"I got more," he said, a honed edge to his voice. "I got news he wants, an’ if he treats me fair, I'll tell him."
Lindenlea lifted a hand, fist tight as though she were ready to follow the guard’s cuffing blow with another.
"Hold," the prince said. When Lindenlea let her fist open and her hand drop, he nodded to the goblin. "What do they call you?"
The goblin seemed surprised. It isn't a question often asked by elves of goblins. "Ithk," he said. "Ithk of Goblintown on the east side of the Forest-Around-Hammer-Rock-But-Not-Too-Close."
Kethrenan raised a brow. The goblin had spun out that name as though it meant something.
"Isn't that where Gnash the hob rules?"
"Him," said the goblin Ithk, not allowing himself to be baited by elven scorn. He adjusted his fur carefully till the bear's head sat between his shoulder blades. "Ain't no good thing in my mind though. I quit him."
"Did you now?" Keth glanced at Lea. "Why?"
"Hates 'im. I hates 'im. He's no good. Took our Golch’s army and his goblin town but ain't got the guts to do more than talk about our ancient feud with Brand of the Stonelands."
Our ancient feud…
The words caused a warrior by the door to snort sudden laughter at the thought of this creature naming contention between outlaws and goblins a feud, or even ancient. Kethrenan silenced her with a narrow glance.
"Go on," said the prince to the goblin.
His eyes darting from Kethrenan to the others, suspecting mockery, Ithk nevertheless went on. "Bastard Gnash killed Golch, saw the son's head come back in an outlaw’s sack, and did nothing about it. Says he gots better things to do than chase a handful of humans. Says he gots an army to grow. Hates 'im."
Kethrenan was grateful Ithk didn't say Gnash had shamed him, for if he had, the prince himself might have laughed at the idea that one of these wretches could speak of shame.
"And you're here—why?"
"I want to kill that whoreson bastard Brand." The goblin’s lips pulled a nasty grin. "I'm thinkin’ you do, too. I know how to find him."
The warriors looked from one to another. The torch in the hand of the elf woman cast streaming orange light and shadow all around the room. In that running light and shadow, Kethrenan took one long step. Swift, he snatched the goblin’s shoulder, his long fingers gripping hard.
"Tell me," he said, no pretense to amusement in his voice now. Ithk yowled like a kicked cat, struggling to get away. Keth gripped harder. "Tell me where they are and how you know."
"I know," the goblin whined, "because I looked. Ain't me can kill ’em by myself. Ain't Gnash going to do it. I'm you want to know where he is. They're nowhere in the light, but I know how to find ’em, and you want to know, so maybe you'll pay me good—"
He twisted in Keth's grip, the bear-headed fur falling to the floor.
"My prince," Lindenlea said, her hand on Keth's arm, "don't break him. Let’s see if we can determine whether he is telling the truth."
Kethrenan found her suggestion sound, though he'd have liked to break all the bones in the goblin Ithk for the sheer effrontery of the creature's thinking he could come here to bargain. He ordered his warriors to take the goblin to the Temple of Solinari, the moon-white marble hall where, in secret chambers, mages kept a lovely necklace of golden links from which depended a stone of indeterminate nature. Sometimes it shone diamond clear. At other times, it shone red and burned the flesh like a fiery ember.
"See if the creature is telling the truth," the prince said to Lindenlea. "If he is, come tell me. I'll be in the Tower."
"If he lies?"
Kethrenan shrugged. "Kill him."
The prince's cousin did as he ordered, and for a time a high screeching could be heard echoing through bright Solinari’s temple. It rang strangely in that place of peace and prayer where the air smelled always of rain-washed The screeching didn't go on long, and in the end the clerics had to say to the Lady Lindenlea that they didn't know what to tell her about how the Stone of Truth judged the goblin’s tale.
"Sometimes the stone showed clear and bright, sometimes like a liar’s bloody hand. You'll have to make your own judgment, my lady. If you think the prince is served by killing the creature, kill him. But don't do the killing here, and get some of your warriors to dump the body outside the city if you don't mind."
