by Dragon Lance
“It had to be done,” he said smoothly. “As it is, things turned out rather well. We showed the humans of what stuff elves are made.”
She trembled and strode past the prince to the shuttered window. Rain was seeping through the slats, pooling on the cool marble floor.
“And what are you made of?” she demanded, temper flaring.
“What do you mean? What’s the matter?”
“You risked your life for etiquette! Did you give any thought to me? What would happen to me if you had been killed?”
Sithas sighed and sat in a chair made of intertwined maple saplings. “Is that what’s bothering you? It’s unworthy of you, Thya. After all, I was in no real danger.”
“Don’t be so damned logical! You’ve no idea what I meant.” Hermathya turned to the speaker’s heir. Through clenched teeth, she said, “I’ve passed my first fertile time. It’s gone, and we missed it.”
Sithas finally understood. Even though an elven couple might live as husband and wife a thousand years, they might only be fertile three or four times in their entire lives. These times were very irregular; even the healing clerics of Quenesti Pah couldn’t predict a fertile time more than a day or two in advance.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Sithas asked, his voice softening.
“You weren’t here. You were sleeping by yourself.”
“Am I so unapproachable?”
She fingered the edge of her embroidered collar “Yes, you are.”
“You have no problem getting what you want from others,” Sithas went on heedlessly. “You collect gifts and compliments as a child picks flowers in a field. Why can’t you speak to me? I am your husband.”
“You are the elf I married,” she corrected, “not the elf I loved.”
Sithas stood quickly. “I’ve heard enough. In the future you —”
She moved toward him. “Will you listen to me for once? If you insist on risking your life on foolish errands, then you must give me a child. Our marriage can mean something then. An heir needs an heir. You want a son; I need a child.”
The prince folded his arms, annoyed at her pleading tone. That emotion confused Sithas somewhat. Why did her pleading irritate him? “Perhaps it is the wisdom of the gods that this happened,” he said. “It is not a good time to start a family.”
“How can you say that?” she asked.
“It is Matheri’s own truth. My life is not my own. I have to live for the nation. With all this trouble in the West, I may even have to take up arm for the speaker’s cause.”
Hermathya laughed bitterly. “You, a warrior? You have the wrong twin in mind. Kith-Kanan is the warrior. You are a priest.”
Coldly Sithas told her, “Kith-Kanan is not here.”
“I wish to Astarin he was! He would not have left me last night!” she said harshly.
“Enough!” Sithas went to the door. With unmatched politeness, he said, “Lady, I am truly sorry to have missed the time, but it is done and no peace will come from dwelling on lost chances.” He went out. Behind him, Hermathya dissolved in furious tears.
Sithas descended the steps, his face set hard as granite. Servants and courtiers parted for him as he went. All bowed, as was the custom, but none dared speak.
*
Two fine chairs were set up in the audience hall of the Tower of the Stars. One, short-legged and plush, was for Ehmbarth, ambassador from Thorbardin. The second was a tall piece of furniture, its elegantly wrought curves gilded. Here sat Teralind. Her husband, the titular ambassador, sat in his special chair beside her. Praetor Ulwen did not speak and after a while it was easy to forget he was even present.
Sithel sat on his throne, of course, and Sithas stood by his left hand. The rest of the floor was taken up by courtiers and servants. Ulvissen, never far from Teralind and the ambassador, hovered behind the lady’s golden chair, listening much and speaking little.
“The territory in question,” Sithel was saying, “is bordered on the south by the bend of the Kharolis River, on the west by the city of Xak Tsaroth, on the east by the Khalkist Mountains, and on the north by the region where the Vingaard River is born on the great plain. In the time of my father, this region was divided into three areas. The northernmost was named Vingaardin, the central was called Kagonesti, and the southernmost was Tsarothelm.”
Dunbarth waved a beringed hand. “Your Highness’s knowledge of geography is considerable,” he noted with exaggerated politeness, “but what is the point in your lecture?”
“As I was about to say, in the time of my father, Silvanos, these three provinces were unclaimed by any of our nations. They were ruled, and ruled poorly, by local lords who extorted taxes from the common folk and who warred constantly with each other.”
