Firstborn

13 — Day of Madness

Sithas rode up the Street of Commerce at a canter, past the guild hall towers that filled both sides. He reined in his horse clumsily—for he wasn’t used to riding—when he spied the guild elves standing in the street, watching smoke rise from the Market quarter.

“Has the royal guard come this way?” he called at them.

Wringing his hands, a senior master with the crest of the Gemcutters Guild on his breast replied, “Yes, Highness, some time ago. The chaos grows worse, I fear.”

“Have you seen my mother, Lady Nirakina?”

The master gemcutter picked at his long dark hair with slim fingers and shook his head in silent despair. Sithas snorted with frustration and twisted his horse’s head away, toward the rising pillar of smoke. “Go back inside your halls,” he called contemptuously. “Bolt your doors and windows.”

“Will the half-breeds come here?” asked another guild elf tremulously.

“I don’t know, but you’d better be prepared to defend yourselves.” Sithas thumped his horse’s sides with his heels, then mount and rider clattered down the street.

Beyond the guild halls, in the first crossing street of the commoners’ district, he found the way littered with broken barrows, overturned sedan chairs, and abandoned pushcarts. Sithas picked his way through the debris with difficulty, for there were many common folk standing in the street. Most were mute in disbelief, though some wept at the unaccustomed violence so near their homes. They raised a cheer when they saw Sithas. He halted again and asked if anyone had seen Lady Nirakina.

“No one has come through since the warriors passed this way,” said a trader. “No one at all.”

He thanked them, then ordered them off the street. The elves retreated to their houses. In minutes, the prince was alone.

The poorer people of Silvanost lived in tower houses just as the rich did. However, their homes seldom rose more than four or five stories. Each house had a tiny garden around its base, miniature versions of the great landscape around the Tower of the Stars. Trash and blown rubbish now tainted the lovingly tended gardens. Smoke poisoned the air. Grimly Sithas continued toward the heart of this madness.

Two streets later, the prince saw his first rioters. A human woman and a female Kagonesti were throwing pottery jugs onto the pavement, smashing them. When they ran out of jugs, they went to a derelict potter’s cart and replenished their supply.

“Stop that,” Sithas commanded. The dark elf woman took one look at the speaker’s heir and fled with a shriek. Her human companion, however, hurled a pot at Sithas. It shattered on the street at his horse’s feet, spraying the animal with shards. That done, the impudent human woman dusted her hands and simply walked away.

The horse backed and pranced, so Sithas had his hands full calming the mount. When the horse was once more under control, he rode ahead. The lane ended at a sharp turn to the right.

The sounds of fighting grew louder as Sithas rode on, drawing his sword.

The street ahead was full of struggling people—Silvanesti, Kagonesti, human, kender, and dwarves. A line of royal guards with pikes held flat in both hands were trying to keep the mass of fear-crazed folk back. Sithas rode up to an officer giving orders to the band of warriors, who numbered no more than twenty.

“Captain! Where is your commander?” shouted Sithas, above the roar of voices.

“Highness!” The warrior, himself of Kagonesti blood, saluted crisply. “Lord Kencathedrus is pursuing some of the criminals in the Market.”

Sithas, on horseback, could see far over the seething sea of people. “Are all these rioters?” he asked, incredulous.

“No, sire. Most are merchants and traders, trying to get away from the criminals who set fire to the shops,” the captain replied.

“Why are you holding them back?”

“Lord Kencathedrus’s orders, sire. He didn’t want these foreigners to flood the rest of the city.”

When the prince asked the captain if he’d seen his mother, the warrior shook his helmeted head. Sithas then asked if there was another way around, a way to the river.

“Keep them back!” barked the captain to his straining soldiers. “Push them! Use your pike shafts!” He stepped back, closer to Sithas, and said, “Yes, sire, you can circle this street and take White Rose Lane right to the water.”

