Derek’s face flushed dark in the torchlight.
“I need neither dwarves nor elves defending me—” Derek began angrily when Laurana came running back, her eyes glittering.
“As if there is not evil enough,” she muttered through tight lips, “I find it brewing among my own kindred!”
“What’s going on?” asked Sturm.
“The situation stands thus: There are now three races of elves living in Southern Ergoth—”
“Three races?” interrupted Tasslehoff, staring at Laurana with interest. “What’s the third race? Where’d they come from? Can I see them? I never heard—”
Laurana had had enough. “Tas,” she said, her voice taut. “Go stay with Gilthanas. And ask Elistan to come here.”
“But—”
Sturm gave the kender a shove. “Go!” he ordered.
Wounded, Tasslehoff trailed off disconsolately to where Gilthanas still lay. The kender slumped down in the sand, pouting. Elistan patted him kindly as he went to join the others.
“The Kaganesti, known as Wilder Elves in the Common tongue, are the third race,” Laurana continued. “They fought with us during the Kinslayer wars. In return for their loyalty, Kith-Kanan gave them the mountains of Ergoth—this was before Qualinesti and Ergoth were split apart by the Cataclysm. I am not surprised you have never heard of the Wilder Elves. They are a secretive people and keep to themselves. Once called the Border Elves, they are ferocious fighters and served Kith-Kanan well, but they have no love for cities. They mingled with Druids and learned their lore. They brought back the ways of the ancient elves. My people consider them barbarians—just as your people consider the Plainsmen barbaric.
“Some months ago, when the Silvanesti were driven from their ancient homeland, they fled here, seeking permission of the Kaganesti to dwell in Ergoth temporarily. Then came my people, the Qualinesti, from across the sea. And so they met, at last, kindred who had been separated for hundreds of years.”
“I fail to see the relevance—” Derek interrupted.
“You will,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “For your lives depend upon understanding what is happening on this sad isle.” Her voice broke. Elistan moved near her and put his arm around her comfortingly.
“All started out peacefully enough. After all, the two exiled cousins had much in common—both driven from their beloved homelands by the evil in the world. They established homes upon the Isle—the Silvanesti upon the western shore, the Qualinesti upon the eastern, separated by a strait known as Thon-Tsalarian, which means the ‘River of the Dead’ in Kaganesti. The Kaganesti live in the hill country north of the river.
“For a time, there was even some attempt to establish friendships between the Silvanesti and the Qualinesti. And that is where the trouble began. For these elves could not meet, even after hundreds of years, without the old hatreds and misunderstandings beginning to surface.” Laurana closed her eyes a moment. “The River of the Dead could very well be known as Thon-Tsalaroth—‘River of Death.’ ”
“There now, lass,” Flint said, touching her hand. “The dwarves have known it, too. You saw the way I was treated in Thorbardin—a hill dwarf among mountain dwarves. Of all the hatreds, the ones between families are the cruelest.”
“There has been no killing yet, but so shocked were the elders at the thought of what might happen—elves killing their own kindred—that they decreed no one may cross the straits on penalty of arrest,” Laurana continued. “And this is where we stand. Neither side trusts the other. There have even been charges of selling out to the Dragon Highlords! Spies have been captured on both sides.”
“That explains why they attacked us,” Elistan murmured.
“What about the Kag—Kag—” Sturm stammered over the unfamiliar elven word.
“Kaganesti.” Laurana sighed wearily. “They, who allowed us to share their homeland, have been treated worst of all. The Kaganesti have always been poor in material wealth. Poor, by our standards, though not by theirs. They live in the forests and mountains, taking what they need from the land. They are gatherers, hunters. They raise no crops, they forge no metal. When we arrived, our people appeared rich to them with our golden jewelry and steel weapons. Many of their young people came to the Qualinesti and the Silvanesti, seeking to learn the secrets of making shining gold and silver—and steel.”
Laurana bit her lip, her face hardened. “I say it to my shame, that my people have taken advantage of the Wilder Elves’ poverty. The Kaganesti work as slaves among us. And, because of that, the Kaganesti elders grow more savage and warlike as they see their young people taken away and their old way of life threatened.”
“Laurana!” called Tasslehoff.
She turned. “Look,” she said to Elistan softly. “There is one of them now.” The cleric followed her gaze to see a lithe young woman—at least he supposed it was a young woman by the long hair; she was dressed in male clothing—kneel down beside Gilthanas and stroke his forehead. The elflord stirred at her touch, groaning in pain. The Kaganesti reached into a pouch at her side and began busily to mix something in a small clay cup.