“Such is not the case today,” Teralind interjected.
“There is considerable violence in this area still,” Sithel replied, “as evidenced by the massacre of fifty of my guard by a large force of mounted men.”
Silence ensued. The elven scribes, who had been taking down every word spoken, held their styluses poised over their pages. Dunbarth looked at Teralind curiously.
“You do not object, Lady, to the speaker’s description of the marauders as ‘men’?”’ he asked pointedly, leaning forward on one elbow.
She shrugged her green velvet clad shoulders, and Ulvissen sidled closer to the back of her chair.
“The emperor does not rule the entire race of men,” she allowed. Sithas could almost hear the unspoken yet at the end of Teralind’s statements “any more than the king of Thorbardin rules all dwarves. I don’t know who these bandits are, but if they are men, they are not men of Ergoth.”
“Certainly not,” Sithel continued smoothly. “You will not deny, though, that the emperor has done nothing to discourage the large number of human settlers who cross the plain and descend the rivers by boat and raft. They are displacing both the Kagonesti and those Silvanesti who have moved west to live. It must stop.”
“There is not room enough in Ergoth for everyone to live and work, nor is there land enough to grow the food needed to feed them all,” countered Teralind. “Why is it strange that human settlers should leave the boundaries of the empire and wander east into the region claimed by the Silvanesti, when that region is so sparsely settled?”
“None have tried to settle in Thorbardin,” said Dunbarth unhelpfully.
Prince Sithas gestured to a scribe, who brought him a parchment scroll filled with tiny, precise writing. Two large wax seals were affixed to the bottom of the paper. “This is our copy of the agreement made between Speaker Sithel and Emperor Tion, dated four hundred years ago. It specifically forbids Ergoth from colonizing Vingaardin without the approval of the Speaker of the Stars.”
“Emperor Tion was an old man. Many of the works done by him late in his life were faulty,” Teralind commented tactlessly. Ulvissen, who’d been stroking his auburn beard in thought, leaned down and whispered in her ear. She nodded and continued, “No less than six of Tion’s treaties have been repudiated over the years since his death. The treaty Prince Sithas holds is therefore of doubtful standing.” At her side, the aged praetor stirred vaguely. Teralind paid no attention.
Dunbarth slid forward and dropped out of his chair. He tugged his tunic down smoothly over his barrel chest and said, “As I recall, it was Tion’s plan to invade and conquer Sancrist, but he feared the elven nation would retaliate against his eastern border. For that reason he struck a deal with Speaker Sithel.”
The prince had returned the parchment to the scribe. Curious, he asked, “And why did the invasion of Sancrist not take place?”
Dunbarth laughed merrily. “The Ergothian generals pointed out how difficult it would be to rule an island full of gnomes. The drain on the empire’s treasury would have been enormous!” Some scattered laughter drifted through the hall. Sithel rapped on the floor with his five-foot-long regal staff, and the snickering died.
“I believe what you say, Lady Tera
lind,” Sithel noted blandly. “His Majesty Tion must have been distracted to imagine he could conquer and rule the gnomes, though he did not really seem so when I met him.” Teralind flushed slightly at this reminder of the speaker’s great life span.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that human settlers and human bandits have been taking life and land away from my subjects.”
“If I may say something,” Dunbarth interrupted, walking around the side of his chair. “Many people come to Thorbardin to buy our metals, and we have heard a great deal about the troubles on the Plain. I think it is unfair to say, Your Highness, that it is simply a matter of humans pushing elves out. I understand that many of the bandits are elves themselves, of the Kagonesti race.” He rubbed the broad toe of his left boot against the trousers of his right leg to remove a smudge on the brilliant shine. “And some of the bandits are half-elves.”
Although this statement was of no surprise to Sithel or Sithas, it was a revelation that set the crowd of servants and retainers to buzzing. Sithas turned his back on the hall and spoke to his father in guarded tones. “What is the matter with that fellow? He acts as if he were the advocate for Ergoth!” Sithas muttered.
