When the new day dawned, rimmed by low clouds and chilly with the threat of rain, the people of Silvanost behaved as if it was a bright, sun-filled day. The nobility, priests, and guildmasters heard cheering as their sedan chairs were carried through the streets.
Kith-Kanan went into the city that morning on horseback with Lord Dunbarth. It was the prince’s first chance to see Silvanost since his return. His appetite had been whetted when he and the dwarf had dined at the Inn of the Golden Acorn. There, with good food and drink, stirred by the strains of a bardic lyre, Kith-Kanan had rediscovered his love for the city, dormant for all his months in the wildwood.
He and Dunbarth rode through the crowded streets of the family quarter, where most of Silvanost’s population lived. Here the houses were less grand than the guildmasters’ halls or the priestly enclaves, but they mimicked the styles of the great homes. Beautifully sculpted towers rose, but only for three or four stories. Tiny green plots of land in front of each home were molded by elven magic to support dazzling gardens of red, yellow, and violet flowers; shrubs formed into wave patterns like the river; and trees that bowed and twined together like the braids in an elf maiden’s hair. Nearly every house, no matter how small, was built in imitation of the homes of the great, around a central atrium that held the family’s private garden.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed it,” Kith-Kanan said, steering his horse around a pushcart full of spring melons.
“Miss what, noble prince?” asked Dunbarth.
“The city. Though the forest became my home, a part of me still lives here. It’s like I’m seeing Silvanost for the first time!”
Both elf and dwarf were dressed plainly, without the fine embroidery, golden jewelry, or other outward signs of rank. Even their horses were trapped in the simplest possible style. Kith-Kanan wore a wide-brimmed hat, like a fisher, so that his royal features would be less obvious. They wanted to see the city, not be surrounded by crowds.
Together the duo turned off Phoenix Street and rode down a narrow alley. Kith-Kanan could smell the river even more strongly here. When he emerged in the old Market quarter, ruined by the great riot and now under repair, Kith-Kanan reined up and surveyed the scene. The entire marketplace, from where his horse stood down to the banks of the Thon-Thalas, had been razed. Gangs of Kagonesti elves swarmed around the site, sawing lumber, hauling stones, mixing mortar. Here and there a robed priest of E’li stood, directing the work.
For a large project, like a high tower, magic would be used to shape and raise the stones of the walls and meld the blocks together without need for mortar. In the mundane buildings of the marketplace, more ordinary techniques would be used.
“Where do all the workers come from?” Kith-Kanan wondered aloud.
“As I understand it, they’re slaves from estates to the north and west, owned by the priests of E’li,” said Dunbarth without inflection.
“Slaves? But the speaker put severe limits on the number of slaves anyone could own.”
Dunbarth stroked his curly beard. “I know it may shock Your Highness, but outside of Silvanost the speaker’s laws aren’t always followed. They are bent to suit the needs of the rich and powerful.”
“I’m certain my father doesn’t know about this,” Kith-Kanan said firmly.
“Forgive me, Highness, but I believe he does,” Dunbarth remarked confidentially. “Your mother, the Lady Nirakina, has many times pleaded with the speaker to free the slaves of Silvanesti, to no avail.”
“How do you know these things? Aren’t they private matters of the palace?”
The dwarf smiled benignly. “It is a diplomat’s purpose to listen as well as talk. Five weeks in the Quinari Palace exposes one to all sorts of gossip and idle talk. I know the love lives of your servants and who among the nobility drinks too much—not to mention the sad plight of slaves in your own capital city.” With that, Dunbarth’s smile vanished.
“It’s intolerable!” Kith-Kanan’s horse sensed his rider’s agitation and pranced around in a half-circle. “I’ll put a stop to this right now!”
He tightened the reins and turned his mount’s head. Before he could ride over to confront the supervising priests, Danbarth caught his reins and held him back.
“Don’t be hasty, my prince. The priesthoods are very powerful. They have friends at court who will speak against you.”
Kith-Kanan was indignant. “Who do you mean?”
Dunbarth’s gaze was level. “I mean your brother, the noble Sithas.”
Kith-Kanan squinted from under the brim of his hat. “My twin is not a slave driver. Why do you say this to me, my lord?”
“I only say what is true, Highness. You know the court; you know how alliances are made. Prince Sithas has become the defender of the temples. In turn, the priests support him.”
“Against whom?”
“Anyone who opposes him. The priestess Miritelisina, of the Temple of Quenesti Pah, for one. She tried to defend those who fled from the slaughter on the plains. You know of the riot?” Kith-Kanan knew Sithas’s version of the story. He indicated Dunbarth should continue.
“The riot began because Prince Sithas and the priests, along with the guildmasters, wanted to expel the poor farmers from the city. Miritelisina warned them. They misunderstood her and, believing they were to be sent back to the plains, rioted. For that the priestess was put in prison. The speaker has let her go free, but she continues her work for the poor and homeless.”
Kith-Kanan said nothing, but watched as three Kagonesti passed by with a ten-inch-thick log braced on their shoulders.
In each one he saw Anaya—the same dark eyes and hair, the same passion for freedom.
“I must speak out against this,” he said at last. “It is wrong for one of the firstborn race to own another.”
“They will not hear you, Highness,” Dunbarth said sadly.
Kith-Kanan put his horse’s head toward the palace. “They will hear me. If they don’t listen, I’ll shout at them till they do.”
They rode back at a brisk canter, avoiding the clogged streets in the center of the city and keeping to the riverside roads. By the time they reached the plaza in front of the palace, a light rain had started to fall. Mackeli was standing in the courtyard in his new squire’s livery, a studded leather jerkin and helmet. When Kith-Kanan rode up, Mackeli hurried over and held the prince’s horse while he dismounted.
“You look splendid,” Kith-Kanan said, sizing up Mackeli’s new outfit.
“Are you sure this is what squires wear?” asked the boy. He hooked a finger in the tight collar and tugged at the stiff leather. “I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a steer.”
Kith-Kanan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Wait until you put on your first real armor,” he said exuberantly. “Then you’ll feel like one of our giant turtles has swallowed you!”
The three left the horses for the servants to stable and entered the palace. Maids appeared with dry towels. Kith-Kanan and Dunbarth made perfunctory swipes at their faces, then handed the cloths back. Mackeli dried himself carefully, all the while eyeing the handmaids with frank interest. The girls, both of whom were about the boy’s age, blushed under his studied gaze,
“Come along,” Kith-Kanan scolded, dragging at Mackeli’s sleeve. Dunbarth plucked the towel from his hand and returned it to the servants.
“I wasn’t finished,” Mackeli protested.
“If you’d dried yourself any longer, you’d have taken hide and hair off, too,” observed the dwarf.
“I was looking at the girls,” Mackeli said bluntly.
“Yes, like a wolf looks at his dinner,” noted Kith-Kanan. “If you want to impress the fair sex, you’d best learn to be a little more discreet.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means, don’t stare,” advised Dunbarth. “Smile at them and say something pleasant.”
Mackeli was puzzled. “What should I say?”