Sithas commended the captain and turned his horse around. A spatter of stones and chunks of pottery rained over them. The captain and his troops had little to fear; they were in armor. Neither Sithas nor his horse were, so they cantered quickly away.

White Rose Lane was narrow and lined on both sides by high stone walls. This was the poorest section of Silvanost, where the house-towers were the lowest. With only two or three floors, they resembled squat stone drums, a far cry from the tall, gleaming spires of the high city.

The lane was empty when Sithas entered it. Astride his horse, his knees nearly scraped the walls on each side. A thin trickle of scummy water ran down the gutter in the center of the lane. At the other end of the alley, small groups of rioters dashed past. These groups of three or four often had royal guards on their heels. Sithas emerged from White Rose Lane in time to confront four desperate-looking elves. They stared at him. Each was armed with a stone or stick.

Sithas pointed with his sword. “Put down those things. Go back to your homes!” he said sternly.

“We are free elves! We won’t be ordered about! We’ve been driven from our homes once, and we’ll not let it happen again!” cried one of the elves.

“You are mistaken,” Sithas said, turning his horse so none of them could get behind him. “No one is driving you from here. The Speaker of the Stars has plans for a permanent town on the west bank of the Thon-Thalas.”

“That’s not what the holy lady said,” shouted a different elf.

“What holy lady?”

“The priestess of Quenesti Pah. She told us the truth!”

So, the riot could be laid at Miritelisina’s door. Sithas burned with anger. He whipped his sword over his head. “Go home!” he shouted. “Go home, lest the warriors strike you down!”

Someone flung a stone at Sithas. He batted it away, the rock clanging off the tempered iron blade. One smoke-stained elf tried to grab the horse’s bridle, but the prince hit him on the head with the flat of his blade. The elf collapsed, and the others hastily withdrew to find a more poorly armed target.

Sithas rode on through the mayhem, getting hit more than once by thrown sticks and shards. A bearded fellow he took for human swung a woodcutter’s axe at him, so Sithas used the edge, not the flat, of his sword. The axe-wielder fell dead, cleaved from shoulder to heart. Only then did the prince notice the fellow’s tapering ears and Silvanesti coloring. A half-human, the first he’d ever seen. Pity mixed with revulsion welled up inside the speaker’s heart.

Feeling a bit dazed, Sithas rode to the water’s edge. There were dead bodies floating in the normally calm river, a sight that only added to his disorientation. However, his dazed shock vanished instantly when he saw the body of an elf woman clad in a golden gown. His mother had a gown like that.

Sithas half-fell, half-jumped from horseback into the shallow water. He splashed, sword in hand, to the gowned body. It was Nirakina. His mother was dead! Tears spilling down his cheeks, the prince pulled the floating corpse to shallower water. When he turned the body over he saw to his immense relief that it was not his mother. This elf woman was a stranger to Sithas.

He released his hold on the body, and it was nudged gently away by the Thon-Thalas. Sithas stood coughing in the smoke, looking at the nightmare scene around him. Had the gods forsaken the Silvanesti this day?

“Sithas…Sithas…”

The prince whirled as he realized that someone was calling his name. He ran up the riverbank toward the sound. Once ashore, he was engulfed by the row of short towers that lined the riverbank. The tallest of these, a four-story house with conical roof and tall windows, was to his right. A white cloth waved from a top floor window.

“Sithas?” With relief the prince noted that it was his mother’s voice.

He mounted the horse and urged it into a gallop. Shouts and a loud crashing sound filled the air. On the other side of a low stone wall, a band of rioters was battering at the door of the four-story tower. Sithas raced the horse straight at the wall, and the animal jumped the barrier. As they landed on the other side, Sithas shouted a challenge and waved his sword in the air. Horse and rider thundered into the rioters’ midst. The men dropped the bench they had been using as a battering ram and ran off.

Overhead, a window on the street side opened. Nirakina called down, “Sithas! Praise the gods you came!”

The door of the house, which was almost knocked to pieces, opened inward. A familiar-looking elf emerged warily, the broken end of a table leg clutched in his hand.