Lindenlea took this news to her cousin. Walking back through the city, watching the first fat flakes of snow drift down from burdened skies, she thought things had turned out as she'd feared from the start. They would be offered the risk of trusting a goblin, there would be no surety, and Keth would consider the possible gain worth the risk he'd take.
"What fee does he want?"
Lindenlea shrugged. "Brand's head. He says he wants to be the one to kill Brand."
"He can't, but he doesn't need to know that. Tell him what he wants to hear."
Lindenlea did that, and she left the goblin in the care of warriors, well guarded in a cell until he was needed. Ithk raised his objections, but not too loudly. It seemed he was disposed to be cooperative.
Grimly, Lindenlea left him. Restless, she strode the streets of Qualinost, a tall figure in flame-colored silk and whitest ermine making for the shining lights of the Tower of the Sun. Faintly, strains of sweet music drifted on the snowy air. They had started the dancing in there, the elf king, his kin, and his senators, celebrating a young prince's birthday. Lindenlea did not doubt that Keth was there, that sword of a prince ready to begin his search again.
And soon, too. It must warm up to snow, and she could feel the temperature of the air changing even as she lifted her face to the falling snow. There would be a snowfall, and then there would be a thaw. Kethrenan would ride out from his brother's city and go again in search of his wife. Lindenlea would, of course, be with him. He was her cousin and her prince.
Her boots were the soft boots of the court—thin-soled, buttery leather with fur trim useful for drawing a man's eye to a shapely calf. They were not meant to carry her across any terrain rougher than thick carpeting or polished floor. Still, none of the guards on the four spans who saw her doubted that here was a warrior, back straight, stride long, her hand moving like it wished to grip a sword.
Now began the season of hunting lost things.
Chapter 8
"Here is what I know about how to live," said the princess to herself in the dark reaches of the earth while winds moaned without and snow fell, the hissing of it heard at the mouths of secret caves.
I know how to mend my clothing with needles of bone and thread of clumsy sinew. I know how to recognize the smell of good water and foul. I know to watch the dwarf when we are walking—he never puts a foot wrong. I know I am beaten if I fall, and I am kicked up again. I know how to eat fast, though I am the one who eats last. I know how to keep quiet in shadows, and I know it is a blessing that I no longer dream.
I know to keep my eyes low. I know to speak to none of them. I know there are some who watch, some who wait. I hear them breathing, occupying other shadows than those I cling to. I hear them.
What is it they wait for? They are like hounds themselves. They wait for chance. Hounds. I know to keep near the hound. I know to share my food with Fang so he is willing to be more with me than with Char.
These things Elansa thought, often and over, for they were the new rules for how she could live. Sometimes, when she sat a long time in her shadows at night—or what she imagined must be night—Elansa sensed two pairs of eyes on her more strongly than others. They held her in tension between them, the eyes of Arawn, Dell's handsome lover, and the eyes of Brand. Brand would watch her thus even as he lay with Tianna asleep in his arms. He didn't like it that dark-haired Arawn wouldn't let go the matter of the disposition of the prisoner.
Sitting still, barely breathing, Elansa would think of what Char had said, a long time ago on the night the goblin was killed under Hammer Rock.
"You see," he'd said, his breath sour with drink as he
watched Brand hand over the goblin to Ley. "You don't keep it all for yourself."
In some way Arawn had come to believe that Brand, by declaring the prisoner off limits to his men, was keeping her for himself, if not for the nighttime, then for some other reason. More and more, it became clear that Arawn didn't like the idea or seem to consider a stolen elven sword a fair exchange for nights with a stolen elven princess.
"Char," she said, one night when the first snow of winter fell softly upon the breast of Krynn, when the people in Tarsis wept for joy because at last the wind had fallen, and in Qualinost a warrior in ermine and fiery silk brought a goblin to Solinari’s moon-white temple. "Char, why did Ley want to kill the goblin, back at Hammer Rock?"
The dwarf shrugged and readied around him for something, the skin or a last bone of stolen goat for gnawing.
