill overlooking the boat

landing stood a large tent. A flag whipped from the center peak of the tent.

Sithas spat rainwater and again clutched his cloak tightly at his throat.

In spite of their request to be met and conducted into the city here the

humans sat, encamped for the night. Already they were leading the

speaker's son around by the nose. Such arrogance made Sithas's blood

burn. Still, there was nothing to be gained by storming into the

ambassador’s tent in a blind rage.

He stared at the swimming turtle and then farther ahead at the gently

sloping riverbank. With a firm nod to himself, Sithas teetered across the

pitching deck to where the soldiers still knelt, bailing out water with their

helmets. He told them to hold fast when the barge reached the shore and to

be prepared for a surprise. When Sithas informed the ferry master of his

idea, that tired, storm-lashed fellow grinned.

“We'll do it, sire!" he said and put his trumpet to his lips. On his first

attempt, instead of a blaring call, water spurted out. Cursing, he rapped the

trumpet's bell on the bulwark and tried again. The command note cut

through the noise of the storm. The turtle swung right, pulling the barge to

one side of the pier ahead. The trumpet sounded again, and the turtle

raised its great green head. Its dull orange eyes blinked rapidly, to keep the

rain out.

There were a half-dozen caped figures on the dock, waiting. Sithas

assumed they were the Ergothian ambassador's unfortunate guards,

ordered to wait in the rain should the elves deign to show up. When the

barge turned aside, they filed off the dock and tried to get in front of the

approaching ferry. The turtle's belly scraped in the mud, and its shell

humped out of the water a full twenty feet high. The humans scattered

before the awesome onslaught of the turtle. The elf warriors on deck let

out a cheer.

The ferry master blew a long rattling passage on his horn, and the

turtle dug its massive flippers into the riverside mud. The bank was wide

and the angle shallow, so the great beast had no problem heaving itself out

of the water. The driving rain rapidly cleansed it of clinging mud, and the

turtle crawled up the slope.

The bow of the barge hit bottom, and everyone on board was thrown

to the deck. The ferry master bounced to his feet and repeated the surging

trumpet signal. All four of the turtle's flippers were out of the water now,

and it continued up the hill. As Sithas got to his feet, he resisted an urge to

laugh triumphantly. He looked down at the human guards, who were

running from the sight of the turtle.

"Stand fast!" he shouted decisively. “I am Prince Sithas of the

Silvanesti! I have come to greet your ambassador!" Some of the

gray-caped figures halted. Others continued to run. One human, who wore

an officer's plume on his tall, conical helmet, tentatively approached the

beached barge.

“I am Endrac, commander of the ambassador's escort. The

ambassador has retired for the night," he shouted up at Sithas.

“Then go and wake him! The storm may last another day, so this is

your master's best chance to reach the city without suffering an avoidable,

but major delay.”

Endrac threw up his hands and proceeded up the hill. He was not

much faster than the turtle, weighed down as he was by armor. The giant

turtle ground its way up, inexorable, dragging the barge behind it. The

warriors were plainly impressed by the feat, for the barge obviously

weighed many tons.

Torches blossomed on the top of the hill, all around the elaborate tent

of the Ergothian ambassador. Sithas was gratified to see all the frantic

activity. He turned to the ferry master and told him to urge the beast along.

The elf put the trumpet to his lips once more and sounded the call.

They were quite a sight, rumbling up the hill. The turtle's flippers,

each larger than four elves, dug into the soft ground and threw back gouts

of mud against the hull of the barge. The chains that shackled the beast to

the boat rattled and clanked rhythmically. The giant grunted deep in its

chest as the effort began to tell on it.

The ground flattened out, so the ferry master signaled for the turtle to

slow down. The barge tilted forward on its flat bottom, jarring the elven

warriors. They laughed and goodnaturedly urged the ferry master to speed

up again.

The ambassador's tent was only a few yards away now. A cordon of

human soldiers formed around it, capes flapping in the wind. They stood

at attention, spears against their shoulders. The turtle loomed over them.

Endrac appeared.

“You there, Endrac!" Sithas shouted. "You’d best disperse your

fighters. Our turtle hasn't eaten lately, and if you provoke him, he might

eat your men.”

Endrac complied, and his soldiers moved with grateful speed out of

the turtle's way.

"There now, ferry master, you'd better rein him in," cried Sithas. A

quick blast on the trumpet, and the turtle grunted to a stop.

A human in civilian dress appeared at the door of the tent. “What is

the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"I am Sithas, son of Sithel, Speaker of the Stars. Your ambassador

sent word he wished to be met. I have come. It will be a grave insult if the

ambassador does not see me."

The human drew his cape around himself in a quick, angry motion.

"A thousand pardons, noble prince," he said, vexed. “Wait but a moment. I

will speak to the ambassador."

The human went inside the tent.

Sithas put one foot on the port set of chains that ran from the ferry to

the halter encircling the turtle's shell. The links were as thick as the

prince's wrist. No one but an elf could have walked the fifteen feet along

the swaying length of chain in the rain, but Sithas did it easily. Once he

reached the turtle's back, he was able to move briskly over the shell to the

beast's head. The turtle, placid as all his kind were, paid no mind as the elf

prince stepped gingerly on its head.

The human appeared again. This close, Sithas could see he was a

mature man; his red-brown hair and full beard were sprinkled with gray.

He was richly dressed in the vulgar Ergothian style  which meant he was

clad in strong, dark colors, wine-red and black, with a golden torc at his

throat and a fur-lined cape.

“Well?" Sithas demanded from his lofty perch atop the turtle's head.

"The ambassador asks if you would care to come in out of the rain for

a short time, while preparations are made to go," said the human more

solicitously.

Using the deep creases in the skin of the creature’s neck as hand and

footholds, Sithas descended the twelve feet to the ground. Once down, he

glanced up at the turtle; a huge eye regarded him benignly.

The bearded human was tall for his race. His gray eyes were hard as

he bowed. "I amUlvissen, seneschal to Ulwen, praetor of the empire," he

said with dignity.

With a sweep of his arm, Ulvissen indicated Sithas should precede

him. The prince strode into the tent.

It was the size of a largish house. The first room Sithas entered

featured the imperial standard of Ergoth, a golden axe crossed with a

hammer, on a field of dark crimson. The second room was larger and far

mare elaborate. Thick carpets covered the ground. In the center of the

room, a fire burned on a portable blackiron hearth. Smoke was carried out

through a metal chimney, made of sections of bronze pipe jointed

together. Couches and chairs covered with purple velvet were scattered

around the room. A lap desk full of rolled maps lay open to Sithas’s left,

and a table laden with decanters of drink stood on his right. Glass-globed

oil lamps lit the room as bright as day. Wind howled outside, and rain

drummed on the varnished silk roof.

A flap across the room was pulled back, and four thick-armed

servants entered, carrying a chair supported by rods through its armrests.

Seated in the chair was an ancient human, far older than Ulvissen. His

bald head was hunched deep between his shoulders. His skin was the color

of egg yolks, and his rheumy eyes seemed to have no distinct color. Sithas

did not need to know much about human health to recognize that this was

a sick man.

The prince was about to speak to this venerable man when another

person entered, a female. She was altogether different from the frail figure

in the chair. Tall, clad in a deep red velvet gown, she had dark brown hair

that fell just past her shoulders. More voluptuous than any elven maiden,

the human woman appeared less than half the age of the man in the chair.

When she spoke, it was with a velvety voice. "Greetings, Prince

Sithas. On behalf of my husband, Praetor Ulwen, I greet you." She rested

her hands on the back of the old man's chair. "My name is Teralind

denCaer," she added.

Sithas bowed his head slightly. "In the name of my father, Speaker of

the Stars, I greet you, Praetor Ulwen, and Lady Teralind," he said

respectfully.

She came out from behind the chair and went to the table where the

decanters were. Teralind poured a pale white liquid into a tall glass goblet.

“We did not expect anyone to meet us. Not until the storm was over," she

said, smiling slightly.

"I received the ambassador from Thorbardin this morning," Sithas

replied. "It was only proper that I come and greet the emperor's envoy as

well."

The old man in the chair still had said nothing, and he remained silent

as Teralind drank. Then she passed in front of Sithas, gown rustling as she

walked. By lamplight, her eyes were a foreign shade of brown, dark like

her hair. Teralind sat and bade-Sithas sit down, too.

"Excuse me, Lady, but is the praetor well?" he asked cautiously. The

old human's eyes were closed.

“Ulwen is very old," she said with a tinge of sadness. "And it is very

late."

"I can't help but wonder why the emperor did not choose a younger

man for this task," Sithas ventured softly.

Terafind combed through her thick, wavy hair with the fingers of one

hand. "My husband is the senior praetor of the empire. Also he is the only

member of the ruling council to have dealt with Silvanesti before."

"Oh? When was that?”

"Forty-six years ago. Before I was born, actually. I believe he worked

on what was called the Treaty of Thelgaard'" she said distractedly.

Sithas tried to remember the obscure treaty, and could only recall that

it had something to do with the cloth trade. "I'm sorry I did not have the

pleasure of meeting the praetor then," he said. "I must have been away."

Teralind looked at the elf oddly for an instant. Humans never could adjust

to elven life spans. "In deference to the age of the ambassador," Sithas

added, "I would be willing to stay the night here and escort you all to the

city tomorrow.”

"That is acceptable. Ulvissen will find you a suitable place to rest,"

Teralind agreed. She rose suddenly to her feet. "Good night, Your

Highness," she said courteously, then snapped her fingers. The servants

hoisted Ulwen up, turned ponderously, and carried him out.

* * * * *

Sithas was given a bed in a private comer of the great tent. The bed

itself was large enough to sleep four grown elves and far too soft for the

prince's taste. It seemed strange to him that humans should prize comfort

so excessively.

The rain struck the roof of the tent with a rhythmic beat, but that did

not lull Sithas to sleep. Instead, his mind wandered to thoughts of

Hermathya. He would have to work harder to reconcile their differences,

he decided. But his wife's face did not remain long in Sithas's thoughts.

Kith-Kanan soon pushed to the forefront. His twin would probably have

enjoyed Sithas's little gesture of bringing turtle and barge to the

ambassador's very door.

Kith was a long way off now, Sithas thought. So many miles and so

much time lay between them. As the prince closed his eyes, he felt the

faint but persistent tie that had always existed between him and

Kith-Kanan, but now he concentrated on it. The rain grew louder in his

ears. It was like a pulse, the beat of a living heart. Feelings began to come

to him  the smell of the woodland, the sounds of night animals that no

longer lived in the more settled parts of Silvanesti. He opened his mind

further, and a flood of sensations came to him.

He saw, as in shadow, a dark elven woman. She was strong and

deeply connected to the Power, even as the high clerics and the Speaker of

the Stars were said to be. But the dark woman was part of an ancient

group, different from the gods, but almost as great. Sithas had an

impression of green leaves, of soaring trees, and pools of still, clear water.

And there was a battle raging inside this woman. She was trying to leave

the Power, and it did not want her to go. The reason she wished to leave

was clear, too. She loved Kith, and he loved her. Sithas felt that very

strongly.

A word came to him. A name.

"Anaya," he said aloud.

The link was broken when he spoke. Sithas sat up, his head

swimming with strange, unexplained impressions. There was a struggle

going on, a contest for possession of the dark elf woman. The struggle was

between Kith-Kanan and the ancient powers of nature. The storm ... not

the work of human magicians, or any magicians. The storm was a

manifestation of the struggle.

As Sithas lay back on the ridiculously large bed, a twinge of sadness

entered his heart. The short connection had only emphasized how truly far

from home his twin had journeyed.

And Sithas knew he dare tell no one what he'd learned.

18

In the Forest, Year of the Ram

(2215 PC)

The changes in the keeper continued. Anaya’s toes and fingers, then

the points of her elbows, became light green. She felt no pain and suffered

no loss of movement, though it did seem she was becoming less sensitive

all the time. Her hearing, formerly so acute, became duller and duller. Her

eyesight lost its uncanny focus. Her stealthy tread grew slow and clumsy.

At first she was short-tempered with the changes, but her spirits gradually

lightened. Things the Forestmaster had told her during her long sojourn

away from Kith-Kanan were now making more sense, she said. These

changes, Anaya believed, were the price of her life joined to Kith-Kanan's.

While she might bemoan the loss of her preternatural agility and hunting

skill, her new life did make her very happy.

The winter was long and, as the forest was no longer Anaya's to

command, very hard. She and Kith-Kanan hunted almost every day that it

wasn't actually snowing, They had some success; there were rabbits and

pheasants and the occasional deer to be had. But they more often ate

Mackeli's nuts and berries. As their bellies shrank and their belts

tightened, conversation diminished, too. When the wind howled outside

and the snow drifted so high the door became hard to open, the three sat

within the hollow tree, each wrapped in his or her own thoughts. Days

went by without any of them speaking a single word.

Mackeli, too, was changing, though his metamorphosis was more

easily understood. He had reached the time in a young elf's life when the

physical limitations of childhood give way to an adult physique.

Compared to the great life span of an elf, these changes take place rather

quickly. Even without an abundance of food, he grew taller, stronger, and

restless  and often rude, as well. The boy's impatience was so high that

Kith-Kanan forbade him to accompany them hunting; Mackeli's fidgeting

scared off the already scarce game.

While his wife and friend changed in outward, tangible ways,

Kith-Kanan grew, too, but inside. His values had changed since coming to

the forest, certainly, and now his entire attitude toward life was

undergoing fundamental change. All his life he had played at being prince.

Since his brother Sithas was the heir, Kith-Kanan had no real

responsibilities, no true duties. He took up warrior training and hunting as

hobbies. He taught Arcuballis tricks and practiced aerial maneuvers. These

activities had filled his days.

But it was different now. He could glide through the forest, silent as a

wraith. He didn't have to rely on Mackeli’s gathering skills or Anaya's

hunting any longer. In fact, more and more, they relied on him. This was a

good life, the prince decided, and he could now bless the day his father

had taken Hermathya from him. Though he had cared for her, Hermathya

was much better suited to his twin  both of them so correct, proper, and

dutiful. And with his forgiveness of his father came a sense of loss. He

found himself missing his family. Still, he knew that his life was in the

forest, not the city.

Another, more natural, change had come to Anaya. She was pregnant.

She and her husband had been staring dreamily into the fire one night

when she had told him. At first Kith-Kanan was stunned. His astonishment

gave way to a great, heartfilling joy. He embraced her so hard that she

squealed in protest. The thought that a new life, one he had helped create,

was growing inside of her made Anaya that much more precious to the

prince. It made their life together that much richer. He showered her with

kisses and declarations of his love until Mackeli grumbled for them both

to shut up, since he was trying to sleep.

The day came, not too long after, when the first icicles began to melt

off the oak's bare branches. The sun came out and stayed for a week, and

all the ice melted and ran off the tree. The snow retreated to the deep

shadows around the rim of the clearing.

They emerged from the tree, blinking at the bright sunshine. It was as

if this was the first sunny day they'd ever experienced. Anaya moved

stiffly, rubbing her arms and thighs. Her hands and feet were fully colored

green by this time.

Kith-Kanan stood in the center of the clearing, eyes shut, face turned

to the sky. Mackeli, who was nearly as tall as Kith-Kanan now, bounded

around like a deer, though certainly not as gracefully.

"We've never had such a winter," Anaya stated, gazing at the snow

still hiding at the base of the trees.

"If the weather holds, the hunting will be good," Kith-Kanan noted

confidently. "All the hibernating animals will be coming out."

“Free! Ha, ha, free!" Mackeli rejoiced. He grabbed Anaya's hands and

tried to dance her around in a circle. She resisted and pulled her hands

away with a grimace.

"Are you all right?" asked Kith-Kanan worriedly.

"I am stiff and sore," she complained. She stopped rubbing her arm

and stood up straight. "I’ll work the cold out of my bones, don't worry."

The novelty, but not the pleasure, of the first spring day wore off, and

the trio returned to the tree to eat. In honor of the fine day, Kith-Kanan cut

down their last haunch of venison. Kith-Kanan had been teaching

Arcuballis to hunt for game and bring back what it caught. The griffon

could cover a much wider range than they, and it grew more adept with

each hunt. The last time the creature had brought back the very deer Kith-

Kanan was carving.

Now, Kith-Kanan took Arcuballis from its hide tent and, with

whistles and encouraging words, sent the beast off on another expedition.

When the griffon was lost from sight, the elf prince built a fire outside, not

an easy task with all the damp wood. He sliced off a sizeable roast from

the hard, smoked haunch. While it cooked, Mackeli came out with his

usual fare; arrow root, walnuts, dried blueberries, and wild rice. He looked

at the brown assortment in his basket, then at the deer roast, sizzling and

dripping fat into the fire. He squatted by Kith-Kanan, who was turning the

meat on a rough spit.

"Could I have some?" asked Mackeli tentatively. Kith-Kanan gave

him an astonished look. "It smells awfully good. Just a small piece?” the

boy pleaded.

Kith-Kanan sliced off a thin strip of cooked meat, speared it with his

dagger, and put it in Mackeli’s basket. The elf boy eagerly picked it up

with his fingers  and promptly dropped it again. It was quite hot.

Kith-Kanan gave him a sharpened twig, and Mackeli snagged the piece of

meat and raised it to his mouth.

A look of utter concentration came over his face as he chewed.

Kith-Kanan inquired, "Do you like it?”

"Well, it’s different.” The slice was gone. "Could I have some more?"

The elf prince laughed and cut a larger piece.

Anaya came out of the tree, dragging their furs and bedding into the

sun. The red and yellow lines she had painted on her face enhanced the

already startling green of her eyes. The elf woman glanced over at the two

males, crouched by the fire, and saw Mackeli nibbling a slice of venison.

She ran over and slapped the meat from his hand.

"It is forbidden for you to eat meat!" she said heatedly.

"Oh? And who forbids me? You?” demanded Mackeli defiantly.

"Yes!"

Kith-Kanan rose to pull them apart, but as one Mackeli and Anaya

shoved him back. He sprawled on the wet turf, astonished.

"You did not kill the animal, Keli, so you have no right to eat it!"

Anaya said fiercely.

"You didn't kill it either! Kith did!" he countered.

"That's different. Kith is a hunter, you're only a boy. Stick to your

nuts and berries." The "boy" Anaya snarled at was now a head taller than

she.

"Are those eyes of yours blind?" Mackeli argued. "Nothing is as it

was. The spirits of the forest have turned their backs on you. You've lost

your stealth, your keen senses, and your agility. You've turned green! I've

gotten bigger and stronger. I can shoot a bow. You  " Mackeli was

sputtering in his rage "  you don't belong in the forest any longer!"

Within the sharply painted lines, Anaya's eyes grew large. She made a

fist and struck Mackeli smartly on the face. He fell on his back.

Kith-Kanan realized things had gone too far.

"Stop it, both of you!” he barked. Anaya had advanced over Mackeli,

ready to hit him again, but Kith-Kanan pushed her back. She stiffened, and

for a moment he thought she would take a swing at him. After a moment,

the anger left her and she stood aside.

The prince helped Mackeli to his feet. A smear, of blood showed

under the boy's nose.

"I know we've been cooped up together too long, but there's no reason

for fighting," Kith-Kanan said severely. “Mackeli is reaching his

adulthood, Ny, you can't hold him back." He turned to the boy, who was

dabbing at his bleeding nose with his sleeve. "And you have no right

saying things like that to her. Not even the Forestmaster herself has said

Anaya doesn't belong in the wood any more. So guard your tongue, Keli.

If you wish to be a warrior, you must learn self-control."

Suddenly they heard a pair of hands clapping behind them and a voice

exclaiming, “Well said.”

Kith-Kanan, Anaya, and Mackeli turned abruptly. A score of men

holding swords or crossbows flanked the hollow tree. Standing by the

door, dressed in elegant but impractical crimson, was the half-human

Voltorno  as strong and healthy as ever, from the look of it.

You!” hissed Anaya.

"Stand very still," cooed Voltorno. "I would hate to perforate you

after such a touching performance. It really was worthy of the finest

playhouse in Daltigoth.” He nodded, and the humans fanned out carefully,

surrounding the trio.

"So you survived your wound," Kith-Kanan said tersely. "What a

pity."

"Yes,', he said with calm assurance. "We had a first-rate healer on the

ship. We returned to Ergoth, where I made known your interference in our

operation. I was commissioned to return and deal with you."

Voltorno flipped back his hip-length cape, exposing a finely wrought

sword hilt. He walked to Anaya, looking her up and down. “Bit of a

savage, isn't she?" he said with a sneer to Kith-Kanan and turned to

Mackeli. "Could this be our wild boy? Grown a bit, haven't you?" Mackeli

kept his hands at his sides, but he was breathing hard. Voltorno shoved

him lightly with one gloved hand. "You're the one who shot me," he said,

still smiling pleasantly. “I owe you something for that." He pushed

Mackeli again. Kith-Kanan gathered himself to spring on Voltorno. As if

he were reading the prince’s mind, Voltorno said to his men, "If either of

them moves, kill them both.”

The half-human grasped the gilded hilt of his sword and drew the slim

blade from its scabbard. He held it by the blade; the pommel bobbed just

inches from Mackelis chest. The boy stared at the sword hilt as he backed

away. Mackeli's heels crunched in some of the late snow until his back

bumped a tree at the edge of the clearing.

"Where will you go now?” asked Voltorno, his gray eyes gleaming.

Kith-Kanan freed his dagger from his belt when the bowmen turned

their attention to the half-human. The elf prince realized that only one of

them was behind him, about eight feet away. He nudged Anaya lightly

with his elbow. She didn't look at him, but nudged him back.

Kith-Kanan turned and hurled the dagger at the bowman. The good

elven iron punched through the man’s leather jerkin. Without a word, he

fell back, dead. Kith-Kanan broke left, Anaya right. The humans started

yelling and opened fire. Those on the left shot at Anaya. Those on the

right shot at Kith-Kanan. The only thing they hit was each other.

About half of the group went down, shot by their own comrades.

Kith-Kanan dived for the muddy ground and rolled to the man he'd killed

with his dagger. The human’s crossbow had discharged on impact with the

ground. Kith-Kanan pulled a quarrel from the dead man's quiver and

struggled to cock the bow.

Anaya also threw herself on the ground, drawing her flint knife as she

fell. She was a good ten yards from Mackeli and the archers, who were

reloading their weapons. Mackeli reacted to the confusion by trying to

snatch Voltorno's sword, but the half-human was too quick for him. In no

time Voltorno had reversed his grip and thrust his weapon at Mackeli. The

boy ducked, and Voltorno's blade stuck in a tree.

"Get them! Kill them!" Voltorno shouted.

Mackeli ran in and out of the trees along the clearing's edge. Quarrels

flicked by him.

Across the clearing, Anaya crawled away in the wet turf, using her

toes and elbows. As the archers concentrated their fire on Mackeli, she

rose and threw herself at the back of the nearest man. Her moves were not

as graceful as they once were, but her flint knife was as deadly as ever.

One of the men, wounded by a quarrel, managed to sit up and aim his

crossbow at Anaya's back. Luckily, Kith-Kanan picked him off before he

could shoot.

Mackeli had plunged into the woods. Several of the surviving humans

ran after him, but Voltorno called them back.

Anaya also made it to cover in the woods. She ran only a dozen yards

or so before dropping to the ground. In seconds, she was buried in the

leaves. Two humans tramped right past her.

Kith-Kanan tried to cock the bow a second time. From a sitting

position though, it wasn't easy; the bow was too stiff. Before he could get

the string over the lock nut, Voltorno arrived and presented him with thirty

inches of Ergothian iron.

"Put it down," Voltorno ordered. When Kith-Kanan hesitated, the

half-human raked his sword tip over the prince's jaw. Kith-Kanan felt the

blood flow as he dropped the crossbow.

"Your friends have reverted to type," said Voltorno with contempt.

“They've run off and left you."

"Good," Kith-Kanan replied. "At least they will be safe."

“Perhaps. You, my friend, are anything but safe.”

The eight surviving humans crowded around. Voltorno gave them a

nod, and they dragged Kith-Kanan to his feet, punching and kicking him.

They brought him to the far side of the clearing where they'd first come in

and where they'd dropped their baggage. Voltorno produced a set of arm

and leg shackles, then chained Kith-Kanan hand and foot.

* * * * *

Anaya burrowed away from the clearing, worming through the leaves

like a snake. In times past, she could have done so without disturbing a

single leaf on the surface. Now, to her ears, she sounded like a herd of

humans. Fortunately Voltorno and his men were busy on the other side of

the clearing.

When she was quite far away, she parted the leaves with her hands

and crawled out. The ground was cold and wet, and Anaya shivered.

She wanted to return at once and free Kith-Kanan, but she knew she’d

never trick the humans again. Not alone. She would have to wait until it

was dark.

A twig snapped behind her, on her right. She kicked the leaves off her

legs and faced the sound. Hugging a tree five yards away was Mackeli.

You’re noisy,” she criticized.

“You're deaf. I stepped on four other twigs before that last one," he

said coolly.

They met each other halfway. The hostility of the morning was gone,

and they embraced.

“I’ve never seen you run like that," she avowed.

"I surprised myself," admitted Mackeli. “Being more grown up does

appear to have advantages." He looked clown at his sister. “I’m sorry for

what I said," he added earnestly

"You only said what I’ve thought a thousand times," she confessed.

"Now we have to think of Kith. We can go in after dark and take him."

Mackeli took her by the shoulders and dropped to the ground, pulling

her down beside him. "Shh! Not so loud, Ny. We’ve got to be smart about

this. A year ago, we could have crept in and freed Kith, but now we're too

slow and loud. We have to think better."

She scowled. "I don’t have to think to know that I will kill that

Voltorno," she insisted.

“I know, but he's dangerous. He used magic when he fought Kith

before, and he's very clever and very cruel.”

"All right then, what should we do?"

Mackeli glanced quickly around. "Here's what I think. . . .”

* * * * *

When he'd finished ransacking the tree-home, Voltorno supervised his

men in setting up traps around the clearing. Where the foot path had been

worn in the grass, they strewed caltrops  small, spiky stars designed to

stop charging horses. Against the hide leggings Anaya and Mackeli wore,

they would be deadly.

In the grass around the tree, they set saw-toothed, spring-loaded traps,

such as humans sometimes used to catch wolves. String triggers were

strung, a pull on which would send a crossbow quarrel whizzing. Even by

the last of the afternoon light the traps were hard to see. Kith-Kanan

shuddered as he watched these diabolical preparations and prayed

fervently that Anaya's nose for metal had not deserted her completely.

Night fell, and the cold returned strongly enough to remind the raiders

that summer wasn’t around the next sunrise. Kith-Kanan shivered in the

chill while he watched Voltorno's men wrap themselves in Anaya's warm

fur.

Voltorno brought a tin plate of stew and sat on a log in front of the

prince. “I was a bit surprised to find you still here," the half-human said.

He drank beer from a tin cup. In spite of his thirst, Kith-Kanan's nose

wrinkled in disgust; it was a drink no true elf would touch. “When I

returned to Daltigoth, I made inquiries about you. A Silvanesti, living in

the forest like a painted savage. I heard a very strange tale in the halls of

the imperial palace."

