An elderly sea elf, clad in a simple silver robe, stood at the end of the guard ranks, his bearing proud. Coryphene halted a few paces from this elderly fellow and raised one hand. Loudly, he intoned, “Greetings, Voice of Her Divine Majesty!”
The elf bowed his head slightly. Vixa was astonished at how quickly the cheering and screeching died down. One minute there were thunderous cries, the next, virtual silence.
The elderly sea elf replied in Old Elvish: “Greetings to thee, great Coryphene, terror of the enemies of Urione. Her Divine Grace desires thou to attend upon her instantly.”
“I would like to make myself more presentable, noble Kytheron.”
“As thou wishes, great Protector. Her Divine Grace desires thee to bring the maiden from the landed race as well.”
Vixa was startled, but Coryphene merely nodded.
The Protector strode away, and Vixa was forced to jog after him.
“My uncle is leader of our party,” she said. “You should send for him. I’m sure the queen would rather meet Armantaro than me.”
Coryphene looked down at her disdainfully. “All must obey Her Divine Majesty. Refusal brings death. Remember that.”
Vixa was shown to a room where the only furniture was a table upon which was a pitcher of fresh water, a fishbone comb, and a small pile of clothing. The Qualinesti princess washed her hands and face, relieved to remove at least a few layers of the grime and accumulated salt. Her hair—kept short because of her warrior status—she rinsed as best she could, then combed back from her face.
A pile of clean garments awaited her. There were several articles that were obviously undergarments and a flowing, ankle-length robe. Everything was made of a strange fabric. It didn’t feel like cloth at all—more like tissue-thin leather, if there could be such a thing. Quickly, she peeled off her salt-stiffened smallclothes, doused herself with the remaining water, and donned the clean clothing. The robe was white and had a wide red stripe winding from hem to neck. It was astonishingly comfortable. Material such as this, soft as silk yet tough as leather, would fetch a handsome price in any market on Krynn. Around her waist she fastened an elaborate girdle of tiny white coral beads. She had to wrap its free ends twice about her, otherwise they would have dragged on the floor.
Coryphene entered unexpectedly. Vixa whirled, her hands still occupied with tying the belt. “Don’t you believe in knocking?” she snapped.
“Her Majesty awaits. Come,” was all he said.
He was resplendent in a long purple cape and jeweled torque. On his head was an elaborate headdress of shells and gemstones. Coral beads hung down in long streams across his bare chest. His fresh kilt was held up by a heavy, braided gold sash. Wide ankle bracelets completed his outfit.
They walked out of the barracks and down the narrow street to the ramp. An honor guard of twelve Dargonesti in silver robes met them. On the way, Coryphene advised Vixa on protocol.
“Do not speak unless you are spoken to,” he told her. “Answer fully all questions put to you. Her Divinity has the gift of sight, and can see far more than ordinary mortals. Lastly, do not look Her Divinity in the face.”
Vixa couldn’t resist. “Why not?”
“To do so means death.”
They ascended the spiral ramp and passed through the magical portal. After the flash of light and heat, Vixa was once more standing in the palace plaza. The honor guard had drawn off a short distance and donned silver hoods. Coryphene straightened his shoulders and walked firmly ahead.
He led Vixa to a pair of enormous doors, set just under the colonnade on the far side of the plaza. The doors were made of quartz crystals the size of logs, bolted together with rods of the same material. The shadows of servants could be seen on the other side, hauling the doors open. Once inside, Coryphene paused to remove his headdress. He tucked it under his arm before continuing.
The corridor was illuminated by greenish light from the domed ceiling. The odd color of the light came from the filtering effect of many fathoms of seawater. The sun’s rays barely penetrated to this depth. Incense, its sweet-sour smell like that in the temple complex, filled the long passage. Vixa spied censers located between the pearl-inlaid columns lining the hall. Dargonesti women in scarlet robes tended these braziers, feeding them small pellets of some waxy substance.
The passage wound around the curve of the upper level of the city and ended at an antechamber. Tall, gaunt sea elves in priestly garb stood to each side of the chamber, conversing quietly among themselves. They fell silent when Coryphene entered, and bowed to him.
