by Dragon Lance
The diners applauded this culinary creation, and Sithel himself smiled. “You see, my friends, how the cook is master of us all,” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “For centuries the dragons preyed upon us, and now we have them to dinner.”
Stankathan stood by the pastry dragon, a sword in his hand. He jerked his head, and servants positioned a golden tray under the dragon’s chin. With a force that belied his age, the servant lopped off the dragon’s head. A flight of live sparrows burst from the open neck of the creation, each bird having silver streamers tied to its legs. The assembly gave a collective gasp of admiration.
“I trust the rest of the insides are more thoroughly cooked,” quipped Sithel.
The servants bore the head of the dragon to the speaker. With smaller knives, they carved it to pieces. Under the crusty pastry skin, the head was stuffed with delicate meat paste, whole baked apples, and sweet glazed onions.
Stankathan attacked the rest of the pastry like some culinary thespian portraying the mighty Huma slaying a real dragon. The body of the beast was filled with savory sausages, stuffed peppers, whole capons, and vegetable torts. The room filled with noise as every diner commented on the elegance of this evening’s feast.
Zertinfinas, rather loudly, called for more nectar. The serving boy had none left in his amphora, so he ran to the door to fetch more. Sithas called to the servant as he passed, and the elf boy dropped to one knee by the prince’s chair.
“Yes, Highness?”
“The holy one has had too much to drink. Have the cellar master cut the nectar with water. Half for half,” ordered Sithas in a confidential tone.
“As you command, sire.”
“The cook really has outdone himself,” Hermathya remarked. “It is a wonderful feast.”
“Is it a special occasion?” asked Rengaldus.
“The calendar does not list a holiday,” Kamin Oluvai noted. “Unless it is a special day for the speaker.”
“It is, holy one. By this feast we do honor to a dead hero,” Sithel explained.
Nirakina set down her goblet, puzzled. “What hero, my husband?”
“His name was Nortifinthas.”
Head wobbling, Zertinfinas asked, “Was he a companion of Huma Dragonsbane?”
“No,” Kamin Oluvai assisted. “He sat in the first great Synthal-Elish, did he not?”
“You are both mistaken,” Sithel replied. “Nortifinthas was a simple soldier, a Kagonesti who died nobly in service to this house.”
Conversation around the table had died just as the flutist trilled the high solo from the lament.
“This morning,” the speaker continued, “this soldier named
Nortifinthas returned to the city from the western province. He was the only survivor of the fifty warriors I sent out to find the bandits who have troubled our people lately. All his comrades were slain. Even though he was fearfully wounded, the brave Nortifinthas returned with the last dispatch of his commander.” Sithel looked around the table, meeting each guest eye to eye. The prince sat very still, his left hand clenched into a fist in his lap. “One of you here, one of you seated at my table eating my food, is a traitor.”
The musicians heard this declaration and ceased playing. The speaker waved a hand to them to continue, and they did so, awkwardly.
“You see, the force that wiped out my fifty warriors was not a band of hit-and-run bandits, but a disciplined troop of cavalry who knew where and when my soldiers would come. It was not a battle. It was a massacre.”
“Do you know who the traitor is, Speaker?” Hermathya asked with great earnest.
“Not yet, but the person will be found. I spent most of my day compiling a list of those who could have known the route of my warriors. At this point, I suspect everyone.”
The speaker looked around the large table. The gaiety was gone from the dinner, and the diners looked at the delicacies on their plates without enthusiasm.
Sithel picked up his knife and fork. “Finish your food,” he commanded. When no one else emulated him, he held up his hands expressively and said, “Why do you not eat? Do you want this fine meal to go to waste?”
Sithas was the first to take up his fork and resume eating. Hermathya and Nirakina did likewise. Soon, everyone was eating again, but with much less good humor than before.
“I will say this,” Sithel added pointedly, cutting the glazed pomegranate eye from the pastry dragon’s face. “The traitor’s identity is suspected.”
By now the elf boy had returned, his amphora full of diluted nectar. Into the absolute silence that followed his own last statement, the speaker said loudly, “Zertinfinas! Your nectar!”
The cleric, his head snapping up at the sound of his name, had to be pounded on the back several times to save him from choking on a piece of pastry.
