Kith-Kanan could hardly take it all in. This beautiful cave, the many answers it provided and the mysteries it held. It was like the beautiful elf woman before him. She had provided him with answers this night, but in her deep eyes were even more mysteries and questions unanswered. For now, he gave himself up to the joy he felt, the joy at finding someone who cared for him, someone that he cared for. And he did care for her.
“I think I love you, Anaya,” Kith-Kanan said tenderly, caressing her cheek.
She laid her head on his chest. “I begged the Forestmaster to send you away, but she would not. ‘You must make the decision’ she said.” She clasped Kith-Kanan with frightening strength.
He tilted her face up to his and bent down to kiss her. Anaya was no soft and timid elf maiden. The hard life of the wildwood had made her tough and strong, but as they kissed, Kith-Kanan could feel the tremors echoing through her body.
She broke the kiss. “I will not be a casual love,” she vowed, and her eyes bored into his. “If we are to be together, you must swear to be mine always.”
Kith-Kanan remembered how he had searched for her in his dreams, how frightened and alone he’d felt when he couldn’t find her. “Yes, Anaya. Always. I wish I still had my starjewel, but Voltorno took it with my other belongings. I wish I could give it to you.” She did not understand, and he explained the significance of the starjewel.
She nodded. “We have no jewels to give in the wildwood. We make our most sacred vows in blood.” She took his hand and knelt by the pool, drawing him down beside her. Laying her palm against the sharp edge of the rock, she pressed down hard. When she pulled her hand back, it was bleeding. Kith-Kanan hesitated a moment, then he too cut his hand on the hard, glassy rock. They joined hands once more, pressing the wounds together. The blood of the Silvanesti House Royal flowed together with that of the forest-born Kagonesti.
Anaya plunged their joined hands into the water. “By blood and water, by soil and sky, by leaf and limb, I swear to love and keep you, Kith, for as long as I walk, for as long as I breathe.”
“By Astarin and E’li, I swear to love and keep you, Anaya, for all my life.” Kith-Kanan felt lightheaded, as if a great weight had been taken from him. Perhaps it was the weight of his anger, laid across his shoulders when he’d left Silvanost in a rage.
Anaya drew their hands out of the water, and the cuts were healed. While he marveled at this, she said, “Come.”
Together they moved to the rear of the cave, away from the pool. There, the glassy stone walls ended. In their place was a solid wall of tree roots, great twining masses of them. A sunken place in the floor, oval-shaped, was lined with soft furs.
Slowly, very slowly, she sank into the furs, looking up at him with eyes full of love. Kith-Kanan felt his heart beat faster as he sat beside his love and took her hands into his. Raising them to his lips, he whispered, “I didn’t know.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know that this is what love truly feels like.” He smiled and leaned closer to her. Her breath was warm in his face. “And,” he added gently, “didn’t know that you were anything but a wild maiden, one who liked to live in the woods.”
“That’s exactly what I am,” said Anaya.
*
She and Kith-Kanan talked of many things in the night and day they spent in the secret cave. He told her of Hermathya and of Sithas, and he felt his heart lighten as he confessed all. The anger and frustration were gone as if they’d never existed. The youthful passion he’d felt for Hermathya was completely unlike the deep love he now felt for Anaya. He knew there were those in Silvanost who would not understand his love for a Kagonesti. Even his own family would be shocked, he was sure.
But he didn’t dwell on that. He filled his mind with only good thoughts, happy thoughts.
One thing Kith-Kanan insisted upon, and to which Anaya eventually agreed, was that she tell Mackeli of his true origins. When they left the cave and returned to the oak tree, they found the boy sitting on a low branch, eating his evening meal.
When he saw the couple, he jumped from the branch and landed lightly in front of them. He took in their happy faces and the fact that they walked hand-in-hand, and demanded, “Are you two finally friends?”
Anaya and Kith-Kanan looked at each other, and a rare thing happened. Anaya smiled. “We are much more than friends,” she said sweetly.
The three of them sat down with their backs to the broad oak’s trunk. As Anaya told Mackeli the truth about his past, the sun dodged in and out of the clouds and red autumn leaves fell around them.
