“Who goes there?” Stankathan said in a voice husky with sleep. The officer who had found Nortifinthas explained the situation. Stankathan looked at the corpse, borne on the shoulders of his fellow warriors. His face paled.
“I will fetch Prince Sithas,” he decided.
Stankathan went to Sithas’s bachelor quarters. The door was open, and he saw the prince asleep at a table. The elder elf shook his head. Everyone knew that Prince Sithas and his wife were living apart, but still it saddened the old servant.
“Your Highness?” he said, touching Sithas lightly on the back. “Your Highness, wake up; there’s been an…event.”
Sithas raised his head suddenly. “What? What is it?”
“The night watch has found a dead warrior in the streets. Apparently he is one of the soldiers the speaker sent out weeks ago.”
Sithas pushed back his chair and stood, disoriented by his sudden awakening. “How can that be?” he asked. He breathed deeply a few times to clear his head. Then, adjusting his sleep-twisted robe, the prince said, “I will see the warriors.”
The major-domo led Sithas to the main door. There the prince heard the story of the finding of the body from the night watch officer.
“Show me,” ordered Sithas.
The warriors laid the body gently down on the steps. Nortifinthas had numerous knife and club wounds, which had sufficed to drain his life away.
Sithas looked over the array of grim, concerned faces. “Take the body to the cellar and lay it out. Tomorrow perhaps the learned clerics can discover what happened,” he said in a subdued voice.
Four guards hoisted Nortifinthas on their shoulders and went up the steps. Stankathan showed them the way to the palace cellar. After a time, when Stankathan returned with the bearers, Sithas dismissed the guards. To the major-domo he said, “When the speaker rises tomorrow, tell him at once what has occurred. And send for me.”
“It shall be done, Highness.”
The day dawned cool, and gray clouds piled up in the northern sky. Sithas and Sithel stood on opposite sides of the table where the body of Nortifinthas had been laid out. Everyone else had been banished from the cellar.
Sithel bent over and began to examine the dead elf’s clothes with minute care. He fingered every seam, looked in every pocket, even felt in the corpse’s hair. Finally Sithas could contain himself no longer.
“What are you doing, Father?”
“I know Captain Coryamis would not have sent this warrior back to us without some kind of message.”
“How do you know he was sent? He could be a deserter.”
Sithel stood up. “Not this fellow. He was a fine warrior. And if he had deserted, he wouldn’t come back to Silvanost.” Just then, Sithel froze. He reached for the shielded candle that was their only source of light, then held it close to the dead elf’s waist.
“There!” The speaker hastily thrust the candle holder into Sithas’s hand. Eagerly, Sithel unclasped the sword belt from the corpse. He held it up to Sithas. “Do you see?”
Sithas squinted hard at the inside of the belt. Sure enough, there were letters scratched in the dark leather, but they appeared random and meaningless. “I don’t understand,” he protested. “I see writing, but it’s just gibberish.”
Sithel removed the empty scabbard from the belt and gently laid it on the corpse’s chest. Then he coiled the belt and tucked it inside his robe. “There are many things you have yet to learn, things that only come from experience. Come with me, and I’ll show you how the dead can speak to the living without magic.”
They left the cellar. An entire corps of courtiers and servants stood waiting for the two most important people in Silvanost to reappear. Sithel promptly ordered everyone to return to their tasks, and he and his son went alone to the Tower of the Stars.
“This palace is like an anthill,” Sithel said, striding briskly across the Processional Road. “How can anything remain secret for very long?”
The prince was puzzled, but he covered his bewilderment with the meditative mask he had learned from the priests of Matheri. It was not until they were alone, locked inside the audience hall of the tower, that his father spoke again.
“Coryamis sent the soldier back as a courier,” confided Sithel. “Let us see what he brought us.”
The emerald throne of the speaker was not simply made of that stone. The natural faceted gems were interspersed with hand-turned columns of rare and beautiful wood. These were of varying lengths and thicknesses, and some were even inlaid with gold and silver. Sithas looked on in mute wonder as his father detached piece after piece of wood from the ancient, sacred throne. Each time he removed a cylinder of wood, he would wind the dead soldier’s belt around it, spiral fashion. The speaker would then stare at the writing on the belt for a second, remove the belt, and re-fit the wooden piece back into the throne. On the fifth attempt, Sithel gave a cry of triumph. He read up the length of the cylinder, turned it slightly, and read the next row of letters. When he was done, the Speaker of the Stars looked up, ashen faced.
“What is it, Father?” Sithas asked. The speaker handed him the rod and belt as a reply.
Now the prince understood. The message had been written on the belt while it was wound around a shaft of identical thickness to this one. When the belt was removed, the letters became a meaningless jumble. Now Sithas could read the last message sent by Coryamis.
There were many abbreviations in the writing. Sithas read the message out loud, just to be certain he had it right. “ ‘Great speaker,’ ” it said, “ ‘I write this knowing I may not be alive tomorrow, and this is the only chance I have to tell what has happened. Two days ago we were attacked by a body of humans, elves, and mixed-bloods. The horsemen trapped us between the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains and the falls of the Keraty River. There are only fifteen of us left. I will send this message with my best fighter, Nortifinthas. Great speaker, these men and elves are not bandits, they are formidable cavalry. They also knew where to ambush us and how many we were, so I feel, too, that we were betrayed. There is a traitor in Silvanost. Find him or all shall perish. Long live Silvanesti!’ ”
Sithas stared at his father in horrified silence for a long moment. Finally, he burst out, “This is monstrous!”
“Treachery in my own city. Who could it be?” Sithel asked.
“I don’t know, but we can find out. The greater question is, who pays the traitor? It must be the emperor of Ergoth!” declared his son.
“Yes.” Surely there was no one else with the money or reason to wage such an underhanded campaign against the elven nation. Sithel looked at the prince, who suddenly seemed much older than before. “I do not want war, Sithas. I do not want it. We have not yet received a reply from the emperor or from the king of Thorbardin regarding our request for a conference. If both nations agree to come and talk, it will give us a chance for peace.”
“It may give the enemy the time they need, too,” said Sithas.
The speaker took the belt and wooden cylinder from his son. He restored the cylinder to its place in the side of the throne. The belt he fastened around his own waist. Sithel had regained his calm, and the years fell away once more when resolve filled his face.
“Son, I charge you with the task of finding the traitor. Male or female, young or old, there can be no mercy.”
“I shall find the traitor,” Sithas vowed.
Dinner each night in the Quinari Palace was held in the Hall of Balif. It was as much a social occasion as a meal, for all the courtiers were required to attend and certain numbers of the priestly and noble classes, too. Speaker Sithel and Lady Nirakina sat in the center of the short locus of the vast oval table. Sithas and Hermathya sat on Nirakina’s left, and all the guests sat to the left of them in order of seniority. Thus, the person to Sithel’s right was always the most junior member of the court. That seat fell to Tamanier Ambrodel nowadays; for saving Lady Nirakina’s life during the riot, he’d been granted a minor title.