Sithas watched his father as he ate. The speaker’s every movement was graceful, his face serene with resolve.
Chapter 14
WHILE THE SPEAKER DINED
The Wildwood slowly regained its lively character. No longer was there that absence of animal life that Kith-Kanan had found so puzzling when he first arrived. Daily, deer came to graze in the clearing. Rabbits and squirrels cavorted in and around the trees. Birds other than the ubiquitous corvae appeared. Bears, boars, and panthers roared in the night. As Mackeli had said, they’d been warned of the humans. Now that the humans were gone, the animals had returned.
On this particular day, Mackeli wedged his tongue between his teeth and concentrated on lashing an arrowhead to a shaft. Kith-Kanan was teaching him the bow now. It was not something to which the boy took readily. As he tied off the end of the whipcord, the flint arrowhead sagged badly out of line.
“That’s not tight enough,” Kith-Kanan cautioned. He handed the boy his dagger. “Start again and make it tight.”
Neither of them had seen Anaya for over a week. It didn’t bother Mackeli a whit, but Kith-Kanan found himself missing the strange forest woman. He wondered if he should go and look for her. Mackeli said, and Kith-Kanan did not doubt, that the prince would never find her unless she wanted to be found.
“What do you do if you need her in a hurry?” Kith-Kanan asked ingeniously. “I mean, suppose you got hurt or something. How would you call her?”
“If I really need Ny, she knows it and comes for me.” Mackeli had almost finished his tying of the arrow.
“You mean, you just will her to come, and-she does?”
The boy knotted the tough silk string. “Mostly.” With a proud smile, he handed Kith-Kanan the newly lashed arrow. Kith shook it to see if the head would loosen. It didn’t. “Good,” he said, handing the arrow back. “You only need twenty more to fill your quiver.”
*
Late the next afternoon the Wildwood rang with laughter and splashing as Kith-Kanan and Mackeli swam in the pool. Mackeli was progressing well under the prince’s tutelage, so they had decided to finish their day with a swim in the crystal waters.
Mackeli was treading water and looking around the pool for Kith-Kanan. The boy was a better swimmer than his sister, but not so skilled as the elf prince.
“Where’d you go, Kith?” he said, eyeing the surface of the water uncertairnly. Suddenly a hand closed on his left ankle and Mackeli gave a yelp. He found himself lifted up and launched skyward. Laughing and yelling all the way, he flew several feet and landed back in the pool with a loud splash. He and Kith-Kanan surfaced at the same time.
“It’s not fair,” Mackeli said, flinging his streaming hair from his eyes. “You’re bigger than me!”
Kith-Kanan grinned. “You’ll catch up someday, Keli,” he said. Twisting gracefully in the water, the prince turned and swam toward the granite ledge on shore.
As Kith-Kanan hoisted himself up on the ledge, Mackeli called to him, “I want to learn to swim like you. You move like a fish!”
“Another result of my misspent youth.” Kith-Kanan stretched out full length on the warm ledge and closed his eyes.
With a cry, the prince sat up. A very sharp spear point had been poked into his bare stomach. Squinting in the bright light, he looked up. Several pairs of moccasin-clad feet were gathered around Kith-Kanan, and their owners – four dark figures – loomed over him.
“Mackeli, my sword!” he called, leaping to his feet.
The boy, still in the pool, looked at his friend and laughed. “Calm down, Kith! It’s only White-Lock.”
Kith-Kanan stared. Shading his eyes, he realized that the four dark figures were Kagonesti males. They were brown-skinned, hard-muscled, and wore breechcloths of deerskin. Bows, quivers of arrows, and deerskin bags were slung over their muscled backs. Their exposed skin was covered by red, yellow, and blue loops and whorls of paint.
The tallest of the four – he topped Kith-Kanan by several inches – had a streak of white in his midnight-black hair. He and his comrades were looking at the Silvanesti nobleman with amused curiosity.
Naked and still damp from his swim, Kith-Kanan drew the tattered shreds of his dignity about himself. He pulled on his clothes as Mackeli came out of the pool and greeted the four strange elves.
