by Dragon Lance
“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.”
Sithel 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 t
hrone. 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.
There were many abbreviations in the writing. Sithas read the message out loud, just to be certain he had it right. “‘Great speaker,’ “it said, “‘I write this knowing I may not be alive tomorrow, and this is the only chance I have to tell what has happened. Two days ago we were attacked by a body of humans, elves, and mixed-bloods. The horsemen trapped us between the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains and the falls of the Keraty River. There are only fifteen of us left. I will send this message with my best fighter, Nortifinthas. Great speaker, these men and elves are not bandits, they are formidable cavalry. They also knew where to ambush us and how many we were, so I feel, too, that we were betrayed. There is a traitor in Silvanost. Find him or all shall perish. Long live Silvanesti!’ “
Sithas stared at his father in horrified silence for a long moment. Finally, he burst out, “This is monstrous!”
“Treachery in my own city. Who could it be?” Sithel asked.
“I don’t know, but we can find out. The greater question is, who pays the traitor? It must be the emperor of Ergoth!” declared his son.
“Yes.” Surely there was no one else with the money or reason to wage such an underhanded campaign against the elven nation. Sithel looked at the prince, who suddenly seemed much older than before. “I do not want war, Sithas. I do not want it. We have not yet received a reply from the emperor or from the king of Thorbardin regarding our request for a conference. If both nations agree to come and talk, it will give us a chance for peace.”
“It may give the enemy the time they need, too,” said Sithas.
The speaker took the belt and wooden cylinder from his son. He restored the cylinder to its place in the side of the throne. The belt he fastened around his own waist. Sithel had regained his calm, and the years fell away once more when resolve filled his face.
“Son, I charge you with the task of finding the traitor. Male or female, young or old, there can be no mercy.”
“I shall find the traitor,” Sithas vowed.
*
Dinner each night in the Quinari Palace was held in the Hall of Balif. It was as much a social occasion as a meal, for all the courtiers were required to attend and certain numbers of the priestly and noble classes, too. Speaker Sithel and Lady Nirakina sat in the center of the short locus of the vast oval table. Sithas and Hermathya sat on Nirakina’s left, and all the guests sat to the left of them in order of seniority. Thus, the person to Sithel’s right was always the most junior member of the court. That seat fell to Tamanier Ambrodel nowadays; for saving Lady Nirakina’s life during the riot, he’d been granted a minor title.
The hall was full, though everyone was still standing when Tamanier and Hermathya arrived together. Sithel had not yet come, and no one could sit until the speaker did so himself. For his part, Sithas stood behind his chair, impassive. Hermathya hoped he might react jealously upon seeing her on the arm of the stalwart Tamanier, but the prince kept his pensive gaze focused on the golden plate set before him.
Sithel entered with his wife. Servants pulled the tall chairs for the speaker and Nirakina, and Sithel took his place. “May the gods grant you all health and long life,” he said quietly. The vast hall had been constructed so that conversation at one end could be heard by parties at the other. The traditional greeting before meals carried easily to the entire oval table.
“Long life to you, Speaker of the Stars,” the diners responded in unison. Sithel sat. With much shuffling and squeaking of chairs, the guests sat down, too.
A troop of servers appeared, bearing a large pot. The pot swung on a long pole supported on the shoulders of two elves. Behind these servants, two more servers carried a slotted bronze box, from which a dull glow radiated. The box was full of large hearthstones that had been banked against the kitchen fires all day. Two servants set the bronze box on a stone slab, and the pot carriers eased the great cauldron onto the box. Now the soup would stay hot all through dinner – which could last several hours.
Young elf maidens clad in shifts of opaque yellow gauze slipped in and out among the seated guests, filling their bowls with steaming turtle soup. For those not inclined to soup, there was fresh fruit, picked that morning in the vast orchards on the eastern shore. Elf boys staggered under the weight of tall amphorae, brimming with purple-red nectar. The goblets of the guests were kept full.
With the first course served, Stankathan signaled to the servants at the doors of the hall. They swung them open, and a trio of musicians entered. The players of flute, lyre, and sistrum, arranged themselves in the far comer of the hall as conversation in the room began in earnest.
“I have heard,” opened old Rengaldus, guildmaster of the gemcutters, “that there is to be a conclave with representatives of Ergoth.”