"The usual reason" When she shook her head, not knowing the usual reason, he said, "Golch’s da killed Ley’s woman. Not so long ago, either. Maybe a moon's turn before anyone laid eye on you. Ley’s still in mourning."
Coldly, she said, "And he thought the killing would help?"
Char sat back, the skin on his knee fat and full. He closed his hands around it, cradling it tenderly. "Y'do what y’do."
All these things Char said looking into a far corner of the cave where the roof sloped down to the ground and made a private place. Elansa looked where he did and saw the silver spill of Tianna’s hair where it flowed over Brand's chest. With his look, not his words, the dwarf told her something about Tianna and grim Ley, a thing Elansa would not have guessed. And yet, knowing, the truth seemed inevitable. The half-elf had the look of her father, more than the shape of his eyes or ears, more than his elven grace. It was the way she glanced keenly around her, her careful tension, the tilt of her head, even her rare laughter, that gave her kinship to Ley.
"Leyerlain Starwing," Char said, unstopping the skin with his thumb. "I guess that makes her Tianna Starwing."
Elansa looked away. Of course the woman would not be granted her father's name in such a shameful circumstance. Of course she would be given some other name if Leyerlain Starwing's family knew his shame. Something made up for decency’s sake if they were moved by compassion, or she'd simply be known as half-elven.
Elansa withdrew into her safe shadows, calling the hound to her. The sound of the dog's nails on stone caught the attention of Arawn and of Brand. She hung again in their tension, and it was a long time before she could sleep.
These things, these cautions, these fears, they made up the borders of her life now, even as she moved through a world without borders, caverns and tunnels running beneath the face of Krynn, lands no one had ever claimed.
Horses snorted, dancing in the cold and tossing their heads. Riders spoke calming words. Kethrenan left them, guiding his mount close to the lip of the drop into the stonelands. He pulled his helm from his head, tucking it under his arm. On his forehead, sweat turned to ice. Wind whipped his hair back from his face, scouring his skin red. Before him, out across the stoneland, lay the formations known since the Cataclysm as Stone Castle, Granite Tower, Hammer Rock, and Reorx’s Anvil. Ravens sailed around the lower piles, while rooks lived in the highest. Between the Hammer and the Anvil, two eagles soared, winding down the chill sky. To this place they'd ridden, and all the while dark visions had haunted the prince, like dark wings clapping. At night, when he lay wrapped in his cloak apart from the rest, sleepless till most of the night had worn away, it seemed he heard Elansa’s voice on the wind, wailing, lifting up to beseech the gods to have pity on her suffering.
Kethrenan lifted his hand to shade his eyes against the sun's glare. Far away in the south, he saw the gleam of light high up. Those were not the snowy peaks of the Kharolis Mountains, not so near. What he saw was, perhaps, the glint of light on the ruined towers of Pax Tharkas.
Here was Qualinesti’s sternest border, once the land that lay between the elves and their allies, the dwarves of Thorbardin. In times past, roads had run through this bitter plain, made by friends and connecting the underground kingdom of the dwarves, the forest realm of the elves, and the western kingdoms of humans, all running out from Pax Tharkas.
But that was a time ago, well before the Cataclysm changed the face of Krynn and rewrote all treaties, and no one counted on roads running through the stony plain now. There was a new clan of dwarves, the Neidar, made from those who'd broken from their kin in the hard years after the Cataclysm. They called themselves hill dwarves to make it clear to all they had nothing to do with their mountain-dwelling kin. The mountain dwarves, who in the main had been the allies of the elves, now delved only in Thorbardin, seldom coming out into the sun. In Qualinesti elves kept to their forest glades. Sundered, the erstwhile friends had not fallen so far as the humans had. Whatever must be said of them, elves and dwarves, they did not deny the existence of gods. An old dwarven proverb said, "The man who denies the wind because he can't see it is an idiot." Elven wisdom murmured, "Who fails the gods with lack of faith, fails himself."