“I come in answer to Her Divinity’s summons,” the Protector announced.
“She awaits within,” replied a shell-bedecked priest.
Coryphene nodded to the servants at the inner doors. One struck a hanging assembly of pink shells, which rang sweetly in a cascade of bell tones. The priests and the honor guard turned their backs to the door as it opened.
“Remember!” Coryphene hissed. “Avert your eyes!”
Vixa lowered her gaze to her bare feet. Fine treatment for a member of the royal house of Qualinost, she silently fumed. The blood of Kith-Kanan and Silvanos ran in her veins. Why could she not look on this petty undersea queen?
The audience chamber was lit by a shifting greenish light. The Protector dropped to one knee, signaling for Vixa to do likewise by tugging on her hand.
“Divine Queen, your servant Coryphene has come as you commanded,” he said. Vixa resisted his pull. A princess of the Qualinesti kneels to none but the Speaker, after all. Coryphene gave a stronger yank, and she lost her balance, dropping unceremoniously to her knees.
A light voice, low in timbre, replied, “Is this the dryland maiden of whom I have heard?”
“Yes, Divinity.”
“There were others with her, were there not?”
“Yes, Divinity. There were five in all. One drowned, and the other three are lodged in Nissia Grotto, to work on the wall.”
A moment of silence. Vixa could hear the queen’s light breathing. At last, the queen said, “You are small. Are you a child?”
Coryphene nudged her. “Answer,” he whispered.
“I am not a child, Your Majesty,” Vixa said. She felt silly staring at the floor while she spoke. “In my land I am counted as unusually tall.”
“I see that we Dargonesti have surpassed the landed race in height and strength,” observed the mild voice. “Just as we have in wisdom and divine favor.”
That rankled. Vixa was about to offer her opinion of Dargonesti superiority when the queen commanded, “Approach.”
Coryphene stood up, hauling her to her feet. They went forward six steps and knelt again. This time there was a large segment of polished basalt in the floor in front of Vixa. It displayed the queen’s reflection faintly. Vixa squinted at it, trying to make out the woman’s features.
“Who reigns in your country, girl?”
“Speaker of the Sun Silveran, Majesty.”
“And who was his father?”
“The great Kith-Kanan. His mother was a Kagonesti named Anaya, who transformed into a tree while pregnant and delivered her son many, many years later.”
There was a brief pause, then the low voice asked, “What is a tree?”
Vixa was so startled by the question she nearly raised her head to stare at the queen of Urione. She checked herself, explaining as briefly as she could what trees were.
“I see. Rather like our coral gardens. Tell me what you know of Silvanesti.”
Again the abrupt change of subject disconcerted the Qualinesti princess. Coryphene nudged her, and she responded, “I’ve never been there, Majesty. The elves of Silvanost have little to do with those of Qualinost.”
“Why?”
Vixa explained about the Kinslayer War and the schism between Kith-Kanan and his twin brother, Speaker of the Stars Sithas. It was slow going, because she hadn’t studied history in some years, and it was by any reckoning a long and complicated narration. She st
ammered her way through the story, and her account seemed to satisfy the queen. Vixa gathered her nerve and asked a question of her own.
“Your Majesty, when may I and my companions return home?” she inquired.
Without warning, a stunning blow landed on the side of Vixa’s head, making her ears ring and sending her sprawling. Her belt broke when she landed, and the tiny coral beads went flying.
“It is not your place to ask questions!” Coryphene growled. His fury was plain, though his voice remained low.
This was too much for Vixa. She had followed their ridiculous rules, crawling about on the floor like a commoner, and had only asked one simple, polite question. Immediately, she sprang at Coryphene, knocked him down, and aimed a kick at his ribs. It landed solidly; then many hands seized her and dragged her away from the Protector. She struggled against the grip of at least three Dargonesti, but they forced her to her knees and shoved her facedown on the cold, hard floor.
“Enough,” said the queen, her voice still low and unruffled.