“Blessings of Astarin upon you, White-Lock, you and yours,” Mackeli said. He placed his hands over his heart and then held them in front of him, palms up.
The Kagonesti called White-Lock repeated the gesture. “And upon you, Mackeli,” he said to the boy, in a deep and solemn voice, though he continued to watch Kith-Kanan. “Do you now bring the Settled Ones to the sacred forests?”
Kith-Kanan knew that the term “Settled Ones” was meant as an insult. The Kagonesti were nomadic and never built permanent habitations. Before he could retort, Mackeli said, “Kith is my friend and my guest, White-Lock. Do the People no longer value courtesy to guests?”
A smile quirked White-Lock’s lips and he said, “Blessings of Astarin upon you, guest of Mackeli.”
“Would you and your hunting party honor me with a visit, White-Lock?” Mackeli asked. He pulled his clothes on.
White-Lock glanced at his companions. Kith-Kanan neither saw nor heard any exchange between them, but the tall Kagonesti said, “My companions and I do not wish to intrude upon the Keeper of the Forest.”
“It is no intrusion,” Mackeli replied politely.
Kith-Kanan was mildly surprised at the change that seemed to have come over the irrepressible boy. He spoke to the Kagonesti in a very composed and adult manner. They, in turn, treated him with great respect. Mackeli went on. “The keeper is away at present. Were she here, I know she would wish to make you welcome. Come, we can share stories. I have had a great adventure since we last met.”
White-Lock looked once more to his three companions. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded and they all set out for the clearing.
As they walked, Kith-Kanan brought up the rear and studied these new acquaintances. In his travels around the western provinces of Silvanesti, he had met several Kagonesti. Those elves, however, had given up their nomadic and isolated ways to trade with the humans and Silvanesti who lived in the West. Many of them no longer painted their bodies, and they wore civilized clothing. These four were obviously not of that ilk.
As they made their way to the clearing, Mackeli introduced Kith-Kanan to the others in the group. There was Sharp-Eye, brown-haired and some inches shorter than White-Lock; Braveheart, who had sandy hair; and Otter. The latter was shorter than the rest, a head shorter than Kith-Kanan, and his pale yellow eyes twinkled with inner mirth. He was the only one who smiled outright at the elf prince. It was a merry smile, and Kith-Kanan returned it.
In the clearing, Mackeli bade them all be seated by the oak. He went inside and returned shortly with nuts, berries, and fruit. White-Lock took only a handful of red berries, though his comrades dug in with gusto.
“So, guest of Mackeli, how do you come to be in the wildwood?” White-Lock asked, staring at the Silvanesti prince.
Kith-Kanan frowned. “I am a traveler, White-Lock. And my name is Kith. You would honor me by using it,” he replied testily.
White-Lock nodded and looked pleased. Kith-Kanan remembered then that the more primitive Kagonesti didn’t believe it was polite to use a person’s name unless they’d been given leave to. He cudgeled his brain, trying to recall what else he knew about their race.
“White-Lock!” called a startled voice behind Kith-Kanan. “What in the name of the forest is this?”
They turned. The one called Otter was standing at the far end of the clearing, staring in awe at Arcuballis. The griffon was lying in the shade of a big tree. The beast opened one golden eye and regarded the amazed Kagonesti.
“That is Arcuballis,” Kith-Kanan said proudly. With an inward smile, he uttered a sharp whistle. Arcuballis got quickly to its feet, and Otter nearly fell over backward as he stumbled away from the tall beast. Kith-Kanan gave another whistle, at first high-pitched, then sliding down the scale. The griffon unfolded its wings to their full extent and uttered a trilling call in imitation of Kith-Kanan’s whistle. Otter jumped back again. At another whistle from the prince, Arcuballis folded its wings and made its way daintily across the clearing, coming to a stop several feet from the group.
Kith-Kanan was pleased to see that even White-Lock looked impressed. The Kagonesti leader told Otter to rejoin the group. “What is this beast, Kith?” White-Lock asked wonderingly.
“Arcuballis is a griffon. He’s my mount and my friend.” Kith-Kanan whistled once more and Arcuballis lay down where it was. In seconds, the beast closed its eyes in sleep again.
“He is beautiful, Kith!” Otter said enthusiastically. “He flies?”
