“They may go with their families, of course,” replied Sithas evenly.
“They should be made to go,” insisted Damroth, priest of Kiri Jolith. “They are an insult to our heritage.”
Sithel rapped the arm of his throne with his massive signet ring. The sound echoed through the Tower of the Stars. Instant silence claimed the hall.
“My son does me honor,” the speaker said. “Let all he has said be done.” The priestess of Quenesti Pah opened her mouth to protest, but Sithel rapped on his throne again, as a warning. “Those Silvanesti who have taken humans as mates will go with their kin. They have chosen their path, now they must follow it. Let it be done.”
He stood, a clear signal that the audience was over. The assembly bowed deeply as one and filed out. In a few minutes, only Sithel and Sithas were left.
“That Miritelisina,” said Sithel wryly. “She’s a woman of extreme will.”
“She’s too sentimental,” Sithas complained, coming to his father’s side. “I didn’t notice her offering to take the half-breeds into her temple.”
“No, but she’s spent a third of the temple treasury on tents and firewood, I hear.” The speaker rubbed his brow with one hand and sighed gustily. “Do you think it will come to war? There’s no real proof Ergoth is behind these attacks.”
Sithas frowned. “These are not ordinary bandits. Ordinary bandits don’t scorn gold in favor of wrecking fruit trees. I understand this new emperor, Ullves X, is an ambitious young schemer. Perhaps if we confront him directly, he would restrain the ‘bandits’ now at liberty in our western lands.”
Sithel looked doubtful. “Humans are difficult to deal with. They have more guile than kender, and their rapaciousness can make a goblin pale. And yet, they know honor, loyalty, and courage. It would be easier if they were all cruel or all noble, but as it is, they are mostly…difficult.” Rising from the throne, the speaker added, “Still, talk is cheaper than war. Prepare a letter to the emperor of Ergoth. Ask him to send an emissary for the purpose of ending the strife on the plains. Oh, you’d better send a similar note to the king of Thorbardin. They have a stake in this, too.”
“I will begin at once,” Sithas assented, bowing deeply.
Usually, diplomatic notes to foreign rulers would be composed by professional scribes, but Sithas sat down at the onyx table in his private room and began the letter himself. He dipped a fine stylus in a pot of black ink and wrote the salutation. “To His Most Excellent and Highborn Majesty, Ullves X, Emperor, Prince of Daltigoth, Grand Duke of Colem, etc., etc.” The prince shook his head. Humans dearly loved titles; how they piled them after their names. “From Sithel, Speaker of the Stars, Son of Silvanos. Greetings, Royal Brother.”
Hermathya burst into the room, red-gold hair disheveled, mantle askew. Sithas was so startled he dropped a blot of ink on the page, spoiling the fine vellum.
“Sithas!” she exclaimed breathlessly, rushing toward him. “They are rioting!”
“Who’s rioting?” he growled irritably.
“The farmers—the settlers lately come from the West. Word got out that the speaker was going to force them to leave Silvanost, and they began to smash and burn things. A band of them attacked the Market! Parts of it are on fire!”
Sithas rushed to the balcony. He threw aside the heavy brocade curtain and stepped out. His rooms faced away from the Market district, but through the muggy autumn air he caught the distant sounds of screaming.
“Has the royal guard been turned out?” he asked, returning inside quickly.
Hermathya inhaled deeply, her pale skin flushed as she tried to get her breathing under control. “I think so. I saw warriors headed that way. My sedan chair was blocked by a column of guards, so I got out and ran to the palace.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said sternly. Sithas imagined Hermathya running down the street like some wild Kagonesti. What would the common folk think, seeing his wife dashing through town like a wild thing?
When she planted her hands on her hips, the prince noticed that Hermathya’s mantle had slipped down, leaving one white shoulder bare. Her flame-bright hair had escaped its confining clasp and tendrils streamed around her reddened face. Her blush deepened at Sithas’s words.
“I thought it important to bring you the news!”
“The news would have come soon enough,” he stated tersely. He pulled a bell cord for a servant. An elf maid appeared with silent efficiency. “A bowl of water and a towel for Lady Hermathya,” Sithas commanded. The maid bowed and departed.
Hermathya flung off her dusty mantle. “I don’t need water!” she exclaimed angrily. “I want to know what you’re going to do about the riot!”
“The warriors will quell it,” the prince stated flatly as he returned to the table. When he saw that the parchment was ruined, Sithas frowned at the letter.
“Well, I hope no harm comes to Lady Nirakina!” she added.
Sithas ceased twirling the stylus in his fingers. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
“Your mother is out there, in the midst of the fighting!”
He seized Hermathya by the arms. His grip was so tight, a gasp was wrenched from his wife. “Don’t lie to me, Hermathya! Why should Mother be in that part of the city?”
“Don’t you know? She was at the river with that Ambrodel fellow, helping the poor wretches.”
Sithas released her quickly, and she staggered back a step. He thought fast. Then, turning to an elegant wardrobe made of flamewood, he pulled his street cloak off its peg and flipped it around his shoulders. On another peg was a sword belt holding a slender sword, the twin of his brother’s. He buckled the belt around his waist. It settled lopsidedly around his narrow hips.
“I’m going to find my mother,” he declared.
Hermathya grabbed her mantle. “I’ll go with you!”
“You will not,” he said firmly. “It isn’t seemly for you to roam the streets. You will stay here.”
“I will do as I please!”
Hermathya started for the door, but Sithas caught her wrist and pulled her back. Her eyes blazed furiously.
“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about the danger!” she hissed.
Voice tight with control, Sithas replied, “Lady, if you wish to remain in my good graces, you will do as I say.”
She stuck out her chin. “Oh? And if I don’t, what will you do? Strike me?” Sithas felt impaled by her deep blue eyes and, in spite of his anxiety about his mother, he felt a surge of passion. The starjewel at Hermathya’s throat flashed. There was color in her cheeks to match the heat in her eyes.
Their life together had been so cold. So little fire, so little emotion. Her arms were smooth and warm in Sithas’s hands as he leaned close. But in the instant before their lips met, Hermathya whispered, “I will do as I please!”
The prince pushed his wife back and turned away, breathing deeply to calm himself. She used her beauty like a weapon, not only on the commoners, but even on him. Sithas closed the collar of his cloak with a trembling hand.
“Find my father. Tell the speaker what has happened and what I intend to do.”
“Where is the speaker?” she said sulkily.
He snapped, “I don’t know. Why don’t you look for him?” Without another word, Sithas hurried from the room.
On his way out, the prince passed the servant as she returned with a bowl of tepid water and a soft, white towel. The elf maiden stood aside to let Sithas pass, then presented the bowl to Hermathya. She scowled at the girl, then, with one hand, knocked the basin from the servant’s hands. The bronze bowl hit the marble floor with a clang, splashing Hermathya’s feet with water.
12 — Idyll at the End of Summer
Arcuballis lowered its head to the clear water and drank. Not far from the hollow tree, where Anaya and Mackeli lived, a spring welled up from deep underground, creating a large, still pool. The water spilled over the lip of one side of the pool, cascading down natural steps of granite and bluestone.