Coryphene tried to recover his wounded dignity, but this was a difficult proposition as he had to remain upon his knees, head bowed, before his monarch. The guards released Vixa at the queen’s order, and the Qualinesti princess slowly sat up. She kept her gaze averted, though she was now filled with a burning desire to stare directly into the eyes of the queen.
“Though you are of the ancient race, it is apparent that our kindred have fallen into barbarism,” observed the queen. “Your behavior demonstrates this. As the gods have told me, the time has come to unite our ancient peoples into one great nation.”
Surprised, Vixa blurted, “What?”
“Know this, girl, I am Uriona, chosen of the gods and queen of this my city,” the queen said. “Five hundred years ago the gods Abbaku and Kisla came to me in my dreams and bade me leave the deep lands of Watermere and found this city. Since then, I have dreamed many times of a shining tower, reaching far up into the dry air. The gods have given me this promise: when I am crowned in the Tower of the Stars, all those of elven blood will bow down and swear fealty to me.”
Vixa was taken aback. The Silvanesti would never permit Uriona to set foot in the sacred Tower of the Stars in Silvanost, much less be crowned ruler of all elves. Did she think they would allow her to defile the purity of their city with her presence?
The queen was still speaking, saying that once she and her armies had marched to Silvanost she would be installed as the ruler of all the elven nations. She spoke as if accomplishing this would be the merest trifle. Vixa shifted position slightly and felt the cold tip of a spear digging into the thin material of her robe.
The princess’s mind was racing. Not only did she desire freedom for herself and her friends, she had a duty to warn the Silvanesti about Uriona’s crazed scheme. But how to escape? And how to warn the Silvanesti? She had about as much chance of getting into Silvanost as this crazy sea elf.
The chamber’s odd, greenish lighting was constantly shifting. Momentarily it brightened, and Vixa caught her first clear glimpse of the image of Queen Uriona in the polished black surface of the floor tile before her.
The sea queen was seated on a bench whose wide, flat seat curved up slightly at each end. She was robed in some bright material—probably the same silver mesh her guards wore. The Dargonesti queen had a dark blue complexion and large eyes. Her hair, unlike that of her subjects, was shining white. It swept back slightly from her face but fell in a loose cascade over her shoulders and into her lap. Her age was impossible to determine from the fuzzy reflection, and her voice sounded neither old nor young.
A pinpoint of green gleamed in Uriona’s reflected eyes. Vixa thought this was a trick of the shifting light, but it happened a second and then a third time.
“Impudent girl,” murmured the queen.
A dazzling flash of green light erupted from the queen’s eyes. The flare seemed to rebound from the floor and strike Vixa full in the face. She had no time to shield her eyes, and agony filled her head. She cried out, toppled to the floor. The glare was replaced by darkness as she dropped into oblivion.
Once the break in the top of the wall was repaired, the guards marched the slaves back to Nissia Grotto. The work had taken several hours. Harmanutis and Vanthanoris staggered to the rear of the cave, collapsing on piles of tattered sailcloth. Armantaro, more than twice their age, seemed to have held up better, but then he had the advantage of a decent meal, courtesy of Coryphene.
Garnath walked up to the flour barrel housing his twin and kicked it smartly. A snort erupted, but no dwarf appeared. Grimacing, Garnath pounded the staves with his thick fist.
“Wake up, Brother!” he bellowed. “Wake up!”
Gundabyr rolled out, dazed. “What? What is it?”
“I want the barrel,” said Garnath. “You owe me two days’ work now.”
Gundabyr yawned. “By Reorx! Couldn’t you have waited till morning to tell me that?”
“It is morning.” Garnath shouldered his twin aside. “Good night!”
Gundabyr sighed and surveyed the long, dim tunnel. The unhappy slaves slept where they dropped. The grotto resembled a battlefield, with bodies strewn all about.
The only other person still awake in the entire cave was Armantaro. He tried to assemble a decent pallet from the assortment of junk littering the cave floor. Gundabyr yawned once more, stretched, and ambled over to the elf.
“Hail, friend. My name’s Gundabyr.”
Armantaro nodded and said, “Yes, so I heard. Your brother has an excellent set of lungs.”