“He does indeed.”
“I should be honored if you would take me for a ride!”
“Otter,” White-Lock said sharply.
Regret replaced the joy on Otter’s face, and he subsided. Kith-Kanan smiled kindly at the yelloweyed elf as the Kagonesti called Sharp-Eye spoke into the silence.
“Mackeli, you said you had a tale to share,” he said. “Tell us of your great adventure.”
All four Kagonesti settled down to listen. Even Otter tore his gaze from Arcuballis and gave his full attention to Mackeli. The Kagonesti were great ones for storytelling, Kith-Kanan knew. They rarely, if ever, wrote anything down. Their history, their news, all was passed orally from one generation to the next. If they liked Mackeli’s story, it would be swapped between tribes until years hence, when it might be heard by every Kagonesti on Krynn.
Mackeli’s green eyes widened. He looked at each of them in turn and began his story. “I was kidnapped by an evil wizard named Voltorno,” he said softly.
Kith-Kanan shook his head bemusedly. Mackeli finally had a fresh audience for his tale. And the boy didn’t let them down. None of the four Kagonesti moved so much as a finger during Mackeli’s long recital of his kidnap, the pursuit by Kith-Kanan and Anaya, and the prince’s duel with Valtorno. The silence was broken only by Otter’s exclamation of triumph when Mackeli told how he and Kith-Kanan had flown away from Voltorno’s men on Arcuballis.
When the story was finished, the Kagonesti looked at Kith-Kanan with new respect. The prince preened slightly, sitting up straighter.
“You fought well against the humans, Kith,” Sharp-Eye concluded. The other Kagonesti nodded. “We are sorry to have missed the Keeper of the Forest, Mackeli,” White-Lock said. “To see the keeper is a great honor and pleasure. She walks with the gods and speaks with great wisdom.”
A snort of laughter was surprised out of Kith-Kanan. “Anaya?” he exclaimed in disbelief. He was immediately sorry. The Kagonesti, including the fun-loving Otter, turned looks of stern reproach upon him.
“You are disrespectful of the keeper, Kith.” White-Lock glowered.
“I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect,” Kith-Kanan said apologetically
. “White-Lock, I’m curious. I’ve met Kagonesti elves before but they weren’t like you. They were more – uh —”
“Where did you meet these others?” White-Lock cut in.
“In the West,” replied Kith-Kanan. “The western provinces of Silvanesti.”
“Settled Ones,” Sharp-Eye said with much disgust. Braveheart rubbed his hands together as if washing them, then flung them away from himself.
“Those you met have taken up the ways of the Settled Ones,” said White-Lock, his voice hard. “They have turned their backs on the true ways.”
Kith-Kanan was surprised by the loathing they all expressed. Deciding it did not behoove him to anger Mackeli’s friends, he changed the subject. “Braveheart, how did you come by your name?”
Braveheart gestured to White-Lock. Kith-Kanan wondered if he’d committed another social breach by inquiring about the Kagonesti’s name. White-Lock, though, didn’t seem upset. He answered, “Braveheart was born mute, but his skill as a hunter and fighter earned him his adult name.” Amusement danced in the hunter’s eyes. “Are all your people so curious, Kith?”
Kith-Kanan looked chagrined. “No, White-Lock. My curiosity has gotten me in trouble before.”
They all laughed, and the four Kagonesti hunters stood up. White-Lock brought his hands up to cover his heart and then held them out palms-up, first to Mackeli and then to Kith-Kanan. The boy and the prince returned the gesture.
“The blessings of Astarin upon you both,” White-Lock said warmly. “Give our respects to the keeper.”
“We shall, White-Lock. Blessings upon you all,” Mackeli returned.
“Good-bye” Kith-Kanan called after them. With a last wave from Otter, the hunters disappeared into the forest.
Mackeli gathered up the uneaten food and stowed it back in the tree. Kith-Kanan remained standing, looking after the departed Kagonesti.
“They’re a strange lot,” Kith-Kanan mused aloud. “And they certainly don’t care for their more ‘settled’ brothers. I thought the others I met were a lot less primitive.” He chuckled. “And the way they talked about Anaya-as if she were a goddess!”