“I don't believe it," said Kith-Kanan, staring at the fire built some

distance in front of the hollow oak. “I don't believe the humans would

allow you into the imperial palace. Even human royalty knows better than

to let street garbage into their homes.”

His face contorted in anger, Voltorno flipped a spoonful of hot stew

into Kith-Kanan's already much-abused face. The elf prince gasped and,

despite his bound hands, managed to rub the scalding liquid onto the

shoulder of his tunic.

“Don't interrupt," said Voltorno nastily. "As I was saying, I heard a

strange tale. It seems that a prince of the Silvanesti, the brother of the

current heir to the throne, left the city under a cloud. He bared a weapon in

the hallowed Tower of the Stars or some nonsense like that.” Voltorno

laughed. "It seems the prince's father married the son's sweetheart to his

brother," he added.

"Sounds like a very sad story," Kith-Kanan said, betraying as little

emotion as he could. His shoulders ached from being forced to sit hunched

over. He shifted his feet a bit, making the chains clatter as he did.

"It has the quality of an epic about it," Voltorno agreed, stirring his

stew. "And I thought to myself: what a prize that son would make.

Imagine the ransom the elf prince's family would pay!”

Kith-Kanan shook his head. "You are gravely mistaken if you think

you can pass me off as a prince," he said. "I am Silvanesti, yes  a warrior

whose nagging wife drove him into the forest for peace and quiet."

Voltorno laughed heartily. "Oh, yes? It's no use, my royal friend,” he

said. "I've seen portraits of the royal house of Silvanesti. You are this

errant son."

A shrill shriek pierced the night air. The humans reached for their

arms, and Voltorno went quickly to steady his men. "Keep your eyes

open," he cautioned them, “this could be a trick to divert us.”

A flaming brand hurtled through the air, tumbling end over end and

trailing sparks and embers. It hit the grass twenty feet from the tree. It

tripped a trigger string, and a crossbow fired with a dull thud.

"Aahwoo!” came a wailing cry from the dark trees. The humans

began to mutter among themselves.

A second flaming brand flew into the clearing, from the opposite side

of the forest. Then a third, some yards from the second. And a fourth,

some yards from that.

"They're all around us!” one man cried.

"Quiet!" said Voltorno.

Carefully avoiding the wicked caltrops, he strode out on the central

path. The men clustered together near him in a fighting circle facing

outward from their campfire. From his staked position, Kith-Kanan smiled

grimly.

A figure appeared at the end of the path, carrying a burning branch.

Voltorno drew his sword. The figure stopped where the caltrops began,

some four yards from the half-human. The torch Voltorno held lit Anaya's

face. Her face and hands were painted black. A single red stripe ran

vertically from her forehead, along her nose, over her chin, and to the base

of her neck.

Voltorno turned to his men. "You see? It's just the girl," he crowed.

He faced Anaya. 'Where's the boy? Hiding?" he asked with a sneer.

"You have come into the wildwood once too often," Anaya intoned.

"None of you will leave it alive.”

"Someone shoot her," Voltorno said in a bored tone, but the humans

were mesmerized. None of them moved. Taking a slow step toward her,

the commander declared, "It's you who will die, girl."

“Then enter the forest and find me," she said. "You have bows and

swords and iron blades. All I have is a knife of flint."

"Yes, yes, very boring. You'd like us to flounder around in the woods

at night, wouldn’t you?" remarked Voltorno, moving another step closer to

her.

"It’s too late," she warned. "One by one, you shall all die.” With that,

Anaya slipped away into the night.

"Such melodrama," grumbled the half-human, returning to the fire. "I

guess one can’t expect more from a pair of savages."

“Why didn't you use your great magic, Voltorno?" Kith-Kanan asked

sarcastically.

Quite earnestly, one of the terrified humans began to explain. "Our

master must be very close to the one he  " This helpful information was

abruptly cut off as Voltorno backhanded the speaker. The human fell back,

his face bleeding.

Now Kith-Kanan understood. Voltorno's repertoire of magic was

probably quite limited. Perhaps he had only the spell of befuddlement he

had used in his duel with Kith-Kanan. And he had to be very close to the

one he wished to enchant, which was obviously why he had been sidling

closer to Anaya.

The next morning Kith-Kanan awoke stiff and groggy. The chill had

penetrated his bones, and his chains didn't allow him to rest comfortably.

He was trying to stretch the ache from his legs when a shriek of pure

horror rang through the clearing. Kith-Kanan jerked toward the sound.

One of the human guards was staring down at the bedroll of one of his

comrades. His face was bone-white and his mouth slack. He would have

given vent to another scream, but Voltorno arrived at his side and shoved

him away.

Voltorno's face registered shock, too, as he looked down at the

bedroll. The human who had screamed now babbled, “Master! They cut

Gernian's throat! How?"

The half-human rounded on the frantic raider and commanded him to

be silent. All the humans now ringed their dead companion. Each of them

asked themselves the same questions: How had Anaya and Mackeli killed

the man without being seen by the watch? How had they gotten through

the traps? Voltorno was rattled, and the humans were close to panic.

19

Sithas Returns

Morning, and the humans stirred half-heartedly through the

ambassador's large tent. Sithas heard them, their voices hoarse from sleep,

talking in the cloth-walled corridor outside his room. He rose and shook

the wrinkles from his clothes.

Ulvissen greeted the prince as he entered the tent’s main salon. The

seneschal offered him breakfast, but Sithas took only a single apple from a

bowl of fruit and forsook the rest. Humans had the habit of eating

abysmally heavy meals, he knew, which probably accounted for their thick

physiques.

It had stopped raining during the night, though now the wind blew

steadily from the south, tearing the solid ceiling of gray clouds into

ragged, fluffy pieces. From their vantage point on the hill overlooking the

river, it seemed as if the broken clouds were scudding along at eye level.

Flashes of early morning sun illuminated the scene as the clouds passed

before it.

"Strange weather," Ulvissen remarked as Sithas looked out over the

scene.

“We seldom get snow or ice here, but these storms blow in from the

southern ocean many times each winter," explained the Silvanesti prince.

The river was alive with small craft taking advantage of the lull.

Ulvissen turned up the flaps of his thick, woolen cape as he asked Sithas if

river traffic was usually interrupted for the duration of the storm.

"Oh, no. The fishers and barge runners are accustomed to bad

weather. Only the very worst winds will keep them tied to the dock."

Sithas's escort and the ambassador's guards lined up as Ulwen and

Teralind came out. The old ambassador looked even worse by daylight.

His skin was sallow, with blue veins boldly visible. He moved so little that

Sithas might have taken him for a corpse, were it not that his eyes blinked

now and then.

The gang of servants fell to and struck the tent. While the windy air

resounded with mallet strikes and the thud of falling canvas, Sithas went

to the barge. The giant turtle had drawn in his head and legs during the

night, and he was still asleep. Sithas rapped on the hull of the barge.

"Ferry master!” he called. "Are you there?”

The elderly elf’s head popped out over the bulwark. "Indeed I am,

Highness!" He hopped up on the bulwark with a spryness that belied his

advanced age. A long pry bar rested on the boatman's shoulder, and he

twirled it slightly as he went to where the chains hooking the turtle to the

barge were looped over enormous iron hooks, spiked to the bow of the

barge. Positioning the flat end of the pry bar under the chain links, he

shouted, "Clear away All!"

The soldiers of both races perked up. Sithas, who was walking back to

stand with Ulvissen, halted and spun around. The ferry master leaned on

his bar, and the first chain slipped off its hook. He shouted to clear the

way again and popped the other chain free. The elf prince saw that the

humans were watching with rapt interest. He hoped the ferry master knew

what he was doing.

The giant shackles fell against the shell of the turtle. This woke the

beast, for the front hinge of its carapace, that part that closed in the giant

animal's head, opened. The huge green head slowly emerged.

The ferry master raised his trumpet to his lips and sounded a single

note. The turtle's legs came out, and he stood up. The rear of the turtle's

shell bumped the barge, and the craft began to move.

"Look sharp!” sang out the ferry master.

With rapidly increasing speed, the fifty-foot barge slid down the

muddy hill. It already had a natural groove to follow  the one it had made

coming up the hill the night before. Churning a wave of mud before it, the

barge accelerated down the slope. The ferry master played a cavalry

charge on his horn.

“Madness!" exclaimed Teralind. "Hell smash himself to bits."

Sithas glanced over his shoulder and saw that the human woman had

come forward, leaving her chair-bound husband with Ulvissen. As

politeness dictated, he assuaged her fears as best he could. "It is a common

thing. Do not fear, Lady, the craft is stoutly built.” He prayed to Matheri

that this was indeed so.

The flat stern of the barge hit the water, throwing up a tremendous

wave. Then the barge slid completely off the bank into the river, leaving a

cloud of mud in the water around it.

The turtle swung around ponderously. The humans who had been

dismantling the tent scattered as the great beast swung toward them. With

utmost placidity the giant turned and walked down the hill. The incline

and slippery mud bothered him not at all. As the ferry master commanded

him with trumpet calls, the turtle slid quietly into the river and allowed the

chains to be re-attached to the barge.

In another hour, the ambassador's party was ready to board. By the

time they moved down a marble-paved path to the water’s edge, the wind

had slowed and died out completely.

The captain of the elven soldiers shook his head. "The lull’s ending,"

he noted, resignation coloring his comment.

“More rain?" asked Ulvissen.

"And more wind," replied Sithas.

The ambassador's party made it to the island without incident.

Waiting for them were three large sedan chairs and two horse-drawn

wagons. Spray broke over the dock, soaking the poor porters who stood by

the sedan chairs. With scant attention to protocol, the ambassador was

bundled into one chair, Lady Teralind into another, and Sithas into the

third. The wagons were for the baggage. Everyone else had to walk.

Sithas was surprised when he entered his private rooms in the palace.

The window shutters were drawn against the rain, and waiting for him in

the dim, unlit room was Hermathya.

"So you're home," she said with irritation. 'Was it worth it?"

Her tone was arch, close to anger. Though he had no reason, Sithas

felt his own emotions hardening, a fact that surprised him.

"It had to be done," he said smoothly. "As it is, things turned out

rather well. We showed the humans of what stuff elves are made."

She trembled and strode past the prince to the shuttered window. Rain

was seeping through the slats, pooling on the cool marble floor.

"And what are you made of?” she demanded, temper flaring.

“What do you mean? What's the matter?"

"You risked your life for etiquette! Did you give any thought to me?

What would happen to me if you had been killed?"

Sithas sighed and sat in a chair made of intertwined maple saplings.

"Is that what’s bothering you? It's unworthy of you, Thya. After all, I was

in no real danger."

"Don’t be so damned logical! You've no idea what I meant."

Hermathya turned to the speaker's heir. Through clenched teeth, she said,

"I've passed my first fertile time. It's gone, and we missed it.”

Sithas finally understood. Even though an elven couple might live as

husband and wife a thousand years, they might only be fertile three or four

times in their entire lives. These times were very irregular; even the

healing clerics of Quenesti Pah couldn't predict a fertile time more than a

day or two in advance.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Sithas asked, his voice softening.

"You weren't here. You were sleeping by yourself.”

"Am I so unapproachable?"

She fingered the edge of her embroidered collar "Yes, you are.”

“You have no problem getting what you want from others," Sithas

went on heedlessly. "You collect gifts and compliments as a child picks

flowers in a field. Why can't you speak to me? I am your husband."

"You are the elf I married," she corrected, "not the elf I loved."

Sithas stood quickly. “I’ve heard enough. In the future you  ”

She moved toward him. “Will you listen to me for once? If you insist

on risking your life on foolish errands, then you must give me a child. Our

marriage can mean something then. An heir needs an heir. You want a

son; I need a child.”

The prince folded his arms, annoyed at her pleading tone. That

emotion confused Sithas somewhat. Why did her pleading irritate him?

“Perhaps it is the wisdom of the gods that this happened," he said. “It is

not a good time to start a family.”

"How can you say that?" she asked.

“It is Matheri’s own truth. My life is not my own. I have to live for

the nation. With all this trouble in the West, I may even have to take up

arm for the speaker's cause."

Hermathya laughed bitterly. “You, a warrior? You have the wrong

twin in mind. Kith-Kanan is the warrior. You are a priest.”

Coldly Sithas told her, "Kith-Kanan is not here.”

"I wish to Astarin he was! He would not have left me last night!” she

said harshly.

“Enough!” Sithas went to the door. With unmatched politeness, he

said, "Lady, I am truly sorry to have missed the time, but it is done and no

peace will come from dwelling on lost chances." He went out. Behind

him, Hermathya dissolved in furious tears.

Sithas descended the steps, his face set hard as granite. Servants and

courtiers parted for him as he went. All bowed, as was the custom, but

none dared speak. Two fine chairs were set up in the audience hall of the

Tower of the Stars. One, short-legged and plush, was for Ehmbarth,

ambassador from Thorbardin. The second was a tall piece of furniture, its

elegantly wrought curves gilded. Here sat Teralind. Her husband, the

titular ambassador, sat in his special chair beside her. Praetor Ulwen did

not speak and after a while it was easy to forget he was even present.

Sithel sat on his throne, of course, and Sithas stood by his left hand.

The rest of the floor was taken up by courtiers and servants. Ulvissen,

never far from Teralind and the ambassador, hovered behind the lady's

golden chair, listening much and speaking little.

"The territory in question," Sithel was saying, "is bordered on the

south by the bend of the Kharolis River, on the west by the city of Xak

Tsaroth, on the east by the Khalkist Mountains, and on the north by the

region where the Vingaard River is born on the great plain. In the time of

my father, this region was divided into three areas. The northernmost was

named Vingaardin, the central was called Kagonesti, and the southernmost

was Tsarothelm."

Dunbarth waved a beringed hand. "Your Highness's knowledge of

geography is considerable," he noted with exaggerated politeness, "but

what is the point in your lecture?”

"As I was about to say, in the time of my father, Silvanos, these three

provinces were unclaimed by any of our nations. They were ruled, and

ruled poorly, by local lords who extorted taxes from the common folk and

who warred constantly with each other."

"Such is not the case today," Teralind interjected.

'There is considerable violence in this area still," Sithel replied, "as

evidenced by the massacre of fifty of my guard by a large force of

mounted men."

Silence ensued. The elven scribes, who had been taking down every

word spoken, held their styluses poised over their pages. Dunbarth looked

at Teralind curiously.

"You do not object, Lady, to the speaker's description of the

marauders as 'men’ ?"' he asked pointedly, leaning forward on one elbow.

She shrugged her green velvet clad shoulders, and Ulvissen sidled

closer to the back of her chair. “The emperor does not rule the entire race

of men,” she allowed. Sithas could almost hear the unspoken yet at the end

of Teralind's statement  "any more than the king of Thorbardin rules all

dwarves. I don't know who these bandits are, but if they are men, they are

not men of Ergoth."

"Certainly not," Sithel continued smoothly. "You will not deny,

though, that the emperor has done nothing to discourage the large number

of human settlers who cross the plain and descend the rivers by boat and

raft. They are displacing both the Kagonesti and those Silvanesti who have

moved west to live. It must stop."

'There is not room enough in Ergoth for everyone to live and work,

nor is there land enough to grow the food needed to feed them all,”

countered Teralind. "Why is it strange that human settlers should leave the

boundaries of the empire and wander east into the region claimed by the

Silvanesti, when that region is so sparsely settled?”

"None have tried to settle in Thorbardin," said Dunbarth unhelpfully.

Prince Sithas gestured to a scribe, who brought him a parchment

scroll filled with tiny, precise writing. Two large wax seals were affixed to

the bottom of the paper. “This is our copy of the agreement made between

Speaker Sithel and Emperor Tion, dated four hundred years ago. It

specifically forbids Ergoth from colonizing Vingaardin without the

approval of the Speaker of the Stars.”

"Emperor Tion was an old man. Many of the works done by him late

in his life were faulty," Teralind commented tactlessly. Ulvissen, who'd

been stroking his auburn beard in thought, leaned down and whispered in

her ear. She nodded and continued, "No less than six of Tion's treaties

have been repudiated over the years since his death. The treaty Prince

Sithas holds is therefore of doubtful standing." At her side, the aged

praetor stirred vaguely. Teralind paid no attention.

Dunbarth slid forward and dropped out of his chair. He tugged his

tunic down smoothly over his barrel chest and said, "As I recall, it was

Tion's plan to invade and conquer Sancrist, but he feared the elven nation

would retaliate against his eastern border. For that reason he struck a deal

with Speaker Sithel."

The prince had returned the parchment to the scribe. Curious, he

asked, "And why did the invasion of Sancrist not take place?"

Dunbarth laughed merrily. “The Ergothian generals pointed out how

difficult it would be to rule an island full of gnomes. The drain on the

empire's treasury would have been enormous!" Some scattered laughter

drifted through the hall. Sithel rapped on the floor with his five-foot-long

regal staff, and the snickering died.

"I believe what you say, Lady Teralind," Sithel noted blandly. "His

Majesty Tion must have been distracted to imagine he could conquer and

rule the gnomes, though he did not really seem so when I met him."

Teralind flushed slightly at this reminder of the speaker's great life span.

“But that doesn't change the fact that human settlers and human bandits

have been taking life and land away from my subjects."

"If I may say something," Dunbarth interrupted, walking around the

side of his chair. "Many people come to Thorbardin to buy our metals, and

we have heard a great deal about the troubles on the Plain. I think it is

unfair to say, Your Highness, that it is simply a matter of humans pushing

elves out. I understand that many of the bandits are elves themselves, of

the Kagonesti race.” He rubbed the broad toe of his left boot against the

trousers of his right leg to remove a smudge on the brilliant shine. “And

some of the bandits are half-elves.”

Although this statement was of no surprise to Sithel or Sithas, it was a

revelation that set the crowd of servants and retainers to buzzing. Sithas

turned his back on the hall and spoke to his father in guarded tones. "What

is the matter with that fellow? He acts as if he were the advocate for

Ergoth!” Sithas muttered.

“Don't blame Dunbarth. He knows his country will gain the advantage

if we and the humans cannot agree. He’s thrown out this rubbish about

half-humans to muddy the water. It means nothing,” Sithel commented

wisely.

The prince stood aside, and his father rapped for silence once more.

“Let us not confuse matters with talk of bandits and halfbreeds,"

Sithel said genially. “There really is only one question  who rules these

three provinces?”

“Who rules them in fact, or rules them by a signet pressed to a dollop

of molten wax?" Teralind said testily.

“We must have law, Lady, or we shall be nothing but bandits

ourselves," counseled Dunbarth. He smiled behind his curled silver beard.

“Well-dressed, rich bandits, but bandits nevertheless." More laughter. This

time Sithel let the laughter build, for it diffused the tension in the tower.

"There is no doubt the Speaker of the Stars bears an ancient claim to

the land," Dunbarth continued, "or that Ergoth has certain rights where so

many of its subjects are concerned."

Sithas lifted his eyebrows at this statement. "Subjects?" he asked

quickly. "Are the humans living in the three provinces subjects, therefore,

of the emperor of Ergoth?"

“Well, of course,” conceded Teralind. Ulvissen leaned forward to

speak to her, but she waved him away. The lady looked perplexed as she

realized belatedly that she had contradicted her earlier statement that the

bandits were not Ergothians. “What I mean to say is  "

Ulvissen tapped urgently on her shoulder. Teralind turned and

snapped, "Stand back, sir! Do not interrupt me!" The seneschal instantly

retreated a pace and stood rigidly at attention.

Sithas exchanged a glance with his father, and murmurs arose in the

hall. Teralind’s eyes darted around, for she knew she'd made a dangerous

admission. She tried to salvage the situation by saying, “There is not a

man, woman, or human child in the whole realm of Ansalon who does not

owe allegiance to His Imperial Majesty."

Sithel did not try to speak until the murmuring had subsided. In

precise, measured tones, he finally said, "Is it your intention to annex our

lands?"

Teralind pushed herself back in her chair and frowned. Beside her, the

frail form of Proctor Ulwen moved. He leaned forward slightly and began

to shake. Tremors racked his frail body, and Ulvissen moved swiftly to his

side. The seneschal snapped his fingers at the human contingent of

servants loitering by the grand doors.

"Highness, noble ambassadors, I beg your pardon, but the praetor is

seized with an attack," he announced in an anxious voice. "He must

withdraw."

Dunbarth spread his hands graciously. Sithel stood. “You have our

leave to withdraw," the speaker said. “Shall I send one of our healers to

the praetor's rooms?”

Teralind’s head lifted regally. "We have a doctor of our own, thank

you, noble speaker.”

The porters took hold of the rails attached to Ulwen's chair and

hoisted him up. The Ergothian delegation filed out behind him. When they

were gone, Dunbarth bowed and led his dwarves out. Sithel dismissed his

retainers and was finally alone with his son in the tower.

“Diplomacy is so tiring," the speaker said wearily. He stood and laid

his silver scepter across the throne. "Give me your arm, Sith. I believe I

need to rest for a while."

* * * * *

Tamanier Ambrodel walked beside Lady Nirakina through the palace.

They had just come from the guild hall of the stone workers, where Lady

Nirakina had viewed the plans for the new Market. It was an orderly,

beautifully designed place, but its site and purpose depressed her. "It's

simply wrong," she told Tamanier. "We are the firstborn race of the world

and favored by the gods. As such, it is only right we share our grace with

other people, not look upon them as lesser beings."

Tamanier nodded. "I heartily agree, Lady. When I lived in the

wilderness, I saw many kinds of people–Silvanesti, Kagonesti, humans,

dwarves, gnomes, kender–and no one lived better than his neighbor for

any reason but his own hard work. The land doesn't care if it's plowed by

human or elf. The rain falls the same on every farm."

They arrived at the door of Nirakina's private rooms. Before he left,

Tamanier informed her, "I went to see Miritelisina, as you requested."

"Is she well?” she asked eagerly. "A priestess of such age and wisdom

should not be held in a common dungeon."

"She is well," Tamanier said, "though unrepentant. She still does not

admit to her crime."

"I do not believe she committed a crime," Nirakina said with fervor.

"Miritelisina was moved by compassion. She only sought to warn the poor

refugees of the plan to move them. I'm certain she had no idea they'd riot

as they did.”

Tamanier bowed. "I bear the holy lady no ill will. I tell you, though,

that she will not repent–even to gain her freedom. Miritelisina believes

that by remaining in prison, she will inspire others who want to help the

refugees.”

Nirakina gave the young courtier's arm a squeeze. "And what do you

think, Tam? Whose cause do you favor?"

"Do you really have to ask? A short time ago, I was one of the poor

wretches–homeless, penniless, despised. They deserve the speaker's

protection.”

"We'll have to see what we can do to win it," Nirakina replied

warmly.

She went into her rooms, and Tamanier walked away, his step light.

With the speaker's wife fighting for them, the homeless settlers would

soon feel the grace of Sithel's favor. And who knew, perhaps Miritelisina

would be freed to resume her good works for the poor.

He left the central tower of the palace and strolled the empty corridor

balcony of the east wing.

Suddenly he heard voices. Foreign voices. He'd lived among humans

long enough to know their speech.

"–play at this silly game?" complained a woman's voice, tight with

emotion.

"As long as necessary. It's the emperor's will," a man's strong voice

answered.

"The things I do for my father! I hope he appreciates it!"

"He's paying off your gambling debts, isn't he?” said the man dryly.

Tamanier knew he shouldn't eavesdrop, but he was intrigued. He

stood very still. Since the humans were in the corridor below him, their

voices carried easily to him up the central atrium.

"I don't trust that Dunbarth," asserted the woman. "He switches sides

like a click beetle."

"He has no side but his own. Right now Thorbardin isn't ready for

war, so he hopes to play us off against the elves. He's clever, but I see

what he's doing."

"He annoys me. So does Prince Sithas. How he stares! They say elves

have second sight." The woman's voice rose. "You don't think he's reading

my mind, do you?"

"Calm yourself," said the man. "I don't think he can. But if it troubles

you, I'll speak to our friend about it."

Footsteps echoed on the balcony across the atrium from where

Tamanier stood. He tensed, ready to be discovered. The voices below

ceased their furtive talk.

Out of the afternoon shadows on the far side of the balcony Tamanier

spied the young priest of the Blue Phoenix, Kamin Oluvai. Tamanier was

surprised; why was the priest here? Kamin didn't see him, however, so

Tamanier withdrew from the balcony rail. The humans he'd heard were

certainly Lady Teralind and Ulvissen, but what did their strange

conversation mean?

Court intrigue was foreign to him. Who was Teralind really? What

was she concealing? Who was the "friend" Ulvissen referred to? Could it

be the traitor of which Speaker Sithel had spoken that night at dinner?

Tamanier hurried away. He had to tell someone, and Sithas's room

was nearby. The courtier was already feeling slightly relieved; certainly

the prince would know what to do.

20

Day of Metamorphosis

The humans were breaking camp and getting ready to return to their

ship. They worked with haste, and it was clear to Kith-Kanan that they

wanted nothing more than to be away from such an accursed place. While

they worked, Voltorno went to the elf prince. He had his men pry the stake

out of the ground, then he grabbed Kith-Kanan's shackles and dragged him

to the edge of the clearing.

"You out there! Woman and boy! I have your friend here! If any more

of my men are so much as scratched, I'll make your royal friend suffer for

it. I'll give him something more than a scar on his cheek. How do you

think he'd look without an arm, a hand, or a leg? Do you hear me?”

The only answer was the soft sighing of wind in the still bare

branches.

"We're ready to go, master," said one of the humans.

"Then get moving, dolt.' Voltorno was losing his air of confidence.

Despite his aching limbs and the stinging sword cut on his cheek,

Kith-Kanan was pleased. The angrier Voltorno got, the greater advantage

Anaya and Mackeli would have.

The raiders marched down the path single file, with Kith-Kanan

leading. Voltorno gave the prince over to one of his men and moved out

ahead as the band left the path and entered the woods.

They snaked silently through the forest. In spite of their master's

assurances, the men adopted a crouching walk, swinging their loaded

bows slowly from side to side. Their fear was palpable, like a foul odor.

As they reached the old, deep forest, the trees got larger and farther

apart. The raiders moved more quickly, using the trail they'd made on their

way to the clearing. Occasionally Voltorno scanned the high tree branches,

alert to any ambush from above. This added greatly to the alarm of his

men. They started glancing up frequently, stumbling and bumping into

each other.

Disgusted, Voltorno turned on them. "You make more noise than a

pen of squealing pigs!” he hissed.

"And you don't breathe correctly either," Kith-Kanan put in.

Voltorno gave him a venomous glance and turned to resume the

march. Just then, a loud cracking sound filled the air. The men stood,

paralyzed, trying to find the source of the noise. A tree branch broke off a

nearby oak and dropped to the ground ahead. The men started laughing

with relief.

