by Dragon Lance
“They are burning the trees,” Anaya said grimly. “Savages!”
The prince refrained from saying that to most of the civilized people of Krynn, it was she who was the savage. Instead he asked, “Which way to Mackeli?”
“Toward the smoke,” she said. “The humans have taken him after all. I will see them bleed!”
Though Kith-Kanan was surprised at the depth of her feeling, he had no doubt she meant what she said.
They stayed in the treetops until the prince had begun to miss his handholds and then nearly fell forty feet to the ground. It was too dark to continue aloft, so Anaya and Kith-Kanan descended to the forest floor once more. They walked perhaps a mile in silence, Anaya gliding through the black tree trunks like a runaway shadow. Kith-Kanan felt the tension rising. He had never fought humans – he’d only met a few of them in Silvanost, and all of them were aristocrats. For that matter, he’d never fought anyone for real, in a fight where death was the likely outcome. He wondered if he could do it, actually thrust his sword through someone’s body, or use the edge to cut them.... He reminded himself that these humans were holding Mackeli prisoner, and probably his royal griffon, too.
Anaya froze, silhouetted between two large trees. Her hand was out stiffly behind her, a signal for Kith-Kanan to halt. He did and heard what had stopped her. The tinny sound of a flute drifted through the forest, borne along by the smells of wood smoke and roasting meat.
When he looked toward Anaya she’d vanished. He waited. What was he supposed to do? Kith-Kanan shook himself mentally. You, a prince of House Royal, wanting directions from a Kagonesti savage! You are a warrior – do your duty!
He charged through the underbrush. At the first gleam of a campfire, Kith-Kanan drew his sword. Another twenty steps, and he burst into a clearing hewn from the primeval woodland. A large campfire, almost a bonfire, blazed in the center of the clearing. A dozen ruddy faces – thickly fleshed human faces, with their low foreheads, broad cheeks, and wide jaws – turned toward the elf prince. Some had hair growing on their faces. All stared at him in utter astonishment.
One of the humans, with pale brown hair on his face, stood up. “Terrible spirit, do not harm us!” he intoned. “Peace be with you!”
Kith-Kanan relaxed. These weren’t desperate brigands. They were ordinary men and, by the looks of their equipment, woodcutters. He dropped his sword point and stepped into the firelight.
“It’s one of them!” declared another human. “The Elder Folk!”
“Who are you?” demanded Kith-Kanan.
“Essric’s company of woodmen. I am Essric,” said the brown-haired human.
Kith-Kanan surveyed the clearing. Over thirty large trees had been felled in this one place, and he could see a path had been cut through the forest. The very biggest trees were trimmed of their branches and were being split into halves and quarters with wedges and mallets. Slightly smaller trees were being dragged away. Kith-Kanan saw a rough pen full of broad-backed oxen.
“This is Silvanesti land,” he said. “By whose grant do you cut down trees that belong to the Speaker of the Stars?”
Essric looked to his men, who had nothing to tell him. He scratched his brown beard ruefully. “My lord, we were brought hither and landed on the south coast of this country by ships commanded by Lord Ragnarius of Ergoth. It is Lord Ragnarius’s pleasure that we fell as many trees as his ships can carry home. We didn’t know anyone owned these trees!”
Just then, an eerie howl rippled across the fire-lit clearing. The humans all stood up, reaching for axes and staves. Kith-Kanan smiled to himself. Anaya was putting a scare into the men.
A clean-shaven man to Essric’s left, who held a broadaxe in his meaty hands, suddenly let out a cry and staggered backward, almost falling in the fire. Instead, he dropped into the arms of his comrades.
“Forest spirits are attacking!” Kith-Kanan shouted. His declaration was punctuated by a hair-raising screech from the black trees. He had to struggle to keep from laughing as the twelve humans were driven from their fire by a barrage of sooty stones. One connected with the back of one man’s head, stretching him out flat. Panic-stricken, the others didn’t stop to help him, but fled pell-mell past the ox pen. Without torches to light their way, they stumbled and fell over stumps and broken branches. Within minutes, no one was left in the clearing but Kith-Kanan and the prone woodcutter.
Anaya came striding into the circle of light. Kith-Kanan grinned at her and held up a hand in greeting. She stalked past him to where the human lay. The flint knife was in her hand.
She rolled the unconscious human over. He was fairly young and had a red mustache. A thick gold ring gleamed from one earlobe. That, and the cut of his pants, told Kith-Kanan that the man had been a sailor at one time.
Anaya put a knee on the man’s chest. The human opened his eyes and saw a wildly painted creature, serrated flint knife in hand, kneeling on him. The creature’s face stared down with a ferocious grimace twisting its painted designs. The man’s eyes widened in terror, showing much white.
He tried to raise an arm to ward off Anaya, but Kith-Kanan was holding his wrists.
“Shall I cut out your eyes?” Anaya said coldly. “They would make fine decorations for my home.”
“No! No! Spare me!” gibbered the man.
“No? Then tell us what we want to know,” Kith-Kanan warned. “There was a white-haired elf boy here, yes?”
“Yes, wonderful lord!”
“And a griffon – a flying beast with an eagle’s forepart and a lion’s hindquarters?”
“Yes, yes!”
“What happened to them?”
“They were taken away by Voltorno,” the man moaned.
“Who’s Voltomo?” asked Kith-Kanan.
“A soldier. A terrible, cruel man. Lord Ragnarius sent him with us.”
“Why isn’t he here now?” Anaya hissed, pushing the ragged edge of her knife against his throat.
“He – He decided to take the elf boy and the beast back to Lord Ragnarius’s ship.”
Anaya and Kith-Kanan exchange looks. “How long ago did this Voltorno leave?” persisted Kith-Kanan.
“This morning,” the unfortunate sailor gasped.
“And how many are there in his party?”
“Ten. S – Six men-at-arms and four archers.”
Kith-Kanan stood up, releasing the man’s hands. “Let him up.
“No,” disagreed Anaya. “He must die.”
“That is not the way! If you kill him, how will you be any different from the men who hold Mackeli captive? You cannot be the same as those you fight and have any honor. You must be better.”
“Better?” she hissed, looking up at the prince. “Anything is better than tree-killing scum!”
“He is not responsible,” Kith-Kanan insisted. “He was ordered —”
“Whose hand held the axe?” Anaya interrupted.
Taking advantage of their argument, the sailor shoved Anaya off and scrambled to his feet. He ran after his comrades, bleating for help.
“Now you see? You let him get away,” Anaya said. She gathered herself to give chase, but Kith-Kanan told her, “Forget those humans! Mackeli is more important. We’ll have to catch up with them before they reach the coast.” Anaya sullenly did not reply. “Listen to me! We’re going to need all your talents. Call the corvae, the Black Crawlers, everything. Have them find the humans and try to delay them long enough so that we can catch up.”
She pushed him aside and stepped away. The big fire was dying, and the hacked out clearing was sinking into darkness. Now and then an ox grunted from the makeshift pen.
Anaya moved to the felled trees. She put a gentle hand on the trunk of one huge oak. “Why do they do it?” she asked mournfully. “Why do they cut down the trees? Can’t they hear the fabric of the forest split open each time a tree falls?” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “There are spirits in the wildwood, spirits in the trees. They have murdered them with their metal.�
� Her haunted eyes looked up at the prince.
Kith-Kanan put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s much to be done. We must go.” Anaya drew a shuddering breath. After giving the tree a last gentle touch, she stooped to gather up her throwing stones.
Chapter 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 steam
ing 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 approach. “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?”