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 approac
h. “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 horned”
“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.
Firstborn Page 10