Behind them, a figure popped up out of the leaves and aimed a stolen

crossbow at the back of the last man in line. The quarrel loosed, the dark

figure slipped silently back into the bed of leaves. The wounded man

made a gurgling sound, staggered forward a few steps, and collapsed.

"It's Favius! He's been shot!"

"Mind your front! Look for your target before you shoot!" Voltorno

barked. The six men remaining formed a ring with Kith-Kanan in the

center. Voltorno walked slowly around the ring, staring hard at the empty

woods. There was nothing and no one to be seen.

He halted when he noticed one of his men holding an empty bow.

"Meldren," he said glacially, "why is your bow not loaded?"

The man named Meldren looked at his weapon in surprise. "I must

have triggered it off," he muttered.

"Yes, into Favius's back!”

"No, master! Favius was behind me!”

"Don't lie to me!" Fiercely Voltorno struck the man with the flat of his

sword. Meldren dropped his crossbow and fell to the ground. None of the

other men offered to help him or supported his story.

Voltorno picked up the man's crossbow and handed it to another of

his company. "Weldren will walk in the rear," he ordered. "With any luck,

the witch will kill him next."

The raiders relieved the dead man of his weapons and gear and moved

on. The wretched Meldren, with only a short sword for defense, brought

up the rear.

The trail they followed led them down a draw, between a pair of giant

oaks. Voltorno went down on one knee and held up his hand to halt the

group. He studied the ground and then looked ahead.

'This has the look of a trap," he said with a wise air. "We'll not go

through the draw. Four of you men go along the right edge. The rest

follow me on the left.”

The draw was a V-shaped ditch, twenty feet wide and eight feet deep

at its lowest point. Four men crept along the right rim of the gully while

Voltorno, Kith-Kanan, and two others walked along the left. As the

half-human circled around, he clucked his tongue triumphantly.

"See?” he said. Leaning against an oak on the left was a thick log,

poised to roll down into the draw if anyone disturbed the web of vines

attached to it. This web extended down into the draw and covered the

ground there. The men on the right came around their oak. Voltorno

waved to them. The lead man waved back–and the ground beneath him

gave way.

The "ground" they'd been standing on was nothing but a large log,

covered loosely with dirt and leaves. Held in place by slender windfall

limbs, the log collapsed under the men's weight. With shouts and cries for

help, the four tumbled into the gully.

"No!” Voltorno shouted.

The men received only bruises and cuts from falling the eight feet into

the ravine, but they rolled onto the mat of vines that was the trigger for the

six-foot-thick log poised on the left bank. The vines snapped taut, the log

rolled down, and the men were crushed beneath it. Voltorno, Kith-Kanan,

and the remaining two raiders could only stand by and watch as this

occurred.

Suddenly there was a whirring sound and a thump. One of the two

humans dropped, a crossbow quarrel in his back. The last human gave a

shriek. He flung down his weapon and ran off into the woods, screaming

without letup. Voltorno shouted for him to come back, but the hysterical

raider disappeared into the trees.

"It appears you're on your own, Voltorno,” Kith-Kanan said

triumphantly.

The half-human seized the prince and held him in front of his body

like a shield. "I'll kill him, witch!" he screamed into the trees. He turned

from side to side, searching madly for Anaya or Mackeli. "I swear I will

kill him!”

"You won't live that long," a voice uttered behind him.

In shock, the half-human whirled. Anaya, still painted sooty black,

stood nonchalantly before him, just out of sword's reach. Mackeli was

behind her, his bow poised. Taking advantage of his captor's obvious

shock at seeing these two foes so close by, Kith-Kanan wrenched himself

from Voltorno's grasp and jumped away from him.

"Shoot her!” Voltorno cried dazedly. "Shoot her, men!”

Remembering belatedly that he had no one left to command, the

half-human lunged at Anaya. Mackeli started to react, but the keeper

shouted, "No, he's mine!”

Despite his wife's shouted claim, Kith-Kanan slogged forward under

the burden of his chains. The prince was certain that Anaya didn't have a

chance against a fine duelist like Voltorno. Her agility was drastically

reduced, and the only weapon she carried was her flint knife.

The half-human thrust at her twice, then a third time. She dodged,

adequately but without her old preternatural grace. He cut and slashed the

air, and as Anaya scampered aside, the Ergothian blade bit into a tree. She

ducked under Voltorno's reach and jabbed at his stomach. The half-human

brought the sword's hilt down on her head. With a grunt of pain, Anaya

sprawled on her face.

"Shoot!" Kith-Kanan cried. As Mackeli's finger closed on the trigger

bar, Anaya rolled away from Voltorno's killing strike and repeated her

warning to her friends.

"Only I may shed his blood!" she declared.

Voltorno laughed in response, but it was a laugh shrill with

desperation.

Anaya got to her feet clumsily and stumbled in the thick leaves and

fallen branches. As best she could, she jerked back, out of the way of

Voltorno's sweeping slash, but she could not avoid the straight thrust that

followed. Mackeli's green eyes widened in shock and he uttered a

strangled cry as the blade pierced Anaya's brown deerskin tunic.

Though he saw what happened, Kith-Kanan was more shocked by

what he heard–a roaring In his ears. For a moment, he didn't know what he

was hearing. Then he realized that the sound was Anaya's pulse. It

hammered at the prince like thunder, and he felt as if he would collapse

from the pain of it. Time seemed to slow for Kith-Kanan as he watched

Anaya. His beloved's face showed no pain, only an unshakable

determination.

Voltorno's lips widened in a smile. Though he would surely die

himself, at least he'd killed the witch. That smile froze as Anaya grasped

the sword that pierced her stomach and rammed it farther in. His fingers

still locked around the handle, the half-human was jerked toward her. His

puzzlement turned to horror as Anaya brought up her free hand and drove

her flint knife into his heart.

Valtorno collapsed. So tightly did he grip the sword that, when he fell

backward, he pulled it from Anaya's body. He was dead before he hit the

ground.

Kith-Kanan struggled to Anaya's side and caught her as she collapsed.

"Anaya," the prmce said desperately. The front of her tunic was covered in

blood. "Anaya, please . . . ."

"Take me home," she said and fainted.

Mackeli found the key to Kith-Kanan's shackles in Voltorno's belt

pouch. Freed of his bonds, the prince lifted Anaya in his arms. Mackeli

offered to help.

"No, I have her," Kith-Kanan said brokenly. "She weighs nothing.”

He strode away from the gully, past the places where Voltorno's men

had died. Inside, Kith-Kanan concentrated on the sound and sensation of

Anaya's heartbeat. It was there. Slow, labored, but it was there. He walked

faster. At home there would be medicines. Mackeli knew things. He knew

about roots and poultices. At the hollow tree there would be medicines.

"You have to live, " he told Anaya, staring straight ahead. "By

Astarin, you have to live! We've not had enough time together!”

The sun flickered through the leafless trees as they hurried toward the

clearing. By now Kith-Kanan was almost running. Anaya was strong, he

repeated over and over in his mind. Mackeli would be able to save her.

In the clearing, Arcuballis reared up on its hinds legs and spread its

wings in greeting. The beast had returned from hunting to find everyone

gone. Kith-Kanan paid it no heed as he rushed toward Anaya's home–their

home.

The prince ran to the hollow tree and laid Anaya on a silver wolf pelt

that Mackeli had dragged outside. Her eyes were closed and her skin was

ice cold. Kith-Kanan felt for a pulse. There was none.

"Do something!" he screamed at Mackeli. The boy stared at Anaya,

his mouth open. Kith-Kanan grabbed the front of his tunic. "Do

something, I said!"

"I don't know anything!"

"You know about roots and herbs!” he begged.

"Ny is dead, Kith. I cannot call her back to life. I wish I could, but I

can't!"

When the prince saw the tears in Mackeli's eyes, he knew that the boy

spoke the truth. Kith-Kanan let go of Mackeli's tunic and rocked back on

his heels, staring down at the still form of Anaya. Anaya.

Rage and anguish boiled up inside the prince. His sword lay on the

ground by the tree, where Voltorno had found and discarded it.

Kith-Kanan picked up the blade and stared at it. The half-human had

murdered his wife, and he had done nothing. He'd let Voltorno murder his

wife and child-to-be.

Kith-Kanan screamed–a horrible, deep, wrenching cry–then slammed

the flat of the blade against the oak tree. The cold iron snapped five inches

above the hilt. In anger he threw the sword hilt as far as he could.

* * * * *

Night. Mackeli and Kith-Kanan sat inside the tree, not moving, not

talking. They had covered Anaya with her favorite blanket, one made from

the pelts of a dozen rabbits. Now they sat in darkness. The broken blade of

his sword lay across Kith-Kanan's lap.

He was cursed. He felt it in his heart. Love always eluded him. First

Hermathya had been taken away. So be it. He had found a better life and a

better wife than Hermathya would ever have been. His life had just begun

again. And now it had ended. Anaya was dead. Their unborn child was

dead. He was cursed.

A gust of wind blew in the open door, sweeping leaves and dust in

tiny whirlwinds around Mackeli's ankles. He sat with his head on his

knees, staring blankly at the floor. The shriveled brown oak leaves were

lifted from the ground and spun around. He followed their dancing path

toward the doorway, and his eyes widened.

The green glow that filled the open entrance to the hollow tree

transfixed Mackeli. It washed his face and silver hair.

"Kith," he murmured. "Look."

"What is it?" the prince asked tiredly. He looked toward the doorway,

and a frown creased his forehead. Then, throwing the mantle off his

shoulders, he got up. With a hand on the door edge, Kith-Kanan looked

outside. The soft mound that was Anaya beneath her blanket was the

source of the strange green light. The Silvanesti prince stepped outside.

Mackeli followed.

The light was cool as Kith-Kanan knelt by Anaya's body and slowly

pulled the rabbit-fur blanket back. It was Anaya herself that was glowing.

Her emerald eyes sprang open.

With a strangled cry, Kith-Kanan fell back. Anaya sat up. The strong

light diminished, leaving only a mild verdant aura surrounding the elf

woman. She was green from hair to toes.

"Y–You're alive!” he stuttered.

"No," Anaya said sadly. She stood, and he did likewise. "This is part

of the change. This was meant to happen. All the animal life has left me,

and now, Kith, I am becoming one with the forest."

"I don't understand." To speak with his wife when he'd all but

resigned himself to never seeing her again brought Kith-Kanan great joy.

But her manner, the tone of her words, frightened him more than her

death. He couldn't comprehend what was happening.

The green Anaya put a hand to his cheek. It was cool and gentle. She

smiled at him, and a lump grew in his throat. "This happened to the other

keepers. When their time was done, they became one with the forest, too. I

am dead, dear Kith, but I will be here for thousands of years. I am joining

the wildwood."

Kith-Kanan took her in his arms. "What about us? Is this what you

want?" he asked, and fear made his voice harsh.

"I love you, Kith" Anaya said passionately, "but I am content now.

This is my destiny. I am glad I was able to explain it to you.” She pulled

free of his embrace and walked off a few yards.

"I have always liked this spot in the clearing. It is a good place", she

said with satisfaction.

"Good-bye, Ny!” Mackeli called tearfully. "You were a good sister!"

"Good-bye, Keli. Live well."

Kith-Kanan rushed to her. He couldn't accept this. It was all too

strange. It was happening too quickly! He tried to take Anaya in his arms

once more, but her feet were fixed to the ground.

Her eyes rebuked him gently as she said consolingly, "Don't fight it,

Kith." Her voice becoming faint, the keeper added, "It is right."

"What of our child?" he asked desperately.

Anaya placed a hand on her belly. "He is there still. He was not part

of the plan. A long, long time from now he will be born . . . " The light

slowly dwindled in her eyes. "Farewell, my love."

Kith-Kanan held Anaya's face between his hands and kissed her. For a

moment only, her lips had the yielding quality of flesh. Then a firmness

crept in. The elf prince pulled back and, even as he touched her face for

the last time, Anaya's features slowly vanished. What had been skin

roughened into bark. By the time Kith-Kanan spoke her name once more,

Anaya had found her destiny. At the clearing's edge, the prince of the

Silvanesti was embracing a fine young oak tree.

21

Silvanost, Year of the Ram

For a month the ambassadors met with the Speaker of the Stars, yet

nothing was accomplished. Nothing, except that Speaker Sithel fell ill. His

health had been deteriorating over the preceding weeks, and the strain of

the conference had sapped his strength to the point that by the morning of

the twenty-ninth day, he could not even rise from his bed. Sickness was so

rare for the speaker that a mild panic gripped the palace. Servants dashed

about, conversing in whispers. Nirakina summoned Sithas and Hermathya

to the speaker's bedside. So grave was her tone, Sithas half-expected to

find his father on the verge of death.

Standing now at the foot of his father's bed, the prince could see that

Sithel was wan and dispirited. Nirakina sat beside her ailing husband,

holding a damp cloth to his head. Hermathya hovered in the background,

obviously uncomfortable in the presence of illness.

"Let me call a healer," Nirakina insisted.

"It's not necessary," Sithel said testily. "I just need some rest."

"You have a fever!”

"I do not! Well, if I do, do you think I want it known that the Speaker

of the Stars is so feeble he needs a healer to get well? What sort of

message do you suppose that sends to our people? Or to the foreign

emissaries?" This short speech left him winded, and he breathed heavily,

his face pale against the cream-colored pillows.

"Regarding the ambassadors, what shall I tell them?" Sithas asked. "If

you cannot attend the conference today–"

"Tell them to soak their heads,” Sithel muttered. "That devious dwarf

and that contentious human female.” His words subsided.

"Now, husband, that's no way to talk," Nirakina said agreeably.

"There's no stigma to being ill, you know. You'd get well a lot sooner if a

healer treated you."

"I'll heal myself, thank you."

"You may lie here for weeks, fevered, ill-tempered–"

"I am not ill-tempered!" Sithel shouted.

Nirakina rose from the bed purposefully. To Sithas she directed her

questions. "Who can we get? Who is the best healer in Silvanost?"

From the far wall, Hermathya uttered one word: "Miritelisina."

"Impossible," the prince said quickly, looking at his wife with

reproach. "She is in prison, as you well know, Lady."

"Oh, tosh," responded his mother. "If the speaker wants the best

healer, he can order her release." Neither father nor son spoke or showed

any sign of heeding Nirakina's counsel. "Miritelisina is high priestess of

Quenesti Pah. No one else in Silvanost can come near her expertise in the

healing art." She appealed to Sithas. "She's been in prison more than six

months. Surely that's punishment enough for a moment's indiscretion?"

Sithel coughed, a loud, racking paroxysm that nearly doubled him

over in bed. "It's the old delta fever," he gasped. "It's known to recur."

"Delta fever?" asked Sithas.

"A legacy of misspent youth," the speaker said weakly. When he sat

up in bed, Nirakina gave him a cup of cool water to sip. "I used to hunt in

the marshes at the mouth of the Thon-Thalas when I was young. I caught

delta fever then."

Nirakina looked up at Sithas. "That was more than two hundred years

before you were born," she said reassuringly. "He's had other, milder

attacks."

"Father, send for the priestess," Sithas decided gravely. The speaker

raised his brows questioningly. "The negotiations with the dwarves and

humans must go ahead, and only a strong, healthy speaker can see that

justice is done.”

"Sithas is right," Nirakina agreed. She pressed her small hand to

Sithel's burning cheek. "Send for Miritelisina."

The speaker sighed, the dry, rattling sound rising from his fevered

throat. "Very well," he said softly. "Let it be done."

* * * * *

Later that morning came a knock at the door. Nirakina called for the

person to enter. Tamanier came in, looking downcast.

"Great speaker, I spoke with Miritelisina," he said abjectly.

"Where is she?” asked Sithas sharply.

"She–she refuses to come, my prince."

"What?" said Sithas.

"What?" echoed Nirakina.

"She will not come to Your Highness, nor will she accept pardon

from prison," Tamanier announced, shaking his head.

"Has she gone mad?" demanded Sithas.

"No, sire. Miritelisina believes her suffering in prison will bring the

plight of the homeless ones to the attention of all."

In spite of his weakness, the speaker began to laugh softly. "What a

character!” he said. The laughter threatened to turn into coughing, so he

checked himself.

"It's extortion," Sithas said angrily. "She means to dictate her own

terms!”

"Never mind, son. Tamanier, have the door of Miritelisina's cell left

open. Tell the warders to bring her neither food nor water. When she gets

hungry enough, she'll leave."

"What will you do if she doesn't come?" Nirakina asked, bewildered.

"I shall survive," he replied. "Now, all of you go. I wish to rest."

Tamanier went on his errand. Sithas and Nirakina drifted out, looking

back frequently at the speaker. Sithas marveled at how small and weak his

father looked in the great bed.

Alone, Sithel sat up slowly. His head pounded, but after a moment it

cleared. He put his feet on the floor, and the cool marble soothed him. He

stood and moved carefully to a window. The whole of Silvanost spread

out below him. How he loved it! Not the city, which was just a collection

of buildings, but the people, the daily rhythm of life that made Silvanost a

living place.

A rainstorm had ended the day before, leaving the air crystal clean

with a bite of cold. High, lacy clouds stretched from the horizon to

mid-sky, like delicate fingers reaching up to the abode of the gods.

All of a sudden Sithel gave a shudder. The white clouds and shining

towers reeled before him. He clutched the curtains for support, but

strength faded from his hands and he lost his grip. Knees buckling, he slid

to the floor. No one was around to see him fall. Sithel lay still on the

marble floor, warmed by a patch of sunshine.

* * * * *

Sithas walked the palace halls, looking for Hermathya. He saw that

she had not stayed with the speaker, so fearful was she of catching his

illness. Some sort of intuition drew him up the tower stairs to the floor

where his old bachelor room was. To his surprise, the prince found his

devotional candle lit and a fresh red rose, sacred to Matheri, lying on the

table by his bachelor bed. He had no idea who had left it. Hermathya had

no reason to come here.

The sight of the rose and candle soothed his worried mind somewhat.

He knelt by the table and began to meditate. At last he prayed to Matheri

for his father's recovery and for more understanding in dealing with

Hermathya.

Time passed. How much, he didn't know. A tapping sound filled the

small chamber. Sithas ignored it. It grew louder. He raised his head and

looked around for the source of the intrusive noise. He saw his

seldom-worn sword, the twin of Kith-Kanan's weapon, hanging in its

scabbard from a peg on the wall. The sword was vibrating inside its

brass-bound sheath, causing the tapping noise.

Sithas rose and went to the weapon. He looked on in amazement as

the length of iron shook itself like a trembling dog. He put out his hand,

grasping the sword's hilt to try and still the vibrations. The shivering

climbed Sithas's arm, penetrating his body and sending tingles up his arm.

He took the sword hilt in both hands–

In a flash the speaker's heir had a sudden, clear impression of his twin

brother. Great rage, great anguish, heartache, a mortal blow–

A loud crack smote his ears, and the sword ceased vibrating. Slightly

dazed, Sithas, drew the blade out. It was broken cleanly, about five inches

above the hilt.

Fear seized him. Fear for Kith-Kanan. He had no idea how he knew,

but as he held the stump of the sword, Sithas knew without a doubt that

Kith was in grave danger, perhaps even near death. He had to tell

someone–his father, his mother. Sithas rushed to the dark oaken door of

his old room and flung it open. He was startled to find someone standing

just outside, shadowed by the massive overhang of the stone arch over the

door.

"Who are you?" Sithas demanded, presenting the foreshortened

sword. The figure seemed ominous somehow.

"Your sword is broken," said the stranger soothingly. "Be at peace,

noble prince. I mean you no harm."

The stranger stepped forward into the pale light emanating from

Sithas's candle, still burning on the table. He wore a nondescript gray robe.

A hood covered his head. The air around him throbbed with an aura of

power. Sithas felt it, like heat on his face from a nearby fire.

"Who are you?” the prince repeated with great deliberation. The

oddly menacing figure reached up with slim pink fingers to throw back the

hood. Beneath the soft gray material, his face was round and

good-natured. He was nearly bald; only a fringe of mouse-brown hair

covered the sides of his head. His ears were small and tapered.

"Do I know you?" Sithas asked. He relaxed a bit, for the stranger

looked like nothing more than a beggarly cleric.

"At a royal dinner some time ago, you met an elf with long blond hair

who introduced himself as Kamin Oluvai, second priest of the Blue

Phoenix. That was me.” The strange elf seemed pleased with Sithas's

evident surprise.

"You're Kamin Oluvai? You look nothing like him," said the puzzled

prince.

"A simple disguise.” He shrugged. "But in truth, Kamin Oluvai is

another of my masks. My real name is Vedvedsica, and I am at Your

Highness's service." He bowed low.

It was a northern name, such as Silvanesti used in regions near Istar.

Such elves were reputed to be deeply involved in sorcery. Sithas watched

Kamin Oluvai–or was it Vedvedsica? –warily.

"I'm very busy," the prince said abruptly. "What do you want?"

"I came in answer to a call, great prince. For some years I have been

of use to your noble father, helping him in certain discreet matters. The

speaker is ill, is he not?"

"A seasonal chill,” said Sithas stiffly. "Speak plainly and tell me what

you want, or else get out of my way."

"The speaker requires a healer to dispel his delta fever." Sithas could

not hide his surprise at the fact that Vedvedsica knew the nature of his

father's illness. "I have treated the speaker before, banishing the fever. I

can do so again."

"You are not a priest of Quenesti Pah. Who do you serve?"

Vedvedsica smiled and stepped farther into the small room. Sithas

automatically backed away, maintaining the distance between them. "Your

Highness is an elf of great erudition and education. You know the

unfairness of Silvanesti law, which only allows the worship of–"

"Who do you serve?" Sithas repeated sharply.

The gray-robed elf dropped his reticence. "My master is Gilean, the

Gray Voyager."

Sithas tossed the broken end of his sword on the table. His concern

was eased. Gilean was a god of Neutrality, not Evil. His worship was not

officially recognized in Silvanost, but it wasn't actively suppressed either.

"My father has consulted with you?” he asked skeptically.

"Frequently." Vedvedsica's face took on a crafty expression, as if he

were privy to things even the speaker's heir did not know.

"If you can cure my father, why did you come to me?" wondered

Sithas.

"The speaker is an old, noble prince. Today he is ill. Someday, when

he is gone, you will be speaker. I wish to continue my relationship with

House Royal,” he said, picking his words carefully.

Anger colored Sithas's face. He snatched up the broken sword and

held the squared-off edge to the sorcerer's throat. His relationship with

House Royal indeed! Vedvedsica held his ground, though he tilted his

round head away from the blade.

"You speak treason," Sithas said coldly. "You insult me and my

family. I will see you in chains in the lowest reaches of the palace

dungeons, gray cleric!"

Vedvedsica's pale gray eyes bored into Sithas's furious face. "You

wish to have your twin brother home, do you not?" the cleric asked

insinuatingly.

The broken sword remained at Vedvedsica's throat, but Sithas's

interest was piqued. He frowned.

The sorcerer sensed his hesitation. "I can find him, great prince.”

Stated Vedvedsica firmly. "I can help you."

Sithas remembered the terrible feelings that had swept over him when

he'd first grasped the vibrating sword. So much pain and rage. Wherever

Kith was, he was in definite trouble.

"How would you do it?" asked the prince, almost too faintly to be

heard.

"A simple act," noted the cleric. His gaze flickered down to the blade.

"I'll not break the law. No invocations to Gilean.” Said the prince

harshly,

"Of course not, Highness. You yourself will do all that needs to be

done.”

Sithas bade him explain, but Vedvedsica's eyes traveled once more to

the blade at his throat. "If you please, Highness–?" Sithas swung the

weapon away. The sorcerer swallowed audibly, then continued. "There is

in all of us who share the blood of Astarin the ability to reach out to the

ones we love, across great distances, and summon them to us."

"I know of what you speak,” said Sithas. "But the Call has been

forbidden to Kith-Kanan. I cannot break the speaker's edict."

"Ah," said the sorcerer with a wry smile. "But the speaker has need of

my services to heal his fever. Perhaps I can strike a bargain!"

Sithas was growing weary of this fellow's impudence. Striking

bargains with the speaker indeed! But if there was the slightest hope of

getting Kith back–and healing his father–

Vedvedsica remained silent, sensing his best hope lay in letting Sithas

come to a decision of his own accord.

"What must I do to call Kith-Kanan home?" Sithas asked finally.

"If you have some object that is strongly identified with your brother,

that will help your concentration. It can be a focus for your thoughts."

After a long, tense silence, Sithas spoke. "I will take you to my

father," he said. He brought the broken sword up once more to the cleric's

throat. "But if anything you have told me is false, I shall turn you over to

the Clerical Court Council for trial as a charlatan. You know what they do

to illicit sorcerers?" Vedvedsica waved a hand casually. "Very well.

Come!"

As Sithas opened the door, Vedvedsica caught his arm. The prince

stared furiously at the cleric's hand until Vedvedsica deigned to remove it.

"I cannot walk the halls of the palace in plain sight, great prince,” the

cleric said mysteriously. "Discretion is necessary for someone like

myself." He took a small bottle from his sash and pulled the cork. An acrid

smell flooded the small room. "If you will allow me to use this unguent.

When warmed by the skin, it creates a fog of uncertainty around those

who wear it. No one we pass will be certain they see or hear us."

Sithas felt he had no choice. Vedvedsica applied the reddish oil to his

fingers and traced a magic sigil on Sithas's forehead. He did the same to

himself. The unguent left a burning sensation on Sithas's skin. He had an

intense desire to wipe the poisonous-smelling stuff off, but as the

gray-clad cleric displayed no discomfort, the prince mastered the impulse.

"Follow me,” advised Vedvedsica. At least that's what Sithas thought

he said. The words came to his ear distantly, waveringly, as if the cleric

spoke from the bottom of a well.

They ascended the steps, passing a trio of handmaids on the way. The

elf girls' forms were indistinct to Sithas, though the background of stair

and wall was solid and clear. The maids' eyes flickered over the prince and

his companion, but no recognition showed on their faces. They continued

on down the stair. The "fog of uncertainty" was working just as the cleric

had claimed.

On the penultimate floor of the tower, they paused before the doors to

the speaker's private rooms. Servants stood outside, idle. They paid no

heed to the prince or the cleric.

"Strange," mused Sithas, words falling from his lips like drops of cold

water. His own voice sounded muffled. "Why are they not inside with the

speaker?"

He opened the door and hurried in. "Father?" he called. Sithas passed

through the antechamber, with Vedvedsica close behind. After a glance

around the room, he saw his father's crumpled form lying on the stone

floor by the window. He shouted for assistance.

"They cannot hear you.” Vedvedsica said, wafting into Sithas's line of

sight. Desperately the prince knelt and lifted his father. How light he felt,

the great elf who ruled the elven nation! As Sithas placed his father on the

bed, Sithel's eyes fluttered open. His face was dazed.

"Kith? Is that you?" he asked in a strange, faraway voice.

"No, Father, it's Sithas," said the elf prince, stricken with anguish.

"You're a good boy, Kith … but a willful fool. Why did you bare a

weapon in the tower? You know it's a sacred place."

