by Dragon Lance
“Are you speaking of all settlers in the disputed lands being armed?” asked Dunbarth. “Even those not of elven blood?”
“Definitely. If we arm one group and not another, it’s just an invitation for war. A mixed militia will bind the people together, serving shoulder to shoulder with men of other races.”
“I still say farmers and cow herders will never catch a fast-moving party of raiders,” Sithas said stiffly.
Kith-Kanan’s enthusiasm brought him right up to his brother’s chair. “Don’t you see, Sith? They don’t have to catch the bandits. They only have to be able to fend them off. Why, the ruined village Mackeli and I saw had a sod wall eight feet high all around it. If the villagers had had a few spears and had known how to fight, they all might have been saved.”
“I think it is an excellent idea,” Sithel remarked.
“I like it, too.”
Kith-Kanan swiveled around to see if what he’d just heard was true. Teralind was sitting proudly, hands folded on the lap of her burgundy gown. “I like it,” she repeated firmly. “It puts the responsibility on the people living there.” Behind her Ulvissen was livid with ill-suppressed anger. “No army need be sent in, yours or ours. The emperor will save much money.”
“I have some doubts about the efficacy of such a militia,” Dunbarth put in, “but never let it be said that Dunbarth of Dunbarth wasn’t willing to give it a try!” The dwarf whipped off his bothersome hat. “I smell peace!” he declared, throwing the hat to the shiny marble floor.
“Don’t be hasty,” Sithas warned. His cool voice dampened the growing elation in the hall. “My brother’s plan has its merits, but it doesn’t address the problem of sovereignty. I say, let there be a militia, but only elves may bear arms in it.”
Kith-Kanan looked stricken, and Teralind rapidly lost her serene expression. She said, “No! That’s impossible. Ergoth will not allow humans to live as hostages among an army of elves!”
“Quite right,” said Dunbarth, picking up his hat and dusting it off against his leg.
“We cannot abandon our ancestral right to this land!” Sithas insisted.
“Be still,” the speaker said, frowning. Now it was Sithas’s turn to look aggrieved. “This is a practical business we’re in. If Ergoth and Thorbardin like Kith-Kanan’s proposal, I cannot in good conscience throw away the best chance we have for peace.”
Sithas opened his mouth to speak, but Sithel stifled him with a glance. The prince turned away, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
After a short while, when more specific details were worked out, a basic agreement was reached. Each of the three nations was to provide a corps of experienced warriors to serve as organizers of the new militia. Armories would be set up, where the warrior officers would reside. And in times of trouble all able bodied settlers within twenty miles would present themselves at the armory to receive weapons and leadership. No single nation would command the militia.
“You expect professional warriors to live in the wilderness, shepherding a motley rabble of farmers?” Sithas asked with ill-concealed irritation. “What will keep them in their place?”
Kith-Kanan folded his arms. “Land,” he declared. “Give them a stake in the peace of the country.”
“Give them enough to be worth working,” said Dunbarth, catching the gist of Kith-Kanan’s idea.
“Exactly! Five acres for every sergeant, twenty acres for every captain. A whole new class of gentry will arise, loyal to the land and to their neighbors,” Kith-Kanan predicted.
The speaker ordered the scribes to prepare a draft of the decree. Then, as it was nearly dusk, he adjourned the session. Everyone stood while Sithel went out, looking tired but very pleased. Teralind’s shoulders sagged, and she was supported on the arm of Ulvissen, who did not look at all happy with events. Neither did Sithas as he left. Kith-Kanan was about to start after him when Dunbarth called to him.
“My prince,” he enthused, “Congratulations on your masterful stroke!”
Kith-Kanan watched his twin disappear out the private exit to the palace. “Yes, thank you,” he said distantly.
“I praise the gods for bringing you back,” continued the dwarf, folding his hands across his round belly. “That’s what this problem needed, a fresh perspective.” Dunbarth cleared his throat.
