Sithel did not try to speak until the murmuring had subsided. In precise, measured tones, he finally said, “Is it your intention to annex our lands?”
Teralind pushed herself back in her chair and frowned. Beside her, the frail form of Proctor Ulwen moved. He leaned forward slightly and began to shake. Tremors racked his frail body, and Ulvissen moved swiftly to his side. The seneschal snapped his fingers at the human contingent of servants loitering by the grand doors.
“Highness, noble ambassadors, I beg your pardon, but the praetor is seized with an attack,” he announced in an anxious voice. “He must withdraw.”
Dunbarth spread his hands graciously. Sithel stood. “You have our leave to withdraw,” the speaker said. “Shall I send one of our healers to the praetor’s rooms?”
Teralind’s head lifted regally. “We have a doctor of our own, thank you, noble speaker.”
The porters took hold of the rails attached to Ulwen’s chair and hoisted him up. The Ergothian delegation filed out behind him. When they were gone, Dunbarth bowed and led his dwarves out. Sithel dismissed his retainers and was finally alone with his son in the tower.
“Diplomacy is so tiring,” the speaker said wearily. He stood and laid his silver scepter across the throne. “Give me your arm, Sith. I believe I need to rest for a while.”
Tamanier Ambrodel walked beside Lady Nirakina through the palace. They had just come from the guild hall of the stone workers, where Lady Nirakina had viewed the plans for the new Market. It was an orderly, beautifully designed place, but its site and purpose depressed her. “It’s simply wrong,” she told Tamanier. “We are the firstborn race of the world and favored by the gods. As such, it is only right we share our grace with other people, not look upon them as lesser beings.”
Tamanier nodded. “I heartily agree, Lady. When I lived in the wilderness, I saw many kinds of people—Silvanesti, Kagonesti, humans, dwarves, gnomes, kender—and no one lived better than his neighbor for any reason but his own hard work. The land doesn’t care if it’s plowed by human or elf. The rain falls the same on every farm.”
They arrived at the door of Nirakina’s private rooms. Before he left, Tamanier informed her, “I went to see Miritelisina, as you requested.”
“Is she well?” she asked eagerly. “A priestess of such age and wisdom should not be held in a common dungeon.”
“She is well,” Tamanier said, “though unrepentant. She still does not admit to her crime.”
“I do not believe she committed a crime,” Nirakina said with fervor. “Miritelisina was moved by compassion. She only sought to warn the poor refugees of the plan to move them. I’m certain she had no idea they’d riot as they did.”
Tamanier bowed. “I bear the holy lady no ill will. I tell you, though, that she will not repent—even to gain her freedom. Miritelisina believes that by remaining in prison, she will inspire others who want to help the refugees.”
Nirakina gave the young courtier’s arm a squeeze. “And what do you think, Tam? Whose cause do you favor?”
“Do you really have to ask? A short time ago, I was one of the poor wretches—homeless, penniless, despised. They deserve the speaker’s protection.”
“We’ll have to see what we can do to win it,” Nirakina replied warmly.
She went into her rooms, and Tamanier walked away, his step light. With the speaker’s wife fighting for them, the homeless settlers would soon feel the grace of Sithel’s favor. And who knew, perhaps Miritelisina would be freed to resume her good works for the poor.
He left the central tower of the palace and strolled the empty corridor balcony of the east wing.
Suddenly he heard voices. Foreign voices. He’d lived among humans long enough to know their speech.
“—play at this silly game?” complained a woman’s voice, tight with emotion.
“As long as necessary. It’s the emperor’s will,” a man’s strong voice answered.
“The things I do for my father! I hope he appreciates it!”
“He’s paying off your gambling debts, isn’t he?” said the man dryly.
Tamanier knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he was intrigued. He stood very still. Since the humans were in the corridor below him, their voices carried easily to him up the central atrium.
“I don’t trust that Dunbarth,” asserted the woman. “He switches sides like a click beetle.”
“He has no side but his own. Right now Thorbardin isn’t ready for war, so he hopes to play us off against the elves. He’s clever, but I see what he’s doing.”
“He annoys me. So does Prince Sithas. How he stares! They say elves have second sight.” The woman’s voice rose. “You don’t think he’s reading my mind, do you?”
“Calm yourself,” said the man. “I don’t think he can. But if it troubles you, I’ll speak to our friend about it.”
Footsteps echoed on the balcony across the atrium from where Tamanier stood. He tensed, ready to be discovered. The voices below ceased their furtive talk.
Out of the afternoon shadows on the far side of the balcony Tamanier spied the young priest of the Blue Phoenix, Kamin Oluvai. Tamanier was surprised; why was the priest here? Kamin didn’t see him, however, so Tamanier withdrew from the balcony rail. The humans he’d heard were certainly Lady Teralind and Ulvissen, but what did their strange conversation mean?
Court intrigue was foreign to him. Who was Teralind really? What was she concealing? Who was the “friend” Ulvissen referred to? Could it be the traitor of which Speaker Sithel had spoken that night at dinner?
Tamanier hurried away. He had to tell someone, and Sithas’s room was nearby. The courtier was already feeling slightly relieved; certainly the prince would know what to do.
20 — Day of Metamorphosis
The humans were breaking camp and getting ready to return to their ship. They worked with haste, and it was clear to Kith-Kanan that they wanted nothing more than to be away from such an accursed place. While they worked, Voltorno went to the elf prince. He had his men pry the stake out of the ground, then he grabbed Kith-Kanan’s shackles and dragged him to the edge of the clearing.
“You out there! Woman and boy! I have your friend here! If any more of my men are so much as scratched, I’ll make your royal friend suffer for it. I’ll give him something more than a scar on his cheek. How do you think he’d look without an arm, a hand, or a leg? Do you hear me?”
The only answer was the soft sighing of wind in the still bare branches.
“We’re ready to go, master,” said one of the humans.
“Then get moving, dolt.” Voltorno was losing his air of confidence. Despite his aching limbs and the stinging sword cut on his cheek, Kith-Kanan was pleased. The angrier Voltorno got, the greater advantage Anaya and Mackeli would have.
The raiders marched down the path single file, with Kith-Kanan leading. Voltorno gave the prince over to one of his men and moved out ahead as the band left the path and entered the woods.
They snaked silently through the forest. In spite of their master’s assurances, the men adopted a crouching walk, swinging their loaded bows slowly from side to side. Their fear was palpable, like a foul odor.
As they reached the old, deep forest, the trees got larger and farther apart. The raiders moved more quickly, using the trail they’d made on their way to the clearing. Occasionally Voltorno scanned the high tree branches, alert to any ambush from above. This added greatly to the alarm of his men. They started glancing up frequently, stumbling and bumping into each other.
Disgusted, Voltorno turned on them. “You make more noise than a pen of squealing pigs!” he hissed.