“I know you,” said Sithas, dismounting quickly.

The elf lowered his weapon. “Tamanier Ambrodel, at your service, Highness,” he said quietly. “Lady Nirakina is safe.”

Nirakina came down the building’s steps, and Sithas rushed to embrace her.

“We were besieged,” Nirakina explained. Her honey-brown hair was in complete disarray, and her gentle face was smeared with soot. “Tamanier saved my life. He fought them off and guarded the door.”

“I thought you were dead,” Sithas said, cupping his mother’s face in his scratched, dirty hands. “I found a woman floating in the river. She was wearing your clothes.”

Nirakina explained that she had been giving some old clothing to the refugees when the trouble started. In fact she and Tamanier had been at the focus of the riot. One reason they had escaped unharmed was that many of the refugees knew the speaker’s wife and protected her.

“How did it start?” demanded Sithas. “I heard something about Miritelisina.”

“I’m afraid it was her,” Tamanier answered. “I saw her standing in the back of a cart, proclaiming that the speaker and high priests were planning to send all the settlers back across the river. The people grew frightened—they thought they were being driven from their last shelter by their own lords, sent to die in the wilderness. So they rose up, with the intention of forestalling a new exile.”

Fists clenched, Sithas declared, “This is treason! Miritelisina must be brought to justice!”

“She did not tell them to riot,” his mother said gently. “She cares about the poor, and it is they who have suffered most from this.”

Sithas was in no mood to debate. Instead, he turned to Tamanier and held out his hand. Eyes wide, the elf grasped his prince’s hand. “You shall be rewarded,” said Sithas gratefully.

“Thank you, Highness.” Tamanier looked up and down the street. “Perhaps we can take Lady Nirakina home now.”

It was much quieter. Kencathedrus’s warriors had herded the rioters into an ever-tightening circle. When the mob was finally subdued, the fire brigade was able to rush into the Market quarter. That occurred far too late, though; fully half of the marketplace had already been reduced to ruin.

The justice meted out by Sithel to his rebellious subjects was swift and severe. The rioters were tried as one and condemned.

Those of Silvanesti or Kagonesti blood were made slaves and set to rebuilding what they had destroyed. The humans and other non-elven rioters were driven from the city at pike point and forbidden ever to return, upon pain of death. All merchants who participated in the madness had their goods confiscated. They, too, were banished for life.

Miritelisina was brought before the speaker. Sithas, Nirakina, Tamanier Ambrodel, and all the high clerics of Silvanost were present. She made no speeches, offered no defense. Despite his respect for her, the speaker found the priestess guilty of petty treason. He could have made the charge high treason, for which the penalty was death, but Sithel could not bring himself to be that harsh.

The high priestess of Quenesti Pah was sent to the dungeon cells under the Palace of Quinari. Her cell was large and clean, but dark. Layers of inhibiting spells were placed around it, to prevent her from using her magical knowledge to escape or communicate with the outside world. Though many saw this as just, few found the sentencing a positive thing; not since the terrible, anarchical days of Silvanos and Balif had such a high-ranking person been sent to the dungeon.

“Is it right, do you think, to keep her there?” Nirakina asked her husband and son later, in private.

“You surprise me,” said Sithel in a tired voice. “You, of all people, whose life was in the balance, should have no qualm about her sentence.”

Nirakina’s face was sad. “I am sure she meant no harm. Her only concern was for the welfare of the refugees.”

“Perhaps she did not mean to start a riot,” Sithas said sympathetically, “but I’m not certain she meant no harm. Miritelisina sought to undermine the decree of the speaker by appealing to the common people. That, in itself, is treason.”

“Those poor people,” Nirakina murmured.

The speaker’s wife retired to her bed. Sithel and his son remained in the sitting room.

