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?”
“Why 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 rag
ged 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 village of 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 Kith-Kanan 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.”
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