Sithas turned to the waiting Vedvedsica. "Take the spell off us!” he

demanded fiercely. The cleric bowed and dampened a cloth at a wash

basin, then wiped the prince's forehead clean. Immediately, it seemed, the

fog vanished from his senses. Just seconds later the cleric materialized,

seemingly out of nowhere.

Swiftly Vedvedsica took some dried herbs from his shoulder pouch

and crushed them into a pewter goblet that stood on a table near the

speaker's bed. Concerned, Sithas watched him work. The cleric next

soaked the crushed dry leaves in crimson nectar, swirled the goblet to mix

the ingredients, and held out the goblet to the prince.

"Let him drink this,” he said with confidence. "It will clear his head."

Sithas held the goblet to his father's lips. No sooner had the first red

drops passed Sithel's mouth, than his eyes lost their rheumy haze. Tightly

he gripped Sithas's wrist.

"Son, what is this?” He looked beyond Sithas and espied the sorcerer.

Sharply he said, "Why are you here? I did not send for you!”

"But you did, great speaker." Vedvedsica bowed deeply from the

waist. "Your fevered mind called to me for help some hours ago. I came."

"Do you know him, Father?" Sithas asked.

"All too well.” Sithel sank back on his pillows, so the prince set the

goblet aside. "I'm sorry you had to meet him under such circumstances,

son. I might have warned you."

Sithas looked at Vedvedsica, his face mixed with gratitude and

distrust. "Is he cured?”

"Not yet, my prince. There are other potions I must prepare. They will

cure the speaker."

"Get on with it, then," Sithas commanded.

Vedvedsica flinched. "There is the matter of our bargain."

Sithel coughed. "What bargain have you made with this old spider?"

the speaker demanded.

"He will cure your fever if you allow me to call Kith-Kanan home,"

Sithas said honestly. Sithel arched his white brows in surprise, and the

prince averted his eyes from his father's intense gaze.

"Call Kith?" he asked skeptically. "Vedvedsica, you're no altruist.

What do you want for yourself out of this?"

The cleric bowed again. "I ask only that the speaker's heir pay me

such an amount as he thinks appropriate."

Sithel shook his head. "I don't see why Kith-Kanan should interest

you, but I don't object," he said with a heavy sigh, then turned to his heir.

"What will you pay him, Sithas?"

The prince thought once more of the broken sword and the terrible

feeling of suffering he'd felt from his twin. "Fifty gold pieces,” he said

decisively.

Vedvedsica's eyes widened. "A most handsome amount, great prince."

Father and son watched in silence as the cleric compounded his

healing potion. When at last it was done, he filled a tall silver beaker with

the muddy green fluid. To Sithas's surprise, Vedvedsica took a healthy

swig of the mixture himself first and seemed satisfied. Then he held it out

to the prostrate speaker.

"You must drink it all," he insisted. Sithas handed the beaker to his

father. Sithel raised himself on his elbows and downed the brew in three

swallows. He looked expectantly at his son. In turn, Sithas turned to

Vedvedsica.

"We11?”

"The effect is a subtle one, great prince, but rest assured, the speaker

will shortly be cured of his fever."

Indeed, Sithel's forehead had become cooler to the touch. The speaker

exhaled gustily, and sat up straighter. A tinge of color was returning to his

pale cheeks. Vedvedsica nodded grandly.

"Leave us, sorcerer," Sithel said tersely. "You may collect your

payment later."

Another deep bow. "As the speaker commands.” Vedvedsica

produced the small bottle of unguent and began to apply it as before.

Holding up a hand, the prince said acidly, "Out the door first, cleric."

Vedvedsica's smile was wide as he departed.

* * * * *

Sithas left his father looking more fit than he had in a month, then

proceded to make his way through the palace to spread word of his

recovery. Vedvedsica wasn't mentioned. The speaker's recovery was

reported as natural, a sign of the gods' favor.

Finally, Sithas went down the tower steps to Kith-Kanan's old room.

No one was around. Dust lay thickly over everything for nothing had

disturbed it since his brother had left in disgrace. How long ago had it

been? Two years?

The room held all sorts of Kith's personal items. His silver comb. His

second favorite bow, now warped and cracked from the room's dry air. All

his courtly clothes hung in the wardrobe. Sithas touched each item of

clothing, trying to concentrate his thoughts on his lost brother. All he felt

were old memories. Some pleasant, many sad.

A strange sensation came over the prince. He felt as if he were

moving up and away, though his body hadn't stirred an inch. Smoke from

a campfire teased his nose. The sound of wind in a forest filled his ears.

Sithas looked down at his hands. They were browned by the sun and

hardened by work and combat. These were not his hands; they were

Kith-Kanan's. The prince knew then that he must try to communicate with

his twin, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his throat was tight. It

was hard to form words. He concentrated instead on forming them in his

mind.

Come home, he willed. Come home, Kith. Come home.

Sithas forced his lips to work. "Kith!” he cried.

Speaking his twin's name ended the experience abruptly. Sithas

staggered backward, disoriented, and sat down on his twin's old bed. Dust

rose around him. Streaks of sunlight, which had reached across the room

when he came in, now had retreated to just under the window sill. Several

hours had passed.

Sithas shook the queer disorientation out of his head and went to the

door. He had definitely made contact with Kith, but whether he had made

the fabled Call, he didn't know. It was late now, and he needed to see how

his father was doing.

Sithas left the room so hastily he didn't pull the door completely

closed behind him. And as he mounted the steps to the upper floor of the

palace tower, the prince didn't notice the door to Kith-Kanan's room

slowly swing open and remain that way.

22

Spring, Year of the Ram

The days seemed empty. Each morning Kith-Kanan went to sit by the

young oak. It was slender and tall, its twining branches reaching

heavenward. Leaf buds appeared on it, as they did on all the trees in the

forest. But these buds seemed a symbol, a notice that the wildwood was

once again furiously and joyously alive. Even the clearing erupted in

wildflowers and vibrant green growth. The path to the pool covered over

in a day with new grass and nodding thistles.

"There's never been a spring like this.” Mackeli exclaimed. "Things

are growing while you watch!” His spirits had recovered more quickly

than Kith-Kanan's. Mackeli easily accepted that Anaya's change had been

fated to happen, and he'd been trying to draw his friend out of his misery.

This beautiful day he and Kith-Kanan sat on a lower limb of the oak

tree. Mackeli's gangling legs swung back and forth as he chewed a sweet

grass stem and looked over the clearing, "It's like we're besieged," he

added. Grass had grown to waist height in little more than a week. The

bare ground around the tree, scuffed down to dirt by their daily walking on

it, was gradually shrinking as the plants in the clearing grew.

"The hunting ought to be good," Mackeli enthused. His newfound

appetite for meat was enormous. He ate twice as much as Kith-Kanan and

grew stronger all the time. And since the griffon had grown more skilled

in bringing back game for them, they were well fed.

With the explosion of flowering trees and plants had come the

onslaught of the insects. Not the Black Crawlers of Anaya's acquaintance,

but bees and flies and butterflies. The air was always thick with them now.

Kith-Kanan and Mackeli had to keep a fire burning in the hearth at all

times to discourage the bees from building a hive in the tree with them.

With Arcuballis bringing in a whole boar or deer once a day, there

was little for the two elves to do. Still hoping to divert Kith-Kanan from

his grief, Mackeli once more began to ask questions of Silvanost. They

talked about the people, their clothing, eating habits, work routines, and

more. Slowly, Kith-Kanan was persuaded to share his memories. To his

surprise, he found himself feeling homesick.

"And what about–" Mackeli chewed his lower lip. "What about

girls?"

Kith-Kanan smiled slightly. "Yes, there are girls."

"What are they like?"

"The maids of Silvanost are well known for their grace and beauty,"

he said, without much exaggeration. "Most of them are kindly and gentle

and very intelligent, and a few have been known to take up horse and

sword. Those are rare, though. They are red-haired, blond, sandy-haired,

and I've seen some with hair as black as the nighttime sky."

Mackeli drew in his legs, crouching on the balls of his feet. "I would

like to meet them! All of them!"

"No doubt you would, Keli," Kith-Kanan said solemnly. "But I cannot

take you there."

Mackeli knew the story of Kith-Kanan's flight from Silvanost.

"Whenever Ny would get mad at me, I would wait a few days, then go and

say I was sorry," he suggested. "Can't you tell your father you're sorry?"

"It's not that easy," Kith-Kanan replied defensively.

"Why?"

The prince opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Why,

indeed? Surely in the time that had gone by his father's anger would have

cooled. The gods knew his own anger at losing Hermathya had withered

and died as if it had never been. Even now, as he spoke her name in his

mind, no remembered passion stirred inside him. His heart would always

belong to Anaya. Now that she was gone, why should he not return home?

In the end, though, Kith-Kanan always decided that he could not. "My

father is Speaker of the Stars. He is bound by traditions he cannot flout. If

he were only my father and angry with me, perhaps I could return and beg

his forgiveness. But there are many others around him who wouldn't want

me back."

Mackeli nodded knowingly. "Enemies."

"Not personal enemies, just those priests and guild masters who have

a vested interest in keeping things as they've always been. My father needs

their support, which is why he married Hermathya to Sithas in the first

place. I'm sure my return would cause much unrest in the city."

Mackeli dropped out of his crouch. He swung his legs back and forth

in the air. "Seems complicated," he said. "I think the forest is better."

Even with the ache of Anaya's loss in his heart, Kith-Kanan had to

agree as he looked over the sunny clearing carpeted with flowers.

* * * * *

The Call struck him like a blow.

It was evening, four days after the prince's discussion of Silvanost

with Mackeli, and they were skinning a mountain elk. Neither Kith-Kanan

nor the boy could explain why the griffon had flown two hundred miles to

the Khalkist Mountains to catch the elk, but that was the nearest source of

such animals. They were nearly finished with the skinning when the Call

came.

Kith-Kanan dropped his flint skinning knife in the dirt. He jumped to

his feet, hands outstretched as if he'd been stricken blind.

"Kith! Kith, what's wrong?" Mackeli cried.

Kith-Kanan could no longer see the forest. Instead, he saw vague

impressions of walls, floor, and ceiling made of white marble. It was as if

he'd been lifted up out of his body and set down in Silvanost. He held a

hand to his face and in place of his leather tunic and callused palm, he saw

a smooth hand and a white silk robe. The ring on his finger he recognized

as belonging to Sithas.

A jumble of sensations assaulted his mind: worry, sadness, loneliness.

Sithas was calling his name. There was trouble in the city. Arguments and

fighting. Humans at court. Kith-Kanan reeled as it came at him in a rush.

"Sithas!” he cried. When he spoke, the Call ended abruptly.

Mackeli was shaking him by his tunic. Kith-Kanan broke the boy's

grip and shoved him back.

"What is it?" Mackeli asked, frightened.

"My brother. It was my brother, back in Silvanost . . . "

"You saw him? Did he speak?”

"Not in words. The nation is in peril–" Kith-Kanan pressed his hands

to his face. His heart was pounding. "I must go back. I must go to

Silvanost." He turned and walked into the hollow tree.

"Wait! Do you have to go now?"

"I have to go. I have to leave now," Kith-Kanan insisted tensely.

"Then take me with you!”

Kith-Kanan appeared in the doorway. "What did you say?"

"Take me with you," Mackeli repeated in a hopeful tone. "I'll be your

servant. I'll do anything. Clean your boots, cook your food–anything. I

don't want to stay here alone, Kith. I want to see the city of my people!”

Kith-Kanan went to where Mackeli stood, still holding his skinning

knife. With the muddle of feelings clearing from his brain, he realized he

was glad Mackeli wanted to go with him. He felt closer to him than he had

to anyone except Anaya–and Sithas. If he was going back to face who

knows what in Silvanost, he didn't want to lose that friendship and support

now.

Clapping a hand to the boy's shoulder, Kith-Kanan declared, "You

shall go with me, but never as my servant. You can be my squire and train

to be a warrior. How does that sound?"

Mackeli was too overcome to speak. He threw his arms around

Kith-Kanan and hugged him fiercely.

"When shall we leave?" the boy asked.

Kith-Kanan felt the powerful tug of the Call. Now, now, now. It

coursed through his body like a second heartbeat. He steeled himself

against the insatiable pull. It was late and there were preparations which

must be made before they departed. "Tomorrow morning,” he decided.

* * * * *

Day came like the cracking of an egg. First all was smooth, unbroken

night, then just a chip of sunlight showed to the east. It was enough to

rouse the eager Mackeli, who splashed water on his face and announced

himself ready to go.

"Is there nothing you want to take with you?" Kith-Kanan wondered.

Mackeli surveyed the inside of the tree. The flint tools, gourd bottles,

clay-daubed baskets, none of them were worth taking, he said. Still, they

needed food and water, so they loaded a pair of wicker baskets with meat,

nuts, berries, and water, balancing the weight so Arcuballis could carry it

all. Alone of the three of them, the griffon was still heavily asleep. When

Kith-Kanan whistled through his teeth, Arcuballis raised its aquiline head

out from under one wing and stood on its mismatched feet. Kith-Kanan

gave the beast some water while Mackeli tied the food baskets to the back

of the saddle.

A sense of urgency spurred them on. Mackeli chattered incessantly

about the things he wanted to do and see. He scrubbed the residue of paint

from his face, announcing that he didn't want the city-dwellers to think he

was a savage. Kith-Kanan tested the harness fittings under the griffon's

neck and chest, and Mackeli climbed onto the pillion. At last, though,

Kith-Kanan hesitated.

"What is it?" the boy asked.

"There is one thing I must do!" He cut across the flower-choked

clearing to the slender oak that had been Anaya. He stopped two yards

away and looked up at the limbs reaching toward the sky. He still found it

hard to accept that the woman he loved was here now, in any form. "Part

of my heart stays with you here, my love. I have to go back now; I hope

you understand." Tears welled in his eyes as he took out his dagger.

"Forgive me," he whispered, then reached up and quickly sliced off a

four-inch green shoot, well laden with bright green buds. Kith-Kanan cut a

small slit in the tough deerhide of his tunic, directly over his heart, and put

the shoot there.

The elf prince gazed up at the young tree, then looked around at the

clearing where they had been so happy. "I love you, Anaya," he said.

"Farewell." Turning, he walked quickly back to the griffon.

Kith-Kanan swung onto Arcuballis's back and settled himself into the

saddle. He whistled and touched the griffon with his heels, signaling the

creature to be off. As the griffon bounded across the clearing, its strong

legs tearing through the new growth, great torrents of petals and pollen

flew into the air. At last the mount opened its wings and, in a stupendous

bound, leaped into the air. Mackeli yelped with delight.

They circled the clearing, gaining height with each circuit.

Kith-Kanan looked down for a few seconds, then he lifted his face and

studied the clouds. He turned Arcuballis's head northeast. They leveled out

at a thousand feet. The air was warm, and a steady wind buoyed

Arcuballis, enabling him to glide for long stretches with hardly a

wingbeat.

Mackeli leaned forward and shouted in Kith-Kanan's ear, "HOW long

will it take us to get there?"

"One day, perhaps two."

They passed over a world rapidly greening. Life seemed to be

bursting from the ground even as they flew by. The lower air was full of

birds, from tiny swallows to large flocks of wild geese. Farther below, the

forest thinned, then gave way to plain. As the sun reached its zenith,

Kith-Kanan and Mackeli saw the first signs of civilization since leaving

the wildwood. There was a village below, laid out in a circle, with a sod

wall surrounding it for protection. A pall of smoke hung over the village.

"Is that a city?" asked Mackeli excitedly.

"No, that's barely a village. It looks like they've been attacked."

Worry and the edge of fear set Kith-Kanan's heart to pounding as he

hauled back on the reins. Arcuballis tipped over in a shallow dive. They

flew through the smoke. Coughing, the elf prince steered the griffon in a

slow circle around the despoiled village. Nothing moved. He could see the

bodies of the fallen lying atop the wall and in between the huts.

"It's terrible," Kith-Kanan said grimly. "I'm going to land and take a

look. Be on guard, Keli."

Arcuballis touched down lightly outside the wall, near one of the rents

that had been torn in it. Kith-Kanan and Mackeli dismounted. Mackeli had

a crossbow, salvaged from Voltorno's band, and Kith-Kanan had his

compound bow. His scabbard hung empty by his side.

"You see what they did?" Kith-Kanan said, pointing to the gap in the

sod wall. "The attackers used grappling hooks to pull down the wall."

They stepped over the rubble of dried sod and entered the village. It

was eerily quiet. Smoke eddied and swirled in the shifting wind. Where

once people had talked and argued and laughed, there was now nothing

but empty streets. Broken crockery and torn clothing were strewn here and

there. Kith-Kanan turned over the first body he came to–a Kagonesti male,

slain by sword. He could tell the elf had died not very long before, a day

or two at most. Turning the fellow facedown once more, Kith-Kanan

paused and shook his head. Horrible. During the Call he had sensed from

Sithas that there was trouble in the land, but this? This was murder and

rapine.

As they continued through the silent village, all the other dead they

found were Kagenesti or Silvanesti males. No females, no children. All the

farm animals were gone, as was practically everything else of value.

"Who could have done this?" Mackeli asked solemnly.

"I don't know. Whoever it was, they didn't want their identity known.

Do you notice, they took their own dead with them?"

"How can you tell?"

Kith-Kanan pointed at the scattering of dead villagers. "These fellows

didn't just lay down and die. They died fighting, which means they

must've taken a few of their enemies with them."

On the west side of the village, they found a mass of

footprints–horses, cattle, and people. The raiders had taken their elven and

animal captives and driven them out onto the great plain. Mackeli asked

what lay in that direction.

"The city of Xak Tsaroth. No doubt the raiders will try to sell their

prizes in the markets there," said Kith-Kanan grimly. He gazed at the flat

horizon as if he might catch a glimpse of the bandits who had committed

this outrage. "Beyond Xak Tsaroth is the homeland of the Kagonesti. It's

forest, much like the wildwood we just left."

"Does your father rule all this land?" Mackeli said curiously.

"He rules it by law, but out here the real ruler is the hand that wields

the sword." Kith-Kanan kicked the dry plains soil, sending up a gout of

dust. "Come, Keli. Let's go."

They trudged back to the griffon, following the outside curve of the

village wall. Mackeli dragged his feet and hung his head. Kith-Kanan

asked what was troubling him.

"This world beyond the forest is a dark place," he said. "These folk

died because someone wanted to rob them."

"I never said the outside world was all marble cities and pretty girls,"

Kith-Kanan replied, draping an arm across the boy's shoulders. "Don't be

too discouraged, though. This sort of thing doesn't happen every day.

Once I tell my father about it, he will put an end to this brigandage."

"What can he do? He lives in a far away city."

"Don't underestimate the power of the Speaker of the Stars."

* * * * *

It was twilight of the second day when the white tops of the city

towers first appeared. Arcuballis sensed the end of their journey was near;

without Kith-Kanan's urging, the beast quickened its wingbeat. The land

raced by. The broad Thon-Thalas, mirroring the deep aquamarine of the

evening sky, appeared, approached, and then flashed beneath the griffon's

tucked-in feet.

"Hello! Hello down there!" Mackeli called to the boaters and fishers

on the river. Kith-Kanan shushed him.

"I may not be coming back to the warmest of welcomes," he

cautioned. "There's no need to announce our return, all right?" The boy

reluctantly fell silent.

Kith-Kanan found himself experiencing great doubt and no small

amount of trepidation. How would he be received? Could his father

forgive his outrage? One thing he knew, he was certainly not the same elf

he had been when he left here. So much had happened to him, and he

found himself looking forward to the time when he could share it with his

twin.

Kith-Kanan had noticed the beginning of a settlement on the western

bank of the river. From the grid layout, it looked like a town was being

built on the river, opposite the piers and docks of Silvanost. Then, as they

approached the city from the south, he saw that a large section of the

Market was a blackened ruin. This alarmed him, for if the city had been

attacked it might not be his father and twin who would be waiting for him

when he landed. The prince was only a little relieved when he saw that the

rest of the city appeared normal.

For his part, Mackeli leaned far to the side, staring with unabashed

amazement at the wonders below. The city glittered in the sunlight.

Marble buildings, green gardens, and sparkling pools filled his eyes. A

thousand towers, each a marvel to the forest-raised boy, jutted above the

artfully manicured treetops. Rising higher than all the rest was the Tower

of the Stars. Kith-Kanan circled the great pinnacle and recalled with a

pang the day he'd done it last. The number of days was small compared to

an elf's entire life, but the gulf it represented seemed as great as one

thousand years.

Arcuballis was ready for home. The beast banked away from the

tower with only a minimum of direction from Kith-Kanan and headed for

the rooftop of the Quinari Palace. A line of torches burned along the flat

roof, the flames whipped by a steady wind. The rosy palace tower was

tinted a much deeper shade of red by the last rays of the setting sun.

Mackeli held tightly to Kith-Kanan's waist as the angle of descent

steepened. A single white-robed figure stood beside the line of torches.

The griffon raised its head and wafted its wings rapidly. The mount's

forward speed diminished, and its clawed forelegs touched down on the

roof. When its hind legs found purchase, Arcuballis folded its wings.

The figure in white, a dozen yards away, lifted a torch from its holder

and walked toward the grounded griffon. Mackeli held his breath.

"Brother," Kith-Kanan said simply as he dismounted.

Sithas held up the torch. "I knew you would come back. I've waited

here every night since I called you," said his twin warmly.

"I am glad to see you!" The brothers embraced. Seeing this, Mackeli

threw a leg over and slid down the griffon's rump to the roof. Sithas and

Kith-Kanan drew apart and clapped each other on the shoulders.

"You look like a ragged bandit," Sithas exclaimed. "Where did you

get those clothes?"

"It's a very long story," Kith-Kanan replied. He was grinning so

widely his face ached; Sithas's expression mirrored his. "And you, when

did you stop being a priest and become a prince?" he exclaimed, thumping

Sithas's back.

Sithas kept smiling. "Well, a lot's happened since you left. I–" He

stopped, seeing Mackeli come up behind Kith-Kanan.

"This is my good friend and companion Mackeli," Kith-Kanan

explained. "Keli, this is my brother, Sithas."

"Hello," said Mackeli casually.

"No," Kith-Kanan chided. "Bow, like I told you."

Mackeli bent awkwardly at the waist, bending nearly double. "Sorry,

Kith! I meant, hello, Prince Sithas," he said ingenuously.

Sithas smiled at the boy. "You've plenty of time to learn court

manners," he said. "Right now, I'll wager you'd both like a hot bath and

some dinner."

"Ah! With that, I could die happy," Kith-Kanan said, placing a hand

over his heart. Laughing, he and Sithas started toward the stairwell, with

Mackeli following a pace behind. Kith-Kanan suddenly halted.

"What about father?" he asked apprehensively. "Does he know you

called me?"

"Yes," said Sithas. "He was ill for a few days, and I asked him for

permission to use the Call. He consented. A healer brought him through,

and he's well now. We've been dealing with ambassadors from Ergoth and

Thorbardin, too, so things have been quite busy. We'll go to him and

mother as soon as you're presentable."

"Ambassadors? Why are they here?" Kith-Kanan asked. "And, Sith,

what happened to the Market? It looks as though it was sacked!"

"I'll tell you all about it."

As the twins reached the steps, Kith-Kanan looked back. Stars were

coming out in the darkening sky. The weary Arcuballis had dropped into a

sleeping crouch. Kith-Kanan looked from the star-salted sky to the nearby

bulk of the Tower of the Stars. Without really thinking about it, his hand

went to the sprig of oak he'd snipped from Anaya's tree and drew it out. It

had changed. Where there had been tight buds, now the shoot was

furnished with perfect green leaves. Even though it had been cut from the

tree two days past, the sprig was green and growing.

"What is that?" asked Sithas curiously.

Kith-Kanan drew a deep breath and shared a knowing glance with

Mackeli. "This is the best part of my story, Brother." Tenderly he returned

the oak shoot to its place over his heart.

23

Night of Reunion

Freshly bathed, clothed, and fed, Kith-Kanan and Mackeli followed

Sithas to the Hall of Balif. There the speaker, Lady Nirakina, and Lady

Hermathya were having a late, private dinner.

"Wait here," Sithas said, stopping his twin and Mackeli just outside

the hall door. "Let me prepare them."

Most of Mackeli's attention was focused on his surroundings. Since

entering the palace, he'd touched the stone walls and floor, felt bronze and

iron fittings, and goggled at the courtiers and servants that passed by. He

was dressed in one of Kith-Kanan's old outfits. The sleeves were too short

for him, and even though his ragged hair was combed as neatly as

possible, he still looked like a well-costumed scarecrow.

Servants who recognized Kith-Kanan gaped in astonishment. He

smiled at the elves, but admonished them in a low voice to go about their

business as he stepped close to the hall door and listened. Hearing his

father's voice, even so indistinctly, brought a lump to his throat.

Kith-Kanan peered around the door, but Sithas held a hand out to him.

Straight as an arrow, he walked proudly into the now-silent hall. Then

there was a gasp, and a silver spoon rang on the marble floor. Hermathya

bent to retrieve the lost utensil.

Sithas stopped Mackeli so that Kith-Kanan could approach the table

alone. The wayward prince of the Silvanesti stood across the oval table

from his parents and former lover.

Nirakina rose halfway to her feet, but Sithel commanded her tersely to

sit back down. The lady sank back into her chair, tears glistening on her

cheeks. Kith-Kanan bowed deeply.

"Great speaker," he began. Then: "Father. Thank you for letting Sithas

call me home." Both elf women snapped around to stare at Sithel, for they

had not known of the speaker's leniency.

"I have been angry with you a long time," Sithel replied sternly. "No

one in House Royal ever shamed us as you did. What have you to say?"

Kith-Kanan dropped to one knee. "I am the greatest fool who ever

lived," he said, looking down at the floor. "I know I shamed you and

myself. I have made peace with myself and the gods, and now I want to

make peace with my family."

Sithel pushed back his chair and stood. His white hair seemed golden

in the candlelight. He'd regained some of the weight he'd lost while ill, and

the old fire in his eyes was renewed. He strode with firm, even steps

around the table to where his younger son knelt.

"Stand up," he said, still in his commanding speaker's voice.

As Kith-Kanan got up, Sithel's stern countenance softened. "Son," he

said when they were face to face.

They clasped hands about each other's forearms in soldierly fashion.

But it wasn't enough for Kith-Kanan. He embraced his father with fervor,

a fervor returned by Sithel. Over the speaker's shoulder, Kith-Kanan saw

his mother, still weeping, but now the tears tracked down on each side of a

radiant smile.

Hermathya tried to maintain her aloofness, but her pale face and

trembling fingers betrayed her. She dropped her hands to her lap and

looked away, at the wall, at the ceiling, at anything but Kith-Kanan.

Sithel held the prince at arm's length and studied his sunbrowned

features. "I cannot deny you," he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

"You are my son, and I am glad to have you back!"

Nirakina came and kissed him. Kith-Kanan brushed away her tears

and let her walk him back around the table to where their places were set.

They came to Hermathya, still seated.

"You are looking well, Lady," Kith-Kanan said awkwardly.

