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,” ANNOUNCED 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 ar
ms 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 the matter, 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 light, 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 could be 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. Ever
yone 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.
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