The sounds of fighting grew louder as Sithas rode on, drawing his sword.
The street ahead was full of struggling people – Silvanesti, Kagonesti, human, kender, and dwarves. A line of royal guards with pikes held flat in both hands were trying to keep the mass of fear-crazed folk back. Sithas rode up to an officer giving orders to the band of warriors, who numbered no more than twenty.
“Captain! Where is your commander?” shouted Sithas, above the roar of voices.
“Highness!” The warrior, himself of Kagonesti blood, saluted crisply. “Lord Kencathedrus is pursuing some of the criminals in the Market.”
Sithas, on horseback, could see far over the seething sea of people. “Are all these rioters?” he asked, incredulous.
“No, sire. Most are merchants and traders, trying to get away from the criminals who set fire to the shops,” the captain replied.
“Why are you holding them back?”
“Lord Kencathedrus’s orders, sire. He didn’t want these foreigners to flood the rest of the city.”
When the prince asked the captain if he’d seen his mother, the warrior shook his helmeted head. Sithas then asked if there was another way around, a way to the river.
“Keep them back!” barked the captain to his straining soldiers. “Push them! Use your pike shafts!” He stepped back, closer to Sithas, and said, “Yes, sire, you can circle this street and take White Rose Lane right to the water.”
Sithas commended the captain and turned his horse around. A spatter of stones and chunks of pottery rained over them. The captain and his troops had little to fear; they were in armor. Neither Sithas nor his horse were, so they cantered quickly away.
White Rose Lane was narrow and lined on both sides by high stone walls. This was the poorest section of Silvanost, where the house-towers were the lowest. With only two or three floors, they resembled squat stone drums, a far cry from the tall, gleaming spires of the high city.
The lane was empty when Sithas entered it. Astride his horse, his knees nearly scraped the walls on each side. A thin trickle of scummy water ran down the gutter in the center of the lane. At the other end of the alley, small groups of rioters dashed past. These groups of three or four often had royal guards on their heels. Sithas emerged from White Rose Lane in time to confront four desperate-looking elves. They stared at him. Each was armed with a stone or stick.
Sithas pointed with his sword. “Put down those things. Go back to your homes!” he said sternly.
“We are free elves! We won’t be ordered about! We’ve been driven from our homes once, and we’ll not let it happen again!” cried one of the elves.
“You are mistaken,” Sithas said, turning his horse so none of them could get behind him. “No one is driving you from here. The Speaker of the Stars has plans for a permanent town on the west bank of the Thon-Thalas.”
“That’s not what the holy lady said,” shouted a different elf.
“What holy lady?”
“The priestess of Quenesti Pah. She told us the truth!”
So, the riot could be laid at Miritelisina’s door. Sithas burned with anger. He whipped his sword over his head. “Go home!” he shouted. “Go home, lest the warriors strike you down!”
Someone flung a stone at Sithas. He batted it away, the rock clanging off the tempered iron blade. One smoke-stained elf tried to grab the horse’s bridle, but the prince hit him on the head with the flat of his blade. The elf collapsed, and the others hastily withdrew to find a more poorly armed target.
Sithas rode on through the mayhem, getting hit more than once by thrown sticks and shards. A bearded fellow he took for human swung a woodcutter’s axe at him, so Sithas used the edge, not the flat, of his sword. The axe-wielder fell dead, cleaved from shoulder to heart. Only then did the prince notice the fellow’s tapering ears and Silvanesti coloring. A half-human, the first he’d ever seen. Pity mixed with revulsion welled up inside the speaker’s heart.
Feeling a bit dazed, Sithas rode to the water’s edge. There were dead bodies floating in the normally calm river, a sight that only added to his disorientation. However, his dazed shock vanished instantly when he saw the body of an elf woman clad in a golden gown. His mother had a gown like that.
Sithas half-fell, half-jumped from horseback into the shallow water. He splashed, sword in hand, to the gowned body. It was Nirakina. His mother was dead! Tears spilling down his cheeks, the prince pulled the floating corpse to shallower water. When he turned the body over he saw to his immense relief that it was not his mother. This elf woman was a stranger to Sithas.
