by Dragon Lance
Dunbarth leaned his elbow on the window edge and looked out over the starboard side of the barge. The ferry master, an elf long in years with yellow hair and mahogany skin, mounted the wooden bulwark and put a brass trumpet to his lips. A long, single note blurted out, sliding down the scale.
In the center of the river, a round green hump broke the surface for an instant, then disappeared again. Large ripples spread out from that point – large enough that when they reached the riverbank they all but swamped a string of canoes tied to the stone pier. The great barge rocked only slightly in the swell.
Again the green hump broke the surface, and this time it rose. The hump became a dome, green and glistening, made up of a hundred angular plates. In front of the dome, the brow of a massive, green head appeared. A large, orange eye with a vertical black pupil the size of a full-grown dwarf appraised the stationary barge. At the tip of the triangular head, two nostrils as big as barrels spewed mist into the air.
“It’s a monster!” Dunbarth cried. “By Reorx!” His hand went to his waist, reaching for a sword he’d forgotten he did not wear.
“No, my lord,” Sithas said soothingly. “A monster it may be, but a tame one. It is our tow to the far shore.”
The dwarven warriors on the barge fingered their heavy axes and muttered to each other. The giant turtle, bred by the elves for just this job, swam to the blunt bow of the ferry and waited patiently as the ferry master and two helpers walked across its huge shell to attach lines to a stout brass chain that encircled the monster’s shell. One of the turtle’s hind legs bumped the barge, knocking the feet out from under the nervous warrior dwarves. The coach creaked backward an inch or two on its iron axles.
“What a brute!” Dunbarth exclaimed, fascinated. “Do such monsters roam freely in the river, Prince Sithas?”
“No, my lord. At the command of my grandfather, Speaker Silvanos, the priests of the Blue Phoenix used their magic to breed a race of giant turtles to serve as beasts of burden on the river. They are enormously strong, of course, and quite longlived.” Sithas sat back imperiously in his springy metal seat.
The ferry master blew his horn again, and the great reptile swung toward the shore of Fallan Island, a mile away. The slack went out of the tow line, and the barge lurched into motion. Sithas heard a loud clatter and knew that the warriors had been thrown off their feet again. He suppressed a smile. “Have you ever been to Silvanost before, Lord Dunbarth?” he asked deferentially.
“No, I’ve not had the pleasure. My uncle, Dundevin Stonefoot, did come to the city once on behalf of our king.”
“I remember,” Sithas mused. “I was but a boy.” It had been fifty years before.
The ferry pitched up and down as they crossed the midpoint of the river. A freshening wind blew the barge sideways, but the turtle paid no attention, paddling steadily on its familiar course. The barge, loaded with tons of coach, dwarves, Dunbarth, Sithas, and the prince’s small honor guard, bobbed on its lines like a cork.
Gray clouds scudded before the scouring wind, hurrying off to the north. Sithas watched them warily, for winter was usually the time of storms in Silvanost. Vast cyclones, often lasting for days, sometimes boiled up out of the Courrain Ocean and lashed across Silvanesti. Wind and rain would drive everyone indoors and the sun would appear only once in two or three weeks. While the countryside suffered during these winter storms, the city was protected by spells woven by the clerics of E’li. Their spells deflected most of the natural fury away to the western mountains, but casting them for each new storm was a severe trial for the priests.
Dunbarth took the bumpy ride in good stride, as befits an ambassador, but his young secretary was not at all happy. He clutched his recording book to his chest and his face went from swarthy to pale to light green as the barge rocked.
“Drollo here hates water,” Dunbarth explained with an amused glint in his eye. “He closes his eyes to take a bath!”
“My lord!” protested the secretary.
“Never fear, Master Drollo,” Sithas said. “It would take far worse wind than this to upset a craft of this size.”
The ferry master tooted another command on his horn, and the turtle swung the barge around. Lord Dunbarth’s guard rattled from one bulwark to the other, and the horse team whinnied and shifted nervously as the deck moved beneath them. The mighty turtle butted his shell against the bow of the ferry and pushed it backward toward the dock. Elves on the dock guided the barge in with long poles. With a short, solid bump, the ferry was docked.
