Although this statement was of no surprise to Sithel or Sithas, it was a revelation that set the crowd of servants and retainers to buzzing. Sithas turned his back on the hall and spoke to his father in guarded tones. “What is the matter with that fellow? He acts as if he were the advocate for Ergoth!” Sithas muttered.
“Don’t blame Dunbarth. He knows his country will gain the advantage if we and the humans cannot agree. He’s thrown out this rubbish about half-humans to muddy the water. It means nothing,” Sithel commented wisely.
The prince stood aside, and his father rapped for silence once more.
“Let us not confuse matters with talk of bandits and halfbreeds,” Sithel said genially. “There really is only one question – who rules these three provinces?”
“Who rules them in fact, or rules them by a signet pressed to a dollop of molten wax?” Teralind said testily.
“We must have law, Lady, or we shall be nothing but bandits ourselves,” counseled Dunbarth. He smiled behind his curled silver beard. “Well-dressed, rich bandits, but bandits nevertheless.” More laughter. This time Sithel let the laughter build, for it diffused the tension in the tower.
“There is no doubt the Speaker of the Stars bears an ancient claim to the land,” Dunbarth continued, “or that Ergoth has certain rights where so many of its subjects are concerned.”
Sithas lifted his eyebrows at this statement. “Subjects?” he asked quickly. “Are the humans living in the three provinces subjects, therefore, of the emperor of Ergoth?”
“Well, of course,” conceded Teralind. Ulvissen leaned forward to speak to her, but she waved him away. The lady looked perplexed as she realized belatedly that she had contradicted her earlier statement that the bandits were not Ergothians. “What I mean to say is —”
Ulvissen tapped urgently on her shoulder. Teralind turned and snapped, “Stand back, sir! Do not interrupt me!” The seneschal instantly retreated a pace and stood rigidly at attention.
Sithas exchanged a glance with his father, and murmurs arose in the hall. Teralind’s eyes darted around, for she knew she’d made a dangerous admission. She tried to salvage the situation by saying, “There is not a man, woman, or human child in the whole realm of Ansalon who does not owe allegiance to His Imperial Majesty.”
Sithel did not try to speak until the murmuring had subsided. In precise, measured tones, he finally said, “Is it your intention to annex our lands?”
Teralind pushed herself back in her chair and frowned. Beside her, the frail form of Proctor Ulwen moved. He leaned forward slightly and began to shake. Tremors racked his frail body, and Ulvissen moved swiftly to his side. The seneschal snapped his fingers at the human contingent of servants loitering by the grand doors.
“Highness, noble ambassadors, I beg your pardon, but the praetor is seized with an attack,” he announced in an anxious voice. “He must withdraw.”
Dunbarth spread his hands graciously. Sithel stood. “You have our leave to withdraw,” the speaker said. “Shall I send one of our healers to the praetor’s rooms?”
Teralind’s head lifted regally. “We have a doctor of our own, thank you, noble speaker.”
The porters took hold of the rails attached to Ulwen’s chair and hoisted him up. The Ergothian delegation filed out behind him. When they were gone, Dunbarth bowed and led his dwarves out. Sithel dismissed his retainers and was finally alone with his son in the tower.
“Diplomacy is so tiring,” the speaker said wearily. He stood and laid his silver scepter across the throne. “Give me your arm, Sith. I believe I need to rest for a while.”
*
Tamanier Ambrodel walked beside Lady Nirakina through the palace. They had just come from the guild hall of the stone workers, where Lady Nirakina had viewed the plans for the new Market. It was an orderly, beautifully designed place, but its site and purpose depressed her. “It’s simply
wrong,” she told Tamanier. “We are the firstborn race of the world and favored by the gods. As such, it is only right we share our grace with other people, not look upon them as lesser beings.”
Tamanier nodded. “I heartily agree, Lady. When I lived in the wilderness, I saw many kinds of people-Silvanesti, Kagonesti, humans, dwarves, gnomes, kender-and no one lived better than his neighbor for any reason but his own hard work. The land doesn’t care if it’s plowed by human or elf. The rain falls the same on every farm.”
