There was no point remaining in the clearing, so he shouldered his spear and set out to find food and water. If the maps he remembered were correct, the Kharolis River lay to the west. It might be many miles, but at least it was something to aim for.
The only animals he saw on the way were more crows. The black birds stayed with him, flitting from tree to tree, punctuating their flight with short, sharp caws. The crows were Kith-Kanan’s only company, so he started talking to them. It helped keep his spirits up.
“I don’t suppose you know where my griffon is?” he asked. Not surprisingly, the birds didn’t answer, but continued to fly from tree to tree, keeping up with him.
The day dragged on and grew hotter. Even down in the eternal shade of the deep forest, Kith-Kanan sweltered, because no breeze stirred the air. The lay of the land grew rougher, too, with hills and gullies running north to south along his line of march. This encouraged him at first, because very often springs and brooks could be found at the bottom of ravines. But as he scrambled up one hill and down another, he found only moss and stones and fallen trees.
After skidding down a hillside into the nineteenth gully, Kith-Kanan paused to rest. He sat on a fallen tree, dropping the spear in front of him. He licked his dry lips again and fought down the rising feeling that he had made a grave mistake by running away. How could he have been so foolish to abandon his life of privilege for this? As soon as he asked himself the question the vision of Hermathya marrying his brother rose up in his mind, horribly vivid. Pain and loss welled up inside. To dispel the image, he stood up abruptly and started off again, shouldering his boar spear. He took two steps across the bottom of the ravine, and his feet sank an inch or so into mud, covered by a thin layer of dead leaves.
Where there’s mud, there’s water, he realized happily. Kith-Kanan went along the ravine to his right, looking for the water that must be there somewhere. He could see the ravine widen up ahead. Perhaps there was a pool, a pool of clear, sweet water….
The ravine converged on several others, making a steepsided bowl in the hills. Kith-Kanan slogged through the increasingly wet mud. He could smell water ahead. Then he could see it—a small pool, undisturbed by a ripple. The sight drew him like magic. The mud rose above his knees but he plunged on, right to the center of the pool. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and raised them to his lips.
Immediately he spit the water out again. It tasted vile, like rotted leaves. Kith-Kanan stared down at his reflection in the water. His face twisted with frustrated rage. It was no use. He would just have to keep going.
His leg wouldn’t come up out of the pool. He tried the other. It was also stuck. He strained so hard to pull them up, he nearly lost his balance. Arms flailing, Kith-Kanan twisted his hips from side to side, trying to work himself free. Instead he sank deeper into the mire. He glanced around quickly for a tree branch to grab, or a trailing vine. The nearest trees were ten feet away.
The mud was soon up to his waist. He began to sink even faster. “Help!” he cried desperately. “Is there anyone to hear?”
A flock of crows settled on the hillside facing Kith-Kanan. They watched with unnerving calm as he foundered in the killing mud.
You won’t pick my eyes, he vowed silently. When the end comes, I’ll duck under the mud before I let you black carrion eaters pick me over.
“They’re not really so bad once you get to know them,” said a voice. Kith-Kanan jerked as if struck by lightning.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, looking around at the still trees. “Help!”
“I can help you. I don’t know that I will.” It was a high, childish voice, full of smugness.
In replying, the speaker had given himself away. Kith-Kanan spotted him, to his left, in a tree. Sitting comfortably on a thick branch, his back propped against the ancient oak trunk, was a slender young person, clad in mottled green-brown tunic and hose. A hood was drawn up over his head. The tan face that showed under the hood was painted with loops and lines, done in bright red and yellow pigment.
“Help me!” Kith-Kanan shouted. “I can reward you handsomely!”
“Really? What with?”
“Gold. Silver. Jewels.” Anything, he vowed to himself. Anything in all of Krynn.
“What is gold?”
The mud was halfway up Kith-Kanan’s chest. The pressure against his body made it difficult to draw breath. “You’re mocking me,” he gasped. “Please! I haven’t much time!”
“No, you haven’t,” noted the hooded figure uninterestedly. “What else would you give me if I help you?”
“My bow! Would you like that?”
“I can pick that out of the mire once you’re gone.”
Blast the fellow! “I haven’t anything else!” The cold muck was nearly at his shoulders. “Please, for the gods’ sake, help me!”
The hooded figure rolled nimbly forward onto his feet. “I will help you, for the gods’ sake. They often do things for me, so it seems only fair I do something for their sake now and again.”
The stranger walked heel to toe along the branch until he was almost directly over Kith-Kanan. The prince’s shoulders were in the mud, though he held his arms above his head to keep them free until the last possible second. The fellow in the tree unwrapped a belt from his waist. It had circled his slim body several times and, when unwound, was over ten feet long. Lying flat on the branch, he lowered the leather strap to Kith-Kanan. The prince caught it in his left hand.
“What are you waiting for? Pull me out!” Kith-Kanan ordered.
“If you can’t pull yourself out, I cannot do it for you,” his rescuer remarked. He looped the belt around the tree limb a few times and secured it with a knot. Then he lay on the branch, his head propped on one hand, awaiting the outcome.
Kith-Kanan grimaced and started to haul himself out by the strap. With much gasping and cursing, Kith-Kanan climbed out of the deadly mire and pulled himself up to the tree branch. He threw a leg over the branch and lay panting.
“Thank you,” he finally said, a little sarcastically.
The young fellow had moved several feet back toward the oak tree and sat with his knees drawn up. “You’re welcome,” he replied. Behind the barbarous face paint, his eyes were brilliant green. He pushed back his hood, revealing himself to be a boy with a shock of bone-white hair. His high cheekbones and tapered ears bespoke his heritage. Kith-Kanan sat up slowly, astride the branch.
“You are Silvanesti,” he said, startled.
“No, I am Mackeli.”
Kith-Kanan shook his head. “You are of the race of the Silvanesti, as am I.”
The elf boy stood on the branch. “I don’t know what you mean. I am Mackeli.”
The branch was too narrow for Kith-Kanan to stand on, so he inched his way forward to the tree trunk. The deadly mud below was hidden once more under its covering of water. He shuddered as he looked down upon it. “You see we are alike, don’t you?”
Mackeli, hopping nimbly along the branch, glanced back at Kith-Kanan and said, “No. I don’t see that we are alike.”
Exasperated and too tired to continue, Kith-Kanan gave up that line of conversation.
They climbed down to solid ground. Kith-Kanan followed the scampering boy slowly. Even so, he lost his grip on the trunk and fell the last few feet. He landed on his rear with a thud and groaned.
“You are clumsy,” Mackeli observed.
“And you are rude. Do you know who I am?” the prince said haughtily.
“A clumsy outlander.” The elf boy reached around his back and brought back a gourd bottle, laced tightly with deerskin. He poured a trickle of clear water into his open mouth. Kith-Kanan watched intently, his throat moving with imaginary swallows.
“May I—may I have some water?” he pleaded.
Mackeli shrugged and handed him the bottle. Kith-Kanan took the gourd in his muddy hands and drank greedily. He drained the bottle in three gulps.