A ramp was lowered into the barge, and the dwarven guard mustered together to march ashore.
They were much disheveled by the bumpy crossing. Plumes were broken off their helmets, capes were stained from the guards’ falls into the scupper, armor was scuffed, but with commendable dignity, the sixteen dwarves shouldered their battle-axes and marched up the ramp to dry land. The horses were re-hitched to the coach and, as whips cracked, they hauled the coach up the ramp.
It began to rain as they rolled through the streets. Dunbarth peered through the curtains at the fabled capital of the elves. White towers gleamed, even under the lowering sky. The peaks of the tallest – the Tower of the Stars and the Quinari Palace – were clothed in murky clouds. Dunbarth, his face as open with wonder as a child’s, admired the intricate spell-formed gardens, the graceful architecture, the almost musical harmony embodied by Silvanost’s sights. Finally, he drew the curtains tight to keep out the gusting rain, then turned his attention to Sithas.
“I know you are heir to the Speaker of the Stars, but how is it you have the task of greeting me, noble Sithas?” he asked diplomatically. “Isn’t it more usual for the younger son to receive foreign ambassadors?”
“There is no younger son in Silvanost,” Sithas replied calmly.
Dunbarth smoothed his iron-gray beard. “Forgive me, Prince, but I was told the speaker had two sons.”
Sithas adjusted the folds of his rain-spattered robes. “I have a twin brother, several minutes younger than I. His name is Kith-Kanan.” Saying the name aloud was strange for Sithas. Though his twin was seldom far from his thoughts, it had been a very long time since the prince had had reason to speak his name. He said it silently to himself: Kith-Kanan.
“Twins are most uncommon among the elven race,” Dunbarth was saying. With effort, Sithas focused on the conversation at hand. “Whereas, among humans, they are not at all uncommon.” Dunbarth lowered his gaze. “Where is your brother, speaker’s son?” he asked solemnly.
“He is in disgrace.” Dunbarth’s face registered only polite attention. Sithas inhaled deeply. “Do you know humans well?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
“I have made a number of journeys as emissary to the court of Ergoth. We’ve had many disputes with the humans over exchange rates of raw iron, copper, tin... but that’s ancient history.” Dunbarth leaned forward, close to Sithas. “It is a wise person who listens twice to everything a human says,” he said softly. “Their duplicity knows no bounds!”
“I shall keep that in mind,” Sithas responded.
By the time the coach arrived at the palace, the storm had strengthened. There was no flashing lightning or crashing thunder, but a swirling, howling wind drove buckets of rain through the city. The coach pulled up close to the north portico of the palace, where there was some shelter from the wind and rain. There, an army of servants stood poised in the downpour, ready to assist the ambassador with his luggage. Lord Dunbarth stepped heavily down from his conveyance, his short purple cape lashing in the wind. He doffed his extravagant hat to the assembled servants.
“My lord, I think we should dispense with the amenities for now,” Sithas shouted over the wind. “Our rainy season seems to have come early this year.”
“As you wish, noble prince,” Dunbarth bellowed.
Stankathan waited inside for the dwarven ambassador and Sithas. He bowed low to them and said, “Excellent lord, if you will follow me, I will show you to your qua
rters.”
“Lead on,” said Dunbarth grandly. Behind him, the drenched Drollo let out a sneeze.
The ground floor of the north wing housed many of the pieces of art that Lady Nirakina had collected. The delicate and lifelike statues of Morvintas, the vividly colored tapestries of the Women of E’li, the spell-molded plants of the priest Jin Fahrus – all these lent the north wing an air of otherworldly beauty. As the dwarves passed through, servants discreetly mopped the marble floor behind them, blotting away all the mud and rainwater that had been tracked in.
Dunbarth and his entourage were lodged on the third floor of the north wing. The airy suite, with its curtains of gauze and mosaic tile floor in shades of gold and sea-green, was quite unlike any place in the dwarven realm of Thorbardin. The ambassador stopped to stare at a two-foot-long wooden model of a dove poised over his bed. When Drollo set Dunbarth’s bags on the bed, the cloth-covered wings of the dove began to beat slowly, wafting a gentle breeze over the bed.
