Sithas looked at Vedvedsica, his face mixed with gratitude and distrust. “Is he cured?”
“Not yet, my prince. There are other potions I must prepare. They will cure the speaker.”
“Get on with it, then,” Sithas commanded.
Vedvedsica flinched. “There is the matter of our bargain.”
Sithel coughed. “What bargain have you made with this old spider?” the speaker demanded.
“He will cure your fever if you allow me to call Kith-Kanan home,” Sithas said honestly. Sithel arched his white brows in surprise, and the prince averted his eyes from his father’s intense gaze.
“Call Kith?” he asked skeptically. “Vedvedsica, you’re no altruist. What do you want for yourself out of this?”
The cleric bowed again. “I ask only that the speaker’s heir pay me such an amount as he thinks appropriate.”
Sithel shook his head. “I don’t see why Kith-Kanan should interest you, but I don’t object,” he said with a heavy sigh, then turned to his heir. “What will you pay him, Sithas?”
The prince thought once more of the broken sword and the terrible feeling of suffering he’d felt from his twin. “Fifty gold pieces,” he said decisively.
Vedvedsica’s eyes widened. “A most handsome amount, great prince.”
Father and son watched in silence as the cleric compounded his healing potion. When at last it was done, he filled a tall silver beaker with the muddy green fluid. To Sithas’s surprise, Vedvedsica took a healthy swig of the mixture himself first and seemed satisfied. Then he held it out to the prostrate speaker.
“You must drink it all,” he insisted. Sithas handed the beaker to his father. Sithel raised himself on his elbows and downed the brew in three swallows. He looked expectantly at his son. In turn, Sithas turned to Vedvedsica.
“Well?”
“The effect is a subtle one, great prince, but rest assured, the speaker will shortly be cured of his fever.”
Indeed, Sithel’s forehead had become cooler to the touch. The speaker exhaled gustily, and sat up straighter. A tinge of color was returning to his pale cheeks. Vedvedsica nodded grandly.
“Leave us, sorcerer,” Sithel said tersely. “You may collect your payment later.”
Another deep bow. “As the speaker commands.” Vedvedsica produced the small bottle of unguent and began to apply it as before.
Holding up a hand, the prince said acidly, “Out the door first, cleric.”
Vedvedsica’s smile was wide as he departed.
Sithas left his father looking more fit than he had in a month, then proceded to make his way through the palace to spread word of his recovery. Vedvedsica wasn’t mentioned. The speaker’s recovery was reported as natural, a sign of the gods’ favor.
Finally, Sithas went down the tower steps to Kith-Kanan’s old room. No one was around. Dust lay thickly over everything for nothing had disturbed it since his brother had left in disgrace. How long ago had it been? Two years?
The room held all sorts of Kith’s personal items. His silver comb. His second favorite bow, now warped and cracked from the room’s dry air. All his courtly clothes hung in the wardrobe. Sithas touched each item of clothing, trying to concentrate his thoughts on his lost brother. All he felt were old memories. Some pleasant, many sad.
A strange sensation came over the prince. He felt as if he were moving up and away, though his body hadn’t stirred an inch. Smoke from a campfire teased his nose. The sound of wind in a forest filled his ears. Sithas looked down at his hands. They were browned by the sun and hardened by work and combat. These were not his hands; they were Kith-Kanan’s. The prince knew then that he must try to communicate with his twin, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his throat was tight. It was hard to form words. He concentrated instead on forming them in his mind.
Come home, he willed. Come home, Kith. Come home.
Sithas forced his lips to work. “Kith!” he cried.
Speaking his twin’s name ended the experience abruptly. Sithas staggered backward, disoriented, and sat down on his twin’s old bed. Dust rose around him. Streaks of sunlight, which had reached across the room when he came in, now had retreated to just under the window sill. Several hours had passed.
Sithas shook the queer disorientation out of his head and went to the door. He had definitely made contact with Kith, but whether he had made the fabled Call, he didn’t know. It was late now, and he needed to see how his father was doing.
Sithas left the room so hastily he didn’t pull the door completely closed behind him. And as he mounted the steps to the upper floor of the palace tower, the prince didn’t notice the door to Kith-Kanan’s room slowly swing open and remain that way.
22 — Spring, Year of the Ram
The days seemed empty. Each morning Kith-Kanan went to sit by the young oak. It was slender and tall, its twining branches reaching heavenward. Leaf buds appeared on it, as they did on all the trees in the forest. But these buds seemed a symbol, a notice that the wildwood was once again furiously and joyously alive. Even the clearing erupted in wildflowers and vibrant green growth. The path to the pool covered over in a day with new grass and nodding thistles.
“There’s never been a spring like this.” Mackeli exclaimed. “Things are growing while you watch!” His spirits had recovered more quickly than Kith-Kanan’s. Mackeli easily accepted that Anaya’s change had been fated to happen, and he’d been trying to draw his friend out of his misery.
This beautiful day he and Kith-Kanan sat on a lower limb of the oak tree. Mackeli’s gangling legs swung back and forth as he chewed a sweet grass stem and looked over the clearing, “It’s like we’re besieged,” he added. Grass had grown to waist height in little more than a week. The bare ground around the tree, scuffed down to dirt by their daily walking on it, was gradually shrinking as the plants in the clearing grew.
“The hunting ought to be good,” Mackeli enthused. His newfound appetite for meat was enormous. He ate twice as much as Kith-Kanan and grew stronger all the time. And since the griffon had grown more skilled in bringing back game for them, they were well fed.
With the explosion of flowering trees and plants had come the onslaught of the insects. Not the Black Crawlers of Anaya’s acquaintance, but bees and flies and butterflies. The air was always thick with them now. Kith-Kanan and Mackeli had to keep a fire burning in the hearth at all times to discourage the bees from building a hive in the tree with them.
With Arcuballis bringing in a whole boar or deer once a day, there was little for the two elves to do. Still hoping to divert Kith-Kanan from his grief, Mackeli once more began to ask questions of Silvanost. They talked about the people, their clothing, eating habits, work routines, and more. Slowly, Kith-Kanan was persuaded to share his memories. To his surprise, he found himself feeling homesick.
“And what about…” Mackeli chewed his lower lip. “What about girls?”
Kith-Kanan smiled slightly. “Yes, there are girls.”
“What are they like?”
“The maids of Silvanost are well known for their grace and beauty,” he said, without much exaggeration. “Most of them are kindly and gentle and very intelligent, and a few have been known to take up horse and sword. Those are rare, though. They are red-haired, blond, sandy-haired, and I’ve seen some with hair as black as the nighttime sky.”
Mackeli drew in his legs, crouching on the balls of his feet. “I would like to meet them! All of them!”
“No doubt you would, Keli,” Kith-Kanan said solemnly. “But I cannot take you there.”
Mackeli knew the story of Kith-Kanan’s flight from Silvanost.
“Whenever Ny would get mad at me, I would wait a few days, then go and say I was sorry,” he suggested. “Can’t you tell your father you’re sorry?”