The History of Krynn: Vol III

by Dragon Lance

Understanding quickly dawned. “Are you Ny?”

  “The name of my birth was Anaya.” There was cool assurance in the voice.

  He frowned. “That sounds like a female name.”

  Anaya got up and kept a discreet distance from Kith-Kanan. He realized she was a female elf of the Kagonesti race. Her black hair was cut close to her head, except in back, where she wore a long braid. Anaya was shorter than Kith-Kanan by a head, and much slimmer. Her green-dyed deerskin tunic ended at her hips, leaving her legs bare. Like her face, her legs were covered with painted lines and decorations.

  Her dark, hazel eyes darted left and right. “Where is Mackeli?”

  “Out gathering nuts, I think,” he said, watching her keenly.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “The Forestmaster sent me,” the prince stated flatly.

  In less time than it takes to tell, Anaya bolted from the clearing. She ran to an oak tree and, to Kith-Kanan’s astonishment, ran right up the broad trunk. She caught an overhead limb and swung into the midst of the leaves. Gaping, he made a few flatfooted steps forward, but the wild elf was completely lost from view.

  “Anaya! Come back! I am a friend! The Forestmaster —”

  “I will ask the Master if it is so.” Her clear, high voice came from somewhere above his line of sight. “If you speak the truth, I will return. If you say the Master’s name in vain, I will call down the Black Crawlers on you.”

  “What?” Kith-Kanan spun around, looking up, trying to locate her. He could see nothing. “Who are the Black Crawlers?” But there was no answer, only the sighing of the wind through the leaves.

  *

  Night fell, and neither Mackeli nor Anaya had returned. Kith-Kanan began to fear that something might have happened to the boy. There were interlopers in the forest, the Forestmaster had said. Mackeli was clever, but he was innocent of the ways of ambush and murder. If the boy was in their hands... and Anaya. There was a strange creature! If he hadn’t actually fought with her, felt the solidness of her flesh, he would have called her a wraith, a forest spirit. But the bruise on his jaw was undeniably real.

  Growing tired of the closeness of the hollow tree, the prince cleared a spot in the leaves to build a fire outside. He scraped down to bare soil and laid some stones for a hearth. Soon he had a fine fire blazing. The smoke wafted into the darkness, and sparks floated up, winking off like dying stars.

  Though it was summer, Kith-Kanan felt a chill. He held his hands out to the fire, warming them. Crickets whirred in the dark beyond the firelight. Cicadas stirred in the trees, and bats swooped into the clearing to catch them. Suddenly the prince felt as if he was in the center of a seething, crawling pot. His eyes flicked back and forth, following odd rustlings and scrapings in the dry leaves. Things fluttered overhead, slithered behind his back. He grasped the unburned end of a stick of wood and pulled it out of the fire. Dark things seemed to leap back into the shadows when Kith-Kanan brought the burning torch near.

  He stood with his back to the fire, breathing hard. With the blazing brand before him like a noble blade, the elf kept the darkness at bay. Gradually the incessant activity lessened. By the time Solinari rose above the trees, all was still.

  After throwing the stump of the burned limb back on the dying fire, Kith-Kanan sat down again and faced the red coals. Like a thousand lonely travelers before him, the prince whistled a tune to keep the loneliness away. It was a tune from his childhood: “Children of the Stars.”

  The chorus died when his lips went dry. He saw something that froze him completely. Between the black columns of two tree trunks were a pair of red staring eyes.

  He tried to think what it could be. The possibilities were not good: wolf, bear, a tawny panther. The two eyes blinked and disappeared. Kith-Kanan jumped to his feet and snatched up a stone from the outside edge of his campfire. He hurled it at the spot where he’d last seen the eyes. The rock crashed into the underbrush. There was no other sound, Even the crickets had ceased their singing.

  Then Kith-Kanan sensed he was being watched and turned to the right. The red eyes were back, creeping forward a foot or so off the ground, right toward him.

