“This morning,” the unfortunate sailor gasped.
“And how many are there in his party?”
“Ten. S—Six men-at-arms and four archers.”
Kith-Kanan stood up, releasing the man’s hands. “Let him up.
“No,” disagreed Anaya. “He must die.”
“That is not the way! If you kill him, how will you be any different from the men who hold Mackeli captive? You cannot be the same as those you fight and have any honor. You must be better.”
“Better?” she hissed, looking up at the prince. “Anything is better than tree-killing scum!”
“He is not responsible,” Kith-Kanan insisted. “He was ordered.”
“Whose hand held the axe?” Anaya interrupted.
Taking advantage of their argument, the sailor shoved Anaya off and scrambled to his feet. He ran after his comrades, bleating for help.
“Now you see? You let him get away,” Anaya said. She gathered herself to give chase, but Kith-Kanan told her, “Forget those humans! Mackeli is more important. We’ll have to catch up with them before they reach the coast.” Anaya sullenly did not reply. “Listen to me! We’re going to need all your talents. Call the corvae, the Black Crawlers, everything. Have them find the humans and try to delay them long enough so that we can catch up.”
She pushed him aside and stepped away. The big fire was dying, and the hacked out clearing was sinking into darkness. Now and then an ox grunted from the makeshift pen.
Anaya moved to the felled trees. She put a gentle hand on the trunk of one huge oak. “Why do they do it?” she asked mournfully. “Why do they cut down the trees? Can’t they hear the fabric of the forest split open each time a tree falls?” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “There are spirits in the wildwood, spirits in the trees. They have murdered them with their metal.” Her haunted eyes looked up at the prince.
Kith-Kanan put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s much to be done. We must go.” Anaya drew a shuddering breath. After giving the tree a last gentle touch, she stooped to gather up her throwing stones.
9 — Late Summer
Summer was fading. The harvests were coming in, and the markets of Silvanost were full of the fruits of the soil. Market week always brought a great influx of visitors to the city, not all of them Silvanesti. From the forests to the south and the plains to the west came the swarthy, painted Kagonesti. Up the Thon-Thalas came thick-walled boats from the dwarven kingdom, tall-masted, deep-sea vessels from the human realms in the far west. All these ascended the river to Fallan Island where Silvanost lay. It was an exciting time, full of strange sights, sounds, and smells. Exciting, that is, for the travelers. For the Silvanesti, who regarded these races flooding their land with distaste and distrust, it was a trying time.
Sithel sat on his throne in the Tower of the Stars, weary but attentive as clerics and nobles filed up to him to voice their complaints. His duties did not allow him respite from the incessant arguing and pleading.
“Great Sithel, what is to be done?” asked Firincalos, high priest of E’li. “The barbarians come to us daily, asking to worship in our temple. We turn them away and they grow angry, and the next day a new batch of hairy-faced savages appears, asking the same privilege.”
“The humans and dwarves are not the worst of it,” countered Zertinfinas, of the Temple of Matheri. “The Kagonesti deem themselves our equals and cannot be put off from entering the sacred precincts with filthy hands and feet and noxious sigils painted on their faces. Why, yesterday, some wild elves roughed up my assistant and spilled the sacred rosewater in the outer sanctum.”
“What would you have me do?” Sithel asked. “Place soldiers around all the temples? There are not enough royal guardsmen in House Protector to do that—not to mention that most of them are sons or grandsons of Kagonesti themselves.”
“Perhaps an edict, read in the Market, will convince the outsiders not to attempt to force their way into our holy places,” Firincalos noted. A murmur of approval ran through the assembly.
“All very well for you,” said Miritelisina, high priestess of Quenesti Pah. “How can we who serve the goddess of healing turn away eager supplicants? It is part of our trust to admit the sick and injured. Can we discriminate between Silvanesti and Kagonesti, human, dwarf, and kender?”
“Yes. You must,” declared a voice silent until now.
All heads turned to the speaker’s left, where Sithas had been standing. He had been listening to the different factions present their views. A long time he’d been listening, and now he felt he must speak. The prince stepped down to floor level, with the assembled clerics, and faced his father.
“It is vital that the purity of our temples and our city be preserved,” he said with fervor. “We, the oldest and wisest race of Krynn, the longest lived, the most blessed, must keep ourselves above the hordes of lesser peoples who flood in, trying to partake of our grace and culture.” He lifted his hands. “Where there is not purity, there can be no Silvanost and no Silvanesti.”
Some of the clerics—not those of Quenesti Pah—bowed in appreciation of Sithas’s declaration. Behind them, however, the guildmasters looked distinctly unhappy. Sithel, looking down on his son, was nodding slowly. He looked over the prince’s head at the guildmasters, and bade them come forward.
“Highness,” said the master of the Jewelers Guild, “the outsiders bring many things we in Silvanesti do not have. The dwarves trade us the finest metal on Krynn for our foodstuffs and nectars. The humans bring expertly carved wood, the softest of leathers, wine, and oil. Even the kender contribute their share.”
“Their share of larceny,” muttered one of the clerics. Soft laughter rippled through the tower.
“Enough,” Sithel commanded. His gaze rested once more on his son. “How do you propose we keep the foreigners out of our temples without losing their trade, which our nation does need?”
Sithas took a deep breath. “We can build an enclave here on Fallan Island, outside the city, and confine all trading to that point. No outsiders except valid ambassadors from other countries will be admitted within Silvanost’s walls. If the humans and others wish to pay homage to the gods, let them put up their own shrines in this new enclave.”
Sithel leaned back on his throne and stroked his chin. “An interesting notion. Why should the foreigners agree to it?”
“They do not want to lose the goods they get from us,” Sithas reasoned. “If they don’t agree, they will be turned away.” The clerics looked at him with undisguised admiration.
“A perfect solution!” Zertinfinas exclaimed.
“Proof of the wisdom of the speaker’s heir,” added Firincalos unctuously.
Sithel looked past them to the guildmasters. “What say you, good sirs? Does this notion of my son’s appeal to you?”
It did indeed. If the traders had to land at one specified point on Fallan, then the guilds could more easily impose landing fees on them. The various guildmasters voiced their approval loudly.
“Very well, let the plans be made,” Sithel decided. “The forming of the docks and walls I leave to the guild of master builders. Once the plans are chosen, the forming of the stones can begin.” As Sithel stood up, everyone bowed. “If that is all, then this audience is at an end.” The speaker gave Sithas a thoughtful look, then turned and left the hall by the door behind the throne.
The clerics closed around Sithas, congratulating him. Miritelisina asked him if he had a name in mind for the new trading enclave.
Sithas smiled and shook his head. “I have not considered it in such detail yet.”
“It should be named for you,” Firincalos said exuberantly. “Perhaps ‘Sithanost, the city of Sithas’. ”
“No,” the prince said firmly. “That is not proper. Let it be something the outsiders will understand. ‘Thon-car, village on the Thon,’ something simple like that. I do not want it named after me.”