“Sithas…Sithas…”
The prince whirled as he realized that someone was calling his name. He ran up the riverbank toward the sound. Once ashore, he was engulfed by the row of short towers that lined the riverbank. The tallest of these, a four-story house with conical roof and tall windows, was to his right. A white cloth waved from a top floor window.
“Sithas?” With relief the prince noted that it was his mother’s voice.
He mounted the horse and urged it into a gallop. Shouts and a loud crashing sound filled the air. On the other side of a low stone wall, a band of rioters was battering at the door of the four-story tower. Sithas raced the horse straight at the wall, and the animal jumped the barrier. As they landed on the other side, Sithas shouted a challenge and waved his sword in the air. Horse and rider thundered into the rioters’ midst. The men dropped the bench they had been using as a battering ram and ran off.
Overhead, a window on the street side opened. Nirakina called down, “Sithas! Praise the gods you came!”
The door of the house, which was almost knocked to pieces, opened inward. A familiar-looking elf emerged warily, the broken end of a table leg clutched in his hand.
“I know you,” said Sithas, dismounting quickly.
The elf lowered his weapon. “Tamanier Ambrodel, at your service, Highness,” he said quietly. “Lady Nirakina is safe.”
Nirakina came down the building’s steps, and Sithas rushed to embrace her.
“We were besieged,” Nirakina explained. Her honey-brown hair was in complete disarray, and her gentle face was smeared with soot. “Tamanier saved my life. He fought them off and guarded the door.”
“I thought you were dead,” Sithas said, cupping his mother’s face in his scratched, dirty hands. “I found a woman floating in the river. She was wearing your clothes.”
Nirakina explained that she had been giving some old clothing to the refugees when the trouble started. In fact she and Tamanier had been at the focus of the riot. One reason they had escaped unharmed was that many of the refugees knew the speaker’s wife and protected her.
“How did it start?” demanded Sithas. “I heard something about Miritelisina.”
“I’m afraid it was her,” Tamanier answered. “I saw her standing in the back of a cart, proclaiming that the speaker and high priests were planning to send all the settlers back across the river. The people grew frightened—they thought they were being driven from their last shelter by their own lords, sent to die in the wilderness. So they rose up, with the intention of forestalling a new exile.”
Fists clenched, Sithas declared, “This is treason! Miritelisina must be brought to justice!”
“She did not tell them to riot,” his mother said gently. “She cares about the poor, and it is they who have suffered most from this.”
Sithas was in no mood to debate. Instead, he turned to Tamanier and held out his hand. Eyes wide, the elf grasped his prince’s hand. “You shall be rewarded,” said Sithas gratefully.
“Thank you, Highness.” Tamanier looked up and down the street. “Perhaps we can take Lady Nirakina home now.”
It was much quieter. Kencathedrus’s warriors had herded the rioters into an ever-tightening circle. When the mob was finally subdued, the fire brigade was able to rush into the Market quarter. That occurred far too late, though; fully half of the marketplace had already been reduced to ruin.
The justice meted out by Sithel to his rebellious subjects was swift and severe. The rioters were tried as one and condemned.
Those of Silvanesti or Kagonesti blood were made slaves and set to rebuilding what they had destroyed. The humans and other non-elven rioters were driven from the city at pike point and forbidden ever to return, upon pain of death. All merchants who participated in the madness had their goods confiscated. They, too, were banished for life.
Miritelisina was brought before the speaker. Sithas, Nirakina, Tamanier Ambrodel, and all the high clerics of Silvanost were present. She made no speeches, offered no defense. Despite his respect for her, the speaker found the priestess guilty of petty treason. He could have made the charge high treason, for which the penalty was death, but Sithel could not bring himself to be that harsh.
The high priestess of Quenesti Pah was sent to the dungeon cells under the Palace of Quinari. Her cell was large and clean, but dark. Layers of inhibiting spells were placed around it, to prevent her from using her magical knowledge to escape or communicate with the outside world. Though many saw this as just, few found the sentencing a positive thing; not since the terrible, anarchical days of Silvanos and Balif had such a high-ranking person been sent to the dungeon.
“Is it right, do you think, to keep her there?” Nirakina asked her husband and son later, in private.
“You surprise me,” said Sithel in a tired voice. “You, of all people, whose life was in the balance, should have no qualm about her sentence.”
Nirakina’s face was sad. “I am sure she meant no harm. Her only concern was for the welfare of the refugees.”
“Perhaps she did not mean to start a riot,” Sithas said sympathetically, “but I’m not certain she meant no harm. Miritelisina sought to undermine the decree of the speaker by appealing to the common people. That, in itself, is treason.”
“Those poor people,” Nirakina murmured.
The speaker’s wife retired to her bed. Sithel and his son remained in the sitting room.
“Your mother has a kind heart, Sith. All this suffering has undone her. She needs her rest.” Sithas nodded glumly, and the speaker went on. “I am sending a troop of fifty warriors under Captain Coryamis to the west. They are to try to capture some of the brigands who’ve been terrorizing our settlers and to bring them back alive. Perhaps then we can find out who’s truly behind these attacks.” Sithel yawned and stretched. “Coryamis leaves tonight. Within a month, we should know something.”
Father and son parted. Sithel watched the prince descend the far stairs, not the route to the quarters that he shared with Hermathya. “Where are you going, Sith?” he asked in confusion.
Sithas looked distinctly uncomfortable. “My old rooms, Father. Hermathya and I are—we are not sharing a bed these days,” he said stiffly. Sithel raised one pale brow in surprise.
“You’ll not win her over by sleeping apart,” he advised.
“I need time to contemplate,” Sithas replied. With a gruff good-night, he went on his way. Sithel waited until his son’s footsteps had faded from the stone stairwell, then he sighed. Sithas and Hermathya estranged—for some reason that fact bothered him more than having to send Miritelisina to the dungeon. He knew his son, and he knew his daughter-in-law, too. They were both too proud, too unbending. Any rift between them was only likely to widen over time. Not good. The line of Silvanos required stability and offspring to ensure its continuation. He would have to do something.
A prodigious yawn racked the speaker’s body. For now, though, there was his own bed, his own wife, and sleep.
In the weeks following the rioting in the Market, a regular patrol of royal guards walked the streets. A squad of four warriors, moving through the city very late one night, spied a body lying on the steps of the Temple of Quenesti Pah. Two elves ran over and turned the body face-up. To their astonishment, they knew the dead elf well. He was Nortifinthas, and he was of their own company, sent with forty-nine other warriors to the western provinces. No word had been heard from the fifty warriors in over two weeks.
The night watch picked up their fallen comrade and hastened to the Palace of Quinari. Other patrols saw them and joined with them as they went. By the time the group reached the main door of the palace, it was over thirty strong.
Stankathan, the major-domo, arrived at the palace door in response to the vigorous pounding of the guards. He stood in the open doorway, holding aloft a sputtering oil lamp.