“Your mother has a kind heart, Sith. All this suffering has undone her. She needs her rest.” Sithas nodded glumly, and the speaker went on. “I am sending a troop of fifty warriors under Captain Coryamis to the west. They are to try to capture some of the brigands who’ve been terrorizing our settlers and to bring them back alive. Perhaps then we can find out who’s truly behind these attacks.” Sithel yawned and stretched. “Coryamis leaves tonight. Within a month, we should know something.”

Father and son parted. Sithel watched the prince descend the far stairs, not the route to the quarters that he shared with Hermathya. “Where are you going, Sith?” he asked in confusion.

Sithas looked distinctly uncomfortable. “My old rooms, Father. Hermathya and I are—we are not sharing a bed these days,” he said stiffly. Sithel raised one pale brow in surprise.

“You’ll not win her over by sleeping apart,” he advised.

“I need time to contemplate,” Sithas replied. With a gruff good-night, he went on his way. Sithel waited until his son’s footsteps had faded from the stone stairwell, then he sighed. Sithas and Hermathya estranged—for some reason that fact bothered him more than having to send Miritelisina to the dungeon. He knew his son, and he knew his daughter-in-law, too. They were both too proud, too unbending. Any rift between them was only likely to widen over time. Not good. The line of Silvanos required stability and offspring to ensure its continuation. He would have to do something.

A prodigious yawn racked the speaker’s body. For now, though, there was his own bed, his own wife, and sleep.

In the weeks following the rioting in the Market, a regular patrol of royal guards walked the streets. A squad of four warriors, moving through the city very late one night, spied a body lying on the steps of the Temple of Quenesti Pah. Two elves ran over and turned the body face-up. To their astonishment, they knew the dead elf well. He was Nortifinthas, and he was of their own company, sent with forty-nine other warriors to the western provinces. No word had been heard from the fifty warriors in over two weeks.

The night watch picked up their fallen comrade and hastened to the Palace of Quinari. Other patrols saw them and joined with them as they went. By the time the group reached the main door of the palace, it was over thirty strong.

Stankathan, the major-domo, arrived at the palace door in response to the vigorous pounding of the guards. He stood in the open doorway, holding aloft a sputtering oil lamp.

“Who goes there?” Stankathan said in a voice husky with sleep. The officer who had found Nortifinthas explained the situation. Stankathan looked at the corpse, borne on the shoulders of his fellow warriors. His face paled.

“I will fetch Prince Sithas,” he decided.

Stankathan went to Sithas’s bachelor quarters. The door was open, and he saw the prince asleep at a table. The elder elf shook his head. Everyone knew that Prince Sithas and his wife were living apart, but still it saddened the old servant.

“Your Highness?” he said, touching Sithas lightly on the back. “Your Highness, wake up; there’s been an…event.”

Sithas raised his head suddenly. “What? What is it?”

“The night watch has found a dead warrior in the streets. Apparently he is one of the soldiers the speaker sent out weeks ago.”

Sithas pushed back his chair and stood, disoriented by his sudden awakening. “How can that be?” he asked. He breathed deeply a few times to clear his head. Then, adjusting his sleep-twisted robe, the prince said, “I will see the warriors.”

The major-domo led Sithas to the main door. There the prince heard the story of the finding of the body from the night watch officer.

“Show me,” ordered Sithas.

The warriors laid the body gently down on the steps. Nortifinthas had numerous knife and club wounds, which had sufficed to drain his life away.

Sithas looked over the array of grim, concerned faces. “Take the body to the cellar and lay it out. Tomorrow perhaps the learned clerics can discover what happened,” he said in a subdued voice.

Four guards hoisted Nortifinthas on their shoulders and went up the steps. Stankathan showed them the way to the palace cellar. After a time, when Stankathan returned with the bearers, Sithas dismissed the guards. To the major-domo he said, “When the speaker rises tomorrow, tell him at once what has occurred. And send for me.”

“It shall be done, Highness.”

The day dawned cool, and gray clouds piled up in the northern sky. Sithas and Sithel stood on opposite sides of the table where the body of Nortifinthas had been laid out. Everyone else had been banished from the cellar.