She looked up at him, blinking rapidly. "I am well," she replied

uncertainly. "Thank you for noticing." Seeing Kith-Kanan at a loss for

words, Sithas moved to intervene. He ushered Mackeli forward and

introduced him. Sithel and Nirakina found the boy's rustic manners both

charming and amusing.

Now that the news was out, servants were roused from their work,

even from bed, and whole troops of them filed into the hall to pay their

respects to the returned prince. Kith-Kanan had always been popular with

the members of House Servitor for his lively manner and kind heart.

"Quiet, all of you! Quiet!" Sithel shouted, and the throng became still.

The speaker called for amphorae of fine nectar, and there was a pause as

cups of the sweet beverage were passed through the crowd. When

everyone had a share, the speaker raised his goblet and saluted his newly

restored son.

"To Prince Kith-Kanan," he exclaimed. "Home at last!"

"Kith-Kanan!" answered the great assembly. They all drank.

All but one. Hermathya held her cup tightly until her knuckles were as

white as her face.

* * * * *

The servants finally dispersed, but the family remained. They

surrounded Kith-Kanan and talked for hours, telling him what had

happened during his absence. He, in turn, regaled them with his

adventures in the wildwood.

"You see me now, a widower," Kith-Kanan said sorrowfully, gazing

at the dregs of nectar in his cup. "Anaya was claimed by the forest she had

served so long."

"Was this Anaya nobly born?" Nirakina delicately asked.

"Her birth was a mystery, even to her. I suspect she was stolen from

her family by the guardian before her, just as she took Mackeli from his

parents."

"I'm not sorry she did so," Mackeli said staunchly. "Anaya was good

to me."

Kith-Kanan allowed his family to assume Anaya was Silvanesti, like

Mackeli. He also kept from them the news of his unborn child. The loss

was too recent, and he wanted to keep some memories for himself.

Sithas broke the quiet interlude by commenting on the half-human

Voltorno. "It fits with what we already suspect," he ventured. "The

emperor of Ergoth is behind the terror in our western provinces. He not

only wants our land, but our timber, too." Everyone knew that Ergoth had

a sizable navy and needed wood for ships. Their own land was relatively

poor in trees. Also, unlike elves, humans tended to build houses out of

wood.

"At any rate," the speaker noted, "the emissaries have been here

nearly five weeks and nothing's been accomplished. I was ill for a few

days, but since my recovery we've made no progress at all."

"I'd be glad to speak to the ambassadors of the things I saw and heard

in the forest," Kith-Kanan offered. "Men from Ergoth have been landing

on our southern coast to plunder the forest. They would have taken

Mackeli to Daltigoth as a slave. That's a fact."

"That's probably what the raiders have done with the other captives,"

Sithas said darkly. "The wives and children of the Silvanesti settlers."

Kith-Kanan told of the sacked village he and Mackeli had seen on

their way home. Sithel was disturbed to hear that a settlement so close to

the capital had been attacked.

"You will come to the tower tomorrow," the speaker declared. "I want

the Ergothians to hear what you have seen!"

Sithel rose. "It is very late," he said. "The session begins early, so

we'd all better take our rest." Mackeli was already snoring. Hermathya,

likewise, was dozing where she sat, curled up in her chair.

Kith-Kanan roused Mackeli with a shake, and the boy sat up.

"Funny dream, Kith. I went to a great city, and people lived inside

stone mountains."

"Not so funny," Kith-Kanan said, smiling. "Come on, Keli, I can put

you in Sithas's old room. Is that well with you, Brother?" Sithas waved his

agreement.

Kith-Kanan kissed his mother's cheek and said good night. Her face

shone with contentment, which made her look decades younger.

"Good night, son," she said devotedly.

A servant with a candelabrum arrived to conduct Mackeli to his bed.

Sithel and Nirakina went out. At last, the brothers stood by the door.

"I'll leave you to your wife," Kith-Kanan said, nodding toward the

sleeping Hermathya. Rather awkwardly, he added, "I'm sorry I missed the

wedding, Sith. I hope you two are happy."

Sithas stared at his wife's sleeping form for a few seconds, then said,

"It has been no bargain being married to her, Kith." Kith-Kanan could not

conceal his surprise. He asked in a whisper what was wrong.

"Well, you know how willful she is. She takes every opportunity to

make herself known to the people. She throws trinkets from the windows

of her sedan chair when she goes out. People follow after her, calling her

name." Sithas's mouth hardened to a thin line. "Do you know what the city

wits call us? The Shadow and the Flower! I don't suppose I need to

explain who is who, do I?"

Kith-Kanan suppressed a wry smile. 'Thya always was chaos in

motion."

"There's more to it than that. I think–" Sithas cut himself off as a

servant came down the corridor toward the open door. The yellow glow of

his candles flowed ahead of him like a stolen sunrise.

"Good night, Kith," Sithas said suddenly. He summoned the servant

and told him to guide the prince up the dark stairs to his room. Kith-Kanan

regarded his twin curiously.

"I shall see you in the morning," he said. Sithas nodded and held the

hall door. As soon as Kith-Kanan went out, Sithas shut the door firmly.

Inside the hall, Sithas spoke sharply to Hermathya. "It's very childish,

this pretense of sleep."

She sat up and yawned. "Quite a compliment from the master of

pretense."

"Lady, have you no respect for us or our position?"

Hermathya pushed her heavy chair away from the table. "Respect is

all I do have," she replied calmly. "Heavy, thick, rigid respect."

* * * * *

The Palace of Quinari was sleeping, nearly everyone within it walls

exhausted by the homecoming of Kith-Kanan. But in the gallery leading

away from the central tower, two figures met in the dark and broke the

silence with their whispers.

"He's come back," said the female voice.

"So I have heard," answered the male. "It's not a problem."

"But Prince Kith-Kanan is a factor we hadn't considered." In her

distress the female spoke louder than was necessary–or prudent.

" I considered him," said the male voice calmly. "If anything, his

return will be to our advantage."

"How?"

"Kith-Kanan enjoys a certain popularity with all those who find his

brother cold and uninspiring–elves such as the royal guard, for example.

Moreover, my evaluation of the errant prince tells me he is more open and

trusting than either his father or brother. And a trusting person is always

more useful than a doubter."

"You are clever. My father chose well when he picked you." The

female voice was once more calm and soft. There was the sound of heavy

cloth being crushed and a kiss. "I wish we didn't have to meet in shadows

like this."

"Von't you think it's romantic?" murmured the male voice.

"Yes ... but it annoys me that so many think you are harmless."

"My best weapon. Would you take it away from me?"

"Oh, never ...."

There was silence for a while, then the female voice said, "How long

till sun-up?"

"An hour or so."

"I'm worried."

"What about?" he asked.

"The whole affair is getting too complicated. Sometimes when I'm

sitting in the audience hall I want to scream, the tension is so great."

"I know," the male voice said soothingly, "but our task is quite

simple. We have only to delay and dissemble and keep the elves talking.

Daily, our numbers swell. Time is our ally, my darling. Given enough

time, the mighty elven nation will fall!"

Their slippered feet made only the slightest whisper on the cool

marble floor as the conspirators stole down the gallery to the steps. They

had to get back to their rooms before the palace stirred. No one must see

them together, not even the members of their own delegation.

24

The Day Following

The entrance of Kith-Kanan into the Tower of the Stars the next day

created a stir. Gone were Kith-Kanan's tattered green buckskins. Now he

wore smooth white robes and a silver circlet on his head. With great

ceremony he was introduced to Lord Dunbarth. The dwarf doffed his

floppy hat and said, "It is a great honor to meet you, Prince. I've heard

much about you."

"Perhaps we shall be friends anyway," was the wry reply.

Meeting the human delegation was more forced. Praetor Ulwen sat in

his portable chair like a wax image. Only the slight rise and fall of the

blanket over his chest testified he was alive. Lady Teralind accepted

Kith-Kanan's hand, holding it for a long minute as she assessed this

newest addition to the conference. He noted the dark circles under her

eyes. The lady hadn't slept very well the night before.

Ulvissen saluted, human fashion. Kith-Kanan imitated his gesture.

"Have we met before?" the elf prince asked, looking carefully at the

bearded human.

"I don't think so, noble prince," Ulvissen replied coolly. "I served

most of my military career on ships. Perhaps Your Highness met another

human who looked like me. I understand it is hard for elves to distinguish

one bearded man from another."

"There is much in what you say." Kith-Kanan walked away, but the

idea that he'd seen Ulvissen before troubled him still. He paused before his

father, bowed, and took his old seat on the speaker's right. A human with a

full, red-brown beard–where had he seen him?

"The fifteenth session of the Conference of Three Nations will now

begin," said Sithas, acting as his father's herald. "Seated for Silvanesti is

Prince Kith-Kanan." The scribes at their tables wrote busily.

Dunbarth stood up–which had the effect of making him shorter, as his

chair's legs were longer than his own. "Great speaker, noble princes, Lord

Praetor, Lady Teralind," he began. "We have been here many days, and

the principal obstacle in the way of peace is this question: Who rules the

western plains and the forest? The noble speaker and his heir present as

proof of their claim ancient treaties and documents. Lady Teralind, on

behalf of the emperor of Ergoth, makes her claim from the point of view

of the majority, claiming that most of the people who live in the disputed

territory are Ergothians." Dunbarth took a deep breath. "I summarize these

positions as I have presented them to my king. I have this day received his

reply."

Murmurs of interest rose. Dunbarth unfolded a heavy piece of

parchment. The golden wax seal of the king of Thorbardin was visible.

"Ahem," said the dwarf. The muttering subsided. "To my right trusty

and well-loved cousin, Dunbarth of Dunbarth, greetings: I hope the elves

are feeding you well, cousin; you know how meager their eating habits are

… " The emissary peered over the parchment at the speaker and winked.

Kith-Kanan covered his mouth with one hand to hide his smile.

Dunbarth continued: " I charge you, Dunbarth of Dunbarth, to deliver

to the Speaker of the Stars and the praetor of Ergoth this proposal–that the

territory lying on each side of the Kharolis Mountains, seventy-five miles

east and west, be entrusted to the Kingdom of Thorbardin, to be governed

and administered by us as a buffer zone between the empires of Ergoth

and Silvanesti."

There was a moment of crystalline silence as everyone in the tower

took in the message.

"Absolutely preposterous!" Teralind exploded.

"Not an acceptable proposal," said Sithas, albeit more calmly.

"It's only a preliminary idea," Dunbarth protested. "His Majesty offers

concessions, here–"

"Totally unacceptable!" Teralind was on her feet. "I ask the speaker,

what do you think of this outlandish notion?"

All eyes turned to Sithel. He leaned back against his throne, his mask

of composed command perfect. "The idea has some merit," he said slowly.

"Let us discuss it." Ehmbarth beamed. Teralind's face got very white, and

Ulvissen was suddenly at her elbow, warning her to stay calm.

At that moment Kith-Kanan felt a flash of recognition; he

remembered where he'd seen Ulvissen before. It had been the day he'd

rescued Mackeli from Voltorno. When the half-human had fallen after

their duel, a crowd of humans from his ship had raced up the hillside. The

tallest human there had had a full, red-brown beard like Ulvissen's. And

since the human had already admitted that he'd spent most of his career

aboard ships.… The prince started as his twin's voice interrupted his

thoughts.

Sithas was asking the speaker what merit he had found in the dwarves'

suggestion.

Sithel paused a moment before replying, considering his words

carefully. "It is not King Voldrin's offer to rule the troublesome region that

I favor," he said. "It is the idea of a buffer zone, independent of not just

our rule and the emperor's, but of Thorbardin's as well."

"Are you proposing we create a new country?" Teralind said

curiously.

"Not a sovereign state, a buffer state," replied the speaker.

Ulvissen tugged on his mistress's sleeve urgently. Feeling harassed,

Teralind turned her back to Sithel for a moment to speak with the

seneschal. She then asked the company for a brief adjournment. Dunbarth

sat down, carefully tucking the crinkly parchment letter from his king into

his brocade vest. Despite the opposition to his king's proposal, he was

quite pleased with himself.

Kith-Kanan watched all this with barely contained agitation. He could

hardly denounce Ulvissen during a diplomatic meeting–not when such an

accusation would violate the law of good behavior in the Tower of the

Stars on his first day back in Silvanost! Moreover, could he be certain

Ulvissen was the man he'd seen with Voltorno? Bearded humans did tend

to look alike. In any event, the elaborate manners and elliptical

conversations of the ambassadors struck him as silly and wasteful of time.

"My king suggests a division of rights among the three nations,"

Dunbarth resumed when Teralind signaled herself ready. "Ergoth to have

grazing rights, Silvanesti to have growing rights, and Thorbardin to have

the mineral rights."

"Any proposal that puts the territory under any one nation's control is

unacceptable," Teralind said shrilly. A strand of dark brown hair had come

loose from its confining clasp. She absently looped it behind one ear.

"Unless Ergothian rights are guaranteed," she added curtly.

The delegations, mingled as they were behind the chairs of their

respective leaders, began to debate among themselves the merits of a joint

administration of the disputed land. Their voices got louder and louder.

After a moment, Kith-Kanan couldn't stand it any longer. He jumped to

his feet.

Sithel raised a hand for quiet. "My son Kith-Kanan would speak," he

said. The faintest trace of a smile crossed his lips.

"As you know, I have only just returned to Silvanost," the prince said,

speaking quickly and nervously. "For some time I have been living in the

wildwood, far to the south, where I came to know all sorts of people.

Some, like my friend Mackeli, called the forest home. Others saw it as a

place to be plundered. Ships from Ergoth have been lying off the coast

while their crews steal inland to cut timber."

"This is outrageous!" Teralind exploded. "What has this to do with the

current question? Worse, these charges have no proof behind them!"

For once Sithel cast aside his assumed air of impartiality. "What my

son tells you is true," he said icily. "Believe it." The force in his words

stifled Teralind's reply, and the speaker bade Kith-Kanan continue.

"The heart of the matter is that while kings and emperors wrestle over

problems off national pride and prestige, people–innocent elves and

humans–are dying. The gods alone know where the true blame lies, but

now we have a chance to put an end to the suffering."

"Tell us how!" said Teralind sarcastically.

"First, by admitting that peace is what we all want. I don't have to be a

soothsayer to know there are many in Daltigoth and Silvanost who think

war is inevitable. So I ask you, is war the answer?" He turned to Lord

Dunbarth. "You, my, lord. Is war the answer?"

"That's not a proper diplomatic question," countered the dwarf

uncomfortably.

Kith-Kanan would not be put off. "Yes or no?" he insisted.

The entire company was looking at Dunbarth. He shifted in his chair.

"War is never the answer, where people of good will–"

"Just answer the question!" snapped Teralind. Dunbarth arched one

bushy eyebrow.

"No," he said firmly. "War is not the answer."

Kith-Kanan turned to the silent, crippled praetor and his wife. "Does

Ergoth think war is the answer?"

The praetor's head jerked slightly. As usual, his wife answered for

him. "No," Teralind replied. "Not when peace is cheaper."

He turned at last to his father. "What do you say, great speaker?"

"You're being impudent," Sithas warned.

"No," his father said simply, "it's only right he ask us all. I don't want

war. I never have."

Kith-Kanan nodded and looked around at the entire group. "Then,

can't some way be found to rule the land jointly, elves, humans, and

dwarves?"

"I don't see what the dwarves have to do with this," said Teralind

sulkily. "Hardly any of them live in the disputed land."

"Yes, but we're speaking of our entire land border," Dunbarth

reminded her. "Naturally, we are concerned with who is on the other side

of it."

Sunlight filtered into the hall through the hundreds of window slits up

the walls of the tower; a mild breeze flowed in through the doorway. The

day beckoned them out of the stuffy debate. Sithel rubbed his hands

together and announced, "This is a good time to pause, not only for

reflection on the question of peace, but also to take bread and meat, and

stroll in the sunshine."

"As ever, Your Highness is the wisest of us all," said Dunbarth with a

tired smile.

Teralind started to object, but the speaker declared the meeting

adjourned for lunch. The hall rapidly emptied, leaving Teralind, Praetor

Ulwen, and Ulvissen by themselves. Wordlessly, Ulvissen gathered the

frail praetor in his strong arms and carried him out. Teralind worked to

master her anger, tearing one of her lace handkerchiefs to bits.

* * * * *

It was a fine day, and the delegations spilled out the huge front doors

into the garden that surrounded the mighty tower. Servants from the palace

arrived bearing tables on their shoulders. In short order the processional

walkway at the tower's main entrance was filled with tables. Snow-white

linen was spread on the tables, and a pleasant array of fruit and meats was

set out for the speaker's guests. A cask of blush nectar was rolled to the

site, its staves making booming noises like summer thunder as the barrel

rolled.

The ambassadors and their delegations crowded around the tables.

Dunbarth took a brimming cup of nectar. He tasted the vintage, found it

good, and wandered over to inspect the food. From there he spied

Kith-Kanan standing at the edge of the garden by himself. Food in hand,

the dwarf strolled over to him.

"May I join you, noble prince?" he asked.

"As a guest you may stand where you want," Kith-Kanan replied

genially.

"An interesting session this morning, don't you think?" Dunbarth

pulled apart a capon and gnawed at a leg. "This is the most progress we've

made since we first convened."

Kith-Kanan took a large bite from an apple and regarded the dwarf

with some surprise. "Progress? All I heard was a lot of contentious talk."

The dwarf flipped up the brim of his hat in order to hoist his golden

goblet high. He drained the nectar and wiped the sticky liquid from his

mustache. "Reorx bless me, Highness! Diplomacy is not like a hunt. We

don't track down our quarry, pot him, and cart him home to be eaten. No,

noble prince, diplomacy is like an old dwarf combing his hair–every hair

that comes out in his comb is a defeat, and every one that stays in his head

is a victory!"

Kith-Kanan chuckled and looked around the garden. He missed the

weight of a sword at his hip. And even more, he missed the sights and

smells of the forest. The city seemed too bright, the air tinged with too

much smoke. Odd, he'd never noticed those things before.

"What are you thinking, Highness?" asked Dunbarth.

What was he thinking? He returned his gaze to the dwarf. "The

praetor's wife is rather short-tempered, and the praetor himself never

speaks. You'd think the emperor would have more able representatives,"

Kith-Kanan commented. "I don't think Lady Teralind does their cause

much good."

Dunbarth looked for a place to throw the capon leg bone, now that he

had cleaned it of meat. A servant appeared as if summoned and collected

the refuse. "Yes, well, smooth and subtle she's not, but a lot can be

accomplished by sheer stubbornness, too. Prince Sithas–" Dunbarth

quickly recalled to whom he spoke and thought the better of what he had

been about to say.

"Yes?" Kith-Kanan prompted him.

"It's nothing, Highness."

"Speak, my lord. Truth is not to be feared."

"I wish I had Your Highness's optimism!" A passing servitor refilled

Dunbarth's cup. "I was going to say that Prince Sithas, your noble brother,

is a match for Lady Teralind in stubbornness."

Kith-Kanan nodded. "It is only too true. They are much alike. Both

believe they have right always on their side."

He and Dunbarth exchanged some further pleasantries, then the dwarf

said an abrupt good-bye. He wanted to mingle with the others a bit, he

said, and wandered off aimlessly. But Kith-Kanan could read the purpose

in his stride. He shook his head. Dwarves were supposedly bluff and

hearty, but Dunbarth was more subtle than a Balifor merchant.

The prince strolled off on his own, among the head-high hedges of

flowering vines and the artfully molded sculptures of boxwood and cedar.

The vigorous spring seemed to have followed him from the wildwood to

Silvanost. The garden was a riot of bloom.

He thought of the clearing where he and his little family had lived.

Had the bees built their hives in the hollow oak yet? Were the flowering

trees dropping their blossoms into the pool that was the entrance to

Anaya's secret cave? In the midst of all the splendor and majesty that was

Silvanost, Kith-Kanan remembered wistfully the simple life he had shared

with Anaya.

His reverie was broken when he rounded a corner in the hedges and

found Hermathya seated alone on a stone bench.

Kith-Kanan briefly considered turning and avoiding his former lover,

but he decided that he couldn't hide from her forever. Instead of leaving,

he went up to her and said hello.

Hermathya did not look up at him, but gazed off into the blossoms

and greenery. "I woke up this morning thinking I had dreamed you

returned. Then I asked my maidservant, and she said it was true." Her

voice was low, controlled, and her hair shone in the sunlight. She wore it

pulled back in a jeweled clasp, as befitted a high-born, married elf woman.

Her pale arms were bare, her skin smooth and unblemished. He thought

she was even more beautiful than when he'd left Silvanost.

She asked him to sit. He declined.

"Are you afraid to sit next to me?" she said, meeting his eyes for the

first time. "It was once your favorite place to be."

"Let's not bring up the past," Kith-Kanan said, keeping his distance.

"That's over and done with."

"Is it?" Her eyes, as always, caught and held him.

He was intensely aware of her, as near as he was, and she stirred him.

What elf could be so close to her flame-bright loveliness and not be

moved? However, Kith-Kanan no longer loved Hermathya; he was certain

of that.

"I've been married," he said pointedly.

"Yes, I heard that last night. Your wife is dead, isn't she?"

No, only changed, he thought. But he replied, "Yes, she is."

"I thought about you a great deal, Kith." Hermathya said softly. "The

longer you were away, the more I missed you."

"You forget, Thya, I asked you to flee with me–and you refused."

She seized his hand. "I was a fool! I don't love Sithas. You must know

that," she exclaimed.

Hermathya's hand was smooth and warm, but Kith-Kanan still pulled

his hand free of hers. "He is your husband and my brother," he said.

She didn't hear the warning in his statement. She leaned her head

against him. "He's a pale shadow of you, as a prince … and a lover," she

said bitterly.

Kith-Kanan moved away from the bench. "I have no intention of

betraying him, Thya. And you must accept the fact that I do not love you."

"But I love you!" A tear trickled down her cheek.

"If that's true, then I pity you. I have passed into another life since we

loved each other, years ago. I'm not the headstrong young fool I once

was."

"Don't you care for me at all?" she asked, her face anguished.

"No." he said truthfully, "I don't care for you at all."

One of Dunbarth's dwarven servants came running through the maze

of hedges. "Great prince!" he said breathlessly. "The speaker is recalling

the assembly."

Kith-Kanan walked away and did not look back at Hermathya, though

he could hear her crying until he reached the entrance to the Tower of the

Stars.

When he was out of earshot, Hermathya clenched her eyes shut,

squeezing the tears from them. "So be it," she hissed to herself. "So be it."

She picked up the golden goblet Kith-Kanan had left nearby and bashed

the soft metal against the marble bench. The goblet was soon a twisted,

misshapen lump.

* * * * *

The afternoon session dragged on as the three sides tried to decide

who would govern the proposed buffer state. It was a tricky question, and

every suggestion that came up was debated and discounted. Clerics and

guildmasters from the city grew tired of the endless discussion and drifted

away, thinning the crowd in the audience hall. After a time, Praetor

Ulwen's head nodded forward. His wife looked like she wanted a long nap

herself.

"I can't agree to give away mineral rights or crop-growing rights,"

Teralind said testily, for the third time. "How do you expect our people to

live? They can't all herd cattle."

"Well, your idea to have enclaves belonging to different nations is no

solution," Sithas said, tapping the arm of his chair to emphasize each

word. "Instead of one large disputed territory, we'll have scores of tiny

ones!"

"Separate communities might be the answer," mused Dunbarth, "if

they are able to trade with each other."

"They would fight over the choicest land," the speaker said. He

rubbed a hand against his left temple. "This is getting nowhere. Surely one

of us can come up with a fair and adequate solution."

No one said anything. Kith-Kanan shifted nervously in his seat. He

had said virtually nothing during this session. Something Anaya had

mentioned to him once was nagging at him. "I don't meddle with the

forest. I just protect it." Perhaps that was the answer.

The prince stood quickly. The sudden movement startled everyone;

they'd practically forgotten he was there. Sithel looked at his son

questioningly, and Kith-Kanan self-consciously straightened the folds of

his white robe.

"It seems to me," he said with dignity, "that the entire problem with

the western provinces comes from the fact that new settlers are pushing

the old ones out. No one here, I think, would defend such activity." Sithas

and Dunbarth glanced at Teralind. She put her nose in the air and

shrugged.

Kith-Kanan moved to the center of the floor. Sithas shifted restlessly

as all eyes fixed on his brother. "If everyone is agreed upon the principle

that all persons, regardless of race, have a right to settle on empty land,

then the problem becomes a simple one–how to protect the legitimate

settlers from those who seek to drive them off their land."

"I sent soldiers once," said the speaker flatly. "They were betrayed

and slaughtered."

"Forgive me, Father," Kith-Kanan said, "but from what I have heard

of the incident, they were too few and not the right kind of soldiers. If we

are going to share the bounty of these lands, then the burden of protecting

them must be shared. Soldiers from the city have no stake in the area; they

simply obey the orders of the speaker." The prince looked around at the

company. "Do you not see? What's needed is a local force, a militia, in

which the farmer has his own shield and spear with which to protect his

land and that of his neighbor."

"Militia?" said Teralind with interest. Ulvissen was suddenly at her

elbow trying to tell her something.

"Arm the farmers?" asked Dunbarth. The brim of his hat had lost its

snap and drooped down over his eyes. He brushed it back.

"Peasants with spears would never stand up to mounted bandits,"

asserted Sithas.

"They would if they were trained and led by experienced soldiers,"

Kith-Kanan countered. He was thinking on his feet now. "One sergeant for

each company of twenty; one captain for each band of two hundred."

"Are you speaking of all settlers in the disputed lands being armed?"

asked Dunbarth. "Even those not of elven blood?"

"Definitely. If we arm one group and not another, it's just an invitation

for war. A mixed militia will bind the people together, serving shoulder to

shoulder with men of other races."

"I still say farmers and cow herders will never catch a fast-moving

party of raiders," Sithas said stiffly.

Kith-Kanan's enthusiasm brought him right up to his brother's chair.

"Don't you see, Sith? They don't have to catch the bandits. They only have

to be able to fend them off. Why, the ruined village Mackeli and I saw had

a sod wall eight feet high all around it. If the villagers had had a few

spears and had known how to fight, they all might have been saved."

"I think it is an excellent idea," Sithel remarked.

"I like it, too."

Kith-Kanan swiveled around to see if what he'd just heard was true.

Teralind was sitting proudly, hands folded on the lap of her burgundy

gown. "I like it," she repeated firmly. "It puts the responsibility on the

people living there." Behind her Ulvissen was livid with ill-suppressed

anger. "No army need be sent in, yours or ours. The emperor will save

much money."

"I have some doubts about the efficacy of such a militia," Dunbarth

put in, "but never let it be said that Dunbarth of Dunbarth wasn't willing to

give it a try!" The dwarf whipped off his bothersome hat. "I smell peace!"

he declared, throwing the hat to the shiny marble floor.

"Don't be hasty," Sithas warned. His cool voice dampened the

growing elation in the hall. "My brother's plan has its merits, but it doesn't

address the problem of sovereignty. I say, let there be a militia, but only

elves may bear arms in it."