They arrived at the door of Nirakina’s private rooms. Before he left, Tamanier informed her, “I went to see Miritelisina, as you requested.”
“Is she well?” she asked eagerly. “A priestess of such age and wisdom should not be held in a common dungeon.”
“She is well,” Tamanier said, “though unrepentant. She still does not admit to her crime.”
“I do not believe she committed a crime,” Nirakina said with fervor. “Miritelisina was moved by compassion. She only sought to warn the poor refugees of the plan to move them. I’m certain she had no idea they’d riot as they did.”
Tamanier bowed. “I bear the holy lady no ill will. I tell you, though, that she will not repent-even to gain her freedom. Miritelisina believes that by remaining in prison, she will inspire others who want to help the refugees.”
Nirakina gave the young courtier’s arm a squeeze. “And what do you think, Tam? Whose cause do you favor?”
“Do you really have to ask? A short time ago, I was one of the poor wretches-homeless, penniless, despised. They deserve the speaker’s protection.”
“We’ll have to see what we can do to win it,” Nirakina replied warmly.
She went into her rooms, and Tamanier walked away, his step light. With the speaker’s wife fighting for them, the homeless settlers would soon feel the grace of Sithel’s favor. And who knew, perhaps Miritelisina would be freed to resume her good works for the poor.
He left the central tower of the palace and strolled the empty corridor balcony of the east wing.
Suddenly he heard voices. Foreign voices. He’d lived among humans long enough to know their speech.
“— play at this silly game?” complained a woman’s voice, tight with emotion.
“As long as necessary. It’s the emperor’s will,” a man’s strong voice answered.
“The things I do for my father! I hope he appreciates it!”
“He’s paying off your gambling debts, isn’t he?” said the man dryly.
Tamanier knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he was intrigued. He stood very still. Since the humans were in the corridor below him, their voices carried easily to him up the central atrium.
“I don’t trust that Dunbarth,” asserted the woman. “He switches sides like a click beetle.”
“He has no side but his own. Right now Thorbardin isn’t ready for war, so he hopes to play us off against the elves. He’s clever, but I see what he’s doing.”
“He annoys me. So does Prince Sithas. How he stares! They say elves have second sight.” The woman’s voice rose. “You don’t think he’s reading my mind, do you?”
“Calm yourself,” said the man. “I don’t think he can. But if it troubles you, I’ll speak to our friend about it.”
Footsteps echoed on the balcony across the atrium from where Tamanier stood. He tensed, ready to be discovered. The voices below ceased their furtive talk.
Out of the afternoon shadows on the far side of the balcony Tamanier spied the young priest of the Blue Phoenix, Kamin Oluvai. Tamanier was surprised; why was the priest here? Kamin didn’t see him, however, so Tamanier withdrew from the balcony rail. The humans he’d heard were certainly Lady Teralind and Ulvissen, but what did their strange conversation mean?
Court intrigue was foreign to him. Who was Teralind really? What was she concealing? Who was the “friend” Ulvissen referred to? Could it be the traitor of which Speaker Sithel had spoken that night at dinner?
Tamanier hurried away. He had to tell someone, and Sithas’s room was nearby. The courtier was already feeling slightl
y relieved; certainly the prince would know what to do.
20
DAY OF METAMORPHOSIS
THE HUMANS WERE BREAKING CAMP AND GETTING READY TO return to their ship. They worked with haste, and it was clear to Kith-Kanan that they wanted nothing more than to be away from such an accursed place. While they worked, Voltorno went to the elf prince. He had his men pry the stake out of the ground, then he grabbed Kith-Kanan’s shackles and dragged him to the edge of the clearing.
“You out there! Woman and boy! I have your friend here! If any more of my men are so much as scratched, I’ll make your royal friend suffer for it. I’ll give him something more than a scar on his cheek. How do you think he’d look without an arm, a hand, or a leg? Do you hear me?”
The only answer was the soft sighing of wind in the still bare branches.
“We’re ready to go, master,” said one of the humans.