Sithel bent over and began to examine the dead elf’s clothes with minute care. He fingered every seam, looked in every pocket, even felt in the corpse’s hair. Finally Sithas could contain himself no longer.

“What are you doing, Father?”

“I know Captain Coryamis would not have sent this warrior back to us without some kind of message.”

“How do you know he was sent? He could be a deserter.”

Sithel stood up. “Not this fellow. He was a fine warrior. And if he had deserted, he wouldn’t come back to Silvanost.” Just then, Sithel froze. He reached for the shielded candle that was their only source of light, then held it close to the dead elf’s waist.

“There!” The speaker hastily thrust the candle holder into Sithas’s hand. Eagerly, Sithel unclasped the sword belt from the corpse. He held it up to Sithas. “Do you see?”

Sithas squinted hard at the inside of the belt. Sure enough, there were letters scratched in the dark leather, but they appeared random and meaningless. “I don’t understand,” he protested. “I see writing, but it’s just gibberish.”

Sithel removed the empty scabbard from the belt and gently laid it on the corpse’s chest. Then he coiled the belt and tucked it inside his robe. “There are many things you have yet to learn, things that only come from experience. Come with me, and I’ll show you how the dead can speak to the living without magic.”

They left the cellar. An entire corps of courtiers and servants stood waiting for the two most important people in Silvanost to reappear. Sithel promptly ordered everyone to return to their tasks, and he and his son went alone to the Tower of the Stars.

“This palace is like an anthill,” Sithel said, striding briskly across the Processional Road. “How can anything remain secret for very long?”

The prince was puzzled, but he covered his bewilderment with the meditative mask he had learned from the priests of Matheri. It was not until they were alone, locked inside the audience hall of the tower, that his father spoke again.

“Coryamis sent the soldier back as a courier,” confided Sithel. “Let us see what he brought us.”

The emerald throne of the speaker was not simply made of that stone. The natural faceted gems were interspersed with hand-turned columns of rare and beautiful wood. These were of varying lengths and thicknesses, and some were even inlaid with gold and silver. Sithas looked on in mute wonder as his father detached piece after piece of wood from the ancient, sacred throne. Each time he removed a cylinder of wood, he would wind the dead soldier’s belt around it, spiral fashion. The speaker would then stare at the writing on the belt for a second, remove the belt, and re-fit the wooden piece back into the throne. On the fifth attempt, Sithel gave a cry of triumph. He read up the length of the cylinder, turned it slightly, and read the next row of letters. When he was done, the Speaker of the Stars looked up, ashen faced.

“What is it, Father?” Sithas asked. The speaker handed him the rod and belt as a reply.

Now the prince understood. The message had been written on the belt while it was wound around a shaft of identical thickness to this one. When the belt was removed, the letters became a meaningless jumble. Now Sithas could read the last message sent by Coryamis.

There were many abbreviations in the writing. Sithas read the message out loud, just to be certain he had it right. “ ‘Great speaker,’ ” it said, “ ‘I write this knowing I may not be alive tomorrow, and this is the only chance I have to tell what has happened. Two days ago we were attacked by a body of humans, elves, and mixed-bloods. The horsemen trapped us between the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains and the falls of the Keraty River. There are only fifteen of us left. I will send this message with my best fighter, Nortifinthas. Great speaker, these men and elves are not bandits, they are formidable cavalry. They also knew where to ambush us and how many we were, so I feel, too, that we were betrayed. There is a traitor in Silvanost. Find him or all shall perish. Long live Silvanesti!’ ”

Sithas stared at his father in horrified silence for a long moment. Finally, he burst out, “This is monstrous!”

“Treachery in my own city. Who could it be?” Sithel asked.

“I don’t know, but we can find out. The greater question is, who pays the traitor? It must be the emperor of Ergoth!” declared his son.