“I’m not your brother?” Mackeli asked when she had finished.
“You are my brother,” Anaya replied firmly, “but we are not of the same blood.”
“And if I was taken from my parents,” he went on slowly, “who were you taken from, Ny?”
“I don’t know, and I never shall. Camirene took me from my mother and father, just as I took you.” She looked to the ground, embarrassed. “I needed a girl child to be the next Keeper of the Forest. I moved so hastily, I didn’t take time to notice that you were a boy.”
Kith-Kanan put an arm on Mackeli’s shoulder. “You won’t be too angry?”
Mackeli stood up and walked slowly away from them. His ever-present hood slipped down, revealing his white, Silvanesti hair. “It’s all so strange,” he said, confused. “I’ve never known any other life than the one I’ve had in the wildwood.” He looked at Anaya. “I guess I’m not angry. I’m... stunned. I wonder what I would have been if I – if Anaya —”
“A farmer,” said Anaya. ‘Your parents were farmers. They grew vegetables.”
She went on to explain that once she realized she’d taken a boy-child instead of a girl, she tried to return the infant Mackeli to his parents, but their house was abandoned when she went back. So she had raised Mackeli as her brother.
Mackeli still seemed dazed by the tale of his abduction, Finally he asked, rather hesitantly, “Will you have to find a girl to raise to be keeper after you?”
Anaya looked beyond him to Kith-Kanan. “No. This time the Keeper of the Forest will give birth to her successor.” Kith-Kanan held out a hand to her. When she took it, Mackeli quietly clasped his small hands around both of theirs.
15
THREE MOONS’ DAY, YEAR OF THE HAWK
THE AMBASSADOR FROM THORBARDIN ARRIVED IN SILVANOST ON Three-Moons’ Day, midway between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. The dwarf’s name was Dunbarth, but he was called Ironthumb by most who knew him. In his youth he had been a champion wrestler. Now, in old age, he was esteemed as the most level-headed of all the counselors to the king of Thorbardin.
Dunbarth traveled with a small entourage: his secretary, four scribes, four dispatch riders, a crate of carrier pigeons, and sixteen warrior dwarves as his personal guard. The ambassador rode in a tall, closed coach made entirely of metal. Even though the brass, iron, and bronze panels were hammered quite thin, with all the skill characteristic of the dwarven race, the coach was still enormously heavy. A team of eight horses drew the conveyance, which held not only Dunbarth, but his staff. The warrior escort rode sturdy, short-legged horses, not swift but blessed with phenomenal endurance. The dwarven party was met on the western bank of the Thon-Thalas by Sithas and an honor guard of twelve warriors.
“Good morrow to you, Lord Dunbarth!” Sithas said heartily. The ambassador stood on one of the steps hanging below the coach door. From there he was high enough to clasp arms with Sithas without the embarrassment of making the far taller elf bend over.
“Life and health to you, speaker’s son,” Dunbarth rumbled. His leggings and tunic were brown cloth and leather, but he sported a short purple cape and broad-brimmed light brown hat. A short feather plumed out from his hatband and matched in color the wide, bright blue belt at his waist. His attire offered a striking contrast to the elegant simplicity of Sithas’s robe and sandals.
The prince smiled. “We have arranged ferries f
or your company.” With a sweep of his hand he indicated the two large barges moored at the river’s edge.
“Will you ride with me, son of Sithel?” asked Dunbarth importantly.
“I would be honored.”
The dwarf climbed back into his coach, then Sithas grasped the handrail and stepped up into the metal wagon. The top was high enough for him to stand erect in. Nevertheless, Dunbarth ordered his secretary, a swarthy young dwarf, to surrender his seat to Sithas. The elf prince sat. The escort filed in behind the coach, pennants whipping from the tips of their gilded pikes.
“A remarkable thing, this coach,” Sithas said politely. “Is it made entirely of metal?”
“Indeed, noble prince. Not one speck of wood or cloth in the whole contraption!”
Sithas felt the silver curtains that hung in front of the side windows. The dwarves had woven them of metal so fine it felt like cloth.
“Why build it so?” he asked. “Wouldn’t wood be lighter?”