He released his hold on the body, and it was nudged gently away by the Thon-Thalas. Sithas stood coughing in the smoke, looking at the nightmare scene around him. Had the gods forsaken the Silvanesti this day?
“Sithas.... Sithas....”
The prince whirled as he realized that someone was calling his name. He ran up the riverbank toward the sound. Once ashore, he was engulfed by the row of short towers that lined the riverbank. The tallest of these, a four-story house with conical roof and tall windows, was to his right. A white cloth waved from a top floor window.
“Sithas?” With relief the prince noted that it was his mother’s voice.
He mounted the horse and urged it into a gallop. Shouts and a loud crashing sound filled the air. On the other side of a low stone wall, a band of rioters was battering at the door of the four-story tower. Sithas raced the horse straight at the wall, and the animal jumped the barrier. As they landed on the other side, Sithas shouted a challenge and waved his sword in the air. Horse and rider thundered into the rioters’ midst. The men dropped the bench they had been using as a battering ram and ran off.
Overhead, a window on the street side opened. Nirakina called down, “Sithas! Praise the gods you came!”
The door of the house, which was almost knocked to pieces, opened inward. A familiar-looking elf emerged warily, the broken end of a table leg clutched in his hand.
“I know you,” said Sithas, dismounting quickly.
The elf lowered his weapon. “Tamanier Ambrodel, at your service, Highness,” he said quietly. “Lady Nirakina is safe.”
Nirakina came down the building’s steps, and Sithas rushed to embrace her.
“We were besieged,” Nirakina explained. Her honey-brown hair was in complete disarray, and her gentle face was smeared with soot. “Tamanier saved my life. He fought them off and guarded the door.”
“I thought you were dead,” Sithas said, cupping his mother’s face in his scratched, dirty hands. “I found a woman floating in the river. She was wearing your clothes.”
Nirakina explained that she had been giving some old clothing to the refugees when the trouble started. In fact she and Tamanier had been at the focus of the riot. One reason they had escaped unharmed was that many of the refugees knew the speaker’s wife and protected her.
“How did it start?” demanded Sithas. “I heard something about Miritelisina.”
“I’m afraid it was her,” Tamanier answered. “I saw her standing in the back of a cart, proclaiming that the speaker and high priests were planning to send all the settlers back across the river. The people grew frightened – they thought they were being driven from their last shelter by their own lords, sent to die in the wilderness. So they rose up, with the intention of forestalling a new exile.”
Fists clenched, Sithas declared, “This is treason! Miritelisina must be brought to justice!”
“She did not tell them to riot,” his mother said gently. “She cares about the poor, and it is they who have suffered most from this.”
Sithas was in no mood to debate. Instead, he turned to Tamanier and held out his hand. Eyes wide, the elf grasped his prince’s hand. “You shall be rewarded,” said Sithas gratefully.
“Thank you, Highness.” Tamanier looked up and down the street. “Perhaps we can take Lady Nirakina home now.”
It was much quieter. Kencathedrus’s warriors had herded the rioters into an
ever-tightening circle. When the mob was finally subdued, the fire brigade was able to rush into the Market quarter. That occurred far too late, though; fully half of the marketplace had already been reduced to ruin.
*
The justice meted out by Sithel to his rebellious subjects was swift and severe. The rioters were tried as one and condemned.
Those of Silvanesti or Kagonesti blood were made slaves and set to rebuilding what they had destroyed. The humans and other non-elven rioters were driven from the city at pike point and forbidden ever to return, upon pain of death. All merchants who participated in the madness had their goods confiscated. They, too, were banished for life.
Miritelisina was brought before the speaker. Sithas, Nirakina, Tamanier Ambrodel, and all the high clerics of Silvanost were present. She made no speeches, offered no defense. Despite his respect for her, the speaker found the priestess guilty of petty treason. He could have made the charge high treason, for which the penalty was death, but Sithel could not bring himself to be that harsh.