“Yes.” Surely there was no one else with the money or reason to wage such an underhanded campaign against the elven nation. Sithel looked at the prince, who suddenly seemed much older than before. “I do not want war, Sithas. I do not want it. We have not yet received a reply from the emperor or from the king of Thorbardin regarding our request for a conference. If both nations agree to come and talk, it will give us a chance for peace.”

“It may give the enemy the time they need, too,” said Sithas.

The speaker took the belt and wooden cylinder from his son. He restored the cylinder to its place in the side of the throne. The belt he fastened around his own waist. Sithel had regained his calm, and the years fell away once more when resolve filled his face.

“Son, I charge you with the task of finding the traitor. Male or female, young or old, there can be no mercy.”

“I shall find the traitor,” Sithas vowed.

Dinner each night in the Quinari Palace was held in the Hall of Balif. It was as much a social occasion as a meal, for all the courtiers were required to attend and certain numbers of the priestly and noble classes, too. Speaker Sithel and Lady Nirakina sat in the center of the short locus of the vast oval table. Sithas and Hermathya sat on Nirakina’s left, and all the guests sat to the left of them in order of seniority. Thus, the person to Sithel’s right was always the most junior member of the court. That seat fell to Tamanier Ambrodel nowadays; for saving Lady Nirakina’s life during the riot, he’d been granted a minor title.

The hall was full, though everyone was still standing when Tamanier and Hermathya arrived together. Sithel had not yet come, and no one could sit until the speaker did so himself. For his part, Sithas stood behind his chair, impassive. Hermathya hoped he might react jealously upon seeing her on the arm of the stalwart Tamanier, but the prince kept his pensive gaze focused on the golden plate set before him.

Sithel entered with his wife. Servants pulled the tall chairs for the speaker and Nirakina, and Sithel took his place. “May the gods grant you all health and long life,” he said quietly. The vast hall had been constructed so that conversation at one end could be heard by parties at the other. The traditional greeting before meals carried easily to the entire oval table.

“Long life to you, Speaker of the Stars,” the diners responded in unison. Sithel sat. With much shuffling and squeaking of chairs, the guests sat down, too.

A troop of servers appeared, bearing a large pot. The pot swung on a long pole supported on the shoulders of two elves. Behind these servants, two more servers carried a slotted bronze box, from which a dull glow radiated. The box was full of large hearthstones that had been banked against the kitchen fires all day. Two servants set the bronze box on a stone slab, and the pot carriers eased the great cauldron onto the box. Now the soup would stay hot all through dinner—which could last several hours.

Young elf maidens clad in shifts of opaque yellow gauze slipped in and out among the seated guests, filling their bowls with steaming turtle soup. For those not inclined to soup, there was fresh fruit, picked that morning in the vast orchards on the eastern shore. Elf boys staggered under the weight of tall amphorae, brimming with purple-red nectar. The goblets of the guests were kept full.

With the first course served, Stankathan signaled to the servants at the doors of the hall. They swung them open, and a trio of musicians entered. The players of flute, lyre, and sistrum, arranged themselves in the far comer of the hall as conversation in the room began in earnest.

“I have heard,” opened old Rengaldus, guildmaster of the gemcutters, “that there is to be a conclave with representatives of Ergoth.”

“That’s old news,” said Zertinfinas, the priest. He hacked open a juicy melon and poured the seedy center pulp onto his plate. “The dwarves of Thorbardin are invited, too.”

“I have never seen a human close up,” remarked Hermathya. “Or talked to one.”

“You haven’t missed much, Lady,” Rengaldus replied. “Their language is uncouth and their bodies thick with hair.”

“Quite bestial,” agreed Zertinfinas.

“Those are your opinions,” Tamanier interjected. Many eyes turned to him. It was unusual for the junior noble to speak at all. “I knew humans out on the plains, and many of them were good people.”

“Yes, but aren’t they inherently treacherous?” asked the guildmaster of the sandalmakers. “Do humans ever keep their word?”