“Then get moving, dolt.’ Voltorno was losing his air of confidence. Despite his aching limbs and the stinging sword cut on his cheek, Kith-Kanan was pleased. The angrier Voltorno got, the greater advantage Anaya and Mackeli would have.
The raiders marched down the path single file, with Kith-Kanan leading. Voltorno gave the prince over to one of his men and moved out ahead as the band left the path and entered the woods.
They snaked silently through the forest. In spite of their master’s assurances, the men adopted a crouching walk, swinging their loaded bows slowly from side to side. Their fear was palpable, like a foul odor.
As they reached the old, deep forest, the trees got larger and farther apart. The raiders moved more quickly, using the trail they’d made on their way to the clearing. Occasionally Voltorno scanned the high tree branches, alert to any ambush from above. This added greatly to the alarm of his men. They started glancing up frequently, stumbling and bumping into each other.
Disgusted, Voltorno turned on them. “You make more noise than a pen of squealing pigs!” he hissed.
“And you don’t breathe correctly either,” Kith-Kanan put in.
Voltorno gave him a venomous glance and turned to resume the march. Just then, a loud cracking sound filled the air. The men stood, paralyzed, trying to find the source of the noise. A tree branch broke off a nearby oak and dropped to the ground ahead. The men started laughing with relief.
Behind them, a figure popped up out of the leaves and aimed a stolen crossbow at the back of the last man in line. The quarrel loosed, the dark figure slipped silently back into the bed of leaves. The wounded man made a gurgling sound, staggered forward a few steps, and collapsed.
“It’s Favius! He’s been shot!”
“Mind your front! Look for your target before you shoot!” Voltorno barked. The six men remaining formed a ring with Kith-Kanan in the center. Voltorno walked slowly around the ring, staring hard at the empty woods. There was nothing and no one to be seen.
He halted when he noticed one of his men holding an empty bow. “Meldren,” he said glacially, “why is your bow not loaded?”
The man named Meldren looked at his weapon in surprise. “I must have triggered it off,” he muttered.
“Yes, into Favius’s back!”
“No, master! Favius was behind me!”
“Don’t lie to me!” Fiercely Voltorno struck the man with the flat of his sword. Meldren dropped his crossbow and fell to the ground. None of the other men offered to help him or supported his story.
Voltorno picked up the man’s crossbow and handed it to another of his company. “Weldren will walk in the rear,” he ordered. “With any luck, the witch will kill him next.”
The raiders relieved the dead man of his weapons and gear and moved on. The wretched Meldren, with only a short sword for defense, brought up the rear.
The trail they followed led them down a draw, between a pair of giant oaks. Voltorno went down on one knee and held up his hand to halt the group. He studied the ground and then looked ahead. “This has the look of a trap,” he said with a wise air. “We’ll not go through the draw. Four of you men go along the right edge. The rest follow me on the left.”
The draw was a V-shaped ditch, twenty feet wide and eight feet deep at its lowest point. Four men crept along the right rim of the gully while Voltorno, Kith-Kanan, and two others walked along the left. As the half-human circled around, he clucked his tongue triumphantly.
“See?” he said. Leaning against an oak on the left was a thick log, poised to roll down into the draw if anyone disturbed the web of vines attached to it. This web extended down into the draw and covered the ground there. The men on the right came around their oak. Voltorno waved to them. The lead man waved back-and the ground beneath him gave way.
The “ground” they’d been standing on was nothing but a large log, covered loosely with dirt and leaves. Held in place by slender windfall limbs, the log collapsed under the men’s weight. With shouts and cries for help, the four tumbled into the gully.
“No!” Voltorno shouted.
The men received only bruises and cuts from falling the eight feet into the ravine, but they rolled onto the mat of vines that was the trigger for the six-foot-thick log poised on the left bank. The vines snapped taut, the log rolled down, and the men were crushed beneath it. Voltorno, Kith-Kanan, and the remaining two raiders could only stand by and watch as this occurred.
Suddenly there was a whirring sound and a thump. One of the two humans dropped, a crossbow quarrel in his back. The last human gave a shriek. He flung down his weapon and ran off into the woods, screaming without letup. Voltorno shouted for him to come back, but the hysterical raider disappeared into the trees.