The high priestess of Quenesti Pah was sent to the dungeon cells under the Palace of Quinari. Her cell was large and clean, but dark. Layers of inhibiting spells were placed around it, to prevent her from using her magical knowledge to escape or communicate with the outside world. Though many saw this as just, few found the sentencing a positive thing; not since the terrible, anarchical days of Silvanos and Balif had such a high-ranking person been sent to the dungeon.
“Is it right, do you think, to keep her there?” Nirakina asked her husband and son later, in private.
“You surprise me,” said Sithel in a tired voice. “You, of all people, whose life was in the balance, should have no qualm about her sentence.”
Nirakina’s face was sad. “I am sure she meant no harm. Her only concern was for the welfare of the refugees.”
“Perhaps she did not mean to start a riot,” Sithas said sympathetically, “but I’m not certain she meant no harm. Miritelisina sought to undermine the decree of the speaker by appealing to the common people. That, in itself, is treason.”
“Those poor people,” Nirakina murmured.
The speaker’s wife retired to her bed. Sithel and his son remained in the sitting room.
“Your mother has a kind heart, Sith. All this suffering has undone her. She needs her rest.” Sithas nodded glumly, and the speaker went on. “I am sending a troop of fifty warriors under Captain Coryamis to the west. They are to try to capture some of the brigands who’ve been terrorizing our settlers and to bring them back alive. Perhaps then we can find out who’s truly behind these attacks.” Sithel yawned and stretched. “Coryamis leaves tonight. Within a month, we should know something.”
Father and son parted. Sithel watched the prince descend the far stairs, not the route to the quarters that he shared with Hermathya. “Where are you going, Sith?” he asked in confusion.
Sithas looked distinctly uncomfortable. “My old rooms, Father. Hermathya and I are – we are not sharing a bed these days,” he said stiffly. Sithel raised one pale brow in surprise.
“You’ll not win her over by sleeping apart,” he advised.
“I need time to contemplate,” Sithas replied. With a gruff good-night, he went on his way. Sithel waited until his son’s footsteps had faded from the stone stairwell, then he sighed. Sithas and Hermathya estranged – for some reason that fact bothered him more than having to send Miritelisina to the dungeon. He knew his son, and he knew his daughter-in-law, too. They were both too proud, too unbending. Any rift between them was only likely to widen over time. Not good. The line of Silvanos required stability and offspring to ensure its continuation. He would have to do something.
A prodigious yawn racked the speaker’s body. For now, though, there was his own bed, his own wife, and sleep.
*
In the weeks following the rioting in the Market, a regular patrol of royal guards walked the streets. A squad of four warriors, moving through the city very late one night, spied a body lying on the steps of the Temple of Quenesti Pah. Two elves ran over and turned the body face-up. To their astonishment, they knew the dead elf well. He was Nortifinthas, and he was of their own company, sent with forty-nine other warriors to the western provinces. No word had been heard from the fifty warriors in over two weeks.
The night watch picked up their fallen comrade and hastened to the Palace of Quinari. Other patrols saw them and joined with them as they went. By the time the group reached the main door of the palace, it was over thirty strong.
Stankathan, the major-domo, arrived at the palace door in response to the vigorous pounding of the guards. He stood in the open doorway, holding aloft a sputtering oil lamp.
“Who goes there?” Stankathan said in a voice husky with sleep. The officer who had found Nortifinthas explained the situation. Stankathan looked at the corpse, borne on the shoulders of his fellow warriors. His face paled.
“I will fetch Prince Sithas,” he decided.
Stankathan went to Sithas’s bachelor quarters. The door was open, and he saw the prince asleep at a table. The elder elf shook his head. Everyone knew that Prince Sithas and his wife were living apart, but still it saddened the old servant.
“Your Highness?” he said, touching Sithas lightly on the back. “Your Highness, wake up; there’s been an... event.”
Sithas raised his head suddenly. “What? What is it?”
“The night watch has found a dead warrior in the streets. Apparently he is one of the soldiers the speaker sent out weeks ago.”