  Darkness is the enemy, he suddenly realized. Whatever I can see, I can fight. Scooping up a double handful of dead leaves, he threw them on the embers of the fire. Flames blazed up. He immediately saw a long, lean body close to the ground. The advance of the red eyes stopped, and suddenly they rose from the ground.

  It was Anaya.

  “I have spoken with the Forestmaster,” she said a little sulkily, her eyes glowing red in the light from the flames. “You said the truth.” Anaya walked sideways a few steps, never taking her eyes off Kith-Kanan. Despite this good news, he felt that she was about to spring on him. She dropped down on her haunches and looked into the fire. The leaves were consumed, and their remains sank onto the heap of dully glowing ashes.

  “It is wise you laid a fire,” she said. “I called the Black Crawlers to watch over you while I spoke with the Forestmaster.”

  He straightened his shoulders with studied nonchalance. “Who are the Black Crawlers?”

  “I will show you.” Anaya picked up a dead dry branch and held it to the coals. It smoked heavily for an instant, then burst into flame. She carried the burning branch to the line of trees defining the clearing.

  Kith-Kanan lost his hard-won composure when Anaya showed him what was waiting beyond the light.

  Every tree trunk, every branch, every square inch of ground was covered with black, creeping things. Crickets, millipedes, leaf hoppers, spiders of every sort and size, earwigs, pill bugs, beetles up to the size of his fist, cockroaches, caterpillars, moths, flies of the largest sort, grasshoppers, cicadas with soft, pulpy bodies and gauzy wings... stretching as far as he could see, coating every surface. The horde was motionless, waiting.

  Anaya returned to the fire. Kith-Kanan was white-faced with revulsion. “What sort of witch are you?” he gasped. “You command all these vermin?”

  “I am no witch. This forest is my home, and I guard it closely. The Black Crawlers share the woodland with me. I gave them warning when I left you, and they gathered to keep you under watchful eyes.”

  “Now that you know who I am, you can send them away,” he said.

  “They have already departed. Could you not hear them go?” she scoffed.

  “No, I couldn’t.” Kith-Kanan glanced around at the dark forest, blotting sweat from his face with his sleeve. He focussed his attention on the fascinating elf woman and blotted out the memory of the Crawlers. With her painted decorations, grime, and dyed deerskin, Kith-Kanan wasn’t sure how old Anaya might be, or even what she really looked like. She perched on her haunches, balancing on her toes. Kith-Kanan fed some twigs to the fire, and the scene slowly lightened.

  “The Forestmaster says you are here to drive away the intruders,” Anaya said. “I have heard them, smelled them, seen the destruction they have caused. Though I have never doubted the word of the great unicorn, I do not see how you can drive anyone away. You are no ranger; you smell of a place where people are many and trees few.”

  Kith-Kanan was tired of the Kagonesti’s casual rudeness. He excused it in Mackeli, who was only a boy, but it was too much coming from this wild woman.

  “I am a prince of House Royal,” he said proudly. “I am trained in the arts of the warrior. I don’t know who or how many of these intruders there are, but I will do my best to find a way to get rid of them. You need not like me, Anaya, but you had better not insult me too often.” He leaned back on his elbows. “After all, who wrestled whom to the ground?”

  She poked the dancing bowl of flames. “I let you take my knife away,” she said defensively. Kith-Kanan sat up. “You what?”

  “You seemed such a clumsy outlander, I did not think you were dangerous. I let you get the advantage to see what you would do. You could not have cut my throat with that flint blade. It was dull as a cow’s tooth.”

  Despite his ann
oyance, Kith-Kanan found himself smiling. “You wanted to see if I was merciful, is that it?”

  “That was my purpose,” she said.

  “So I guess I really am a slow, dumb outlander,” he said.

  “There is power in your limbs,” she admitted, “but you fight like a falling stone.”

  “And I don’t breathe properly either.” Kith-Kanan was beginning to wonder how he had ever lived to the age of ninety, being so inept.

  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.

  Chapter 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 ragged 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.