Dunbarth folded his hands across his broad, round belly. “It would indeed, but this is an official coach for Thorbardin ambassadors traveling abroad, so it was made to show off the skills of my people in metal-working,” he replied proudly.
With much shouting and cracking of whips, the ponderous coach rolled onto a barge. The team of horses was cut loose and brought alongside it. Finally, the coach and the warrior escorts were distributed on board.
Dunbarth leaned forward to the coach window. “I would like to see the elves who are going to row this ferry!”
“We have no need for such crude methods,” Sithas said smoothly. “But watch, if it pleases your lordship.”
Dunbarth leaned his elbow on the window edge and looked out over the starboard side of the barge. The ferry master, an elf long in years with yellow hair and mahogany skin, mounted the wooden bulwark and put a brass trumpet to his lips. A long, single note blurted out, sliding down the scale.
In the center of the river, a round green hump broke the surface for an instant, then disappeared again. Large ripples spread out from that point – large enough that when they reached the riverbank they all but swamped a string of canoes tied to the stone pier. The great barge rocked only slightly in the swell.
Again the green hump broke the surface, and this time it rose. The hump became a dome, green and glistening, made up of a hundred angular plates. In front of the dome, the brow of a massive, green head appeared. A large, orange eye with a vertical black pupil the size of a full-grown dwarf appraised the stationary barge. At the tip of the triangular head, two nostrils as big as barrels spewed mist into the air.
“It’s a monster!” Dunbarth cried. “By Reorx!” His hand went to his waist, reaching for a sword he’d forgotten he did not wear.
“No, my lord,” Sithas said soothingly. “A monster it may be, but a tame one. It is our tow to the far shore.”
The dwarven warriors on the barge fingered their heavy axes and muttered to each other. The giant turtle, bred by the elves for just this job, swam to the blunt bow of the ferry and waited patiently as the ferry master and two helpers walked across its huge shell to attach lines to a stout brass chain that encircled the monster’s shell. One of the turtle’s hind legs bumped the barge, knocking the feet out from under the nervous warrior dwarves. The coach creaked backward an inch or two on its iron axles.
“What a brute!” Dunbarth exclaimed, fascinated. “Do such monsters roam freely in the river, Prince Sithas?”
“No, my lord. At the command of my grandfather, Speaker Silvanos, the priests of the Blue Phoenix used their magic to breed a race of giant turtles to serve as beasts of burden on the river. They are enormously strong, of course, and quite longlived.” Sithas sat back imperiously in his springy metal seat.
The ferry master blew his horn again, and the great reptile swung toward the shore of Fallan Island, a mile away. The slack went out of the tow line, and the barge lurched into motion. Sithas heard a loud clatter and knew that the warriors had been thrown off their feet again. He suppressed a smile. “Have you ever been to Silvanost before, Lord Dunbarth?” he asked deferentially.
“No, I’ve not had the pleasure. My uncle, Dundevin Stonefoot, did come to the city once on behalf of our king.”
“I remember,” Sithas mused. “I was but a boy.” It had been fifty years before.
The ferry pitched up and down as they crossed the midpoint of the river. A freshening wind blew the barge sideways, but the turtle paid no attention, paddling steadily on its familiar course. The barge, loaded with tons of coach, dwarves, Dunbarth, Sithas, and the prince’s small honor guard, bobbed on its lines like a cork.
Gray clouds scudded before the scouring wind, hurrying off to the north. Sithas watched them warily, for winter was usually the time of storms in Silvanost. Vast cyclones, often lasting for days, sometimes boiled up out of the Courrain Ocean and lashed across Silvanesti. Wind and rain would drive everyone indoors and the sun would appear only once in two or three weeks. While the countryside suffered during these winter storms, the city was protected by spells woven by the clerics of E’li. Their spells deflected most of the natural fury away to the western mountains, but casting them for each new storm was a severe trial for the priests.
Dunbarth took the bumpy ride in good stride, as befits an ambassador, but his young secretary was not at all happy. He clutched his recording book to his chest and his face went from swarthy to pale to light green as the barge rocked.
“Drollo here hates water,” Dunbarth explained with an amused glint in his eye. “He closes his eyes to take a bath!”
“My lord!” protested the secretary.