Sithas pushed back his chair and stood, disoriented by his sudden awakening. “How can that be?” he asked. He breathed deeply a few times to clear his head. Then, adjusting his sleep-twisted robe, the prince said, “I will see the warriors.”
The major-domo led Sithas to the main door. There the prince heard the story of the finding of the body from the night watch officer.
“Show me,” ordered Sithas.
The warriors laid the body gently down on the steps. Nortifinthas had numerous knife and club wounds, which had sufficed to drain his life away.
Sithas looked over the array of grim, concerned faces. “Take the body to the cellar and lay it out. Tomorrow perhaps the learned clerics can discover what happened,” he said in a subdued voice.
Four guards hoisted Nortifinthas on their shoulders and went up the steps. Stankathan showed them the way to the palace cellar. After a time, when Stankathan returned with the bearers, Sithas dismissed the guards. To the major-domo he said, “When the speaker rises tomorrow, tell him at once what has occurred. And send for me.”
“It shall be done, Highness.”
*
The day dawned cool, and gray clouds piled up in the northern sky. Sithas and Sithel stood on opposite sides of the table where the body of Nortifinthas had been laid out. Everyone else had been banished from the cellar.
Sithel bent over and began to examine the dead elf’s clothes with minute care. He fingered every seam, looked in every pocket, even felt in the corpse’s hair. Finally Sithas could contain himself no longer.
“What are you doing, Father?”
“I know Captain Coryamis would not have sent this warrior back to us without some kind of message.”
“How do you know he was sent? He could be a deserter.”
Sithel stood up. “Not this fellow. He was a fine warrior. And if he had deserted, he wouldn’t come back to Silvanost.” Just then, Sithel froze. He reached for the shielded candle that was their only source of light, then held it close to the dead elf’s waist.
“There!” The speaker hastily thrust the candle holder into Sithas’s hand. Eagerly, Sithel unclasped the sword belt from the corpse. He held it up to Sithas. “Do you see?”
Sithas squinted hard at the inside of the belt. Sure enough, there were letters scratched in the dark leather, but they appeared random and meaningless. “I don’t understand,” he protested. “I see writing, but it’s just gibberish.”
S
ithel removed the empty scabbard from the belt and gently laid it on the corpse’s chest. Then he coiled the belt and tucked it inside his robe. “There are many things you have yet to learn, things that only come from experience. Come with me, and I’ll show you how the dead can speak to the living without magic.”
They left the cellar. An entire corps of courtiers and servants stood waiting for the two most important people in Silvanost to reappear. Sithel promptly ordered everyone to return to their tasks, and he and his son went alone to the Tower of the Stars.
“This palace is like an anthill,” Sithel said, striding briskly across the Processional Road. “How can anything remain secret for very long?”
The prince was puzzled, but he covered his bewilderment with the meditative mask he had learned from the priests of Matheri. It was not until they were alone, locked inside the audience hall of the tower, that his father spoke again.
“Coryamis sent the soldier back as a courier,” confided Sithel. “Let us see what he brought us.”
The emerald throne of the speaker was not simply made of that stone. The natural faceted gems were interspersed with hand-turned columns of rare and beautiful wood. These were of varying lengths and thicknesses, and some were even inlaid with gold and silver. Sithas looked on in mute wonder as his father detached piece after piece of wood from the ancient, sacred throne. Each time he removed a cylinder of wood, he would wind the dead soldier’s belt around it, spiral fashion. The speaker would then stare at the writing on the belt for a second, remove the belt, and re-fit the wooden piece back into the throne. On the fifth attempt, Sithel gave a cry of triumph. He read up the length of the cylinder, turned it slightly, and read the next row of letters. When he was done, the Speaker of the Stars looked up, ashen faced.
“What is it, Father?” Sithas asked. The speaker handed him the rod and belt as a reply.
Now the prince understood. The message had been written on the belt while it was wound around a shaft of identical thickness to this one. When the belt was removed, the letters became a meaningless jumble. Now Sithas could read the last message sent by Coryamis.
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