Kith-Kanan looked stricken, and Teralind rapidly lost her serene

expression. She said, "No! That's impossible. Ergoth will not allow

humans to live as hostages among an army of elves!"

"Quite right," said Dunbarth, picking up his hat and dusting it off

against his leg.

"We cannot abandon our ancestral right to this land!" Sithas insisted.

"Be still," the speaker said, frowning. Now it was Sithas's turn to look

aggrieved. "This is a practical business we're in. If Ergoth and Thorbardin

like Kith-Kanan's proposal, I cannot in good conscience throw away the

best chance we have for peace."

Sithas opened his mouth to speak, but Sithel stifled him with a glance.

The prince turned away, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

After a short while, when more specific details were worked out, a

basic agreement was reached. Each of the three nations was to provide a

corps of experienced warriors to serve as organizers of the new militia.

Armories would be set up, where the warrior officers would reside. And in

times of trouble all able bodied settlers within twenty miles would present

themselves at the armory to receive weapons and leadership. No single

nation would command the militia.

"You expect professional warriors to live in the wilderness,

shepherding a motley rabble of farmers?" Sithas asked with ill-concealed

irritation. "What will keep them in their place?"

Kith-Kanan folded his arms. "Land," he declared. "Give them a stake

in the peace of the country."

"Give them enough to be worth working," said Dunbarth, catching the

gist of Kith-Kanan's idea.

"Exactly! Five acres for every sergeant, twenty acres for every

captain. A whole new class of gentry will arise, loyal to the land and to

their neighbors," Kith-Kanan predicted.

The speaker ordered the scribes to prepare a draft of the decree. Then,

as it was nearly dusk, he adjourned the session. Everyone stood while

Sithel went out, looking tired but very pleased. Teralind's shoulders

sagged, and she was supported on the arm of Ulvissen, who did not look at

all happy with events. Neither did Sithas as he left. Kith-Kanan was about

to start after him when Dunbarth called to him.

"My prince," he enthused, "Congratulations on your masterful

stroke!"

Kith-Kanan watched his twin disappear out the private exit to the

palace. "Yes, thank you," he said distantly.

"I praise the gods for bringing you back," continued the dwarf,

folding his hands across his round belly. "That's what this problem needed,

a fresh perspective." Dunbarth cleared his throat.

"Oh, your pardon, my lord. I'm being rude," said Kith-Kanan, turning

his attention to the ambassador from Thorbardin.

"Do not trouble about it." Dunbarth glanced at the rear exit and

commented, "Your brother is proud, and he hasn't yet learned the benefit

of flexibility. Your father is wise. He understands."

The elf prince's brow furrowed with thought. "I suppose," he replied

uncertainly.

Guards opened the vast double doors of the tower. Beyond the

entryway, the red rays of the setting sun painted the world scarlet. Only

Dunbarth's small retinue, two scribes and his secretary, Drollo, remained,

waiting patiently for their master.

Dunbarth's eyes shone as he plopped his hat on his head. "Noble

prince, would you dine with me? I have an urge to try some inn in your

city tonight–not that the dining is poor in the palace. Far from it! It's just

that I crave some hearty, simple fare."

Kith-Kanan smiled. "I know a place, right on the river. Fried catfish,

cabbage rolls, a suet pudding …"

"Beer?" said the dwarf hopefully. Elves don't drink beer, so the

ambassador hadn't had any since coming to Silvanost.

"I think the innkeeper ought to be able to scratch some up,"

Kith-Kanan assured him.

The elf prince and the dwarven ambassador walked out the high doors

and into the crimson evening.

* * * * *

After leaving the Tower of the Stars, Sithas walked through the starlit

streets. He wanted to be alone, to think. Anger propelled his steps, and

habit steered him to the Temple of Matheri, where so much of his early

life had been spent. The crystal dome of the sanctum of the god rose above

the sculpted trees like a rising moon, lit a golden yellow from within.

Sithas took the steps two at a time. At the door, he dipped his hands in the

bowl of rose petals set on a tripod and scattered them on the paving before

him.

In quick, barely audible tones, he said, "Wise Matheri, grant me

entrance that I may commune with you." The buffed wooden doors parted

silently, with no hand to stir them. Sithas went inside.

In the center of the floor, directly under the great dome, the

ever-burning lamp of Matheri stood. The silent, smokeless flame cast

harsh shadows around the circular room. Along the outer edge of the

temple were the meditation chambers of the monks. Sithas knew them

well. This was where he had lived for thirty years of his life.

He went to his old cubicle. It was empty, so he entered. Sitting on the

hard floor, he crossed his legs. The prince tried to meditate, to find the

reason for his resentment of Kith-Kanan's success. As the priests had

taught him, he imagined a dialogue with himself.

"You are angry, why?" he asked aloud.

In his mind, he formed a reply. Kith's suggestion is dangerous to the

nation.

"Is it? Why?"

It allows the humans to remain on land that rightfully belongs to us.

"They have been there for years. Is their presence intrinsically bad?"

The land belongs to the elven nation. No one else.

"An inflexible attitude. Is this the reason you're angry?"

Sithas paused and considered. He closed his eyes and examined

closely the feelings that crowded inside his heart.

No. I've been working at father's side for weeks, discussing, planning,

thinking, and re-thinking, yet nothing was accomplished. I should have

thought of the militia plan. I have failed.

"You are jealous of Kith-Kanan."

I have no reason to be jealous. I am the speaker's heir. Yet a short

time ago I found myself wishing I hadn't called him back.

"Why did you?"

He's my brother. I missed him. I thought father might die–

Before he could ponder his feelings further, the carved rosewood door

of the cell swung open. Sithas looked up, ready to lash out at whomever

would intrude. It was Hermathya.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.

She stepped into the little room. Covered from head to toe in a

midnight-black cape, she dropped the hood from her head. Diamonds

gleamed faintly from her earlobes.

"I knew you would be here," she said in a low voice. "You always

come here when you're upset."

Sithas felt an icy mask of resolve fall into place, covering his painful

emotions. "I am not upset," he said coldly.

"Tosh, I heard you raving to yourself as soon as I came in."

He stood and brushed the dust from his knees. "What is it you want?"

he demanded again.

"I heard what happened at the tower today. It doesn't look good for

you, does it? All these days of negotiating for nothing, then Kith solves

everything in one day."

She was only reinforcing what his bitter heart had been saying. Sithas

moved until he was only inches from her. He could smell the rosewater

she'd bathed in. "Are you trying to provoke me?" he asked, staring into her

eyes.

"Yes." He felt her breath on his face when she said it. "I'm trying to

provoke you into being a prince and not some sort of high-born monk!"

He drew away. "You are as tactful as ever, Lady. Leave me to recover

my temper. Your advice is not needed or welcome."

Hermathya made no move to go. "You need me," she insisted.

"You've always needed me, but you're too stubborn to know it."

Sithas swept a hand over the single candle that lit the cubicle.

Darkness, save for a stray shaft of light that slipped in around the closed

door, claimed the room. He could see the heat outline of Hermathya, her

back to the door, and she could hear his quick breathing.

"When I was a child, I was sent to this temple to learn patience and

wisdom. The first three days I was here, I wept all my waking hours

because I'd been separated from Kith. I could live without my mother and

father, but cut off from Kith ... I felt like I'd been cut open and part of me

had been torn out."

Hermathya said nothing. The diamonds in her ears sparkled like stars

in the scant light.

"Later, when we were older, I was allowed to go home to the palace

and visit a few days each month. Kith was always doing something

interesting–learning to ride, fence, shoot a bow. He was always better than

me," Sithas said. Resignation was creeping into his voice.

"There is one thing you have that he hasn't," Hermathya said

soothingly, reaching out in the dark for Sithas's hand.

"What's that?"

"Me."

Sithas uttered a short, sardonic laugh. "I daresay he could have you if

he wanted you!"

She snatched her hand from his and slapped Sithas hard across the

cheek. Her blow stung his face. Forgetting his training, the prince seized

his wife roughly and brought their faces together until they were only a

finger's width apart. Even in the dim cubicle, he could see her pale

features clearly, and she his.

She said desperately, "I am your wife!"

"Do you still love Kith-Kanan?" Despite the coldness of their

marriage, Sithas braced himself for her answer.

"No," she whispered fiercely. "I hate him. Anything that angers you, I

hate."

"Your concern for me is touching. And quite new," he said

skeptically.

"I admit that I thought I might still love him," she whispered, "but

since seeing him, I know it's not true." Tremors shivered through her.

"You are my husband," Hermathya declared passionately. "I wish

Kith-Kanan were gone again, so he couldn't ever make you feel small!"

"He's never tried to make me feel small," Sithas retorted.

"And what if he wins your father's favor completely?" she parried.

"The speaker could declare Kith-Kanan his heir if he felt he would do a

better job of ruling than you."

Father would never do that!"

Her lips were by his ear. She pressed her cheek against his and felt his

tight grip relax. Quickly she said, "The militia must have an overall

commander. Who better than Kith-Kanan? He has the skills and

experience for it. With all those square miles to patrol, he could be gone

for decades."

Sithas turned his head away, and she knew he was thinking about it. A

small, triumphant smile played about her lips. "By then," she murmured,

"we will have a son of our own, and Kith could never come between you

and the throne."

The prince said nothing, but Hermathya was patient. Instead of

prompting him further, she laid her head on his chest. His heartbeat was

strong in her ear. After a time, Sithas slowly brought his hand up and

stroked her copper-gold hair.

25

By Next Dawn

When it came to the spread of important news, the great city of

Silvanost was just like a tiny village.

By the next morning, word of the tentative agreement between the

speaker and the representatives of Ergoth and Thorbardin had penetrated

every corner of the capital. The city, and the elven nation itself, seemed to

let out a long-held breath. Fear of war had been uppermost in the minds of

all the people, followed closely by fear that large numbers of refugees

would once more be driven back into the city by the bandit raids.

When the new day dawned, rimmed by low clouds and chilly with the

threat of rain, the people of Silvanost behaved as if it was a bright,

sun-filled day. The nobility, priests, and guildmasters heard cheering as

their sedan chairs were carried through the streets.

Kith-Kanan went into the city that morning on horseback with Lord

Dunbarth. It was the prince's first chance to see Silvanost since his return.

His appetite had been whetted when he and the dwarf had dined at the Inn

of the Golden Acorn. There, with good food and drink, stirred by the

strains of a bardic lyre, Kith-Kanan had rediscovered his love for the city,

dormant for all his months in the wildwood.

He and Dunbarth rode through the crowded streets of the family

quarter, where most of Silvanost's population lived. Here the houses were

less grand than the guildmasters' halls or the priestly enclaves, but they

mimicked the styles of the great homes. Beautifully sculpted towers rose,

but only for three or four stories. Tiny green plots of land in front of each

home were molded by elven magic to support dazzling gardens of red,

yellow, and violet flowers; shrubs formed into wave patterns like the river;

and trees that bowed and twined together like the braids in an elf maiden's

hair. Nearly every house, no matter how small, was built in imitation of

the homes of the great, around a central atrium that held the family's

private garden.

"I didn't realize how much I missed it," Kith-Kanan said, steering his

horse around a pushcart full of spring melons.

"Miss what, noble prince?" asked Dunbarth.

"The city. Though the forest became my home, a part of me still lives

here. It's like I'm seeing Silvanost for the first time!"

Both elf and dwarf were dressed plainly, without the fine embroidery,

golden jewelry, or other outward signs of rank. Even their horses were

trapped in the simplest possible style. Kith-Kanan wore a wide-brimmed

hat, like a fisher, so that his royal features would be less obvious. They

wanted to see the city, not be surrounded by crowds.

Together the duo turned off Phoenix Street and rode down a narrow

alley. Kith-Kanan could smell the river even more strongly here. When he

emerged in the old Market quarter, ruined by the great riot and now under

repair, Kith-Kanan reined up and surveyed the scene. The entire

marketplace, from where his horse stood down to the banks of the

Thon-Thalas, had been razed. Gangs of Kagonesti elves swarmed around

the site, sawing lumber, hauling stones, mixing mortar. Here and there a

robed priest of E'li stood, directing the work.

For a large project, like a high tower, magic would be used to shape

and raise the stones of the walls and meld the blocks together without need

for mortar. In the mundane buildings of the marketplace, more ordinary

techniques would be used.

"Where do all the workers come from?" Kith-Kanan wondered aloud.

"As I understand it, they're slaves from estates to the north and west,

owned by the priests of E'li," said Dunbarth without inflection.

"Slaves? But the speaker put severe limits on the number of slaves

anyone could own."

Dunbarth stroked his curly beard. "I know it may shock Your

Highness, but outside of Silvanost the speaker's laws aren't always

followed. They are bent to suit the needs of the rich and powerful."

"I'm certain my father doesn't know about this," Kith-Kanan said

firmly.

"Forgive me, Highness, but I believe he does," Dunbarth remarked

confidentially. "Your mother, the Lady Nirakina, has many times pleaded

with the speaker to free the slaves of Silvanesti, to no avail."

"How do you know these things? Aren't they private matters of the

palace?"

The dwarf smiled benignly. "It is a diplomat's purpose to listen as

well as talk. Five weeks in the Quinari Palace exposes one to all sorts of

gossip and idle talk. I know the love lives of your servants and who among

the nobility drinks too much–not to mention the sad plight of slaves in

your own capital city." With that, Dunbarth's smile vanished.

"It's intolerable!" Kith-Kanan's horse sensed his rider's agitation and

pranced around in a half-circle. "I'll put a stop to this right now!"

He tightened the reins and turned his mount's head. Before he could

ride over to confront the supervising priests, Danbarth caught his reins and

held him back.

"Don't be hasty, my prince. The priesthoods are very powerful. They

have friends at court who will speak against you."

Kith-Kanan was indignant. "Who do you mean?"

Dunbarth's gaze was level. "I mean your brother, the noble Sithas."

Kith-Kanan squinted from under the brim of his hat. "My twin is not a

slave driver. Why do you say this to me, my lord?"

"I only say what is true, Highness. You know the court; you know

how alliances are made. Prince Sithas has become the defender of the

temples. In turn, the priests support him."

"Against whom?"

"Anyone who opposes him. The priestess Miritelisina, of the Temple

of Quenesti Pah, for one. She tried to defend those who fled from the

slaughter on the plains. You know of the riot?" Kith-Kanan knew Sithas's

version of the story. He indicated Dunbarth should continue.

"The riot began because Prince Sithas and the priests, along with the

guildmasters, wanted to expel the poor farmers from the city. Miritelisina

warned them. They misunderstood her and, believing they were to be sent

back to the plains, rioted. For that the priestess was put in prison. The

speaker has let her go free, but she continues her work for the poor and

homeless."

Kith-Kanan said nothing, but watched as three Kagonesti passed by

with a ten-inch-thick log braced on their shoulders.

In each one he saw Anaya–the same dark eyes and hair, the same

passion for freedom.

"I must speak out against this," he said at last. "It is wrong for one of

the firstborn race to own another."

"They will not hear you, Highness," Dunbarth said sadly.

Kith-Kanan put his horse's head toward the palace. "They will hear

me. If they don't listen, I'll shout at them till they do."

They rode back at a brisk canter, avoiding the clogged streets in the

center of the city and keeping to the riverside roads. By the time they

reached the plaza in front of the palace, a light rain had started to fall.

Mackeli was standing in the courtyard in his new squire's livery, a studded

leather jerkin and helmet. When Kith-Kanan rode up, Mackeli hurried

over and held the prince's horse while he dismounted.

"You look splendid," Kith-Kanan said, sizing up Mackeli's new outfit.

"Are you sure this is what squires wear?" asked the boy. He hooked a

finger in the tight collar and tugged at the stiff leather. "I feel like I've

been swallowed by a steer."

Kith-Kanan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Wait until you

put on your first real armor," he said exuberantly. "Then you'll feel like

one of our giant turtles has swallowed you!"

The three left the horses for the servants to stable and entered the

palace. Maids appeared with dry towels. Kith-Kanan and Dunbarth made

perfunctory swipes at their faces, then handed the cloths back. Mackeli

dried himself carefully, all the while eyeing the handmaids with frank

interest. The girls, both of whom were about the boy's age, blushed under

his studied gaze,

"Come along," Kith-Kanan scolded, dragging at Mackeli's sleeve.

Dunbarth plucked the towel from his hand and returned it to the servants.

"I wasn't finished," Mackeli protested.

"If you'd dried yourself any longer, you'd have taken hide and hair

off, too," observed the dwarf.

"I was looking at the girls," Mackeli said bluntly.

"Yes, like a wolf looks at his dinner," noted Kith-Kanan. "If you want

to impress the fair sex, you'd best learn to be a little more discreet."

'What do you mean?"

"He means, don't stare," advised Dunbarth. "Smile at them and say

something pleasant."

Mackeli was puzzled. "What should I say?"

Kith-Kanan put a hand to his chin and considered. "Pay them a

compliment. Say, 'what pretty eyes you have!' or ask them their name and

say, 'what a pretty name!' "

"Can I touch them?" asked Mackeli innocently.

"No!" exclaimed the two in unison.

They spotted Ulvissen in the corridor, accompanied by one of the

human soldiers. The Ergothian seneschal was handing the soldier a large

brass tube, which the man furtively tucked into a leather bag hung from

his shoulder. Ulvissen stood up straight when he saw Kith-Kanan. The

soldier with the tube saluted and went on his way.

"How goes it, Master Ulvissen?" the prince asked blandly.

"Very well, Your Highness. I have dispatched a copy of the

preliminary agreement we've made to His Imperial Majesty."

"Just now?"

Ulvissen nodded. Behind his beard and graying hair, he looked

haggard. Kith-Kanan guessed Lady Teralind had kept him up very late,

preparing the dispatch.

"Would you know where my father and Prince Sithas might be?"

"I last saw them in the reception hall, where seals were being put to

the copies of the agreement," said Ulvissen courteously. He bowed.

"Thank you." Kith-Kanan and Dunbarth walked on. Mackeli, too,

drifted past the tall, elder human, looking at him with curiosity.

"How old are you?" asked Mackeli impetuously.

Ulvissen was surprised. "Forty and nine years," he replied.

"I am sixty-one," said the boy. "Why is it you look so much older than

I?"

Kith-Kanan swung around and took Mackeli by the elbows. "Forgive

him, Excellency;" said the prince. "The boy has lived all his life in the

forest and knows little about manners."

"It is nothing," said Ulvissen. Yet he continued to watch with an

intense expression as the prince and the dwarf ambassador hustled

Mackeli away.

* * * * *

The reception hall of the palace was on the ground floor of the central

tower, one floor below the Hall of Balif. Dunbarth took his leave of

Kith-Kanan in the corridor outside. "My old bones need a nap," he

apologized.

Mackeli started to follow the prince, who told him to remain behind.

The boy objected, but Kith-Kanan said sharply, "Find some other way to

be useful. I'll be back soon."

When Kith-Kanan entered, the vast, round room was full of tables and

stools, at which scribes were furiously writing. The entire transcript of the

conference was being written out in full and copied as quickly as the

master scribe could finish a page.

Sithel and Sithas stood in the center of this organized chaos,

approving sheets of parchment covered with spidery handwriting. Boys

darted among the tables, filling inkpots, sharpening styluses, and piling up

fresh stacks of unmarked vellum. When Sithel espied him, he shoved the

parchment aside and gestured for the assistant to leave.

"Father, I need to speak with you. And you, Brother," Kith-Kanan

said, gesturing to a quieter side of the hall. When they had moved, the

prince asked bluntly, "Do you know that gangs of slaves are working in

the city, working to rebuild the Market?"

"That's common knowledge," said Sithas quickly. He was especially

elegant today, having forsworn his usual robe in favor of a divided kilt and

a thigh-length tunic of quilted cloth of gold. His headband, too, was

golden.

"What about the law?" asked Kith-Kanan, his voice rising. "No

household is supposed to have more than two slaves at a time, yet I saw

two hundred or more working away, watched over by clerics from the

Temple of E'li."

"The law only applies to those who live in Silvanost," Sithas said,

preempting his father again. Sithel kept quiet and let his sons argue. He

was curious to see which would prevail. "The slaves you saw come from

temple estates on the Em-Bali River, north of the city," added the

speaker's firstborn.

"That's an evasion," Kith-Kanan said heatedly. "I never heard of a law

that applied only in Silvanost and not to the entire nation!"

"Why all this concern about slaves?" Sithas demanded.

"It isn't right." Kith-Kanan clenched his hands into fists. "They are

elves, the same as us. It is not right that elves should own one another."

"They are not like us," Sithas snapped. "They are Kagonesti."

"Does that automatically condemn them?"

Sithel decided it was time to intervene. "The workers you saw were

sold into slavery because they were convicted of crimes against the

Silvanesti people," he said gently. "That they are Kagonesti is of no

significance. Your concern for them is misplaced, Kith."

"I don't think so, Father," his son argued earnestly. "We're all proud of

our Silvanesti blood, and that's good. But pride should not lead us to

exploit our subjects."

"You have been in the woods too long," said Sithas coolly. "You have

forgotten how the world works."

"Hold your tongue," Sithel intervened sharply. "And you too, Kith."

The Speaker of the Stars looked rueful. "I am glad to know both my sons

feel so passionately about right and wrong. The blood of Silvanos has not

run thin, I can see. But this debate serves no purpose. If the slaves in the

Market are well treated and do their allotted work, I see no reason to

tamper with the situation."

"But, Father–"

"Listen to me, Kith. You've only been back four days. I know you

grew used to much freedom in the forest, but a city and a nation cannot

operate like a camp in the wildwood. Someone must command, and others

must obey. That's how a speaker can protect the weak and rule with

justice."

"Yes, Father." When Sithel explained it like that, it almost made

sense. Still, Kith-Kanan knew that no amount of logic and lawful

argument would ever convince him that slavery was anything but wrong.

Sithas listened to Sithel's words with his arms folded in satisfaction.

Kith was not as infallible as he seemed, thought the firstborn. Facing down

Kith's sentimental ramblings made him feel every inch the next Speaker of

the Stars.

"Now I have a command for you, son," Sithel said to Kith-Kanan. "I

want you to lead the new militia."

Utter silence. Kith-Kanan tried to digest this. He was just back home,

and now he was being sent away. He looked at Sithas–who glanced

away–then back at the speaker. "Me, Father?" he asked, dazed.

"With your experience as a warrior and ranger, who better? I have

already spoken with Lady Teralind and Lord Dunbarth, and they agree. A

speaker's son, ranger, and a friend of the Kagonesti, you are the best

choice."

Kith-Kanan looked to Sithas. "This was your idea, Sith?"

His brother shrugged. "Clear reasoning pointed to you and no one

else."

Kith-Kanan ran a hand through his tousled hair. The crafty old

Dunbarth knew all through their ride this morning and hadn't said a word.

In fact, had he led the way to the Market to show Kith-Kanan the slaves at

work there? To prepare him for this?

"You can refuse," noted the speaker, "if you wish." He plainly

expected no such reaction from his stalwart son.

A rush of images and thoughts flooded Kith-Kanan's mind. In quick

succession he saw the ruined village he and Mackeli had found; Voltorno,

roving and plundering at will through Silvanesti; Anaya, mortally stricken,

fighting bows and swords with a flint knife; Kagonesti slaves, stripped of

their lives.

The prince also heard his own words: "If the people had possessed a

few spears, and had known how to fight, they might all have been saved."

Kith-Kanan's gaze remained on his twin for a long moment, then he

looked at the speaker.

"I accept," he said quietly.

* * * * *

With Mackeli at his side, Kith-Kanan spent the next few days

interviewing members of the royal guard who had volunteered for the

militia. As he had predicted, the lure of free land was a powerful

inducement to soldiers who seldom owned anything more than the clothes

on their backs. Kith-Kanan could select the very best of them as his

sergeants.

A great public celebration had been declared, both to honor the new

agreement with Ergoth and Thorbardin and to honor Kith-Kanan's ascent

to command of the new militia of House Protector. The force was already

being called the Wildrunners, after the old name given to the armed bands

of Kagonesti who had fought for Silvanos during the wars of elven

unification.

* * * * *

"I still don't understand why we don't just fly out there," Mackeli said,

struggling under the weight of real armor and a pot-shaped iron helmet.

"Griffons are reserved as mounts of House Royal," Kith-Kanan said.

"Besides, there aren't enough of them for this whole company." He

cinched a rope tight around the last bundle of his personal gear. His

chestnut charger, Kijo, bore the weight of bedroll and armor well.

Kith-Kanan had been pleased to discover that his old mount was still as

spirited as ever.

Mackeli regarded the horses skeptically. "Are you sure these beasts

are tame?"

Kith-Kanan smiled. "You rode Arcuballis one thousand feet up in the

air, and now you're worried about riding on horseback?"

"I know Arcuballis," the boy said apprehensively. "I don't know these

animals."

"It will be all right." Kith-Kanan went down the line of horses and

warriors. The last knots were made, and the good-byes were being said.

The Processional Road was full of elves and horses. Two hundred and

fifty warriors and an equal number of mounts milled about. Unlike Sithel's

earlier, ill-fated expedition, Kith-Kanan's band was to be entirely mounted

and self-sufficient. This was the largest force to leave Silvanost since the

days of the founding wars.

It was a splendid spectacle, and the sides of the street were lined with

townsfolk. The warriors had discarded their fancy parade armor in favor of

more practical equipment. Each elf wore a hammered iron breastplate and

a simple, open-faced helmet. Bronze shields, shaped like hourglasses,

hung from each saddlehorn. Every warrior carried a bow, twenty arrows, a

sword, a knife, and a heavy javelin that could be used for thrusting or

throwing. The horses wore only minimal trapping, as mobility was more

important than protection.

Kith-Kanan tucked his gauntlets under his arm as he mounted the

steps to the processional entrance of the Tower of the Stars. There stood

his father and mother, Sithas and Hermathya, Lady Teralind, Praetor

Ulwen in his chair, and Ulvissen. Lord Dunbarth had begged off attending

the departure ceremony. He was afflicted with a colic, according to his

faithful secretary, Drollo. Kith-Kanan knew that the old rascal had been

living it up in the inns and taverns along the riverfront since the treaty had

been approved by the emperor of Ergoth and the king of Thorbardin.

The prince ascended the steps in measured tread, keeping his eyes

fixed on his father. Sithel was wearing the formal Crown of Stars, a

magnificent golden circlet that featured as its central stone the famed Eye

of Astarin, the largest emerald in all of Krynn. The gem caught the rays of

the midmorning sun and sent flashes of verdant light across the street and

gardens.

Beside Sithel stood Lady Nirakina. She was dressed in a gown of

palest blue and wore a filigree silver torc around her throat. Her

honey-colored hair was held in a silver cloth scarf. There was something

sad and remote about her expression–no doubt it was the realization that

she was losing her younger son again, after he'd been home less than a

month.

Kith-Kanan reached the step just below the landing where the royal

family was gathered. He removed his helmet and bowed to his father.