“Don’t blame Dunbarth. He knows his country will gain the advantage if we and the humans cannot agree. He’s thrown out this rubbish about half-humans to muddy the water. It means nothing,” Sithel commented wisely.
The prince stood aside, and his father rapped for silence once more.
“Let us not confuse matters with talk of bandits and halfbreeds,” Sithel said genially. “There really is only one question – who rules these three provinces?”
“Who rules them in fact, or rules them by a signet pressed to a dollop of molten wax?” Teralind said testily.
“We must have law, Lady, or we shall be nothing but bandits ourselves,” counseled Dunbarth. He smiled behind his curled silver beard. “Well-dressed, rich bandits, but bandits nevertheless.” More laughter. This time Sithel let the laughter build, for it diffused the tension in the tower.
“There is no doubt the Speaker of the Stars bears an ancient claim to the land,” Dunbarth continued, “or that Ergoth has certain rights where so many of its subjects are concerned.”
Sithas lifted his eyebrows at this statement. “Subjects?” he asked quickly. “Are the humans living in the three provinces subjects, therefore, of the emperor of Ergoth?”
“Well, of course,” conceded Teralind. Ulvissen leaned forward to speak to her, but she waved him away. The lady looked perplexed as she realized belatedly that she had contradicted her earlier statement that the bandits were not Ergothians. “What I mean to say is —”
Ulvissen tapped urgently on her shoulder. Teralind turned and snapped, “Stand back, sir! Do not interrupt me!” The seneschal instantly retreated a pace and stood rigidly at attention.
Sithas exchanged a glance with his father, and murmurs arose in the hall. Teralind’s eyes darted around, for she knew she’d made a dangerous admission. She tried to salvage the situation by saying, “There is not a man, woman, or human child in the whole realm of Ansalon who does not owe allegiance to His Imperial Majesty.”
Sithel did not try to speak until the murmuring had subsided. In precise, measured tones, he finally said, “Is it your intention to annex our lands?”
Teralind pushed herself back in her chair and frowned. Beside her, the frail form of Proctor Ulwen moved. He leaned forward slightly and began to shake. Tremors racked his frail body, and Ulvissen moved swiftly to his side. The seneschal snapped his fingers at the human contingent of servants loitering by the grand doors.
“Highness, noble ambassadors, I beg your pardon, but the praetor is seized with an attack,” he announced in an anxious voice. “He must withdraw.”
Dunbarth spread his hands graciously. Sithel stood. “You have our leave to withdraw,” the speaker said. “Shall I send one of our healers to the praetor’s rooms?”
Teralind’s head lifted regally. “We have a doctor of our own, thank you, noble speaker.”
The porters took hold of the rails attached to Ulwen’s chair and hoisted him up. The Ergothian delegation filed out behind him. When they were gone, Dunbarth bowed and led his dwarves out. Sithel dismissed his retainers and was finally alone with his son in the tower.
“Diplomacy is so tiring,” the speaker said wearily. He stood and laid his silver scepter across the throne. “Give me your arm, Sith. I believe I need to rest for a while.”
*
Tamanier Ambrodel walked beside Lady Nirakina through the palace. They had just come from the guild hall of the stone workers, where Lady Nirakina had viewed the plans for the new Market. It was an orderly, beautifully designed place, but its site and purpose depressed her. “It’s simply
wrong,” she told Tamanier. “We are the firstborn race of the world and favored by the gods. As such, it is only right we share our grace with other people, not look upon them as lesser beings.”
Tamanier nodded. “I heartily agree, Lady. When I lived in the wilderness, I saw many kinds of people-Silvanesti, Kagonesti, humans, dwarves, gnomes, kender-and no one lived better than his neighbor for any reason but his own hard work. The land doesn’t care if it’s plowed by human or elf. The rain falls the same on every farm.”
They arrived at the door of Nirakina’s private rooms. Before he left, Tamanier informed her, “I went to see Miritelisina, as you requested.”
“Is she well?” she asked eagerly. “A priestess of such age and wisdom should not be held in a common dungeon.”
“She is well,” Tamanier said, “though unrepentant. She still does not admit to her crime.”