“By Reorx!” exclaimed the secretary. Dunbarth exploded with laughter.
“A minor spell,” Stankathan explained hurriedly. “Activated when anything or anyone rests on the bed. If it bothers your lordship, I shall have it stopped.”
“No, no. That’s quite all right,” Dunbarth said merrily.
“If you require anything, my lord, simply ring the bell,” said Stankathan.
The elves withdrew. In the hallway beyond Dunbarth’s closed door, Stankathan asked when the human delegation was expected.
“At any time,” answered Sithas. “Keep the staff alert.”
The major-domo bowed. “As you command, sire.”
*
Lord Dunbarth dined that night with the Speaker of the Stars in a quiet, informal dinner that included only the closest confidantes of both sides. They talked for a long time about nothing of importance, taking the measure of each other. Lady Nirakina, in particular, seemed to find the elderly dwarf engaging.
“Are you married, my lord?” she asked at one point.
“No; Lady, never again!” Dunbarth boomed. He shrugged. “I am a widower.”
“I am sorry.”
“She was a good wife, my Brenthia, but a real terror at times.” He drained a full cup of elven nectar. Smoothly, a servant stepped forward to refill his goblet.
“A terror, my lord?” asked Hermathya, intrigued.
“Quite so, Lady. I remember once she burst into the Council of
Thanes and dressed me down for being late for supper five nights in a row. It took years for me to live that down, don’t you know. The Daewar faction used to taunt me, when I was speaking in the council, by saying, ‘Go home, Ironthumb, go home. Your dinner is ready.’ “He laughed loudly, his deep bass voice echoing in the nearly empty Hall of Balif.
“Who are these Daewar?” asked Hermathya. “They sound rude.”
“The Daewar are one of the great clans of the dwarven race,” Sithel explained smoothly. He prided himself on his knowledge of dwarves and their politics. “You are yourself of the Hylar clan, are you not, Lord Dunbarth?”
The ambassador’s blue eyes twinkled with happy cunning. “Your Highness is most knowledgeable.
Yes, I am Hylar, and cousin to many kings of Thorbardin.” He slapped a blunt hand on the back of his secretary, who was seated on his right. “Now, Drollo here, is half-Theiwar, which accounts for his dark looks and strange temperament.” Drollo looked studiously at his plate and said nothing.
“Is it usual for dwarves to marry outside their class?” asked Sithas curiously.
“Not really. Speaking of such things,” Dunbarth said languorously, “I hear tales that some elves have married humans.”
A sharp silence fell in the hall. Sithel leaned back in his tall chair and put a finger to his lips. “It is unfortunately true,” said the speaker tersely. “In the wilds of our western provinces, some of the Kagonesti have taken humans as mates. No doubt there is a shortage of suitable elven spouses. The practice is pernicious and forbidden by our law.”
Dunbarth bowed his head, not in agreement, but in recognition of Sithel’s admirable powers of restraint. The mixed-race issue was a very sensitive one, as the dwarf well knew. His own people were race-proud too, and no dwarf had ever been known to intermarry with another race.
“I met many half-humans among the refugees who lately came to our city for shelter from bandits,” Lady Nirakina said gently. “They were such sad folk, and many were quite presentable. It seems wrong to me to blame them for the follies of their parents.”
“Their existence is not something we can encourage,” Sithel countered with noticeable vigor. “As you say, they are known to be melancholy, and that makes them dangerous. They often figure in acts of violence and crime. They hate the Silvanesti because we are pure in blood, while they languish with human clumsiness and frailty. I suppose you in Thorbardin have heard of the riot we had in late summer?”
“There were mutterings of such an event,” said Dunbarth casually.
“It was all due to the violent natures of some humans and half-humans we had unwisely allowed on the island. The riot was quelled, and the troublemakers driven away.” Nirakina sighed noticeably. Sithel ignored his wife as he continued to make his point. “There can never be peace between Silvanesti and human, unless we keep to our own borders – and our own beds.”
Dunbarth rubbed his red, bulbous nose. He had a heavy ring on each of his fingers, and they glittered in the candlelight. “Is that what you will tell the emissary from Ergoth?”
