“Metal stinks.” Anaya jerked her arm free. “It is not permitted for me to touch it. I wrapped a scrap of hide around your metal and carried it from my house. Do not bring it in again.”
He opened his mouth to shout at her, to rail against her unjust treatment of him. But before he could, Anaya went inside the tree. Her voice floated out. “I sleep now. Put out the fire.”
When the fire was cold and dead, the prince stood in the door of the tree. “Where do I sleep?” he asked sarcastically.
“Where you can fit,” was Anaya’s laconic reply. She was curled up by the wall, so Kith-Kanan lay down as far from her as he could, yet still be in the warmth of the tree. Thoughts raced through his head. How to find Arcuballis and get out of the forest. How to get away from Anaya. Where Mackeli was. Who the interlopers were.
“Don’t think so loud,” Anaya said irritatedly. “Go to sleep.” With a sigh, Kith-Kanan finally closed his eyes.
7 — High Summer, Year of the Hawk
Elves from all corners of Silvanesti had come to Silvanost for Trial Days, that period every year when the Speaker of the Stars sat in judgment of disputes, heard the counsel of his nobles and clerics, and generally tried to resolve whatever problems faced his people.
A platform had been built on the steps of the Temple of E’li. Upon it, Sithel sat on a high, padded throne, under a shimmering white canopy. He could survey the entire square. Sithas stood behind him, watching and listening. Warriors of the royal guard kept the lines orderly as people made their way slowly up the line to their ruler. Trial Days were sometimes amusing, often irritating, and always, always lengthy.
Sithel was hearing a case where two fishers had disputed a large carp, which hit both of their hooks at the same time. Both elves claimed the fish, which had been caught weeks before and allowed to rot while they debated its ownership.
Sithel announced his judgment. “I declare the fish to be worth two silver pieces. As you own it jointly, you will each pay the other one silver piece for permitting it to spoil.”
The gaping fishers would have complained but Sithel forestalled them. “It is so ordered. Let it be done!” The trial scribe struck a bell, signaling the end of the case. The fishers bowed and withdrew.
Sithel stood up. The royal guards snapped to attention. “I will take a short rest,” he announced. “In my absence, my son, Sithas, will render judgment.”
The prince looked to his father in surprise. In a low voice he said, “Are you sure, Father?”
“Wy not? It will give you a taste of the role.”
The speaker went to the rear of the platform. He watched Sithas slowly seat himself in the chair of judgment. “Next case,” declared his son ringingly.
Sithel ducked through a flap in the cloth wall. There he saw his wife, waiting at a small table laden with food and drink. Snowy white linen walled off this end of the platform on three sides. The rear was open to the temple. The formidable facade loomed over them, fluted columns and walls banded with deep blue, bright rose, and grassy green stone. The heat of midday was upon the city, but a breeze wafted through the canopied enclosure.
Nirakina stood and dismissed a serving boy who had been posted at the table. She poured her husband a tall goblet of nectar. Sithel picked a few grapes from a golden bowl and accepted the goblet.
“How is he doing?” Nirakina asked, gesturing to the front of the platform.
“Well enough. He must get used to rendering decisions.” Sithel sipped the amber liquid. “Weren’t you and Hermathya attending the debut of Elidan’s epic song today?”
“Hermathya pleaded illness and the performance was postponed until tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong with her?” The speaker settled back in his chair.
Nirakina’s face clouded. “She would rather visit the Market than remain in the palace. She is proud and willful, Sithel.”
“She knows how to get attention, that’s certain,” her husband said, chuckling. “I hear the crowds follow her in the streets.”
Nirakina nodded. “She throws coins and gems to them—just often enough for them to cheer her madly.” She leaned forward and put her hand over his where it rested on the goblet. “Sithel, did we make the right choice? So much unhappiness has come about because of this girl. Do you think all will be well?”
Sithel released his grip on the cup and took his wife’s hand. “I don’t think any harm will come of Hermathya’s follies, Kina. She’s drunk with acclaim right now, but she will tire of it when she realizes how empty and fleeting the adulation of the mob is. She and Sithas should have children. That would slow her down, give her something else on which to concentrate.”
Nirakina tried to smile, though she couldn’t help but notice how the speaker had avoided mention of Kith-Kanan at all. Her husband had a strong will. His anger and disappointment were not easily overcome.
The sound of raised voices swelled over the square. Sithel ate a last handful of grapes. “Let’s see what disturbs the people,” he said.
He stepped around the curtain and walked to the front edge of the platform. The crowd, in its orderly lines, had parted down the center of the square. There, between two lines of soldiers, were twenty to thirty newcomers. They were injured. Some were being carried on litters, others wore blood-stained bandages. The injured elves, male and female, approached the foot of the speaker’s platform slowly and painfully. Guards moved forward to keep them away, but Sithel ordered that they be allowed to come.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Great speaker,” said a tall elf at the head of the group. His face was sun-browned and his body muscled from outdoor work. His corn-colored hair was ragged and sooty, and a dirty bandage covered most of his right arm. “Great speaker, we are all that is left of the village of Trokali. We have come almost two hundred miles to tell you of our plight.”
“What happened?”
“We were a peaceful village, great speaker. We tended our trees and fields and traded with all who came to the market in the town square. But on the night of the last quarter of Lunitari, a band of brigands appeared in Trokali. They set fire to the houses, broke the limbs off our fruit trees, carried off our women and children.” Here the elf’s voice broke. He paused a moment to master his emotions, then continued. “We are not fighters, great speaker, but the fathers and mothers of Trokali tried to defend what was ours. We had sticks and hoes against swords and arrows. These here,” he waved a hand in the direction of the battered group behind him, “are all that live out of a village of two hundred.”
Sithas left the platform and went down the temple steps until he was on the level with the tall elf from Trokali.
“What is your name?” Sithas demanded.
“Tamanier Ambrodel.”
“Who were these brigands, Tamanier?”
The elf shook his head sadly. “I do not know, sire.”
“They were humans!” cried an elf woman with a badly burned face. She pushed her way through the crowd. “I saw them!” she hissed. “They were humans. I saw the hair on their faces!”
“They weren’t all human,” Tamanier said sharply. He raised his wounded arm. “The one who cut me was Kagonesti!”
“Kagonesti and humans in the same band?” Sithas said in consternation. Murmurs surged through the crowd. He turned to look up at his father.
Sithel held up his hands. The scribe had to strike his bell four times before the crowd was quiet. “This matter requires further attention,” he proclaimed. “My son will remain here for the trials, while I will conduct the people of Trokali to the Palace of Quinari, where each shall give testimony.”
Sithas bowed deeply to his father as an escort of twelve warriors formed in the square to convey the survivors of Trokali to the palace. The lame and sick made it a slow and difficult procession, but Tamanier Ambrodel led his people with great dignity.