"Noble father, gracious mother," he said with dignity.

"Stand with me," said Sithel warmly. Kith-Kanan made the final step

and stood beside his father.

"Your mother and I have something to give you," the speaker said in a

private tone. "Open it when you are alone." Nirakina handed her husband

a red silk kerchief, the corners of which were tied together. Sithel pressed

this into Kith-Kanan's hand.

"Now for the public words," the speaker said with the faintest trace of

a smile. Sithel looked out over the crowd. He raised his hand and

declaimed, "People of SlIvanost! I present you my son, Kith-Kanan, in

whose trust I place the peace and safety of the realm." To Kith-Kanan he

asked loudly, "Will you faithfully and honorably discharge the duties of

lord constable in all parts of our realm and any other provinces you may

enter?"

Loudly and clearly Kith-Kanan replied, "By E'li, I swear I will." The

crowd roared in approval.

Standing apart on the speaker's left were Sithas and Hermathya. The

lady, who was radiantly beautiful in cream white and gold, had a serene

expression on her fine-boned face. But Kith-Kanan's twin smiled on him

as he approached for a blessing.

"Good hunting, Kith," said Sithas warmly. "Show the humans what

elven mettle is like!"

"That I'll do, Sith." Without warning, Kith-Kanan embraced his

brother. Sithas returned Kith-Kanan's embrace with fervor.

"Keep yourself safe, Brother," Sithas said softly, then broke away.

Kith-Kanan turned to Hermathya. "Farewell, Lady."

"Good-bye," she replied coldly.

Kith-Kanan descended the steps. Mackeli was holding Kijo's reins.

"What did the lady say?" he asked, gazing up at Hermathya with rapt

admiration.

"You noticed her, did you?"

"Well, yes! She's like a sunflower in a hedge of thistles–"

Kith-Kanan swung into the saddle. "By Astarin! You're starting to

sound like a bard! It's a good thing we're getting you out of the city. Anaya

wouldn't know you, talking like that!"

The warriors followed Kith-Kanan and Mackeli in ranks of five,

wheeling with precision as the prince led them down the curving

Processional Road. The assembled Silvanesti let out a roar of approbation,

which quickly turned into a steady chant:

"Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan. . ."

The chanting continued as the slow procession wound its way to the

riverside. Two ferry barges were waiting for the warriors. Kith-Kanan and

the Wildrunners boarded the ferries, and the huge turtles towed them

away. The people of Silvanost lined the shore and called out Kith-Kanan's

name until long after the barges were lost against the dark strip of the

western riverbank.

26

Early Summer, Year of the Ram

Lord Dunbarth's party loaded all their possessions onto wagons and

formed up to depart. Sithas and his honor guard were there to see the

dwarven ambassador off.

"Much better weather than when I arrived," Dunbarth remarked. He

was sweating under his woolen coat and vest. Summer was upon

Silvanost, and a warm, humid wind blew in from the river.

"It is indeed," Sithas said pleasantly. In spite of Dunbarth's

professional caginess, Sithas liked the old dwarf. There was a basic

goodness about him.

"You'll find a case of amber nectar in your carriage,"said the prince.

"With the compliments of Lady Nirakina and myself."

"Ah!" The dwarf looked genuinely touched. "Many thanks, noble

prince. I shall be sure to share it with my king. He esteems elven nectar

almost as much as Thorbardin ale."

The ambassador's escort, augmented by an honor guard of twenty

elven warriors, paraded past the wagon. Dunbarth and his secretary,

Drollo, climbed into their closed metal coach. As the ambassador pushed

back the fine mesh curtains, he extended a ring-heavy hand to Sithas.

"In Thorbardin we wish friends a long life when parting, but I know

you'll outlive me by centuries," Dunbarth said, a twinkle in his eye. "What

do elves say when they part?"

"We say, 'Blessings of Astarin' and "May your way be green and

golden'," Sithas replied. He clasped the ambassador's thick, wrinkled hand.

"May your way be green and golden, then, Prince Sithas. Oh, and

some news for you, too. Our Lady Teralind is not what she pretends to

be."

Sithas raised a brow. "Oh?"

"She is Emperor Ullves's eldest daughter."

Sithas feigned mild interest. "Really? That's interesting. Why do you

tell me this now, my lord?"

Dunbarth tried to hide his smile. "The dealing is done, so there's no

advantage to my keeping her identity secret. I've seen her before, you see.

In Daltigoth. Hmm, I thought your noble father might like to know so that

he could–um–ah, give her a royal send-off."

"My lord, you are wise for one so young," Sithas said, grinning.

"Would that I were young! Farewell, Prince!" Dunbarth rapped on the

side of the coach. "Drive on!"

* * * * *

When he returned to the palace, Sithas was summoned to the

Ergothians' quarters. There he was awaited by his father, his mother, and

her courtier, Tamanier Ambrodel. The prince quickly informed them of

the dwarven lord's revelation.

At one end of the room, Teralind was giving final orders to her

servants in a cross, high-pitched voice. Dresses of heavy velvet and

delicate lace were being squeezed into crates, which were then nailed shut.

Toiletries rattled into rattan hampers.

The strongbox containing Teralind's jewelry was locked with a stout

padlock and given to a soldier to guard personally.

Sithel approached this hectic scene. He halted in the center of the

room and clasped his hands behind his back. Lady Teralind had no choice

but to leave off her packing and attend the speaker. She combed a strand

of hair back from her face and curtsied to Sithel.

"To what do I owe this honor?" she asked in a hurried tone that made

it plain she regarded it as no honor at all.

"It's just come to my attention that I have been remiss in my duty,"

Sithel noted with heavy irony. "I greeted you and your husband as befitted

an ambassador, when I should have done you more honor. It is not often I

have an imperial princess under my roof."

A twitch passed over Terahnd's face. "What?" she murmured.

"Surely you don't deny your father? He is the emperor, after all."

The tension left the woman's shoulders. Her back straightened

slightly, and she immediately took on a more relaxed and regal attitude. "It

doesn't matter now. You are quite right, Highness. I am Xanille Teralind,

first daughter of His Majesty, Ullves X." She looped the stray strand of

hair back again. "How did you find out?"

"Lord Dunbarth recognized you. But why did you hide your identity?"

asked Sithel curiously.

"To protect myself," she averred. "My husband is a helpless invalid.

We traveled a long way from Daltigoth, through regions where my father

is not loved. Can you imagine the danger we would have faced if every

bandit chief and warlord knew I was an imperial princess? We should

have needed a hundred times the escort we came with. And how would

Your Highness have felt if we had shown up before Silvanost at the head

of a thousand warriors?"

"You are right. I would have thought you were trying to intimidate

me," Sithel said genially. He glanced at Tamanier Ambrodel. At the

signal, the courtier handed the speaker a small rolled slip of vellum.

Although Sithel made a fist around the scroll, he didn't yet open it.

The prince studied his father, mother, and Tamanier. What were they

up to? No one had told him what was going to happen–and yet, something

was about to happen, that was plain.

"Where, my lady, is your seneschal?" Sithel asked nonchalantly.

"Ulvissen? Seeing to the loading of my baggage. Why?" The question

seemed to put Teralind on the defensive.

"Would you summon him? I wish to speak with the man."

In short order Ulvissen himself entered from the courtyard where the

Ergothians' wagons were being loaded. He was sweating heavily in his

thick wool and leather outfit. In turn he bowed grandly to Teralind and

Sithel.

"You wished to speak to me, Highness?" he asked the speaker

awkwardly.

"Yes. Since this is a day of revelations, I see no reason why you

shouldn't be part of them." Sithel opened his hand, displaying the slip of

vellum. "I have here a report prepared by Prince Kith-Kanan before his

departure to the West. In it, he describes a half-human bandit he met in the

wilderness, Voltorno by name. Many months ago, he encountered this

Voltorno in the company of a band of humans. He states that you were one

of these men."

Ulvissen looked from the small scroll to the speaker's face, but

betrayed no guilt. "No offense intended, great speaker, but your son is

mistaken. I have never been to Silvanesti prior to coming as my lady's

seneschal," he said evenly.

"Mistakes are possible, even by Kith-Kanan," Sithel said, closing his

fingers around the parchment again. "Which is why I had my scribes

search the archives of the Temple of Kiri Jolith. There are kept accounts of

all wars and battles fought since the dawn of time. And whose name

should be found as high admiral of the Ergothian fleet, but one Guldur Ul

Vissen? A name strangely similar to your own, wouldn't you agree? Since

your princess saw fit to come here in disguise, it does not tax belief to

think you may have also." The speaker clasped his hands behind his back.

"What have you to say, Master Ulvissen?"

Ulvissen regarded the Speaker of the Stars with utter coolness. "Your

Highness is mistaken," he said firmly. "A similarity of names proves

nothing. Vissen is a common name in Ergoth."

"Do you agree, Lady?"

Teralind flinched. "Yes. What is the point? I've told you why I

pretended to be someone else. But my seneschal is who he claims to be."

Sithel tucked the parchment into his sash. "As an imperial princess,

please go with my best wishes and every hope of safety, but do not bring

your 'seneschal' to Silvanost again. Do you understand?" The harsh tone

was unusual for the speaker. "Those who despoil my country and kill my

subjects are not welcome in my city or my house. Please let this be known

when you arrive in Daltigoth, Lady."

With that, the speaker turned on his heel and walked away. Nirakina.

Followed. Tamanier bowed and did likewise. Sithas, wide-eyed, went last.

In the rotunda outside the humans' quarters, Sithel turned to his wife

with a broad smile on his face. He shook a fist at the ceiling.

"At last!" he said fiercely. "I've given that contentious woman her

own back!" He turned to Tamanier. "You have been of great service to me.

You shall be rewarded."

Tamanier blinked and bowed. "I seek only to serve Your Highness

and Lady Nirakina," he said.

"So you shall." Sithel pondered for a moment, stroking his pointed

chin. "I wish to appoint you chamberlain of the court. The management of

daily court life shall fall to you. You will be known as Lord Ambrodel,

and your clan shall have the right to inherit the title." The speaker folded

his arms and asked, "What say you to that, Lord Ambrodel?"

Tamanier gaped like a startled child. At last he collected himself and

dropped to one knee. "I thank you, Highness," he said humbly. "I will

serve you to the end of my days!"

"I think my days will end before yours," Sithel said wryly. "But you

can serve my son after."

Laughing, the royal family and their new chamberlain left the

rotunda. Sithas put a hand on Tamanier Ambrodel's arm.

"A word, my new lord," Sithas said in a confidential whisper, pulling

him aside.

"Yes?" said Tamanier discreetly.

"Let us go to a more private location."

They left the palace. Outside, the air was sweet with flowers and the

marble walks were covered with blossoms fallen from the trees. Sithas

said nothing until they were some distance from any observers.

"You know someone in the palace has been giving information to the

Ergothians," Sithas said conspiratorially, looking eastward to the fine

houses of the nobility. "I would appreciate it if you would help me find out

who the traitor is."

"I'll do what I can, noble prince," said Tamanier earnestly.

"Good. As chamberlain, you'll have access to every part of the palace.

I want you to use your authority to root out the spy and reveal him to me."

Sithas paused and looked straight at Tamanier. "But be wise. I don't want

the wrong person accused. And I don't want the culprit alerted."

"Do you have any suspects?" asked Tamanier.

"Officially, no. Personally, yes," Sithas said grimly. "I suspect my

own wife, Lady Hermathya."

"Your wife!" Tamanier was so shocked he could hardly believe what

he had heard.

"Surely, noble prince, your wife loves you. She would not betray you

to the humans!"

Sithas rubbed his hands slowly together. "I only have suspicions. All I

can say about Hermathya's motives is that she so loves attention and the

cheers of the people, that she spends huge amounts of money to keep their

favor. I do not give her coins to scatter in the streets, yet she never seems

to lack for money."

Shocked, yet pitying the prince at the same time, Tamanier asked,

"Do you suspect anyone else?"

"Yes, and perhaps he is the stronger candidate. His name is

Vedvedsica. He is a sorcerer and a priest, he claims, of Gilean the Gray

Voyager. My father sometimes uses his clairvoyant skills, but Vedvedsica

is a greedy conniver who would do anything for gold or power."

"The emperor of Ergoth has plenty of gold," Tamanier said sagely.

They talked for several minutes more. Tamanier vowed to detect the

traitor, and Sithas listened approvingly, nodded, then walked away. The

newly created chamberlain was left in the east garden, surrounded by

fallen petals and singing birds.

* * * * *

The farmers were apprehensive when they first saw the column of

armed warriors ride by, but when they realized who the Wildrunners were,

they came to greet these newcomers. Along the way, Kith-Kanan sent

troopers to help one farmer to fell a tree, another to free an ox from a

boggy ditch, and a third to mend a fence. Word of these kindnesses spread

ahead of the Wildrunners' march and increased the number of enthusiastic

elves–Silvanesti and Kagonesti–who came out to greet Kith-Kanan and his

troops.

For the next few days, the way of the march was lined with grateful

farmers and their families, bearing gifts of new nectar, smoked meat, and

fruit. Wreaths of flowers were hung around the Wildrunners' necks.

Kith-Kanan's mount Kijo was draped with a garland of white roses. At one

point, the prince ordered his pipers to play a lively tune, and the

Wildrunners passed through the countryside in a swirl of music, flowers,

and smiling settlers. It was more like a festival than a military expedition.

Some of the more veteran warriors were astonished.

Now, ten days from Silvanost, sitting around the blazing campfire,

warriors asked Kith-Kanan why he was making such a show of helping the

farmers and herders they met.

"Well," he explained, stirring his soup with a wooden spoon, "if this

militia idea is to succeed, the people must see us as their friends and not

just their protectors. You see, our ranks will be filled by the same farmers,

woodcutters, and herders we help along the way. They will be the troops,

and all of you will be their leaders."

"Is it true we're to take in humans and dwarves in the ranks?" asked a

captain with some distaste.

"It is," said Kith-Kanan.

"Can we rely on such fighters? I mean, we all know humans can fight,

and the dwarves are stout fellows, but will they obey orders to attack and

slay fellow humans or dwarves if those orders come from an elf?" asked

one of the older sergeants.

"They will, or they'll be expelled from the militia and lose its

protection," Kith-Kamm responded. "You ask if humans will serve us by

fighting humans. Some will, some won't. We'll be fighting elves, too, I

expect. I've heard tales of robber bands made up of humans, Kagonesti,

and even mixed-bloods. If they rob, if they kill, then we will bring them to

justice. We make no distinctions out here."

Sleep followed dinner, and guards were posted. The horses were

corralled in the center of the camp, and one by one the lamps went out in

the Wildrunners' tents.

Mackeli usually slept at Kith-Kanan's side, and that night was no

exception. Though the boy often slept soundly, the months he'd spent out

of the old forest hadn't completely dulled his senses; he was the first one

to sense something amiss. He sat up in the dark tent and rubbed his eyes,

unsure of what had roused him. He heard nothing, but he saw something

very odd.

Pink shadows wavered inside the tent. Mackeli saw his own hand,

washed pink by an unknown light. He slowly raised his head and saw that

a red circle of light showed through the tent's canvas roof. A glare of heat

on his face, Mackeli had no idea what the red glow portended, but he was

sure it wasn't friendly. He shook Kith-Kanan awake.

"Wha–What is it?" mumbled the prince.

"Look!" hissed Mackeli.

Kith-Kanan blinked at the red glow. He brushed the long hair from his

eyes and threw back his blanket. In lieu of the sword he'd broken in the

wildwood, he'd brought along a fine new weapon. Mackeli drew his own

sword from its scabbard as, warily, Kith-Kanan lifted the flap on the tent

with the tip of his blade.

Hovering over the camp, about twenty feet in the air, was a ball of red

fire the size of a cart wheel. The crackling red light covered the camp.

Kith-Kanan immediately felt a prickling sensation on his skin when the

red glow touched him.

"What is it?" asked Mackeli wonderingly.

"I don't know …."

The elf prince looked across the camp. The sentries were frozen, one

foot raised in midstep, mouths open in the act of giving the alarm. Their

eyes stared ahead, unblinking. Even the horses were rooted in place, some

with hooves raised and necks arched in odd angles.

"They're all paralyzed somehow," Kith-Kanan said in awe. "This is

evil magic!"

"Why aren't we paralyzed?" Mackeli asked, but Kith-Kanan had no

answer to that.

Through the line of tents shadowy figures moved. Bloodcolored light

sparkled on naked sword blades. Kith-Kanan and Mackeli ducked down

behind a tent. The shadow figures came on. There were five of them. By

their clothing, features, and coloring, Kith-Kanan saw they were raffish

Kagonesti. He held a finger to his lips, warning Mackeli to remain silent.

The Kagonesti approached the tent Kith-Kanan and Mackeli had been

sleeping in minutes before. "Is this the tent?" hissed one of them.

"Yeah," replied the leading elf. His face was heavily scarred, and

instead of a left hand, he had a cruel-looking metal hook.

"Let's be done with it an' get outta here," said a third Kagonesti.

Hook-Hand made a snarling sound in his throat.

"Don't be so hasty," he advised. "There's plenty of time for the kill

and to fill our pockets besides."

With sign language, Kith-Kanan indicated to Mackeli that he should

circle around behind the band of magic-wielding killers. The boy vanished

like a ghost, barefoot and wearing only his trousers. Kith-Kanan rose to

his feet.

Hook-Hand had just ordered his men to surround the prince's tent.

The killers slashed the ropes holding the tent up. As the canvas cone

collapsed, the five killers waded in, hacking and stabbing through the tent

cloth.

Suddenly, with a shout, Mackeli burst from concealment and bravely

attacked the gang. He ran the first one through, even as that elf was

turning to face him. Kith-Kanan gritted his teeth. Mackeli had attacked too

rashly, so the prince had to rush his own attack. With a shout, Kith-Kanan

entered the fray; he felled a mace-wielding killer with his first stroke.

Hook-Hand kicked through the slashed canvas of the fallen tent to get

clear. "That's him, boys!" he shouted as he retreated. "Finish 'em!"

From five, the villains were now down to three. Two of the Kagonesti

went for Mackeli, leaving Hook-Hand and Kith-Kanan to duel. The

scar-faced elf cut and thrust with deadly efficiency Snatching up a cut

length of rope with his hook, he lashed at Kith-Kanan. The knotted end

stung hard against the prince's cheek.

Mackeli was not doing well against the other two. Already they had

cut him on his left knee and right arm. Sweat sheened his body in the

weird crimson glow. When the killer on his left thrust straight at him,

Mackeli beat his blade and counterthrust into his opponent's chest. This

moment of triumph was shortlived. The other attacker stabbed Mackeli

before the boy could free his blade. Cold iron touched his heart, and he fell

to the ground.

"I got 'im!" shouted the victorious killer.

"Ya fool, that ain't the prince–this is! Help me get 'im!" Hook-Hand

shouted back, out of breath.

But Mackeli managed to heave himself up with great effort and stab

his foe in the leg. With a scream, the Kagonesti went down. He fell against

Hook-Hand's back, throwing his chief off balance. That was all

Kith-Kanan needed. Ignoring the flailing rope, he closed in and rammed

his blade through the assassin. Hook-Hand let out a slow, rattling gasp and

died as he fell.

Mackeli lay face-down in the dirt. His right arm was outstretched, still

clutching his sword. Kith-Kanan threw himself down by the boy. He

gently turned him over and then felt his own heart constrict. Mackeli's

bare chest was covered with blood.

"Say something, Keli!" he begged. "Don't die!"

Mackeli's eyes were open. He looked at Kith-Kanan, and a frown

tugged one corner of his mouth.

"This time … I can't obey, Kith," he said weakly. The life left his

body with a shuddering sigh. Sightlessly his green eyes continued to gaze

up at his friend.

An anguished sob wracked Kith-Kanan. He clutched Mackeli to him

and wept. What curse was he under? How had he offended the gods? Now

all of his family from the wildwood was gone. All gone. His tears mingled

with Mackeli's blood.

A sound penetrated Kith-Kanan's grief; the brute that Mackeli had

stabbed in the leg groaned. Kith-Kanan lowered the boy's body to the

ground and gently closed his eyes. Then, with a growl, he grabbed the

wounded mercenary by the tunic and dragged him to his feet.

"Who sent you?" he snarled. "Who sent you to kill me?"

"I don't know," gasped the elf. He trembled on his injured leg.

"Mercy, great lord! I'm just a hireling!"

Kith-Kanan shook him by the shirt front, his face twisted into a

hideous mask of rage. "You want mercy? Here's mercy: tell me who hired

you, and I'll cut your throat. Don't tell me, and it will take far longer for

you to die!"

"I'll tell, I'll tell!" babbled the terrified elf. Kith-Kanan threw him to

the ground. The light from the fireball suddenly grew more intense. The

elf let out a scream and threw an arm over his face. Kith-Kanan turned in

time to see the fiery globe come hurtling at them. As he leaped aside, the

fireball hit the wounded elf. There was a thunderclap, and the globe

exploded.

Slowly, sight and hearing returned to Kith-Kanan, and darkness

reclaimed the camp. The prince raised his head and found that his right

arm and leg were scorched from the fireball's impact. The wounded elf

was gone, vaporized.

* * * * *

Mackeli was buried in a simple grave on the banks of the Khalkist

River. The Wildrunners laid his sword across his chest, as was the custom

with elven warriors. At the head of his grave, in lieu of a marker,

Kith-Kanan planted the sprig of oak he'd snipped from Anaya's tree. All

this time it had remained green. The prince was certain the sprig would

grow into a fine tree, and that Mackeli and Anaya would be united

somehow in renewed life once more.

As the camp was breaking up, Kith-Kanan fingered the small ring he

now wore on his left little finger. This was the ring Silvanos had given to

his great general Balif during the Dragon War. Sithel had passed the ring

on to his son as a parting gift; it had been wrapped in the red silk

handkerchief the speaker had passed to his son. Kith-Kanan had donned

the ring with pride, but now he wondered if it was an unintentional portent

of tragedy. After all, Balif had been murdered by his rivals, certain

high-ranking elves who resented the kender's influence with Silvanos.

Now similar treachery had struck at Kith-Kanan and had taken his young

friend.

With somber diligence the Wildrunners struck their tents. When they

were done, the senior captain, a Kagonesti named Piradon, came to

Kith-Kanan.

"Highness, all is ready," he announced.

Kith-Kanan studied the captain's face. Like all the Kagonesti who

served in the royal guard, Piradon did not wear skin paint. It made his face

seem naked.

"Very well," he said flatly. "The usual columns of four, and I want

outriders ahead, behind, and on both flanks. No one's going to surprise us

again."

Kith-Kanan put a foot in his stirrup and swung a leg over his horse.

He slapped the reins against his horse's rump and cantered down to the

road. The golden ring of Balif felt tight on his finger, making his pulse

throb in his fingertip. The prince decided then that the feeling would stand

as a constant reminder of Mackeli's death and of his own vulnerability.

27

High Summer, Year of the Ram

Deprived of Anaya and bereft of Mackeli, Kith-Kanan threw himself

into his duty with a will that would have astonished those who had known

him as a callow, self-centered youth. He drove his warriors as hard as he

drove himself, and in weeks molded them into a quick-thinking,

quick-acting force.

Two months passed. High summer came to the plain, and the days

grew very hot. Daily thunderstorms soaked the steaming plains and green

forest, quenching the thirsty land so bursting with life. Grass grew on the

plain as tall as a grown elf's shoulder; so tall, in fact, that the herders had

to cut swaths through it with scythes twice weekly. Vines and bracken

choked the paths in the forest, making travel difficult, but the Wildrunners

were too busy to complain. Tall mountains of clouds, like castles of white

smoke, passed serenely overhead as the Wildrunners set up camp in order

to construct a new armory; one Kith-Kanan had already dubbed Sithelbec.

Militia outposts like the one under construction had been established

all across the plain in the past eight weeks, and settlers of every race

flocked to their standards. Humans, elves, kender, dwarves–they were all

tired of being victims, subject to the whims of the roving robbers. The

captains and sergeants of the Wildrunners drilled them with pikes and

shields, and showed them how to stand up to the mounted brigands.

Everywhere Kith-Kanan's force stopped, an armory was founded. Stout

stone houses were built by the Wildrunners, and there all the militia's

weapons were stored. At the sounding of a gong, all able-bodied people in

the locale would rush to the arsenal and arm themselves. In an attack, the

Wildrunner officers stationed close at hand would lead them out to repel

the raiders.

By a few weeks before midsummer, the south and central plains had

been pacified. In most cases, the brigands hadn't even stayed around to

fight the new militia. They'd simply vanished. Parnigar, eldest of the

sergeants, had pronounced himself dissatisfied with the results of the

campaign, however.

"What fault can you find?" Kith-Kanan had asked his trusted aide, the

closest person to him since Mackeli's death. "I'd say we were succeeding

far better than we could have hoped."

"Aye, that's the problem, sir. The brigands have given up too easily.

They've scarcely tried to test us," Parnigar countered.

"Just shows that thieves have no stomach for honest combat." The old

soldier nodded politely, but it was plain he had not been convinced.

The construction of Sithelbec began with a stockade of logs around

the inner blockhouse of stone. Here, at the edge of the western forest,

Kith-Kanan planned to extend law and order.

Inside the forest, however, was a different proposition. There were

many elves of the Kagonesti race living in the woods, but they were hardy

and independent and did not take kindly to armed soldiers on their land.

These woods elves got along much better with their human neighbors than

they did with the Kagonesti under Kith-Kanan's command. Worse, the

western woods elves scorned the prince's offers of protection.

"Who do we need protection from?" they had asked scornfully when

confronted. "The only invaders we see are you."

The woods elves spat on Kith-Kanan's representatives or threw stones

at them, then melted into the trees.

The Wildrunners were all for going into the forest and converting the

stubborn woods elves at the point of a sword, but Kith-Kanan would not

allow it. Their success was built upon the trust the common people had in

them; if they turned tyrannical, everything they'd accomplished would be

for naught. It would take time, but the prince believed that he could even

win over the wild Kagonesti.

As work on Sithelbec continued, Kith-Kanan received a dispatch from

his father. The Speaker of the Stars had accepted the prince's invitation to

the outpost. Sithel was coming, accompanied by Sithas and a caravan of

guards and courtiers.

Kith-Kanan studied the dispatch, penned by his twin. The speaker's

retinue was large and slow-moving; it would be at least two weeks before

they reached Sithelbec. Even with that grace period, the fortress would not

be finished in time. Kith-Kanan exhorted his warriors to do their best, but

to save their strength for fighting–even though bandits were becoming as

rare as cool breezes in the hot and steamy summer nights.

The work was still unfinished when the banner of the speaker's party

appeared on the horizon. Kith-Kanan called in all his patrols and formed

his warriors before the gates of Sithelbec.

The Wildrunners looked on in awe as the speaker's party came into

view. First came forty guards on horseback, armed with long lances.