“That’s old news,” said Zertinfinas, the priest. He hacked open a juicy melon and poured the seedy center pulp onto his plate. “The dwarves of Thorbardin are invited, too.”
“I have never seen a human close up,” remarked Hermathya. “Or talked to one.”
“You haven’t missed much, Lady,” Rengaldus replied. “Their language is uncouth and their bodies thick with hair.”
“Quite bestial,” agreed Zertinfinas.
“Those are your opinions,” Tamanier interjected. Many eyes turned to him. It was unusual for the junior noble to speak at all. “I knew humans out on the plains, and many of them were good people.”
“Yes, but aren’t they inherently treacherous?” asked the guildmaster of the sandalmakers. “Do humans ever keep their word?”
“Frequently.” Tamanier looked to his patron, Sithas, for signs of displeasure. The speaker’s son, as usual, ate sparingly, picking grapes one at a time from the cluster on his plate. He did not seem to have heard Tamanier’s comments, so the favored young courtier continued. “Humans can be fiercely honorable, perhaps because they know so many of their fellows are not.”
“They are unredeemably childish in their tempers,” Zertinfinas asserted. “How can they not be?
With only seventy or so years of life how can they accumulate any store of wisdom or patience?”
“But they are clever,” noted Rengaldus. He slurped a mouthful of nectar and wiped his chin with a satin napkin. “A hundred years ago there wasn’t a human alive who could cut a diamond or polish a sapphire. Now craftsmen in Daltigoth have learned to work gems, and they have undercut our market! My factors in Balifor say that human-cut gems are selling well there, mainly because they are far cheaper than ours. The buyers care less about quality than they do about the final price.”
“Barbarians,” muttered Zertinfinas into his cap.
The second course was brought out: a cold salad of river trout with a sweet herb dressing. Murmurs of approval circled the great table. Loaves of pyramid-shaped bread were also provided, smeared with honey, a confection greatly loved by elves.
“Perhaps one of the learned clerics can tell me,” Hermathya said, cutting herself a chunk of warm bread, “why humans have such short lives?” Zertinfinas cleared his throat to speak, but from the opposite side of the table, a new voice answered the lady’s question.
“It is generally considered that humans represent a middle race, farther removed from the gods and closer to the realm of the animals. Our own race – the first created, longer lived, and possessing a greater affinity for the powers of magic – is closest to the gods.”
Hermathya tilted her head to get a better look at the soft spok
en cleric. “I do not know you, holy one. Who are you?”
“Forgive me, Lady, for not introducing myself. I am Kamin Oluvai, second priest of the Blue Phoenix.” The young elf stood and bowed to Hermathya. He was a striking-looking fellow, in his brilliant blue robe and golden headband, with its inlay of a blue phoenix. His golden hair was long even by elven standards. Sithas studied him circumspectly. This Kamin Oluvai had not been to many royal dinners.
“What about these humans?” complained Zertinfinas loudly, beginning to feel his nectar. “What is to be done about them?”
“I believe that is a matter best left to the speaker,” Sithas replied. One hundred and fifty pairs of eyes looked to Sithel, who was listening with great care while eating his fish.
“The sovereignty of Silvanesti will be preserved,” the speaker said calmly. “That is why the conclave has been called.”
The prince nodded, then asked, “Is it true, Ambrodel, that there are more humans living in our western provinces than Silvanesti and Kagonesti?”
“More than the Silvanesti, Highness. But the true number of the Kagonesti is difficult to state. So many of them live in the remote parts of the forest, mountains, and plains.”
“Humans breed at any point past age fifteen,” blurted Zertinfinas. “They regularly have five and six children in a family!” Whispers of surprise and concern circled the table. Elven parents seldom had more than two children in their entire, lengthy lifetimes.
“Is that true?” Nirakina queried Tamanier.
“At least in the wild country it is. I cannot say what families are like in the more settled areas of Ergoth. But many of the children do not survive into adulthood. Human knowledge of the healing arts is not nearly so advanced as ours.”
The musicians completed their program of light tunes and began to play “The Sea-Elf’s Lament.” The main course was served.
It came rolling in on a large cart, a huge sculpture of a dragon done in golden-brown pie crust. The “beast” reared up five feet high. His back was scaled with mint leaves, his eyes and talons made red with pomegranates. The head and spiky tail of the dragon were covered with glazed nut meats.