The procession reformed, and the pipers played “Children of the Stars,” the ancient tune that every elf knew from childhood. Even Hermathya was surprised, however, when the people began to sing along with the pipers.
She slowed her pace and gradually stopped. The procession strung out until the pipers in the fore realized that those behind had halted. The music swelled higher and louder until Hermathya felt that she was being lifted by it.
With little prelude, the bride sang. At her side, Kencathedrus looked at her in wonder. He glanced over his armored shoulder to Lady Nirakina, who stood silent and straight, arms held rigidly at her sides. Her voluminous sleeves covered her tightly clenched fists.
Some in the crowd ceased their own singing that they might hear the bride. But as the last verse of the song began, they all joined in; once more the sound threatened to raise the city from its foundations. When the last words of “Children of the Stars” faded in the throats of thousands, silence fell over Silvanost. The silence seemed more intense because of the tumult earlier. Everyone assembled in the street, every elf on rooftops and in tower windows had his or her eyes on Hermathya.
Casually the bride took her hand from Kencathedrus’s arm and walked through the procession toward the Tower of the Stars. The flower girls and sistrum-bearers parted in complete silence. Hermathya walked with calm grace through the ranks of the pipers. They stood aside, their silver flutes stilled. Up the steps of the Tower of the Stars she moved, appearing in the doorway alone.
Sithas stood in the center of the hall, waiting. With much less fanfare, he had come from the Temple of E’li with his retainers. Farther inside, Sithel sat on his throne. The golden mantle that lay on the speaker’s shoulders spread out on the floor before him, trailing down the two steps of the dais, across the platform and down the seven steps to where Sithas stood. In front of the throne dais was an ornate and intricately carved golden tray on a silver stand. On the tray rested the golden rings the couple would exchange.
Hermathya came forward. The silence continued as if the entire elven nation was holding its breath. Part of the sensation was awe, and part was amazement. The bride of the speaker’s heir had broken several traditions on her way to the tower. The royal family had always maintained an aloofness, an air of unbreachable dignity. Hermathya had flaunted herself before the crowd, yet the people of Silvanost seemed to love her for it.
Sithas wore ceremonial armor over his robe of gold. The skillfully worked breastplate and shoulder pieces were enameled in vibrant green. Though the cuirass bore the arms of Silvanos, Sithas had attached a small red rosebud to his sleeve, a small but potent symbol of his devotion to his patron deity.
When Hermathya drew near, he said teasingly, “Well, my dear, has the celebration ended?”
“No,” she said, smiling sweetly. “It has just begun.”
Hand in hand, they went before Sithel.
The feasting that began that evening continued for four days. It grew quite wearing on the newlyweds, and after the second day they retired to the fifth floor of the Quinari tower, which had been redecorated as their living quarters. At night, Hermathya and Sithas stood on their balcony overlooking the heart of the city and watched the revelries below.
“Do you suppose anyone remembers what the celebration is for?” asked Hermathya.
“They don’t tonight. They will tomorrow,” Sithas said forcefully.
Yet he found it difficult being alone with her. She was so much a stranger to him—and always, in the back of his mind, he wondered if she compared him to Kith-Kanan. Though they were nearly identical in looks, Sithel’s heir knew that he and his brother were worlds apart in temperament. Sithas grasped the balcony rail tightly. For the first time in his life he was at a loss as to what to do or say.
“Are you happy?” Hermathya asked after a long, mutual silence.
“I am content,” he said carefully.
“Will you ever be happy?” she asked coyly.
Sithas turned to his wife and said, “I will endeavor to try.”
“Do you miss Kith-Kanan?”
The calm golden eyes clouded for a moment. “Yes, I miss him. Do you, Lady?”
Hermathya touched the starjewel she wore pinned to the throat of her gown. Slowly she leaned against the prince and slipped an arm about his waist. “No, I don’t miss him,” she said a little too strongly.
6 — The Same Day, in the Forest
Shorn of his armor and city-made clothes, Kith-Kanan padded through the forest in a close-fitting deerskin tunic and leggings such as Mackeli wore. He was trying to circle Mackeli’s house without the boy hearing him.
“You’re by the gray elm,” Mackeli’s voice sang out. And so Kith-Kanan was. Try as he might, he still made too much noise. The boy might keep his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see the heat of Kith-Kanan’s body, but Mackeli’s keen ears were never fooled.
Kith-Kanan doubled back six feet and dropped down on his hands. There was no sound in the woods. Mackeli called, “You can’t steal up on anyone by sitting still.”
The prince stepped only on the tree roots that humped up above the level of the fallen leaves. In this way he went ten paces without making a sound. Mackeli said nothing, and the prince grinned to himself. The boy couldn’t hear him! At last.
He stepped far out from a root to a flat stone. The stone was tall enough to allow him to reach a low limb on a yew tree. As silently as possible, he pulled himself up into the yew tree, hugging the trunk. His green and brown tunic blended well with the lichen-spotted bark. A hood concealed his fair hair. Immobile, he waited. He’d surprise the boy this time!
Any second now, Mackeli would walk by and then he’d spring down on him. But something firm thumped against his hood. Kith-Kanan raised his eyes and saw Mackeli, clinging to the tree just three feet above him. He nearly fell off the branch, so great was his surprise.
“By the Dragonqueen!” he swore. “How did you get up there?”
“I climbed,” said Mackeli smugly.
“But how? I never saw.”
“Walking on the roots was good, Kith, but you spent so much time watching your feet I was able to slip in front of you.”
“But this tree! How did you know which one to climb?”
Mackeli shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I made it easy for you. I pushed the stone out far enough for you to step on and climbed up here to wait. You did the rest.”
Kith-Kanan swung down to the ground. “I feel like a fool. Why, your average goblin is probably better in the woods than I am.”
Mackeli let go of the tree and fell in a graceful arc. He caught the low branch with his fingertips to slow his descent. Knees bent, he landed beside Kith-Kanan.
“You are pretty clumsy,” he said without malice. “But you don’t smell as bad as a goblin.”
“My thanks.” said the prince sourly.
“It’s really just a matter of breathing.”
“Breathing? How?”
“You breathe like this.” Mackeli threw back his shoulders and puffed out his thin chest. He inhaled and exhaled like a blacksmith’s bellows. The sight was so absurd, Kith-Kanan had to smile. “Then you walk the way you breathe.” The boy stomped about exaggeratedly, lifting his feet high and crashing them into the scattered leaves and twigs.
Kith-Kanan’s smile flattened into a frown. “How do you breathe?” he asked.
Mackeli rooted about at the base of the tree until he found a cast-off feather. He lay on his back and placed it on his upper lip. So smoothly did the elf boy draw breath, the feather never wavered.
“Am I going to have to learn how to breathe?” Kith-Kanan demanded.