“Oh, your pardon, my lord. I’m being rude,” said Kith-Kanan, turning his attention to the ambassador from Thorbardin.
“Do not trouble about it.” Dunbarth glanced at the rear exit and commented, “Your brother is proud, and he hasn’t yet learned the benefit of flexibility. Your father is wise. He understands.”
The elf prince’s brow furrowed with thought. “I suppose,” he replied uncertainly.
Guards opened the vast double doors of the tower. Beyond the entryway, the red rays of the setting sun painted the world scarlet. Only Dunbarth’s small retinue, two scribes and his secretary, Drollo, remained, waiting patiently for their master.
Dunbarth’s eyes shone as he plopped his hat on his head. “Noble prince, would you dine with me? I have an urge to try some inn in your city tonight-not that the dining is poor in the palace. Far from it! It’s just that I crave some hearty, simple fare.”
Kith-Kanan smiled. “I know a place, right on the river. Fried catfish, cabbage rolls, a suet pudding...”
“Beer?” said the dwarf hopefully. Elves don’t drink beer, so the ambassador hadn’t had any since coming to Silvanost.
“I think the innkeeper ought to be able to scratch some up,” Kith-Kanan assured him.
The elf prince and the dwarven ambassador walked out the high doors and into the crimson evening.
*
After leaving the Tower of the Stars, Sithas walked through the starlit streets. He wanted to be alone, to think. Anger propelled his steps, and habit steered him to the Temple of Matheri, where so much of his early life had been spent. The crystal dome of the sanctum of the god rose above the sculpted trees like a rising moon, lit a golden yellow from within. Sithas took the steps two at a time. At the door, he dipped his hands in the bowl of rose petals set on a tripod and scattered them on the paving before him.
In quick, barely audible tones, he said, “Wise Matheri, grant me entrance that I may commune with you.” The buffed wooden doors parted silently, with no hand to stir them. Sithas went inside.
In the center of the floor, directly under the great dome, the ever-burning lamp of Matheri stood.
The silent, smokeless flame cast harsh shadows around the circular room. Along the outer edge of the temple were the meditation chambers of the monks. Sithas knew them well. This was where he had lived for thirty years of his life.
He went to his old cubicle. It was empty, so he entered. Sitting on the hard floor, he crossed his legs. The prince tried to meditate, to find the reason for his resentment of Kith-Kanan’s success. As the priests had taught him, he imagined a dialogue with himself.
“You are angry, why?” he asked aloud.
In his mind, he formed a reply. Kith’s suggestion is dangerous to the nation.
“Is it? Why?”
It allows the humans to remain on land that rightfully belongs to us.
“They have been there for years. Is their presence intrinsically bad?”
The land belongs to the elven nation. No one else.
“An inflexible attitude. Is this the reason you’re angry?”
Sithas paused and considered. He closed his eyes and examined closely the feelings that crowded inside his heart.
No. I’ve been working at father’s side for weeks, discussing, planning, thinking, and re-thinking, yet nothing was accomplished. I should have thought of the militia plan. I have failed.
“You are jealous of Kith-Kanan.”
I have no reason to be jealous. I am the speaker’s heir. Yet a short time ago I found myself wishing I hadn’t called him back.
“Why did you?”
He’s my brother. I missed him. I thought father
might die —
Before he could ponder his feelings further, the carved rosewood door of the cell swung open.
Sithas looked up, ready to lash out at whomever would intrude. It was Hermathya.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly.
She stepped into the little room. Covered from head to toe in a midnight-black cape, she dropped the hood from her head. Diamonds gleamed faintly from her earlobes.
“I knew you would be here,” she said in a low voice. “You always come here when you’re upset.”
Sithas felt an icy mask of resolve fall into place, covering his painful emotions. “I am not upset,” he said coldly.
“Tosh, I heard you raving to yourself as soon as I came in.”
He stood and brushed the dust from his knees. “What is it you want?” he demanded again.
“I heard what happened at the tower today. It doesn’t look good for you, does it? All these days of negotiating for nothing, then Kith solves everything in one day.”
