Crossing the small brook that meandered through the grove, Kith-Kanan came at last to a boulder patched with green lichen. He himself had flattened the top of the rock with the great hammer Sunderer, given to him decades before by the dwarf king Glenforth. The Speaker climbed atop the boulder and sat, sighing, as he drank in the peace of the grove.
A few paces to his right, the brook chuckled and splashed over the rocks in its path. Kith-Kanan cleared his mind of everything but the sounds around him, the gently stirring air, the swaying trees, and the play of the water, It was a technique he’d learned from the priests of Astra, who often meditated in closed groves like this. During the hard years of the Kinslayer War, it had been moments like this that preserved Kith-Kanan’s sanity and strengthened his will to persevere.
Peace. Calm. The Speaker of the Sun seemed to sleep, though he was sitting upright on the rock.
Rest. Tranquility. The best answers to hard questions came when the mind and the body were not fighting each other for control.
A streak of heat warmed his face. Dreamily he opened his eyes. The wind sighed, and white clouds obscured the sun. Yet the sensation of heat had been intense. He lifted his gaze to the sky. Above him, burning like a second sun, was an orb of blue-white light.
It took him only half a heartbeat to realize he was staring at a lightning bolt that was falling directly toward him.
Shocked into motion, Kith-Kanan sprang from the boulder. His feet had hardly left its surface when the lightning bolt slammed into the rock. All was blinding flash and splintered stone. Kith-Kanan fell face down by the brook, and broken rock pelted his back. The light and sound of the bolt passed away, but the Speaker of the Sun did not move.
It was after sunset before Kith-Kanan was missed. When the Speaker was late for dinner, Tamanier Ambrodel sent warriors to the grove to find him. Kemian Ambrodel and his four comrades searched through the dense forest of trees for quite a while before they found the Speaker lying unconscious near the brook.
With great care, Kemian turned Kith-Kanan over. To his shock and surprise, the Speaker’s brown eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. For one dreadful instant, Lord Ambrodel thought the monarch of Qualinesti was dead.
“He breathes, my lord,” said one of the warriors, vastly relieved.
Eyelids dipped closed, fluttered, then sprang open again. Kith-Kanan sighed.
“Great Speaker,” said Kemian softly, “are you well?”
There was a pause while the Speaker’s eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. Finally he said hoarsely, “As well as any elf who was nearly struck by lightning.”
Two warriors braced Kith-Kanan as he got to his feet. His gaze went to the blasted remains of the boulder. Almost as if he was talking to himself, the Speaker said softly, “Some ancient power is at work in the world, a power not connected with the gods we know. The priests and sorcerers can discern nothing, and yet….”
Something fluttered overhead. The elves flinched, their nerves on edge. A bird’s sharp cry cut through the quiet of the aspen grove, and Kith-Kanan laughed.
“A crow! What a stalwart band we are, frightened out of our skins by a black bird!” he said. His stomach rumbled loudly, and Kith-Kanan rubbed it. There were holes burned through his clothing by bits of burned rock. “Well, I’m famished. Let’s go home.”
The Speaker of the Sun set off at a brisk pace. Lord Ambrodel and his warriors fell in behind him and trailed him back to the Speaker’s house, where a warm hearth and a hearty supper awaited.
5 — The Citadel of Peace
The blazing sun provided little heat in the thin air of the Kharolis Mountains. Under that dazzling orb, twenty thousand workers labored, carving the citadel of Pax Tharkas out of the living rock. Dwarves, elves, and humans worked side by side on the great project. Most of them were free craftsmen—stonecutters, masons, and artisans. Out of the twenty thousand, only two thousand were prisoners. Those with useful skills worked alongside their free comrades, and they worked well. The Speaker of the Sun had made them this bargain: If the prisoners performed their duties and kept out of trouble, they would have their sentences reduced by half. Outdoor work at Pax Tharkas was far preferable to languishing in a tower dungeon for years on end.
Not all the convicts were so fortunate. Some simply would not conform, so Feldrin Feldspar, the dwarf who was master builder in charge of creating the fortress, collected the idle, the arrogant, and the violent prisoners into a “grunt gang.” Their only task was brute labor. Alone of all the workers at Pax Tharkas, the grunt gang was locked into its hut at night and closely watched by overseers during the day. It was to the grunt gang that Prince Ulvian was sent. He had no skill at stonecarving or bricklaying, and the Speaker had decreed that he should be treated as a slave. That meant he must take his place with the other surly prisoners in the grunt gang, pushing and dragging massive stone blocks from the quarry to the site of the citadel.
Ulvian’s one meeting with Feldrin had not gone well. The chained prince, now dressed in the green and brown leathers of a forester, had been led by Merith to the canvas hut where the master builder lived. The dwarf came out to see them, setting aside an armful of scrolls covered with lines and numbers. These were the plans for the fortress.
“Remove his chains,” Feldrin rumbled. Without a word, Merith took Ulvian’s shackles off. Ulvian sniffed and thanked the dwarf casually.
“Save your thanks,” replied Feldrin. His thick black beard was liberally sprinkled with white, and his long stay in the heights of the Kharolis had deeply tanned his face and arms. He planted brick-hard fists on his squat hips and skewered the prince with his blue eyes. “Chains are not needed here. We are miles from the nearest settlement, and the mountains are barren and dry. You will work hard. If you try to run away, you will perish from hunger and thirst,” the dwarf said darkly. “That is, if my people don’t hunt you down first. Is that clear?”
Ulvian rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. Feldrin roared, “Is that clear?” The prince flinched and nodded quickly. “Good.”
He assigned Ulvian to the grunt gang, and a burly, bearded human came to escort the prince to his new quarters.
When they were gone, Merith’s shoulders sagged. “I must confess, Master Feldrin, I am exhausted,” he said, sighing. “For ten days, I have had the prince in my keeping, and I haven’t had a moment’s rest!”
“Why so, Lieutenant? He doesn’t look so dangerous.”
Feldrin stooped to retrieve his plans. Merith squatted to help.
“It wasn’t fear that spoiled my sleep,” the warrior confided, “but the prince’s constant talk! By holy Mantis, that boy can talk, talk, talk. He tried to convert me, make me his friend, so that I wouldn’t deliver him to you. He’s engaging when he wants to be, and clever, too. You may have trouble with him.”
Feldrin pushed back the front flap of his hut with one broad, blunt hand. “Oh, I doubt it, Master Merithynos. A few days dragging stone blocks will take the stiffness out of the prince’s neck.”
Merith ducked under the low doorframe and entered the hut. Though the walls and roof were canvas, like a tent, Feldrin’s hut had a wooden frame and floor, sturdier than a tent. The mountains were sometimes wracked by fierce winds, blizzards, and landslides.
Feldrin clomped across the bare board floor and dropped his scrolls on a low trestle table in the center of the room. He turned up the wick on a brass oil lamp and settled himself on a thick-legged stool, then proceeded to rummage through the loose assortment of parchment until he found a scrap.