“Frequently.” Tamanier looked to his patron, Sithas, for signs of displeasure.

The speaker’s son, as usual, ate sparingly, picking grapes one at a time from the cluster on his plate. He did not seem to have heard Tamanier’s comments, so the favored young courtier continued. “Humans can be fiercely honorable, perhaps because they know so many of their fellows are not.”

“They are unredeemably childish in their tempers,” Zertinfinas asserted. “How can they not be? With only seventy or so years of life how can they accumulate any store of wisdom or patience?”

“But they are clever,” noted Rengaldus. He slurped a mouthful of nectar and wiped his chin with a satin napkin. “A hundred years ago there wasn’t a human alive who could cut a diamond or polish a sapphire. Now craftsmen in Daltigoth have learned to work gems, and they have undercut our market! My factors in Balifor say that human-cut gems are selling well there, mainly because they are far cheaper than ours. The buyers care less about quality than they do about the final price.”

“Barbarians,” muttered Zertinfinas into his cap.

The second course was brought out: a cold salad of river trout with a sweet herb dressing. Murmurs of approval circled the great table. Loaves of pyramid-shaped bread were also provided, smeared with honey, a confection greatly loved by elves.

“Perhaps one of the learned clerics can tell me,” Hermathya said, cutting herself a chunk of warm bread, “why humans have such short lives?” Zertinfinas cleared his throat to speak, but from the opposite side of the table, a new voice answered the lady’s question.

“It is generally considered that humans represent a middle race, farther removed from the gods and closer to the realm of the animals. Our own race—the first created, longer lived, and possessing a greater affinity for the powers of magic—is closest to the gods.”

Hermathya tilted her head to get a better look at the softspoken cleric. “I do not know you, holy one. Who are you?”

“Forgive me, Lady, for not introducing myself. I am Kamin Oluvai, second priest of the Blue Phoenix.” The young elf stood and bowed to Hermathya. He was a striking-looking fellow, in his brilliant blue robe and golden headband, with its inlay of a blue phoenix. His golden hair was long even by elven standards. Sithas studied him circumspectly. This Kamin Oluvai had not been to many royal dinners.

“What about these humans?” complained Zertinfinas loudly, beginning to feel his nectar. “What is to be done about them?”

“I believe that is a matter best left to the speaker,” Sithas replied. One hundred and fifty pairs of eyes looked to Sithel, who was listening with great care while eating his fish.

“The sovereignty of Silvanesti will be preserved,” the speaker said calmly. “That is why the conclave has been called.”

The prince nodded, then asked, “Is it true, Ambrodel, that there are more humans living in our western provinces than Silvanesti and Kagonesti?”

“More than the Silvanesti, Highness. But the true number of the Kagonesti is difficult to state. So many of them live in the remote parts of the forest, mountains, and plains.”

“Humans breed at any point past age fifteen,” blurted Zertinfinas. “They regularly have five and six children in a family!” Whispers of surprise and concern circled the table. Elven parents seldom had more than two children in their entire, lengthy lifetimes.

“Is that true?” Nirakina queried Tamanier.

“At least in the wild country it is. I cannot say what families are like in the more settled areas of Ergoth. But many of the children do not survive into adulthood. Human knowledge of the healing arts is not nearly so advanced as ours.”

The musicians completed their program of light tunes and began to play “The Sea-Elf’s Lament.” The main course was served.

It came rolling in on a large cart, a huge sculpture of a dragon done in golden-brown pie crust. The “beast” reared up five feet high. His back was scaled with mint leaves, his eyes and talons made red with pomegranates. The head and spiky tail of the dragon were covered with glazed nut meats.

The diners applauded this culinary creation, and Sithel himself smiled. “You see, my friends, how the cook is master of us all,” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “For centuries the dragons preyed upon us, and now we have them to dinner.”

Stankathan stood by the pastry dragon, a sword in his hand. He jerked his head, and servants positioned a golden tray under the dragon’s chin. With a force that belied his age, the servant lopped off the dragon’s head. A flight of live sparrows burst from the open neck of the creation, each bird having silver streamers tied to its legs. The assembly gave a collective gasp of admiration.