Humans, short-lived and lacking in the patience of those races whose life span can be two hundred years or more, had turned from whatever lore of gods they'd once possessed. Turning, it seemed they had changed themselves into beggars and thieves, godless wretches who saw in the visible marks of the anger of the gods reason to decide no god existed at all.
And they, who promoted the blasphemy of unbelief all across Krynn, had down the long years managed to forget that it was one of their own race who caused the Cataclysm and the withdrawal of the gods. They chose not to remember a Kingpriest gone mad in Istar, who had declared himself a deity. Not many of them liked to admit it was a human who had enraged the true gods, causing them to hurl down upon Krynn a fiery mountain to remind mortals who was divine and who was not.
Into the hands of these his wife had fallen.
Kethrenan swallowed, savoring the phantom taste of blood in his mouth, salty and warm. He did not bleed, not in his body. He did perhaps bleed in his soul, as though the rage living in him were fanged and gnawing from the inside.
"Demlin!" he snapped.
Maimed Demlin spurred his mount, a line gelding out of the prince's own stable. Winter had reshaped the servant. His long face, once alight with congenial good humor, was now the face of a man who'd been hollowed and filled up again with bitterness. He covered his maiming with a square of black cloth tied as seamen and pirates do. It gave him a dangerous look, lean and not very warm in the heart.
Demlin did not come alone. Tethered to the pommel of his saddle, upon a long braided plait, the goblin Ithk jogged beside.
"Where?" said the prince.
Ithk pointed down the hill to the stony slope of Hammer Rock.
"There's where he took her, your woman, in the fall. Can't say he's still there. Wouldn't be. But sign is he's been since, maybe twice since he took her."
The hard blue sky glared down. All the world below was a whirl of snow running in white devils. In the sky, the moons hung like pale ghosts, the red and the silver, risen early or lingering late.
"Prince!"
Kethrenan looked over his shoulder and saw Lindenlea point north. He looked where she did. A dark plume hung low over the earth.
"What’s down there?" he asked.
Lindenlea shrugged. "A village or two—human, most likely. Maybe a goblin town in the making by now. That doesn't look like a gathering of hearth fires."
Ithk move restlessly. Demlin kicked him quiet as Kethrenan squinted, trying to see. In the end, he could discern only smoke. Human village or goblin town, it didn't matter. They were outlanders, not even to be accorded the grudging respect granted such former allies as dwarves.
"Your word, my prince?" Lea asked.
"Follow Demlin."
Demlin kicked the goblin again, and Ithk set out down the slope. Tethered, he leaped from stone to stone, and he had enough slack to keep him from tripping over himself or Demlin’s mount, but no more than that.
&nb
sp; Lindenlea called the order, her voice sharp as a blade’s edge on the icy air, her breath streaming back in frosty plumes. Side by side, the lord of Qualinesti’s warriors and his cousin sent their mounts plunging down the steep slope. They ran like quicksilver, madly galloping their horses over treacherous ground. Sunlight leaped in bright darts off their helms and mail shirts and shot from the tips of their lances.
Before all went maimed Demlin and Ithk All the way down the hill, the goblin ran as though he feared the horses would trample him, and when he reached the floor of the little vale, he stopped and scrambled onto a pile of stone high as a horse's shoulder. Quivering with cold, Ithk looked around, his head swiveling on his scrawny neck. His skin color changed to a gray hue.
Demlin cried, "My lord prince!"
Something hunched up from the snowy ground, a burned body. Kethrenan swerved his mount in time to miss another such lump, and then they saw bodies all around.
Every corpse was a goblin's corpse, and Keth guessed they'd have starved in the winter if they hadn't been killed. Killed they had been, though—some with arrows and swords, some more cruelly than that. Snow covered them, but not wholly, and Keth saw that some had been beheaded, others had had the hands cut from their wrists or their feet from their ankles. The stretched jaws showed that the severing had happened before the killing.
Across the snowy ground they saw hands thrusting up from‘the drifts, clawing as if reaching for the last of life. Faces stared up, eye sockets empty. Ravens had feasted, and all around the gore of a great massacre lay frozen, glittering with ice crystals like diamonds on ruby fields.
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