She was only reinforcing what his bitter heart had been saying. Sithas moved until he was only inches from her. He could smell the rosewater she’d bathed in. “Are you trying to provoke me?” he asked, staring into her eyes.
“Yes.” He felt her breath on his face when she said it. “I’m trying to provoke you into being a prince and not some sort of high-born monk!”
He drew away. “You are as tactful as ever, Lady. Leave me to recover my temper. Your advice is not needed or welcome.”
Hermathya made no move to go. “You need me,” she insisted. “You’ve always needed me, but you’re too stubborn to know it.”
Sithas swept a hand over the single candle that lit the cubicle. Darkness, save for a stray shaft of light that slipped in around the closed door, claimed the room. He could see the heat outline of Hermathya, her back to the door, and she could hear his quick breathing.
“When I was a child, I was sent to this temple to learn patience and wisdom. The first three days I was here, I wept all my waking hours because I’d been separated from Kith. I could live without my mother and father, but cut off from Kith... I felt like I’d been cut open and part of me had been torn out.”
Hermathya said nothing. The diamonds in her ears sparkled like stars in the scant light.
“Later, when we were older, I was allowed to go home to the palace and visit a few days each month. Kith was always doing something interesting-learning to ride, fence, shoot a bow. He was always better than me,” Sithas said. Resignation was creeping into his voice.
“There is one thing you have that he hasn’t,” Hermathya said soothingly, reaching out in the dark for Sithas’s hand.
“What’s that?”
“Me.”
Sithas uttered a short, sardonic laugh. “I daresay he could have you if he wanted you!”
She snatched her hand from his and slapped Sithas hard across the cheek. Her blow stung his face. Forgetting his training, the prince seized his wife roughly and brought their faces together until they were only a finger’s width apart. Even in the dim cubicle, he could see her pale features clearly, and she his.
She said desperately, “I am your wife!”
“Do you still love Kith-Kanan?” Despite the coldness of their marriage, Sithas braced himself for her answer.
“No,” she whispered fiercely. “I hate him. Anything that angers you, I hate.”
“Your concern for me is touching. And quite new,” he said skeptically.
“I admit that I thought I might still love him,” she whispered, “but since seeing him, I know it’s not true.” Tremors shivered through her. “You are my husband,” Hermathya declared passionately. “I wish Kith-Kanan were gone again, so he couldn’t ever make you feel small!”
“He’s never tried to make me feel small,” Sithas retorted.
“And what if he wins your father’s favor completely?” she parried. “The speaker could declare Kith-Kanan his heir if he felt he would do a better job of ruling than you.”
Father would never do that!”
Her lips were by his ear. She pressed her cheek against his and felt his tight grip relax. Quickly she said, “The militia must have an overall commander. Who better than Kith-Kanan? He has the skills and experience for it. With all those square miles to patrol, he could be gone for decades.”
Sithas turned his head away, and she knew he was thinking about it. A small, triumphant smile played about her lips. “By then,” she murmured, “we will have a son of our own, and Kith could never come between you and the throne.”
The prince said nothing, but Hermathya was patient. Instead of prompting him further, she laid her head on his chest. His heartbeat was strong in her ear. After a time, Sithas slowly brought his hand up and stroked her copper-gold hair.
Chapter 25
BY NEXT DAWN
When it came to the spread of important news, the great city of Silvanost was just like a tiny village.
By the next morning, word of the tentative agreement between the speaker and the representatives of Ergoth and Thorbardin had penetrated every corner of the capital. The city, and the elven nation itself, seemed to let out a long-held breath. Fear of war had been uppermost in the minds of all the people, followed closely by fear that large numbers of refugees would once more be driven back into the city by the bandit raids.
When the new day dawned, rimmed by low clouds and chilly with the threat of rain, the people of Silvanost behaved as if it was a bright, sun-filled day. The nobility, priests, and guildmasters heard cheering as their sedan chairs were carried through the streets.