“I trust the rest of the insides are more thoroughly cooked,” quipped Sithel.

The servants bore the head of the dragon to the speaker. With smaller knives, they carved it to pieces. Under the crusty pastry skin, the head was stuffed with delicate meat paste, whole baked apples, and sweet glazed onions.

Stankathan attacked the rest of the pastry like some culinary thespian portraying the mighty Huma slaying a real dragon. The body of the beast was filled with savory sausages, stuffed peppers, whole capons, and vegetable torts. The room filled with noise as every diner commented on the elegance of this evening’s feast.

Zertinfinas, rather loudly, called for more nectar. The serving boy had none left in his amphora, so he ran to the door to fetch more. Sithas called to the servant as he passed, and the elf boy dropped to one knee by the prince’s chair.

“Yes, Highness?”

“The holy one has had too much to drink. Have the cellar master cut the nectar with water. Half for half,” ordered Sithas in a confidential tone.

“As you command, sire.”

“The cook really has outdone himself,” Hermathya remarked. “It is a wonderful feast.”

“Is it a special occasion?” asked Rengaldus.

“The calendar does not list a holiday,” Kamin Oluvai noted. “Unless it is a special day for the speaker.”

“It is, holy one. By this feast we do honor to a dead hero,” Sithel explained.

Nirakina set down her goblet, puzzled. “What hero, my husband?”

“His name was Nortifinthas.”

Head wobbling, Zertinfinas asked, “Was he a companion of Huma Dragonsbane?”

“No,” Kamin Oluvai assisted. “He sat in the first great Synthal-Elish, did he not?”

“You are both mistaken,” Sithel replied. “Nortifinthas was a simple soldier, a Kagonesti who died nobly in service to this house.”

Conversation around the table had died just as the flutist trilled the high solo from the lament.

“This morning,” the speaker continued, “this soldier named Nortifinthas returned to the city from the western province. He was the only survivor of the fifty warriors I sent out to find the bandits who have troubled our people lately. All his comrades were slain. Even though he was fearfully wounded, the brave Nortifinthas returned with the last dispatch of his commander.” Sithel looked around the table, meeting each guest eye to eye. The prince sat very still, his left hand clenched into a fist in his lap. “One of you here, one of you seated at my table eating my food, is a traitor.”

The musicians heard this declaration and ceased playing. The speaker waved a hand to them to continue, and they did so, awkwardly.

“You see, the force that wiped out my fifty warriors was not a band of hit-and-run bandits, but a disciplined troop of cavalry who knew where and when my soldiers would come. It was not a battle. It was a massacre.”

“Do you know who the traitor is, Speaker?” Hermathya asked with great earnest.

“Not yet, but the person will be found. I spent most of my day compiling a list of those who could have known the route of my warriors. At this point, I suspect everyone.”

The speaker looked around the large table. The gaiety was gone from the dinner, and the diners looked at the delicacies on their plates without enthusiasm.

Sithel picked up his knife and fork. “Finish your food,” he commanded. When no one else emulated him, he held up his hands expressively and said, “Why do you not eat? Do you want this fine meal to go to waste?”

Sithas was the first to take up his fork and resume eating. Hermathya and Nirakina did likewise. Soon, everyone was eating again, but with much less good humor than before.

“I will say this,” Sithel added pointedly, cutting the glazed pomegranate eye from the pastry dragon’s face. “The traitor’s identity is suspected.”

By now the elf boy had returned, his amphora full of diluted nectar. Into the absolute silence that followed his own last statement, the speaker said loudly, “Zertinfinas! Your nectar!”

The cleric, his head snapping up at the sound of his name, had to be pounded on the back several times to save him from choking on a piece of pastry.

Sithas watched his father as he ate. The speaker’s every movement was graceful, his face serene with resolve.