“I still don’t understand why we don’t just fly out there,” Mackeli said, struggling under the weight of real armor and a pot-shaped iron helmet.
“Griffons are reserved as mounts of House Royal,” Kith-Kanan said. “Besides, there aren’t enough of them for this whole company.” He cinched a rope tight around the last bundle of his personal gear. His chestnut charger, Kijo, bore the weight of bedroll and armor well. Kith-Kanan had been pleased to discover that his old mount was still as spirited as ever.
Mackeli regarded the horses skeptically. “Are you sure these beasts are tame?”
Kith-Kanan smiled. “You rode Arcuballis one thousand feet up in the air, and now you’re worried about riding on horseback?”
“I know Arcuballis,” the boy said apprehensively. “I don’t know these animals.”
“It will be all right.” Kith-Kanan went down the line of horses and warriors. The last knots were made, and the good-byes were being said.
The Processional Road was full of elves and horses. Two hundred and fifty warriors and an equal number of mounts milled about. Unlike Sithel’s earlier, ill-fated expedition, Kith-Kanan’s band was to be entirely mounted and self-sufficient. This was the largest force to leave Silvanost since the days of the founding wars.
It was a splendid spectacle, and the sides of the street were lined with townsfolk. The warriors had discarded their fancy parade armor in favor of more practical equipment. Each elf wore a hammered iron breastplate and a simple, open-faced helmet. Bronze shields, shaped like hourglasses, hung from each saddlehorn. Every warrior carried a bow, twenty arrows, a sword, a knife, and a heavy javelin that could be used for thrusting or throwing. The horses wore only minimal trapping, as mobility was more important than protection.
Kith-Kanan tucked his gauntlets under his arm as he mounted the steps to the processional entrance of the Tower of the Stars. There stood his father and mother, Sithas and Hermathya, Lady Teralind, Praetor Ulwen in his chair, and Ulvissen. Lord Dunbarth had begged off attending the departure ceremony. He was afflicted with a colic, according to his faithful secretary, Drollo. Kith-Kanan knew that the old rascal had been living it up in the inns and taverns along the riverfront since the treaty had been approved by the emperor of Ergoth and the king of Thorbardin.
The prince ascended the steps in measured tread, keeping his eyes fixed on his father. Sithel was wearing the formal Crown of Stars, a magnificent golden circlet that featured as its central stone the famed Eye of Astarin, the largest emerald in all of Krynn. The gem caught the rays of the midmorning sun and sent flashes of verdant light across the street and gardens.
Beside Sithel stood Lady Nirakina. She was dressed in a gown of palest blue and wore a filigree silver torc around her throat. Her honey-colored hair was held in a silver cloth scarf. There was something sad and remote about her expression—no doubt it was the realization that she was losing her younger son again, after he’d been home less than a month.
Kith-Kanan reached the step just below the landing where the royal family was gathered. He removed his helmet and bowed to his father.
“Noble father, gracious mother,” he said with dignity.
“Stand with me,” said Sithel warmly. Kith-Kanan made the final step and stood beside his father.
“Your mother and I have something to give you,” the speaker said in a private tone. “Open it when you are alone.” Nirakina handed her husband a red silk kerchief, the corners of which were tied together. Sithel pressed this into Kith-Kanan’s hand.
“Now for the public words,” the speaker said with the faintest trace of a smile. Sithel looked out over the crowd. He raised his hand and declaimed, “People of Silvanost! I present you my son, Kith-Kanan, in whose trust I place the peace and safety of the realm.” To Kith-Kanan he asked loudly, “Will you faithfully and honorably discharge the duties of lord constable in all parts of our realm and any other provinces you may enter?”
Loudly and clearly Kith-Kanan replied, “By E’li, I swear I will.” The crowd roared in approval.
Standing apart on the speaker’s left were Sithas and Hermathya. The lady, who was radiantly beautiful in cream white and gold, had a serene expression on her fine-boned face. But Kith-Kanan’s twin smiled on him as he approached for a blessing.
“Good hunting, Kith,” said Sithas warmly. “Show the humans what elven mettle is like!”
“That I’ll do, Sith.” Without warning, Kith-Kanan embraced his brother. Sithas returned Kith-Kanan’s embrace with fervor.
“Keep yourself safe, Brother,” Sithas said softly, then broke away.
Kith-Kanan turned to Hermathya. “Farewell, Lady.”
“Good-bye,” she replied coldly.
Kith-Kanan descended the steps. Mackeli was holding Kijo’s reins. “What did the lady say?” he asked, gazing up at Hermathya with rapt admiration.
“You noticed her, did you?”
“Well, yes! She’s like a sunflower in a hedge of thistles…”
Kith-Kanan swung into the saddle. “By Astarin! You’re starting to sound like a bard! It’s a good thing we’re getting you out of the city. Anaya wouldn’t know you, talking like that!”
The warriors followed Kith-Kanan and Mackeli in ranks of five, wheeling with precision as the prince led them down the curving Processional Road. The assembled Silvanesti let out a roar of approbation, which quickly turned into a steady chant:
“Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan…”
The chanting continued as the slow procession wound its way to the riverside. Two ferry barges were waiting for the warriors. Kith-Kanan and the Wildrunners boarded the ferries, and the huge turtles towed them away. The people of Silvanost lined the shore and called out Kith-Kanan’s name until long after the barges were lost against the dark strip of the western riverbank.
26 — Early Summer, Year of the Ram
Lord Dunbarth’s party loaded all their possessions onto wagons and formed up to depart. Sithas and his honor guard were there to see the dwarven ambassador off.
“Much better weather than when I arrived,” Dunbarth remarked. He was sweating under his woolen coat and vest. Summer was upon Silvanost, and a warm, humid wind blew in from the river.
“It is indeed,” Sithas said pleasantly. In spite of Dunbarth’s professional caginess, Sithas liked the old dwarf. There was a basic goodness about him.
“You’ll find a case of amber nectar in your carriage,” said the prince. “With the compliments of Lady Nirakina and myself.”
“Ah!” The dwarf looked genuinely touched. “Many thanks, noble prince. I shall be sure to share it with my king. He esteems elven nectar almost as much as Thorbardin ale.”
The ambassador’s escort, augmented by an honor guard of twenty elven warriors, paraded past the wagon. Dunbarth and his secretary, Drollo, climbed into their closed metal coach. As the ambassador pushed back the fine mesh curtains, he extended a ring-heavy hand to Sithas.
“In Thorbardin we wish friends a long life when parting, but I know you’ll outlive me by centuries,” Dunbarth said, a twinkle in his eye. “What do elves say when they part?”
“We say, ‘Blessings of Astarin’ and ‘May your way be green and golden’,” Sithas replied. He clasped the ambassador’s thick, wrinkled hand.
“May your way be green and golden, then, Prince Sithas. Oh, and some news for you, too. Our Lady Teralind is not what she pretends to be.”
Sithas raised a brow. “Oh?”
“She is Emperor Ullves’s eldest daughter.”
Sithas feigned mild interest. “Really? That’s interesting. Why do you tell me this now, my lord?”