“It would be a good start,” said Mackeli. He hopped to his feet. “We go home now.”
Several days passed slowly for Kith-Kanan in the forest. Mackeli was a clever and engaging companion, but his diet of nuts, berries, and water did not agree with the elf prince’s tastes. His belly, which was hardly ample to start with, shrank under the simple fare. Kith-Kanan longed for meat and nectar. Only Ny could get meat, the boy insisted. Yet there was no sign of the mysterious “Ny.”
There was also no sign of the missing Arcuballis. Though Kith-Kanan prayed that somehow they could be reunited, he knew there was little hope for this. With no idea where the griffon had been taken and no way of finding out, the prince tried to accept that Arcuballis was gone forever. The griffon, a tangible link with his old life, was gone, but Kith-Kanan still had his memories.
These same memories returned to torment the prince in his dreams during those days. He heard once more his father announce Hermathya’s betrothal to Sithas. He relived the ordeal in the Tower of the Stars, and, most terrible of all, he listened to Hermathya’s calm acceptance of Sithas.
Kith-Kanan filled his days talking with and learning from Mackeli, determined to build a new life away from Silvanost. Perhaps that life would be here, he decided, in the peace and solitude of the ancient forest.
One time Kith-Kanan asked Mackeli where he’d been born, where he’d come from.
“I have always been from here,” Mackeli replied, waving absently at the trees.
“You were born here?”
“I have always been here,” he replied stubbornly.
At that, Kith-Kanan gave up. Questions about the past stymied the boy almost as much as queries about the future. If he stuck to the present—and whatever they were doing at the moment—he could almost have a conversation with Mackeli.
In return for Mackeli’s lessons in stealth and survival, Kith-Kanan regaled his young friend with tales of Silvanost, of the great wars against the dragons, and of the ways of city-bred elves.
Mackeli loved these stories, but more than anything, metal fascinated him. He would sit cross-legged on the ground and hold some object of Kith-Kanan’s, his helmet, a greave, a piece from his armor, and rub his small brown fingers against the cold surface again and again. He could not fathom how such hard material could be shaped so intricately. Kith-Kanan explained what he knew of smithy and foundry work. The idea that metal could be melted and poured absolutely astounded Mackeli.
“You put metal in the fire,” he said, “and it doesn’t burn? It gets soft and runny, like water?”
“Well, it’s thicker than water.”
“Then you take away the fire, and the metal gets hard again?”
Kith-Kanan nodded. “You made that up!” Mackeli exclaimed. “Things put in the fire get burned.”
“I swear by E’li, it is the truth.”
Mackeli was too slight to handle the sword, but he was able to draw the bow well enough to shoot. He had an uncanny eye, and Kith-Kanan wished he would use some of that stealth to bring down a deer for dinner. But it was not to be; Mackeli didn’t eat meat and he refused to shed blood for Kith-Kanan. Only Ny…
On a gray and rainy morning, Mackeli went out to gather nuts and roots. Kith-Kanan remained in the hollow tree, stoking the fire, polishing his sword and dagger. When the rain showed signs of letting up, he left his weapons below and climbed the ladder to the upper part of the oak tree. He stood on a branch thicker around than his waist and surveyed the rain-washed forest. Drops fell from the verdant leaves, and the air had a clean, fertile smell. Deeply the prince inhaled. He had found a small measure of peace here, and the meeting with the Forestmaster had foretold great adventure for his future.
Kith-Kanan went back down and immediately noticed that his sword and dagger were gone. His first thought was that Mackeli had come back and was playing a trick on him, but the prince saw no signs the boy had returned. He turned around and was going back up the tree when something heavy struck him from behind, in the middle of his back.
He crashed against the trunk, spun, and saw nothing. “Mackeli!” he cried,
“This isn’t funny!” Neither was the blow on the back of his head that followed. A weight bore Kith-Kanan to the ground. He rolled and felt arms and legs around him. Something black and shiny flashed by his nose. He knew the move of a stabbing attack, and he put out both hands to seize the attacker’s wrist.
His assailant’s face was little more than a whorl of painted lines and a pair of shadowed eyes. The flint knife wavered, and as Kith-Kanan backhanded the knife wielder, the painted face let out a gasp of pain. Kith-Kanan sat up, wrenched the knife out of its owner’s grasp, and pinned his attacker to the ground with one knee.
“The kill is yours,” said the attacker. His struggles faded, and he lay tense but passive under Kith-Kanan’s weight.
Kith-Kanan threw the knife away and stood up. “Who are you?”
“The one who is here. Who are you?” the painted elf said sharply.
“I am Kith, formerly of Silvanost. Why did you attack me?”
“You are in my house.”
Understanding quickly dawned. “Are you Ny?”
“The name of my birth was Anaya.” There was cool assurance in the voice.
He frowned. “That sounds like a female name.”
Anaya got up and kept a discreet distance from Kith-Kanan. He realized she was a female elf of the Kagonesti race. Her black hair was cut close to her head, except in back, where she wore a long braid. Anaya was shorter than Kith-Kanan by a head, and much slimmer. Her green-dyed deerskin tunic ended at her hips, leaving her legs bare. Like her face, her legs were covered with painted lines and decorations.
Her dark, hazel eyes darted left and right. “Where is Mackeli?”
“Out gathering nuts, I think,” he said, watching her keenly.
“Why did you come here?”
“The Forestmaster sent me,” the prince stated flatly.
In less time than it takes to tell, Anaya bolted from the clearing. She ran to an oak tree and, to Kith-Kanan’s astonishment, ran right up the broad trunk. She caught an overhead limb and swung into the midst of the leaves. Gaping, he made a few flatfooted steps forward, but the wild elf was completely lost from view.
“Anaya! Come back! I am a friend! The Forestmaster.”
“I will ask the Master if it is so.” Her clear, high voice came from somewhere above his line of sight. “If you speak the truth, I will return. If you say the Master’s name in vain, I will call down the Black Crawlers on you.”
“What?” Kith-Kanan spun around, looking up, trying to locate her. He could see nothing. “Who are the Black Crawlers?” But there was no answer, only the sighing of the wind through the leaves.
Night fell, and neither Mackeli nor Anaya had returned. Kith-Kanan began to fear that something might have happened to the boy. There were interlopers in the forest, the Forestmaster had said. Mackeli was clever, but he was innocent of the ways of ambush and murder. If the boy was in their hands…and Anaya. There was a strange creature! If he hadn’t actually fought with her, felt the solidness of her flesh, he would have called her a wraith, a forest spirit. But the bruise on his jaw was undeniably real.
Growing tired of the closeness of the hollow tree, the prince cleared a spot in the leaves to build a fire outside. He scraped down to bare soil and laid some stones for a hearth. Soon he had a fine fire blazing. The smoke wafted into the darkness, and sparks floated up, winking off like dying stars.
Though it was summer, Kith-Kanan felt a chill. He held his hands out to the fire, warming them. Crickets whirred in the dark beyond the firelight. Cicadas stirred in the trees, and bats swooped into the clearing to catch them. Suddenly the prince felt as if he was in the center of a seething, crawling pot. His eyes flicked back and forth, following odd rustlings and scrapings in the dry leaves. Things fluttered overhead, slithered behind his back. He grasped the unburned end of a stick of wood and pulled it out of the fire. Dark things seemed to leap back into the shadows when Kith-Kanan brought the burning torch near.