Kith-Kanan went into the city that morning on horseback with Lord Dunbarth. It was the prince’s first chance to see Silvanost since his return. His appetite had been whetted when he and the dwarf had dined at the Inn of the Golden Acorn. There, with good food and drink, stirred by the strains of a bardic lyre, Kith-Kanan had rediscovered his love for the city, dormant for all his months in the wildwood.
He and Dunbarth rode through the crowded streets of the family quarter, where most of Silvanost’s population lived. Here the houses were less grand than the guildmasters’ halls or the priestly enclaves, but they mimicked the styles of the great homes. Beautifully sculpted towers rose, but only for three or four stories. Tiny green plots of land in front of each home were molded by elven magic to support dazzling gardens of red, yellow, and violet flowers; shrubs formed into wave patterns like the river; and trees that bowed and twined together like the braids in an elf maiden’s hair. Nearly every house, no matter how small, was built in imitation of the homes of the great, around a central atrium that held the family’s private garden.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed it,” Kith-Kanan said, steering his horse around a pushcart full of spring melons.
“Miss what, noble prince?” asked Dunbarth.
“The city. Though the forest became my home, a part of me still lives here. It’s like I’m seeing Silvanost for the first time!”
Both elf and dwarf were dressed plainly, without the fine embroidery, golden jewelry, or other outward signs of rank. Even their horses were trapped in the simplest possible style. Kith-Kanan wore a wide-brimmed hat, like a fisher, so that his royal features would be less obvious. They wanted to see the city, not be surrounded by crowds.
Together the duo turned off Phoenix Street and rode down a narrow alley. Kith-Kanan could smell the river even more strongly here. When he emerged in the old Market quarter, ruined by the great riot and now under repair, Kith-Kanan reined up and surveyed the scene. The entire marketplace, from where his horse stood down to the banks of the Thon-Thalas, had been razed. Gangs of Kagonesti elves swarmed around the site, sawing lumber, hauling stones, mixing mortar. Here and there a robed priest of E’li stood, directing the work.
For a large project, like a high tower, magic would be used to shape and raise the stones of the walls and meld the blocks together without need for mortar. In the mundane buildings of the marke
tplace, more ordinary techniques would be used.
“Where do all the workers come from?” Kith-Kanan wondered aloud.
“As I understand it, they’re slaves from estates to the north and west, owned by the priests of E’li,” said Dunbarth without inflection.
“Slaves? But the speaker put severe limits on the number of slaves anyone could own.”
Dunbarth stroked his curly beard. “I know it may shock Your Highness, but outside of Silvanost the speaker’s laws aren’t always followed. They are bent to suit the needs of the rich and powerful.”
“I’m certain my father doesn’t know about this,” Kith-Kanan said firmly.
“Forgive me, Highness, but I believe he does,” Dunbarth remarked confidentially. “Your mother, the Lady Nirakina, has many times pleaded with the speaker to free the slaves of Silvanesti, to no avail.”
“How do you know these things? Aren’t they private matters of the palace?”
The dwarf smiled benignly. “It is a diplomat’s purpose to listen as well as talk. Five weeks in the Quinari Palace exposes one to all sorts of gossip and idle talk. I know the love lives of your servants and who among the nobility drinks too much-not to mention the sad plight of slaves in your own capital city.” With that, Dunbarth’s smile vanished.
“It’s intolerable!” Kith-Kanan’s horse sensed his rider’s agitation and pranced around in a half-circle. “I’ll put a stop to this right now!”
He tightened the reins and turned his mount’s head. Before he could ride over to confront the supervising priests, Danbarth caught his reins and held him back.
“Don’t be hasty, my prince. The priesthoods are very powerful. They have friends at court who will speak against you.”
Kith-Kanan was indignant. “Who do you mean?”
Dunbarth’s gaze was level. “I mean your brother, the noble Sithas.”
Kith-Kanan squinted from under the brim of his hat. “My twin is not a slave driver. Why do you say this to me, my lord?”