“It appears you’re on your own, Voltorno,” Kith-Kanan said triumphantly.
The half-human seized the prince and held him in front of his body like a shield. “I’ll kill him, witch!” he screamed into the trees. He turned from side to side, searching madly for Anaya or Mackeli. “I swear I will kill him!”
“You won’t live that long,” a voice uttered behind him.
In shock, the half-human whirled. Anaya, still painted sooty black, stood nonchalantly before him, just out of sword’s reach. Mackeli was behind her, his bow poised. Taking advantage of his captor’s obvious shock at seeing these two foes so close by, Kith-Kanan wrenched himself from Voltorno’s grasp and jumped away from him.
“Shoot her!” Voltorno cried dazedly. “Shoot her, men!”
Remembering belatedly that he had no one left to command, the half-human lunged at Anaya. Mackeli started to react, but the keeper shouted, “No, he’s mine!”
Despite his wife’s shouted claim, Kith-Kanan slogged forward under the burden of his chains. The prince was certain that Anaya didn’t have a chance against a fine duelist like Voltorno. Her agility was drastically reduced, and the only weapon she carried was her flint knife.
The half-human thrust at her twice, then a third time. She dodged, adequately but without her old preternatural grace. He cut and slashed the air, and as Anaya scampered aside, the Ergothian blade bit into a tree. She ducked under Voltorno’s reach and jabbed at his stomach. The half-human brought the sword’s hilt down on her head. With a grunt of pain, Anaya sprawled on her face.
“Shoot!” Kith-Kanan cried. As Mackeli’s finger closed on the trigger bar, Anaya rolled away from Voltorno’s killing strike and repeated her warning to her friends.
“Only I may shed his blood!” she declared.
Voltorno laughed in response, but it was a laugh shrill with desperation.
Anaya got to her feet clumsily and stumbled in the thick leaves and fallen branches. As best she could, she jerked back, out of the way of Voltorno’s sweeping slash, but she could not avoid the straight thrust that followed. Mackeli’s green eyes widened in shock and he uttered a strangled cry as the blade pierced Anaya’s brown deerskin tunic.
Though he saw what happened, Kith-Kanan was more shocked by what he heard-a roaring In his ears. For a moment, he didn’t know what he was hearing. Then he realized th
at the sound was Anaya’s pulse. It hammered at the prince like thunder, and he felt as if he would collapse from the pain of it. Time seemed to slow for Kith-Kanan as he watched Anaya. His beloved’s face showed no pain, only an unshakable determination.
Voltorno’s lips widened in a smile. Though he would surely die himself, at least he’d killed the witch. That smile froze as Anaya grasped the sword that pierced her stomach and rammed it farther in. His fingers still locked around the handle, the half-human was jerked toward her. His puzzlement turned to horror as Anaya brought up her free hand and drove her flint knife into his heart.
Valtorno collapsed. So tightly did he grip the sword that, when he fell backward, he pulled it from Anaya’s body. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Kith-Kanan struggled to Anaya’s side and caught her as she collapsed. “Anaya,” the prince said desperately. The front of her tunic was covered in blood. “Anaya, please....”
“Take me home,” she said and fainted.
Mackeli found the key to Kith-Kanan’s shackles in Voltorno’s belt pouch. Freed of his bonds, the prince lifted Anaya in his arms. Mackeli offered to help.
“No, I have her,” Kith-Kanan said brokenly. “She weighs nothing.”
He strode away from the gully, past the places where Voltorno’s men had died. Inside, Kith-Kanan concentrated on the sound and sensation of Anaya’s heartbeat. It was there. Slow, labored, but it was there. He walked faster. At home there would be medicines. Mackeli knew things. He knew about roots and poultices. At the hollow tree there would be medicines.
“You have to live, “he told Anaya, staring straight ahead. “By Astarin, you have to live! We’ve not had enough time together!”
The sun flickered through the leafless trees as they hurried toward the clearing. By now Kith-Kanan was almost running. Anaya was strong, he repeated over and over in his mind. Mackeli would be able to save her.
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