Pennants fluttered from their lance tips. Behind them came an honor guard

of nobles, sixty-two of them, bearing the banners of Silvanos's clan, the

city of Silvanost, the great temples, the major guilds, and the lesser towns

of Silvanesti. The nobles formed a square behind the line of lancers. Next

came Sithas and his entourage, all clad in scarlet and white. Finally, the

Speaker of the Stars rode up, flanked by one hundred courtiers wearing the

speaker's colors. The tail of the procession consisted of the rest of the

guards and all the baggage wagons.

"By Astarin," muttered Kith-Kanan. "Is there anyone left in

Silvanost?"

The nobles parted ranks, the lancers moved to one side, and Sithas

rode forward. "Greetings, Brother. Is everything in order?" asked the heir

to the throne.

Kith-Kanan grinned. "Not everything," he said, looking up at Sithas.

"But we're doing well enough."

The leader of the Wildrunners strode through the blocks of mounted

elves toward his father. Soldiers, nobles, and courtiers parted for him with

mechanical precision. There was Sithel, astride a splendid white charger,

his golden mantle draped across the animal's rump. The crown of Silvanos

sparkled on his brow.

Kith-Kanan bowed from the waist. "Hail, great speaker!"

"Hail to you, my son." Sithel waved the emerald and ivory scepter of

Silvanos, and Kith-Kanan straightened, "How have you been?"

"Mostly well, Father. The militia has been a great success. Incidents

of marauding have ceased and, until recently, everyone we met was with

us."

Sithel laid the scepter in the crook of his arm. "Until recently?" he

asked with a frown.

"Yes. The inhabitants of the woods are not eager for our help. I

believe we can eventually win them to our side, though."

The speaker's charger shook its head and did a slow half-circle. A

groom ran forward to hold the animal's bridle as Sithel patted his horse's

snowy neck.

"I would hear more about this," he said solemnly. Kith-Kanan took

the bridle from the groom and led his father's mount toward the unfinished

fortress.

* * * * *

The vast formation of soldiers and courtiers dispersed, and a regular

tent city grew up on the plain in and around the stockade of Sithelbec. The

speaker moved into the incomplete keep, as did Sithas. There, on a rough

table of green oak planks, Kith-Kanan served them dinner and told them

about the problems they'd been having winning the confidence of the

woods elves.

"The impudence of it," Sithas complained vehemently. "I think you

should go in and drag the wretches out."

Kith-Kanan couldn't believe his ears. "And make them blood enemies

forever, Sith? I know the Kagonesti. They prize freedom above all things

and won't submit even with a sword at their throat. Unless we're willing to

burn down the whole forest, we'll never flush them out. It's their element;

they know every inch of it. Most of all, it's their home."

There was a moment of silence, then Sithel broke it.

"How is the hunting?" he asked pleasantly.

"Outstanding," Kith-Kanan said, glad of the change in subject. "The

woods are fairly bursting with game, Father."

They gossiped a bit about life back in the city. Lady Nirakina and

Tamanier Ambrodel were continuing their efforts on behalf of the

homeless. The new Market was almost finished. Given the huge

abundance of the coming harvest, even the new, expanded Market would

be taxed to handle the volume.

"How is Hermathya?" Kith-Kanan asked politely.

Sithas shrugged, "As well as always. She spends too much and still

craves the adoration of the common folk."

They made plans for a boar hunt that would take place on the morrow.

Only a small party would go–the speaker, Sithas, Kith-Kanan,

Kencathedrus, another royal guard, Parnigar, and half a dozen favored

courtiers. They would assemble at dawn and ride into the forest armed

with lances. No beaters or hounds would be used. The speaker viewed

such measures as unsporting.

* * * * *

Though the sun had not yet shown itself, there was an early heat in the

air, a promise of the stifling day to come. Kith-Kanan stood by a small

campfire with Parnigar, eating some bread and porridge. Sithas and Sithel

emerged from the half-built keep, dressed in drab brown hunting clothes.

"Good morning," Kith-Kanan said energetically.

"Going to be hot, I think," appraised Sithel. A servant appeared

silently at his elbow with a cup of cool apple cider. A second servant

offered Sithas similar refreshment.

The courtiers appeared, looking ill at ease in their borrowed hunting

clothes. Kencathedrus and Parnigar were more lethal looking. The

commander leaned on his lance with an easy grace, seeming fully awake,

the benefit of many years rising before the sun. The hunting party ate in

relative silence, chewing bread and cheese, spooning porridge quickly, and

washing everything down with cider.

Sithel finished first. He thrust his empty cup and plate at a servant and

took a lance from the pyramid of weapons stacked outside the keep.

"To horse," he announced. "The prey awaits!"

The speaker mounted with ease and swung the long ash lance in a

broad circle around his head. Kith-Kanan couldn't help but smile at his

father who, despite his age and dignity, was more expert with horse and

lance than any of them, except perhaps Kencathedrus and Parnigar.

Sithas was a fair horseman, but fumbled with the long lance and reins.

The courtiers, more used to loose robes and tight protocol, wobbled

aboard their animals. The nervous animals were made more so by the

lances bobbing and dancing just behind their heads.

Forming a triangle with Sithel in the lead, the party rode toward the

forest, half a mile away. Dew was thick on the tall grass, and crickets sang

until the horses drew near. The silver rim of Solinari could been seen on

the western horizon.

Sithas rode on the speaker's left. Kith-Kanan rode on his father's right,

resting the butt of his lance in his stirrup cup. They rode at an easy pace,

not wanting to tire the horses too early. If they flushed a boar, they'd need

all the speed they could muster from their chargers.

"I haven't been hunting in sixty years," Sithel said, breathing deeply

of the morning air. "When I was your age, all the young bucks had to have

a boar's head on their clan hall wall to show everyone how virile they

were." Sithel smiled. "I still remember how I got my first boar.

Shenbarrus, Hermathya's father, and I used to go to the marshes at the

mouth of the Thon-Thalas. Marsh boar were reputed to be the fiercest of

the fierce, and we thought we'd be the most famous hunters in Silvanost if

we came back with a trophy. Shenbarrus was a lot thinner and more active

in those days. He and I went down river by boat. We landed on Fairgo

Island and immediately started tracking a large beast."

"You were on foot?" asked Kith-Kanan, incredulous.

"Couldn't get a horse on the island, son. It was too marshy. So

Shenbarrus and I went in the spikerod thickets, armed with spears and

brass bucklers. We got separated and the next thing I knew, I was alone in

the marsh, with ominous rustlings in the bushes around me. I called out:

'Shenbarrus! Is that you?' There was no answer. I called again; still no

answer. By then I was certain the noise I'd heard was a boar. I raised my

spear high and thrust it through the thick brush. There was a scream such

as mortal elf never heard, and Shenbarrus came pounding through the

spikerod into the open. I'd jabbed him in, hmm, the seat of his robe."

Kith-Kanan laughed. Sithas laughed and asked, "So you never got

your marsh boar?"

"Oh, I did!" Sithel said. "Shenbarrus's yells flushed a monster of a pig

out of the brush. He ran right at us. Despite his painful wound Shenbarrus

stabbed first. The pig thrashed and tore up the clearing . I got my spear

back and finished the beast off."

"Who got the head?" asked Sithas.

"Shenbarrus. He drew first blood, so it was only right," said his father

warmly.

Kith-Kanan had been in Hermathya's father's house many times and

had seen the fierce boar's head in the dining hall over the fireplace. He

thought of old Shenbarrus getting poked in the "seat of his robe" and he

burst out laughing all over again.

The sky had lightened to pink by the time they reached the dark wall

of trees. The party spread out, far enough apart for easy movement, but

near enough to stay in sight of one another. All idle talk ceased.

The sun rose behind them, throwing long shadows through the trees.

Kith-Kanan sweated in his cotton tunic and mopped his face with his

sleeve. His father was ahead to his left, Parnigar slightly behind to his

right.

Being in the forest again brought Anaya irresistibly to mind.

Kith-Kanan saw her again, lithe and lively, flitting through the trees as

silent as a ghost. He remembered her brusque manners, her gentle repose,

and the way she felt in his arms. That he remembered best of all.

The heavy rains of summer had washed the sandy soil of the forest

away, leaving chuckholes and protruding roots. Kith-Kanan let his horse

pick its way along, but the animal misjudged its footing and hit a hole. The

horse stumbled and recovered, but Kith-Kanan lost his seat and tumbled to

the ground. The stump of a broken sapling gouged him in the back, and he

lay there for a moment, stunned.

His vision cleared and he saw Parnigar leaning over him. "Are you all

right, sir?" the old sergeant asked concernedly.

"Yes, just dazed. How's my horse?"

The animal stood a few yards away, cropping moss. His right foreleg

was held painfully off the ground.

Parnigar helped Kith-Kanan stand as the last of the hunting party

passed by. Kencathedrus, in the rear, asked if they needed any help.

'No," Kith-Kanan said quickly. "Go on. I'll see to my horse."

The horse's lower leg was bruised but, with care, it wouldn't be a

crippling injury. Parnigar offered Kith-Kanan his horse, so he could catch

up to the rest.

"No, thank you, Sergeant. They're too far ahead. If I go galloping after

them, I'll scare off any game in the area " He put a hand to his aching

back.

Parnigar asked, "Shall I stay with you, sir?"

"I think you'd better. I may have to walk back to Sithelbec from here."

His back stabbed at him again, and he winced.

The news that Kith-Kanan had dropped out was passed ahead. The

speaker expressed regret that his son would miss the hunt. But this was a

rare day, and the expedition should continue. Sithel's course through the

trees meandered here and there, taking the path best suited to his horse. At

more than one place he paused to examine tracks in the moss or mud.

Wild pig, definitely.

It was hot, but the elves welcomed such heat–for it was a good change

from the ever-present coolness of the Quinari Palace and the Tower of the

Stars. While Silvanost was constantly bathed in fresh breezes, the heat of

the plains made the speaker's limbs feel looser and more supple, his head

clearer. He reveled in the sense of freedom he felt out here and urged his

horse on.

In the far distance, Sithel heard the call of a hunting horn. Such horns

meant humans, and that meant dogs. Sure enough, the sound of barking

came very faintly to his ears. Elves never used dogs, but humans rarely

went into the woods without them. Human eyesight and hearing being so

poor, Sithel reckoned they needed the animals to find any game at all.

The horns and dogs would likely frighten off any boar in the area. In

fact, the dogs would flush everything–boar, deer, rabbits, foxes–out of

hiding. Sithel shifted his lance back to his stirrup cup and sniffed. Humans

were so unsporting.

There was a noise in the sumac behind and to his right. Sithel turned

his horse around, lowered the tip of his lance, and poked through the

bushes. A wild pheasant erupted from the green leaves, bleating shrilly.

Laughing, the speaker calmed his prancing horse.

Sithas and a courtier named Timonas were close enough to see each

other when the hunting horn sounded. The prince also realized that it

meant humans in the woods. The idea filled him with alarm. He tightened

his reins and spurred his horse in a tight circle, looking for other members

of the party. The only one he could spot was Timonas.

"Can you see anyone?" Sithas called. The courtier shouted back that

he could not.

Sithas's alarm increased. It was inexplicable, but he felt a dangerous

presentiment. In the heat of the summer morning, the prince shivered.

"Father!" he called. "Speaker, where are you?"

Ahead, the speaker had decided to turn back. Any boar worth bagging

had long since left these woods, driven off by the humans. He retraced his

path and heard Sithas's call from not too far away.

"Oh, don't shout," he muttered irritably. "I'm coming."

Catching up to him, Sithas pushed through a tangle of vines and elm

saplings. As the prince spurred his mount toward the speaker, the feeling

of danger was still with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint

of metal in a stand of cedar.

Then he saw the arrow in flight.

Before Sithas could utter the cry that rose to his lips, the arrow had

struck Sithel in the left side, below his ribs. The Speaker of the Stars

dropped his lance and pitched forward, but he did not fall from the saddle.

A scarlet stain spread out from the arrow, running down the leg of Sithel's

trousers.

Timonas rode up on Sithas's left. "See to the speaker!" Sithas cried.

He slapped his horse's flank with the reins and bore down on the cedar

trees. Lance lowered, he burst through the dark green curtain. A quick

glimpse of a white face, and he brought the handguard of his lance down

on the archer's head. The archer pitched forward on his face.

The royal guardsman accompanying the party appeared. "Come here!

Watch this fellow!" Sithas shouted at him and then rode hard to where

Timonas supported Sithel on his horse.

"Father," Sithas said breathlessly. "Father …"

The speaker stared in wordless shock. He could say nothing as he

reached a bloody hand to his son.

Gently Sithas and Timonas lowered the speaker to the ground. The

rest of the hunting party quickly collected around them. The courtiers

argued whether to remove the arrow, but Sithas silenced them all as

Kencathedrus studied the wound. The look he gave the prince was telling.

Sithas Understood.

"Father," Sithas said desperately, "can you speak?"

Sithel's lips parted, but no sound came. His hazel eyes seemed full of

puzzlement. At last, his hand touched his son's face, and he breathed his

last. The hand fell to the ground.

The elves stood around their fallen monarch in abject disbelief. The

one who had ruled them for three hundred and twenty-three years lay dead

at their feet.

Kencathedrus had retrieved the fallen archer from the guardsman who

watched him. The commander dragged the unconscious fellow by the back

of his collar to where Sithel lay. "Sire, look at this," he said. He rolled the

inert figure over.

The archer was human. His carrot-colored hair was short and spiky,

leaving his queerly rounded ears plainly visible. There was a stubble of

orange beard on his chin.

"Murder," muttered one of the courtiers. "The humans have killed our

speaker!"

"Be silent!" Sithas said angrily. "Show some respect for the dead." To

Kencathedrus he declared, "When he wakes we will find out who he is and

why he did this."

"Perhaps it was an accident," cautioned Kencathedrus, inspecting the

man. "His bow is a hunting weapon, not a war bow."

"He took aim! I saw him," Sithas said hotly. "My father was mounted

on a white horse! Who could mistake him?"

The human groaned. Courtiers surrounded him and dragged him to his

feet. They were not very gentle about it. By the time they finished shaking

and pummeling him, it was a wonder he opened his eyes at all.

"You have killed the Speaker of the Stars!" Sithas demanded

furiously, "Why?"

"No-" gasped the man.

He was forced to his knees. "I saw you!" Sithas insisted. "How can

you deny it? Why did you do it?"

"I swear, Lord–"

Sithas could barely think or feel. His senses reeled with the fact that

his beloved father was dead.

"Get him ready to travel," the prince ordered numbly. "We will take

him back to the fortress and question him properly there."

"Yes, Speaker," said Timonas.

Sithas froze. It was true. Even as his father's blood ran into the

ground, he was the rightful speaker. He could feel the burden of rulership

settle about him like a length of chain laid across his shoulders. He had to

be strong now, strong and wise, like his father.

"What about your father?" Kencathedrus asked gently.

"I will carry him." Sithas put his arms under his father's lifeless body

and picked it up.

They walked out of the grove, the human with his arms wrenched

behind him, the courtiers leading their horses, and Sithas carrying his dead

father. As they came, the sound of hunting horns grew louder and the

barking of dogs sounded behind them. Before the party had gone another

quarter-mile, a band of mounted humans, armed with bows, appeared.

There were at least thirty of them, and as they spread out around the party

of elves, the Silvanesti slowed and stopped.

One human picked his way to Sithas. He wore a visored helmet, no

doubt to protect his face from intruding branches. The man flipped the

visor up, and Sithas started in surprise. He knew that face. It was Ulvissen,

the human who had acted as seneschal to Princess Teralind.

"What has happened here?" Ulvissen asked grimly, taking in the

scene.

"The Speaker of the Stars has been murdered," Sithas replied archly.

"By that man."

Ulvissen looked beyond Sithas and saw the archer with his arms

pinioned. "You must be mistaken. That man is my forester, Dremic," he

said firmly. "He is no murderer. This was obviously an accident."

"Accident? That's not an acceptable answer. I am speaker now, and I

say that this assassin will face Silvanesti justice."

Ulvissen leaned forward in his saddle. "I do not think so, Highness.

Dremic is my man. If he is to be punished, I will see to it," he said

strongly.

"No," disagreed Sithas.

The elves drew together. Some still carried their lances, others had

courtly short swords at their waists. Kencathedrus held his sword to the

neck of the human archer, Dremic. The standoff was tense.

Before anyone could act, though, a shrill two-tone whistle cut the air.

Sithas felt relief well up inside him. Sure enough, through the trees came

Kith-Kanan at the head of a company of the militia's pikemen. The prince

rode forward to where Sithas stood, holding their father in his arms.

Kith-Kanan's face twisted. "I–I am too late!" he cried in anguish.

"Too late for one tragedy, but not too late to prevent another," Sithas

said. Quickly he told his twin what had happened and what was about to

happen.

"I heard the hunting horns at Sithelbec," Kith-Kanan said. "I thought

there might be a clash, so I mustered the First Company. But this–if only I

had stayed, kept up with Father–"

"We must have our man back, Highness," Ulvissen insisted. His

hunting party nocked arrows.

Sithas shook his head. Before he'd even finished the gesture, some of

the humans loosed arrows. Kith-Kanan shouted an order, and his pikemen

charged. The humans, with no time to reload, bolted. In seconds, not one

human could be seen, though the sound of their horses galloping away

could be heard clearly.

Kith-Kanan halted the militia and called the Wildrunners back to

order. Kencathedrus had been hit in the thigh. The unfortunate Dremic had

been shot by his own people and now lay dead on the grass.

"We must get back to Silvanost, quickly," Sithas advised, "Not only

to bury our father but to tell the people of war!"

Before the confused Kith-Kanan could question or protest, he was

shocked to hear his own Wildrunners cheer Sithas's inflammatory words.

The humans' cowardly flight had aroused their blood. Some were even

ready to hunt down the humans in the forest, but Kith-Kanan reminded

them that their duty was to their dead speaker and their comrades back at

the fort.

They marched out of the woods, a solemn parade, bearing the bodies

of the fallen on their horses. The dead human, Dremic, was left where he

lay. A shocked and silent garrison greeted them at Sithelbec. Sithel was

dead. Sithas was speaker. Everyone wondered if the cause of peace had

died with the great and ancient leader.

Kith-Kanan readied his warriors in defensive positions in case of

attack. Watch was kept throughout the night, but it proved to be a peaceful

one. After midnight, when he'd finished his work for the day, Kith-Kanan

went to the shell of the unfinished keep, where Sithas knelt by the body of

their slain father.

"The Wildrunners are prepared should an attack come," he said softly.

Sithas did not raise his head. "Thank you."

Kith-Kanan looked down at his father's still face. 'Did he suffer?"

"No."

"Did he say anything?"

"He could not speak."

Hands clenched into fists, Kith-Kanan wept. "This is my fault! His

safety was my duty! I urged him to come here. I encouraged him to go

hunting."

"And you weren't present when he was ambushed." said Sithas

calmly.

Kith-Kanan reacted blindly. He seized his twin by the back of

his robe and hauled him to his feet. Spinning him around, he snarled, "You

were there, and what good did it do him?"

Sithas gripped Kith-Kanan's fists and pulled them loose from his shirt.

With angry precision, he said, "I am speaker. I am. I am the leader of the

elven nation, so you serve me now, Brother. You can no longer fly off to

the forest. And do not trouble me about the rights of Kagonesti or

half-human trash."

Kith-Kanan let out a breath, long and slow. The twin he loved was

swamped by hatred and grief, he told himself as he looked into Sithas's

stormy eyes. With equal precision he answered, "You are my speaker.

You are my liege lord, and I shall obey you even unto death." It was the

ancient oath of fealty. Word for word, the twins had said it to their father

when they'd reached maturity. Now Kith-Kanan said it to his twin, his

elder by just three minutes.

28

Burdened by Command

Sithel's body was borne back to his capital with haste. Sithas felt

dignity was less important than speed; he wanted to present the nation

with the terrible news as quickly as possible. The Ergothians might move

at any time, and the elven nation was not ready to meet them.

The dire news flashed ahead of the caravan. By the time Sithel's body

was ferried across the Thon-Thalas, the city was already in mourning. The

river was so thick with boats, it could be walked across. From the

humblest fisher to the mightiest priest, all elves turned out to view the

speaker for the last time. By the thousands they lined the street to the

Tower of the Stars, bare-headed out of respect. Waiting for the cortege at

the tower was Lady Nirakina. She was so stricken that she had to be

carried in a sedan chair from the palace to the tower.

There were no hails or cheers as Speaker Sithas walked through the

streets, leading the funeral cortege. His father lay in state in the Temple of

E'li as thousands of his subjects came to pay him a last farewell. Then,

with a minimum of ceremony, Sithel was put to rest beside his own father

in the magnificent mausoleum known as the Crystal Tomb.

The very next day, Sithas composed an ultimatum to the emperor of

Ergoth. "We consider the death of our father Sithel to be nothing less than

deliberate murder," Sithas wrote. "The Elven Nation demands retribution

for its speaker's death. If Your Imperial Highness wishes to avoid war, we

will accept an indemnity of one million gold pieces, the expulsion of all

Ergothian subjects from our western territories, and the surrender of all the

men present at the murder of our father, including Ulvissen."

Kith-Kanan had had to delay his departure from Sithelbec. He arrived

in Silvanost two days after his father's funeral, incensed that Sithas had

acted so precipitously with the last rites and his ultimatum to the emperor

of Ergoth.

"Why did you not wait?" he complained to his twin in the Tower of

the Stars. "I should have been here to see father's last rites!" Kith-Kanan

had just come from a long visit with his mother; her grief and his own

weighed heavily upon him.

"There is no time for empty ceremony," Sithas said. "War may be

near, and we must act. I have ordered prayers and offerings to our father

be made in every temple every night for thirty days, but for now I must

rally the people."

"Will the humans attack?" asked Hermathya anxiously from her place

at Sithas's side.

"I don't know," the speaker replied grimly. "They outnumber us ten to

one."

Kith-Kanan looked at the two of them. It was so unnatural to see them

where Sithel and Nirakina had been so often seated. Hermathya looked

beautiful, perfectly groomed and dressed in a gown of gold, silver, and

white. Yet she was cold. Whereas Nirakina could inspire respect and love

with a smile and a nod, all Hermathya seemed capable of doing was

looking statuesque. Of course she did not meet Kith-Kanan's eyes.

On the emerald throne, Sithas looked strained and tired. He was trying

to make fast and hard decisions, as he felt befitted a monarch in time of

trouble. The burden showed on his face and in his posture. He looked far

older than his twin at this moment.

The tower was empty except for the three of them. All morning Sithas

had been meeting with priests, nobles, and masters of the guilds, telling

them what he expected from them in case of war. There had been some

patriotic words, mostly from the priests, but in all the tone of the audience

had been very subdued. Now only Kith-Kanan remained. Sithas had

special orders for him.

"I want you to form the Wildrunners into a single army," he

commanded.

"With what purpose?" his twin asked.

"Resist the Ergothian army, should it cross the border into the forest."

Kith-Kanan rubbed his forehead. "You know, Sith, that the whole

militia numbers only twenty thousand, most of whom are farmers armed

with pikes."

"I know, but there's nothing else to stop the humans between their

border and the banks of the Thon-Thalas. We need time, Kith, time for

Kencathedrus to raise an army with which to defend Silvanost."

"Then why in Astarin's name are you so eager to start a war with

Ergoth? They have two hundred thousand men under arms! You said it

yourself!"

Sithas's hands clenched the arms of his throne, and he leaned forward.

"What else can I do? Forgive the humans for murdering our father? You

know it was murder. They laid a trap for him and killed him! Is it such a

coincidence that Ulvissen was in the area and that one of his supposed

foresters perpetrated the crime?"

"It is suspicious," Kith-Kanan conceded, with less heat than before.

He pulled his helmet on, threading the chin strap into its buckle. "I will do

what I can, Sith," he said finally, "but there may be those who aren't as

willing to fight and die for Silvanesti."

"Anyone who refuses the speaker's call is a traitor," Hermathya

interjected.

"It is easy to make such distinctions here in the city, but on the plains

and in the woods, neighbors mean more than far-off monarchs,"

Kith-Kanan said pointedly.

"Are you saying the Kagonesti will not fight for us?" asked Sithas

angrily.

"Some will. Some may not."

Sithas leaned back and sighed deeply. "I see. Do what you can, Kith.

Go back to Sithelbec as quickly as you can." He hesitated. "I know you

will do your best."

A brief glance passed between the twins. "I'll take Arcuballis," said

Kith-Kanan and went quickly.

When the prince had departed, Hermathya fumed. "Why do you allow

him to be so familiar? You're the speaker. He should bow and call you

Highness."

Sithas turned to his wife. His face was impassive. "I have no doubts

about Kith's loyalty," he said heavily. "Unlike yours, Lady, in spite of your

correct language and empty flattery."

"What do you mean?" she said stiffly.

"I know you hired Kagonesti thugs to murder Kith-Kanan because he

would not dishonor me by becoming your lover. I know all, Lady."

Hermathya's normally pale face grew waxen. "It's not true," she said,

her voice wavering. "It's a foul lie–Kith-Kanan told you, didn't he?"

"No, Lady. Kith doesn't know you hired the elves who murdered his

friend. When you employed a certain gray-robed sorcerer to contact a

band of killers, you didn't know that the same sorcerer also works for me.

For gold, he will do anything–including tell me everything about your

treachery."

Hermathya's entire body shivered violently. She rose unsteadily from

her throne and backed across the platform, away from Sithas. The silver

and gold hem of her heavy robe dragged across the marble floor.

"What will you do?" she gasped.

He stared at her for a long minute. "To you? Nothing. This is hardly

the time for the speaker to put his wife in prison. Your plot failed,

fortunately for your life, so I will let you keep your freedom for now. But I

tell you this, Hermathya–" he rose and stood tall and straight before her

"–if you so much as frown at my brother, or if you ever have contact with

Vedvedsica again, I will shut you away someplace where you'll never see

the sun again."

Sithas turned and strode with resolve from the tower. Hermathya

remained standing for a moment, swaying to and fro. Finally, her legs

gave way. She collapsed in the center of the platform and wept. The rich

silver and gold of her robes gleamed in the light from the window slits.

* * * * *

The griffon's wings beat in quick rhythm as Kith-Kanan and

Arcuballis flew to the west. An array of armor and arms weighed

Arcuballis down, but the powerful beast never faltered in flight. As they

passed over the vast southern forest, Kith-Kanan couldn't help but look

down at the green canopy and wonder. If Anaya hadn't changed, would he

still be down there somewhere, living the free life of a wild elf? Would

Mackeli still be alive? These thoughts gnawed at him. His happiest days

had been the time spent with Anaya and Mackeli, roaming the wildwood,

doing whatever the moment called for. No duty. No onerous protocol. Life

had been an eternal, joyous spring.

And just as quickly, Kith-Kanan found himself dismissing these

thoughts from his mind. It can't always be spring, and one can't always be

young and carefree. He wasn't an ordinary elf after all, but a prince of the

blood. His life had held many pleasures and very little had ever been asked

of him. Now it was time for him to earn what he had enjoyed. Kith-Kanan

fixed his gaze on the distant blue horizon and steeled himself for war.