Chastened, Ulvian did so. He searched the room until he saw Dru, who was leaning against the wall by the water barrel, eating his stew.
“Dru,” he called, “I need a bowl. Where can I get one?”
The Silvanesti pointed to the fireplace at the south end of the room. Ulvian thanked him and wended his way through the crowd to the fireplace. Up close, he saw that the hearth was dominated by the same Kagonesti who had shoved him away from the food cart.
“What do you want, city boy?” he snarled.
“I need a bowl,” replied Ulvian warily.
The Kagonesti, who was called Splint, set down his bowl. Glaring at the prince, he said, “I’m no charity, city boy. You want a bowl, you got to buy it.”
The Speaker’s son was perplexed. He had nothing to trade. All his valuables had been taken from him before he left Qualinost.
“I don’t have any money,” he said lamely.
Harsh laughter rang out around him. Ulvian flushed furiously. Splint wiped his mouth with the end of one of his long scalp locks.
“You got a good pair of boots, I see.”
Ulvian looked at his feet. These were his oldest pair of boots, scuffed and dirty, but there were no holes in them and the soles were sound. They were also the only shoes he had.
“My boots are worth a lot more than a clay dish,” Ulvian said stiffly.
Splint made no reply. Instead, he picked up his bowl and started eating again. He studiously ignored Ulvian, who stood directly in front of him.
The prince fumed. Who did this wild elf think he was? He was about to denounce him and tell everyone in earshot that he was the son of the Speaker of the Sun, but the words died in his throat. Who would believe him? They would only laugh at him. Hopelessness welled up inside him. No one cared what happened to him. No one would notice if he lived or died. For a horrible instant, he felt like crying.
Ulvian’s stomach rumbled loudly. A few of the gang around him chuckled. He bit his lip and blurted out, “All right! The boots for a bowl!”
Languidly Splint stood up. He was the same height as Ulvian, but his powerful physique and menacing presence made him seem much larger. The prince shucked off his boots and was soon standing on the cold dirt floor in his stockings. The Kagonesti slipped his ragged sandals off and pulled on the boots. After much stamping of his feet to settle them into the unfamiliar footwear, he pronounced them a good fit.
“What about my bowl?” Ulvian reminded him angrily.
Splint reached under his bunk next to the fireplace and brought out a chipped ceramic bowl, enameled in blue. Ulvian snatched the dish and ran to the door, leaving gales of coarse guffaws in his wake. By the time he threw open the door and dashed out, the dwarves and the food wagon were gone.
The grunt gang was still laughing when he returned moments later. He stalked through them to the crackling fire, where Splint sat warming himself.
“You tricked me.” Ulvian said in a scant whisper. He was afraid to raise his voice, afraid he would start shrieking. “I want my boots back.”
“I’m not a merchant, city boy. I don’t make any exchanges.”
The barracks were quiet now. Confrontation was as thick in the air as smoke.
“Give them back,” demanded the prince, “or I’ll take them back!”
“You truly are an idiot, pest. Go to sleep, city boy, and thank the gods I don’t beat you senseless,” Splint said.
Ulvian’s pent-up rage exploded, and he did a rash thing. He raised a hand high and smashed the empty bowl against the Kagonesti’s head. A collective gasp went up from the workers. Splint rocked sideways with the blow, but in a flash, he had shaken it off and leapt to his feet.
“Now you got no boots and no bowl!” he spat. His fist caught Ulvian low in the chest. The prince groaned and fell against one of the spectators who had gathered, who promptly flung him back to Splint. The Kagonesti delivered a rolling punch to Ulvian’s jaw, sending him spinning into the wall. Splint followed the reeling prince.
Ulvian’s world swam in a sea of red fog. He felt strong hands grasp his shirt and drag him away from the support of the wall. More blows rained on his head and chest. Every time he was knocked down, someone picked him up and tossed him back to receive more abuse. Vainly he tried to grapple with Splint. The wild elf broke his feeble grip with little more than a shrug, kicking him in the stomach.
“He’s had enough, Splint,” Dru said, stepping between the prostrate Ulvian and the raging Kagonesti.
“I ought to kill him!” Splint retorted.
“He’s new and stupid. Let him be,” countered Dru.
“Bah!” Splint spat on Ulvian’s back. He rubbed his throbbing knuckles and returned to his place by the fire.
Dru dragged the semiconscious prince to his bed and rolled him into it. Ulvian’s face was bruised and battered. His left eye would soon be invisible behind a rapidly swelling lid. Eventually the pain of his injuries gave way to sleep. Hungry and beaten, Ulvian sank into forgiving darkness.
During the night, someone stole his stockings.
6 — Bards and Liars
The lightning lasted three days, then suddenly ceased. The next day, exactly one week after the darkness had fallen across the world, the sky filled with clouds. No one thought much of it, for they were ordinary-looking gray rain clouds. They covered the sky from horizon to horizon and lowered until it seemed they would touch the lofty towers of Qualinost. And then it began to rain—brilliant, scarlet rain.
It filled the gutters and dripped off leaves, a torrent that drove everyone indoors. Though the crimson rain had no effect on anyone save to make him wet, the universal reaction to the downpour was to regard it as unnatural.
“At least I am spared the hordes of petitioners who sought an audience during the darkness and lightning,” Kith-Kanan observed. He was standing on the covered verandah of the Speaker’s house, looking south across the city. Tamanier Ambrodel was with him, as was Tamanier’s son, Kemian. The younger Ambrodel was in his best warrior’s garb—glittering breastplate and helm, white plume, pigskin boots, and a yellow cape so long it brushed the ground. He stood well back from the eaves so as not to get rain on his finery.
“You don’t seem upset by this new marvel, sire,” Tamanier said.
“It’s just another phase we must pass through,” Kith-Kanan replied stoically.
“Ugh,” grunted Kemian. “How long do you think it will last, Great Speaker?” Scarlet rivulets were beginning to creep over the flagstone path. Lord Ambrodel shifted his boots back, avoiding the strange fluid.
“Unless I am mistaken, exactly three days,” said the Speaker. “The darkness lasted three days, and so did the lightning. There’s a message in this, if we are just wise enough to perceive it.”
“The message is ‘the world’s gone mad’,” Kemian breathed. His father didn’t share his concern. Tamanier had lived too long, had served Kith-Kanan for too many centuries, not to trust the Speaker’s intuition. At first he’d been frightened, but as his sovereign seemed so unconcerned, the elderly elf quickly mastered his own fear.
Restless, Kemian paced up and down, his slate-blue eyes stormy. “I wish whatever’s going to happen would go ahead and happen!” he exclaimed, slamming his sword hilt against his scabbard. “This waiting will drive me mad!”
“Calm yourself, Kem. A good warrior should be cool in the face of trial, not coiled up like an irritated serpent,” his father counseled.
“I need action,” Kemian said, halting in midstride. “Give me something to do, Your Majesty!”
Kith-Kanan thought for a moment. Then he said, “Go to Mackeli Tower and see if any foreigners have arrived since the rain started. I’d like to know if the rain is also falling outside my realm.”