“Never fear, Master Drollo,” Sithas said. “It would take far worse wind than this to upset a craft of this size.”
The ferry master tooted another command on his horn, and the turtle swung the barge around. Lord Dunbarth’s guard rattled from one bulwark to the other, and the horse team whinnied and shifted nervously as the deck moved beneath them. The mighty turtle butted his shell against the bow of the ferry and pushed it backward toward the dock. Elves on the dock guided the barge in with long poles. With a short, solid bump, the ferry was docked.
A ramp was lowered into the barge, and the dwarven guard mustered together to march ashore.
They were much disheveled by the bumpy crossing. Plumes were broken off their helmets, capes were stained from the guards’ falls into the scupper, armor was scuffed, but with commendable dignity, the sixteen dwarves shouldered their battle-axes and marched up the ramp to dry land. The horses were re-hitched to the coach and, as whips cracked, they hauled the coach up the ramp.
It began to rain as they rolled through the streets. Dunbarth peered through the curtains at the fabled capital of the elves. White towers gleamed, even under the lowering sky. The peaks of the tallest – the Tower of the Stars and the Quinari Palace – were clothed in murky clouds. Dunbarth, his face as open with wonder as a child’s, admired the intricate spell-formed gardens, the graceful architecture, the almost musical harmony embodied by Silvanost’s sights. Finally, he drew the curtains tight to keep out the gusting rain, then turned his attention to Sithas.
“I know you are heir to the Speaker of the Stars, but how is it you have the task of greeting me, noble Sithas?” he asked diplomatically. “Isn’t it more usual for the younger son to receive foreign ambassadors?”
“There is no younger son in Silvanost,” Sithas replied calmly.
Dunbarth smoothed his iron-gray beard. “Forgive me, Prince, but I was told the speaker had two sons.”
Sithas adjusted the folds of his rain-spattered robes. “I have a twin brother, several minutes younger than I. His name is Kith-Kanan.” Saying the name aloud was strange for Sithas. Though his twin was seldom far from his thoughts, it had been a very long time since the prince had had reason to speak his name. He said it silently to himself: Kith-Kanan.
“Twins are most uncommon among the elven race,” Dunbarth was saying. With effort, Si
thas focused on the conversation at hand. “Whereas, among humans, they are not at all uncommon.” Dunbarth lowered his gaze. “Where is your brother, speaker’s son?” he asked solemnly.
“He is in disgrace.” Dunbarth’s face registered only polite attention. Sithas inhaled deeply. “Do you know humans well?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
“I have made a number of journeys as emissary to the court of Ergoth. We’ve had many disputes with the humans over exchange rates of raw iron, copper, tin... but that’s ancient history.” Dunbarth leaned forward, close to Sithas. “It is a wise person who listens twice to everything a human says,” he said softly. “Their duplicity knows no bounds!”
“I shall keep that in mind,” Sithas responded.
By the time the coach arrived at the palace, the storm had strengthened. There was no flashing lightning or crashing thunder, but a swirling, howling wind drove buckets of rain through the city. The coach pulled up close to the north portico of the palace, where there was some shelter from the wind and rain. There, an army of servants stood poised in the downpour, ready to assist the ambassador with his luggage. Lord Dunbarth stepped heavily down from his conveyance, his short purple cape lashing in the wind. He doffed his extravagant hat to the assembled servants.
“My lord, I think we should dispense with the amenities for now,” Sithas shouted over the wind. “Our rainy season seems to have come early this year.”
“As you wish, noble prince,” Dunbarth bellowed.
Stankathan waited inside for the dwarven ambassador and Sithas. He bowed low to them and said, “Excellent lord, if you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters.”
“Lead on,” said Dunbarth grandly. Behind him, the drenched Drollo let out a sneeze.
The ground floor of the north wing housed many of the pieces of art that Lady Nirakina had collected. The delicate and lifelike statues of Morvintas, the vividly colored tapestries of the Women of E’li, the spell-molded plants of the priest Jin Fahrus – all these lent the north wing an air of otherworldly beauty. As the dwarves passed through, servants discreetly mopped the marble floor behind them, blotting away all the mud and rainwater that had been tracked in.
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