Tyresian's reply was smooth. "And it wasn't enough, was it?"
As the courtyard emptied, Porthios stood uncertainly before Tanis, seemingly oblivious to the deluge that bent tree branches like reeds. Something like shame showed on the elf lord's hawklike face. "Tanis, I…" he said, and trailed off.
Tanis said nothing, merely bending deliberately to pick up the discarded bow; then he paced to the wall to retrieve the arrows, blue and red, their feathers sodden in the mud that welled up around the patches of moss.
"Tanis," Porthios repeated, and his face, for once, showed the strength of character that could be his as Speaker, if he only let it grow.
"I want a rematch," Tanis interjected.
Porthios's jaw dropped, and his upper lip drew up crookedly as though he couldn't believe what he'd heard. "Have you no sense, Tanthalas? You are thirty to my eighty years. I've embarrassed myself enough already with this travesty. Would you duel with Laurana, by the gods? That's what this comedy is to me."
Tanis intentionally misunderstood Porthios. "Perhaps this is humorous to you, Porthios. It is dead serious to me. I want a rematch."
Porthios's shoulders slumped in resignation. "It is raining, Tanis. I do not want to match bows with you again…"
"Not bows," the half-elf insisted. "Fists."
"What?" the elf lord snapped. Tanis could practically hear his cousin thinking, What a human method of settling a dispute.
All the spectators but Lord Xenoth had straggled inside for dry clothes and mulled wine. Xenoth hovered near the doorway however, possibly attracted by the cutting undertone in the pair's voices. With his puffy, white hair, puckered lips and silver robe, his hands folded before his chest, the old adviser resembled an aging long-haired cat, minus a few teeth but curious still.
Fine, Tanis thought. You want something to report back to the Speaker? This will do.
And he slugged Porthios in the face.
A second later, the Speaker's heir lay sprawled on his backside in the mud, a clod of dislodged moss still sailing through the air, a look of stunned shock on Porthios's face that might have been funny in another situation. The rain had caused the colors in his long, silken tunic to run, and rivulets of yellow, green, and blue ran down the elf lord's arms. He looked positively jaundiced with surprise, and Tanis burst into laughter.
… and found himself slung against a small peach tree. It was like being tossed headfirst into a huge Darkenwood porcupine. He felt twigs scratch his face, heard small branches crack around him, and felt wet, ripe fruit bump against him as he knocked them loose. A smell of squashed peaches rose in his nostrils.
The battle escalated quickly. Porthios fought to defend himself, but Tanis battled out of sheer rage. Porthios, older and quicker, could outmaneuver Tanis. But the human blood of the half-elf gave Tanis a strength that the lithe elf lord lacked. Thus, while Porthios drubbed the half-elf early on, Tanis soon felt the tide of the fight swing his way.
"Boys! Boys!" The new voice penetrated the miasma of anger clouding Tanis's brain. The blood stopped roaring in Tanis's ears long enough for him to focus on Lord Xenoth. The old adviser danced hysterically between Porthios and Tanis, all three of them mindless now of the rain that continued to pelt them. The dye of Porthios's tunic had been washed to sickly greenish yellow, and the front had been torn from collarbone to abdomen. A rivulet of blood dripped from the elf lord's mouth, and one eye was swelling shut. Xenoth's gown bore a splash of mud down the front. Tanis looked down at his own clothes; one mud-caked moccasin lay against a bench. The sand color of his breeches had disappeared under a coat of slimy mud. And the bow-the weapon that had started all this-was in pieces at his feet. Although spots of blood dotted his shirt, he didn't appear to be injured beyond minor bruises and cuts, however.
Then Tanis's breath caught in his throat. For on the granite path, cracked and broken, lay Flint's carving.
As the wheezing adviser helped Porthios into the palace-screeching, "You'll hear about this, half-elf!"- Tanis dropped to his knees and tenderly picked up the fragments of the carving. One fish survived unbroken, but the thin chain that had attached it to the crossbar had snapped. The crossbar itself was missing. And the base-the delightfully carved representation of the bottom of a rocky stream-had cracked right through the middle. He gathered the pieces together, finding the crossbar in a puddle about five paces away, and wrapped them in the front tail of his loose shirt.
Tanis looked up. The door had slammed behind Xenoth and Porthios, and he stood alone in the gray courtyard.
The rain continued to pour down.
The Speaker of the Sun strode swiftly down the corridor, his forest green cloak billowing out behind him like some fantastic storm cloud, its golden trim flashing like strange, metallic lightning. But it was the lightning in his eyes that caused startled servants and courtiers to step quickly from his path as he passed through the palace on his way toward the family chambers. All knew from experience it took much to anger the Speaker, but mercy to those unfortunate enough to be caught in his path when he was finally moved to ire.
"Tanis!" he called out sternly as he pushed through the door to the half-elf's bedchamber. "Tanthalas!"
The room was unlit by lamp, but a form, silhouetted in the red light of Lunitari, which streamed in through one window, shifted on the bed.
"Tanthalas," Solostaran repeated.
The figure sat up. "Yes." The voice was like lead-flat, heavy, immovable.
The Speaker moved to strike a flint and light a small lamp. He looked over at the slumped figure on the bed, and caught his breath.
Bruises and scabs stood out against the pale skin of Tanis's face and arms. He shifted his weight, inhaled sharply and grasped his side, then just as quickly sat up straighter.
Over the years Solostaran had learned to force his emotions into the cool mask that he presented at court. That training stood him in good stead now as he watched the adopted nephew he loved so well struggle to maintain a look of nonchalance-as though a wealth of welts and bruises were a normal part of everyday life.
The Speaker remained standing, voice devoid of warmth. "To be fair, I will tell you that Porthios refuses to explain what happened. And apparently he has cowed, coerced, or cajoled everyone else out there-even Lord Xenoth, to my surprise-into keeping silent as well. Will you tell me what occurred in the courtyard today?"
The figure on the bed remained silent. Then Tanis looked down at his lap and shook his head.
The Speaker's voice continued implacably. "Somehow, I am not surprised at your reticence, Tanthalas. And I will not force you to speak-if, indeed, I could. This appears to be something that you and Porthios must work out on your own. But I will tell you one thing." He stopped speaking. "Are you listening?"
The figure nodded but didn't look up.
The Speaker went on. "Good. Then let me tell you this: This will not happen again. Ever. I will not have my son and my… nephew rolling in the dirt, acting like… like…"
"Like humans," Tanis finished softly. The phrase shivered in the evening air.
Solostaran sighed, searched for another way to phrase it, then decided that bluntness might work best. "Yes, if you will. Like humans."
The figure on the bed waited several heartbeats and nodded again. Solostaran stepped closer; Tanis held something in his hands. A carved wooden fish? A shock of suspicion went through the Speaker.