“I trust the rest of the insides are more thoroughly cooked,” quipped Sithel.
The servants bore the head of the dragon to the speaker. With smaller knives, they carved it to pieces. Under the crusty pastry skin, the head was stuffed with delicate meat paste, whole baked apples, and sweet glazed onions.
Stankathan attacked the rest of the pastry like some culinary thespian portraying the mighty Huma slaying a real dragon. The body of the beast was filled with savory sausages, stuffed peppers, whole capons, and vegetable torts. The room filled with noise as every diner commented on the elegance of this evening’s feast.
Zertinfinas, rather loudly, called for more nectar. The serving boy had none left in his amphora, so he ran to the door to fetch more. Sithas called to the servant as he passed, and the elf boy dropped to one knee by the prince’s chair.
“Yes, Highness?”
“The holy one has had too much to drink. Have the cellar master cut the nectar with water. Half for half,” ordered Sithas in a confidential tone.
“As you command, sire.”
“The cook really has outdone himself,” Hermathya remarked. “It is a wonderful feast.”
“Is it a special occasion?” asked Rengaldus.
“The calendar does not list a holiday,” Kamin Oluvai noted. “Unless it is a special day for the speaker.”
“It is, holy one. By this feast we do honor to a dead hero,” Sithel explained.
Nirakina set down her goblet, puzzled. “What hero, my husband?”
“His name was Nortifinthas.”
Head wobbling, Zertinfinas asked, “Was he a companion of Huma Dragonsbane?”
“No,” Kamin Oluvai assisted. “He sat in the first great Synthal-Elish, did he not?”
“You are both mistaken,” Sithel replied. “Nortifinthas was a simple soldier, a Kagonesti who died nobly in service to this house.”
Conversation around the table had died just as the flutist trilled the high solo from the lament.
“This morning,” the speaker continued, “this soldier named Nortifinthas returned to the city from the western province. He was the only survivor of the fifty warriors I sent out to find the bandits who have troubled our people lately. All his comrades were slain. Even though he was fearfully wounded, the brave Nortifinthas returned with the last dispatch of his commander.” Sithel looked around the table, meeting each guest eye to eye. The prince sat very still, his left hand clenched into a fist in his lap. “One of you here, one of you seated at my table eating my food, is a traitor.”
The musicians heard this declaration and ceased playing. The speaker waved a hand to them to continue, and they did so, awkwardly.
“You see, the force that wiped out my fifty warriors was not a band of hit-and-run bandits, but a disciplined troop of cavalry who knew where and when my soldiers would come. It was not a battle. It was a massacre.”
“Do you know who the traitor is, Speaker?” Hermathya asked with great earnest.
“Not yet, but the person will be found. I spent most of my day compiling a list of those who could have known the route of my warriors. At this point, I suspect everyone.”
The speaker looked around the large table. The gaiety was gone from the dinner, and the diners looked at the delicacies on their plates without enthusiasm.
Sithel picked up his knife and fork. “Finish your food,” he commanded. When no one else emulated him, he held up his hands expressively and said, “Why do you not eat? Do you want this fine meal to go to waste?”
Sithas was the first to take up his fork and resume eating. Hermathya and Nirakina did likewise. Soon, everyone was eating again, but with much less good humor than before.
“I will say this,” Sithel added pointedly, cutting the glazed pomegranate eye from the pastry dragon’s face. “The traitor’s identity is suspected.”
By now the elf boy had returned, his amphora full of diluted nectar. Into the absolute silence that followed his own last statement, the speaker said loudly, “Zertinfinas! Your nectar!”
The cleric, his head snapping up at the sound of his name, had to be pounded on the back several times to save him from choking on a piece of pastry.
Sithas watched his father as he ate. The speaker’s every movement was graceful, his face serene with resolve.
14 — While the Speaker Dined
The Wildwood slowly regained its lively character. No longer was there that absence of animal life that Kith-Kanan had found so puzzling when he first arrived. Daily, deer came to graze in the clearing. Rabbits and squirrels cavorted in and around the trees. Birds other than the ubiquitous corvae appeared. Bears, boars, and panthers roared in the night. As Mackeli had said, they’d been warned of the humans. Now that the humans were gone, the animals had returned.
On this particular day, Mackeli wedged his tongue between his teeth and concentrated on lashing an arrowhead to a shaft. Kith-Kanan was teaching him the bow now. It was not something to which the boy took readily. As he tied off the end of the whipcord, the flint arrowhead sagged badly out of line.
“That’s not tight enough,” Kith-Kanan cautioned. He handed the boy his dagger. “Start again and make it tight.”
Neither of them had seen Anaya for over a week. It didn’t bother Mackeli a whit, but Kith-Kanan found himself missing the strange forest woman. He wondered if he should go and look for her. Mackeli said, and Kith-Kanan did not doubt, that the prince would never find her unless she wanted to be found.
“What do you do if you need her in a hurry?” Kith-Kanan asked ingeniously. “I mean, suppose you got hurt or something. How would you call her?”
“If I really need Ny, she knows it and comes for me.” Mackeli had almost finished his tying of the arrow.
“You mean, you just will her to come, and—she does?”
The boy knotted the tough silk string. “Mostly.” With a proud smile, he handed Kith-Kanan the newly lashed arrow. Kith shook it to see if the head would loosen. It didn’t. “Good,” he said, handing the arrow back. “You only need twenty more to fill your quiver.”
Late the next afternoon the Wildwood rang with laughter and splashing as Kith-Kanan and Mackeli swam in the pool. Mackeli was progressing well under the prince’s tutelage, so they had decided to finish their day with a swim in the crystal waters.
Mackeli was treading water and looking around the pool for Kith-Kanan. The boy was a better swimmer than his sister, but not so skilled as the elf prince.
“Where’d you go, Kith?” he said, eyeing the surface of the water uncertainly. Suddenly a hand closed on his left ankle and Mackeli gave a yelp. He found himself lifted up and launched skyward. Laughing and yelling all the way, he flew several feet and landed back in the pool with a loud splash. He and Kith-Kanan surfaced at the same time.
“It’s not fair,” Mackeli said, flinging his streaming hair from his eyes. “You’re bigger than me!”
Kith-Kanan grinned. “You’ll catch up someday, Keli,” he said. Twisting gracefully in the water, the prince turned and swam toward the granite ledge on shore.
As Kith-Kanan hoisted himself up on the ledge, Mackeli called to him, “I want to learn to swim like you. You move like a fish!”
“Another result of my misspent youth.” Kith-Kanan stretched out full length on the warm ledge and closed his eyes.
Minutes later, something moved to block the sunlight. Without opening his eyes, Kith-Kanan said, “I know you’re there, Keli. I heard you walk up. You’d better not—Hey!”
With a cry, the prince sat up. A very sharp spear point had been poked into his bare stomach. Squinting in the bright light, he looked up. Several pairs of moccasin-clad feet were gathered around Kith-Kanan, and their owners—four dark figures—loomed over him.
“Mackeli, my sword!” he called, leaping to his feet.
The boy, still in the pool, looked at his friend and laughed. “Calm down, Kith! It’s only White-Lock.”