“I do not believe she committed a crime,” Nirakina said with fervor. “Miritelisina was moved by compassion. She only sought to warn the poor refugees of the plan to move them. I’m certain she had no idea they’d riot as they did.”
Tamanier bowed. “I bear the holy lady no ill will. I tell you, though, that she will not repent-even to gain her freedom. Miritelisina believes that by remaining in prison, she will inspire others who want to help the refugees.”
Nirakina gave the young courtier’s arm a squeeze. “And what do you think, Tam? Whose cause do you favor?”
“Do you really have to ask? A short time ago, I was one of the poor wretches-homeless, penniless, despised. They deserve the speaker’s protection.”
“We’ll have to see what we can do to win it,” Nirakina replied warmly.
She went into her rooms, and Tamanier walked away, his step light. With the speaker’s wife fighting for them, the homeless settlers would soon feel the grace of Sithel’s favor. And who knew, perhaps Miritelisina would be freed to resume her good works for the poor.
He left the central tower of the palace and strolled the empty corridor balcony of the east wing.
Suddenly he heard voices. Foreign voices. He’d lived among humans long enough to know their speech.
“— play at this silly game?” complained a woman’s voice, tight with emotion.
“As long as necessary. It’s the emperor’s will,” a man’s strong voice answered.
“The things I do for my father! I hope he appreciates it!”
“He’s paying off your gambling debts, isn’t he?” said the man dryly.
Tamanier knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he was intrigued. He stood very still. Since the humans were in the corridor below him, their voices carried easily to him up the central atrium.
“I don’t trust that Dunbarth,” asserted the woman. “He switches sides like a click beetle.”
“He has no side but his own. Right now Thorbardin isn’t ready for war, so he hopes to play us off against the elves. He’s clever, but I see what he’s doing.”
“He annoys me. So does Prince Sithas. How he stares! They say elves have second sight.” The woman’s voice rose. “You don’t think he’s reading my mind, do you?”
“Calm yourself,” said the man. “I don’t think he can. But if
it troubles you, I’ll speak to our friend about it.”
Footsteps echoed on the balcony across the atrium from where Tamanier stood. He tensed, ready to be discovered. The voices below ceased their furtive talk.
Out of the afternoon shadows on the far side of the balcony Tamanier spied the young priest of the Blue Phoenix, Kamin Oluvai. Tamanier was surprised; why was the priest here? Kamin didn’t see him, however, so Tamanier withdrew from the balcony rail. The humans he’d heard were certainly Lady Teralind and Ulvissen, but what did their strange conversation mean?
Court intrigue was foreign to him. Who was Teralind really? What was she concealing? Who was the “friend” Ulvissen referred to? Could it be the traitor of which Speaker Sithel had spoken that night at dinner?
Tamanier hurried away. He had to tell someone, and Sithas’s room was nearby. The courtier was already feeling slightly relieved; certainly the prince would know what to do.
Chapter 20
DAY OF METAMORPHOSIS
The humans were breaking camp and getting ready to return to their ship. They worked with haste, and it was clear to Kith-Kanan that they wanted nothing more than to be away from such an accursed place. While they worked, Voltorno went to the elf prince. He had his men pry the stake out of the ground, then he grabbed Kith-Kanan’s shackles and dragged him to the edge of the clearing.
“You out there! Woman and boy! I have your friend here! If any more of my men are so much as scratched, I’ll make your royal friend suffer for it. I’ll give him something more than a scar on his cheek. How do you think he’d look without an arm, a hand, or a leg? Do you hear me?”
The only answer was the soft sighing of wind in the still bare branches.
“We’re ready to go, master,” said one of the humans.
“Then get moving, dolt.’ Voltorno was losing his air of confidence. Despite his aching limbs and the stinging sword cut on his cheek, Kith-Kanan was pleased. The angrier Voltorno got, the greater advantage Anaya and Mackeli would have.
The raiders marched down the path single file, with Kith-Kanan leading. Voltorno gave the prince over to one of his men and moved out ahead as the band left the path and entered the woods.