“It is,” Sithel said vehemently.
“Your wisdom is great, Sithel Twice-Blest. My king has given me almost exactly the same words to speak. If we present a united front to the humans, they will have to accede to our demands.”
The dinner ended quickly. Toasts were made to the health of the king of Thorbardin and to the hospitality of the Speaker of the Stars. That done, Lord Dunbarth and Drollo withdrew.
Sithas strode to the door after it closed behind the ambassador. “That old fox! He was trying to make an alliance with you before the humans even arrive! He wants to promote a conspiracy!”
Sithel dipped his hand in a silver bowl of rosewater held by a servant. “My son, Dunbarth is a master of his craft. He was testing our eagerness to compromise. Had he behaved otherwise, I would have thought King Voldrin a fool to have sent him.”
“This all seems very confusing to me,” complained Lady Nirakina. “Why don’t you all speak the truth and work from there!”
Sithel did a rare thing. He burst out laughing. “Diplomats tell the truth! My dear Kina, the stars would fall from heaven and the gods would faint with horror if diplomats started speaking the truth!”
*
Later that night came a knock on Sithas’s door. A storm-drenched warrior strode in, bowed, and said in a ringing voice, “Forgive this intrusion, Highness, but I bring word of the emissary from Ergoth!”
“Yes?” said Sithas tensely. There was so much talk of treachery, he feared foul play had befallen the humans.
“Highness, the ambassador and his party are waiting on the bank of the river. The ambassador demands that he be met by a representative of the royal house.”
“Who is this human?” Sithas asked.
“He gave his name as Ulwen, first praetor of the emperor of Ergoth,” replied the soldier.
“First praetor, eh? Is the storm worse?” Sithas questioned.
“It is bad, Highness. My boat nearly sank crossing the Thon-Thalas.”
“And yet this Ulwen insists on crossing immediately?”
The soldier said yes. “You will pardon me, sire, for saying so, but he is very arrogant, even for a human.”
“I shall go,” Sithas said simply. “It is my duty. Lord Dunbarth was met by me, and it is only just that I greet Praetor Ulwen likewise.”
The prince left with the soldier, but not before sending word to the clerics of E’li, to ask them to begin working their spells to deflect the s
torm. It was unusual for so strong a storm to come before the winter season. The conference promised to be difficult enough without the added threat of wind and water.
Chapter 16
WHILE THE STORM RAGED
How wonderful this time is, Kith-Kanan thought. Not only did he have his growing love for Anaya, which was sweeter than anything he’d ever known, but his friendship with Mackeli, as well. They had become a family – Anaya, his wife, and Mackeli, like a son.
It was not an easy life, by any means. There was always work to be done, but there was time to laugh too, to swim in the pool, to take short flying excursions on Arcuballis, to tell stories around the fire at night. Kith-Kanan had began to understand the Silvanesti who had left Silvanost to start new lives in the wilderness. The days ran their own course in the forest. There were no calendars and no clocks. There was no social hierarchy either; there were no rich and no poor. You hunted for yourself, provided for your own needs. And no one stood between an elf and the gods. As he looked over a forest glade, or knelt by a brook, Kith-Kanan felt closer to the gods than he ever had in the cold, marble precincts of Silvanost’s temples.
No priests, no taxes, no protocol. For a long time, Kith-Kanan had believed that his life had ended the day he’d left Silvanost. Now he knew it had been a new beginning.
As the weeks went by, hunting grew poorer and poorer. Anaya went out, sometimes for two or three days at a time, and returned only with a brace of rabbits, squirrels, or other small game. At one point she had been reduced to catching pigeons, a poor return for her days in the woods.
Nothing like this had ever happened before, according to Mackeli. Usually, Anaya went out and set a snare or trap and a likely prize would practically fall into it. Now, the animals were nowhere to be seen. In hopes of adding to the meager hunting, Kith-Kanan worked harder to develop his woodland skills. He hunted frequently, but had yet to bring anything back.
This day a lone hart moved slowly through the forest, its small hooves sinking deep into drifts of fallen leaves. Its black nose twitched as the wind brought smells from far away.