“Yup, he got that way shouting over the forge hammers in Thorbardin. I can’t convince him not to shout here.”
The old colonel reclined stiffly, pillowing his head on one arm. He told the dwarf his name and rank, and how he’d ended up in this wretched place after his visit to the city.
“I figured as much,” said Gundabyr. He aimed a thumb at the inert forms of Harmanutis and Vanthanoris. “They told me you were down here. Ain’t there a lady with you?”
“Yes, indeed, and I fear for her. Coryphene has kept her.”
Gundabyr tugged at his black beard. “He’s never done that before. The blueskins don’t give a fig for any of us drylanders, you know.”
“I’m certain he has designs on her. He may suspect she is something other than my niece. A princess of the house of Kith-Kanan would be quite a prize for an ambitious warlord.” In spite of his worried tone, Armantaro’s eyelids were drooping. His breathing slowed. As his eyelids finally closed, he added, “He’ll get more than he bargained for with Lady Vixa, though. One unguarded moment, and she’ll split him … wide open.”
Armantaro was asleep. Shrugging, the dwarf got up and went back to a pile of wreckage behind the flour barrel. This seemingly worthless collection of rubbish was his tool kit. During his free days, and in the wee hours while Garnath slept, the restless Gundabyr spent his time exploring the recesses of Nissia Grotto. He’d fashioned some crude tools from bits of wood, bent nails, and loose rocks. Far back in the remote areas of the cave, he kept his collection of mineral samples. The grotto had not been formed by the slow process of erosion. Instead, it had been created by an ancient volcano. As a result, the interior was rich in minerals such as sulfur, niter, and bitumen, which oozed out of crevices in the lowest regions of the cave system.
Gundabyr slipped his tools into his ragged pockets and walked off into the darkness. His greatest wish, aside from freedom, was for a light he could take along on his explorations. The Dargonesti globes were fastened to the walls, and any attempt to remove them always ended badly. The dwarf carried out his research by touch and smell, often bringing back samples to the inhabited portion of the cave for final identification.
He’d gone only a few hundred paces into the deep cavern when he noticed a strange noise. Holding very still, Gundabyr heard it again. A sort of scratching, or maybe a scraping sound, coming from far away. The prisoners were all fast asleep, and there was no on
e else in the grotto. Gundabyr took his homemade pick, fashioned from a long ship’s nail driven through a length of decking, and scraped the cave wall in front of him. He listened hard, but the noise had stopped. He did not hear it again.
Chapter 8
A Gift of Fire
Vixa was dreaming.
She was trapped in a clear crystal globe surrounded by water. The water was filled with sea elves, all staring at her and pointing long, blue, webbed fingers. They never spoke, but only stared and pointed. It became extremely annoying.
“Stop it!” she shouted at them. “I am Princess Vixa Ambrodel, daughter of the house of Kith-Kanan! Begone, I say!”
They showed no sign of hearing her, but continued to stare with blank faces. Their eyes glowed. Furious, Vixa struck the walls of her crystal prison with her fists. The blow stung her knuckles. It also caused cracks to appear in the glass. The fractures radiated outward from the point of impact, and water began to seep into the globe. Anger turned to horror as Vixa realized what she’d done. If the water got in, she would drown!
The cracks raced around the glass, spreading faster and faster. The water rose up to her ankles. A blink of her eyes, and the water had touched her knees. In seconds, she was neck-deep and had to tread water to keep her face above the icy flow. What was she to do?
Vixa flung out a hand and felt the roof over her head. Silver fissures met and crossed above her. Water closed over her head. She pounded at the domed ceiling.
“I—will—not—die!”
With a gasp, Vixa sat up. She was on a flat couch in a dimly lit room. From the green color of the walls and floor, she surmised that she was somewhere in the palace.
Her legs were tangled in her Dargonesti robe. She freed them and swung her feet to the floor. The room tilted slightly; she put a hand to her head. In a few seconds the dizziness passed. A small sound behind her brought her to her feet, whirling to face whatever threat might come. The room was divided by translucent curtains, and behind these she could see a seated figure.
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