Sithel descended the steps of the Temple of E’li, with Nirakina by his side. Courtiers scrambled to keep pace with the speaker’s quick stride. The murmuring in the square grew as the people of Trokali trailed after.
Nirakina glanced back over her shoulder at the crowd. “Do you think there will be trouble?” she asked.
“There is already trouble. Now we must see what can be done to remedy it,” Sithel answered tersely.
In short order they entered the plaza before the palace. Guards at the doors, responding to the speaker’s brief commands, summoned help.
Servants flooded out of the palace to aid the injured elves. Nirakina directed them and saw to the distribution of food and water.
Out of deference to Tamanier’s weakened condition, Sithel took him no farther than the south portico. He bade Tamanier sit, overlooking the protocol that required commoners to stand in the presence of the speaker. The tall elf eased himself into a finely carved stone chair. He exhaled loudly with relief.
“Tell me about the brigands,” Sithel commanded.
“There were thirty or forty of them, Highness,” Tamanier said, swallowing hard. “They came on horseback. Hardlooking, they were. The humans wore mail and carried long swords.”
“And the Kagonesti?”
“They were poor-looking, ragged and dirty. They carried off our women and children…” Tamanier covered his face with his hands.
“I know it is difficult,” Sithel said calmly. “But I must know. Go on.”
“Yes, Highness.” Tamanier dropped his hands, but they shook until he clenched them in his lap. A quaver had crept into his voice. “The humans set fire to the houses and chased off all our livestock. It was also the humans who threw ropes over our trees and tore off their branches. Our orchards are ruined, completely ruined.”
“Are you sure about that? The humans despoiled the trees?”
“I am certain, great speaker.”
Sithel walked down the cool, airy portico, hands clasped behind his back. Passing Tamanier, he noticed the thin gold band the elf wore around his neck.
“Is that real gold?” he asked abruptly.
Tamanier fingered the band. “It is, Highness. It was a gift from my wife’s family.”
“And the brigands didn’t take it from you?”
Realization slowly came to Tamanier. “Why, no. They never touched it. Come to think of it, great speaker, no one was robbed. The bandits burned houses and broke down our trees, but they didn’t plunder us at all!” He scratched his dirty cheek. “Why would they do that, Highness?”
Sithel tapped two fingers against his chin thoughtfully. “The only thing I can think of is they didn’t care about your gold. They were after something more important.” Tamanier watched him expectantly, but the speaker didn’t elaborate. He rang for a servant. When one appeared he told him to take care of Tamanier. “We will talk again,” he assured the tall elf. “In the meantime, do not speak of this with anyone, not even your wife.”
Tamanier stood, leaning crookedly, favoring his wounded side. “My wife was killed,” he said stiffly.
Sithel watched him go. An honorable fellow, he decided. He would do well to keep an eye on Tamanier Ambrodel. The Speaker of the Stars could always use such an honorable man at court.
He entered the palace through a side door. A steady stream of servants trooped by, carrying buckets and soiled towels. Healers, who were clerics of the goddess Quenesti Pah, had arrived to tend the injured. Sithel looked over the bustle of activity. Trokali was two hundred miles from Silvanost. No human raiders had ever penetrated so far. And in the company of Kagonesti elves…
The Speaker of the Stars shook his head worriedly.
After finishing the day’s trials, Sithas dismissed the court. Though he had listened to each case fairly, he could not keep his thoughts away from the attack on the village of Trokali. When he returned to his rooms in the palace, everyone, from his mother to the humblest servant, was talking about the raid and its portent.
Hermathya waited for him in their room. No sooner had he entered than she jumped to her feet and exclaimed, “Did you hear about the raid?”
“I did,” Sithas said with deliberate nonchalance, shrugging off his dusty outer robe. He poured cool water into a basin and washed his hands and face.
“What’s to be done?” she prodded.
“Done? I hardly think that’s our concern. The speaker will deal with the problem.”
“Why do you not do something yourself?” Hermathya demanded, crossing the room. Her scarlet gown showed off the milky paleness of her skin. Her eyes flashed as she spoke. “The entire nation would unite behind the one who would put down the insolent humans.”
“The ‘one’? Not the speaker?” asked Sithas blandly.
“The speaker is old,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Old people are beset with fears.”
Dropping the towel he’d used to dry his hands, Sithas caught Hermathya’s wrist and pulled her close. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t shrink back. Sithas’s eyes bored into hers.
“What you say smacks of disloyalty,” he rumbled icily.
“You want what is best for the nation, don’t you?” she replied, leaning into him. “If these attacks continue, all the settlers to the west will flee back to the city, as did the elves of Trokali. The humans of Ergoth will settle our land with their own people. Is that good for Silvanesti?”
Sithas’s face hardened at the thought of humans encroaching on their ancient land. “No,” he said firmly.
Hermathya put her free hand on his arm. “How then is it disloyal to want to end these outrages?”
“I am not the Speaker of the Stars!”
Her eyes were the deep blue of the sky at dusk as Hermathya moved to kiss her husband. “Not yet,” she whispered, and her breath was sweet and warm on his face. “Not yet”
8 — Late Spring, in the Forest
Mackeli had been gone three days when Anaya showed Kith-Kanan where she had secreted his sword and dagger. There could be no question now that something had happened to him and that they had to go to his rescue.
“There is your metal,” she said. “Take it up. You may have need of it.”
He brushed the dead leaves off the slim, straight blade of his sword and wiped it with an oily cloth. It slid home in its scabbard with only a faint hiss. Anaya kept back when he held the weapons. She regarded the iron blades with loathing, as if they were the stinking carcasses of long dead animals.
“Mackeli’s been gone so long, I hope we can pick up his trail,” Kith-Kanan said. His eyes searched the huge trees.
“As long as Mackeli lives, I will always be able to find him.” declared Anaya. “There is a bond between us. He is my brother.”
With this pronouncement she turned and went back to the hollow tree. Kith-Kanan followed her. What did she mean—brother? Were the two siblings? He’d wondered at their relationship, but certainly hadn’t noticed any family resemblance. Anaya was even less talkative on the subject than Mackeli had been.
He went to the door of the tree and looked in. Squatting before a piece of shiny mica, Anaya was painting her face. She had wiped her cheeks clean—relatively clean, anyway—with a wad of damp green leaves and now was applying paint made from berries and nut shells. Her brush was a new twig, the end of which she’d chewed to make it soft and pliable. Anaya went from one gourd full of pigment to another, painting zigzag lines on her face in red, brown, and yellow.
“What are you doing? Time is wasting,” Kith-Kanan said impatiently.
Anaya drew three converging lines on her chin, like an arrowhead in red. Her dark hazel eyes were hard as she said, “Go outside and wait for me.”
Kith-Kanan felt anger rising at her casual tone of command. She ordered him about like a servant, but there was nothing for him to do but stew. When Anaya finally emerged, they plunged into the deep shade of the woods. Kith-Kanan found his anger at her dissolving as he watched her move gracefully through the wood. She never disturbed a leaf or twig, moving, as Mackeli had said, like smoke.