“What is she doing?” Elistan asked.
“She is apparently the ‘healer’ they sent for,” Laurana said, watching the girl closely. “The Kaganesti are noted for their Druidic skills.”
Wilder elf was a suitable name, Elistan decided, studying the girl intently. He had certainly never seen any intelligent being on Krynn quite so wild-looking. She was dressed in leather breeches tucked into leather boots. A shirt, obviously cast off by some elflord, hung from her shoulders. She was pale and too thin, undernourished. Her matted hair was so filthy it was impossible to distinguish its color. But the hand that touched Gilthanas was slender and shapely. Concern and compassion for him was apparent in her gentle face.
“Well,” Sturm said, “what are we to do in the midst of all this?”
“The Silvanesti have agreed to escort us to my people,” Laurana said, her face flushing. Evidently this had been a point of bitter contention. “At first they insisted that we go to their elders, but I said I would go nowhere without first bidding my father greeting and discussing the matter with him. There wasn’t much they could say to that.” Laurana smiled slightly, though there was a touch of bitterness in her voice. “Among all the kindred, a daughter is bound to her father’s house until she comes of age. Keeping me here, against my will, would be viewed as kidnapping and would cause open hostility. Neither side is ready for that.”
“They are letting us go, though they know we have the dragon orb?” Derek asked in astonishment.
“They are not letting us go,” Laurana said sharply. “I said they are escorting us to my people.”
“But there is a Solamnic outpost to the north,” Derek argued. “We could get a ship there to take us to Sancrist—”
“You would never live to reach those trees if you tried to escape,” Flint said, sneezing violently.
“He is right,” Laurana said. “We must go to the Qualinesti and convince my father to help us get the orb to Sancrist.” A small dark line appeared between her eyebrows which warned Sturm she didn’t believe that was going to be as easy as it sounded. “And now, we’ve been talking long enough. They gave me leave to explain things to you, but they’re getting restless to go. I must see to Gilthanas. Are we agreed?”
Laurana regarded each knight with a look that was not so much seeking approbation as simply waiting for an acknowledgement of her leadership. For a moment, she appeared so like Tanis in the firm set of her jaw and the calm, steady deliberation in her eyes that Sturm smiled. But Derek was not smiling. He was infuriated and frustrated, the more so because he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do.
Finally, however, he snarled a muttered reply that he supposed they must make the best of it and angrily stalked over to pick up the chest. Flint and Sturm followed, the dwarf sneezing until he nearly sneezed himself off his feet.
Laurana walked back to her brother, mo
ving quietly along the sand in her soft leather boots. But the Wilder elf heard her approach. Raising her head, she gave Laurana a fearful look and crept backward as an animal cringes at the sight of man. But Tas, who had been chatting with her in an odd mixture of Common and elven, gently caught hold of the Wilder elf’s arm.
“Don’t leave,” said the kender cheerfully. “This is the elflord’s sister. Look, Laurana. Gilthanas is coming around. It must be that mud stuff she stuck on his forehead. I could have sworn he’d be out for days.” Tas stood up. “Laurana, this is my friend—what did you say your name was?”
The girl, her eyes on the ground, trembled violently. Her hands picked up bits of sand, then dropped them again. She murmured something none of them could hear.
“What was it, child?” Laurana asked in such a sweet and gentle voice that the girl raised her eyes shyly.
“Silvart,” she said in a low voice.
“That means ‘silver-haired’ in the Kaganesti language, does it not?” Laurana asked. Kneeling down beside Gilthanas, she helped him sit up. Dizzily, he put his hand to his face where the girl had plastered a thick paste over his bleeding cheek.
“Don’t touch,” Silvart warned, clasping her hand over Gilthanas’s hand quickly. “It will make you well.” She spoke Common, not crudely, but clearly and concisely.
Gilthanas groaned in pain, shutting his eyes and letting his hand fall. Silvart gazed at him in deep concern. She started to stroke his face, then—glancing swiftly at Laurana—hurriedly withdrew her hand and started to rise.
“Wait,” Laurana said. “Wait, Silvart.”
The girl froze like a rabbit, staring at Laurana with such fear in her large eyes that Laurana was overcome with shame.
“Don’t be frightened. I want to thank you for caring for my brother. Tasslehoff is right. I thought his injury was grave indeed, but you have aided him. Please stay with him, if you would.”
Silvart stared at the ground. “I will stay with him, mistress, if such is your command.”
“It is not my command, Silvart,” Laurana said. “It is my wish. And my name is Laurana.”
Silvart lifted her eyes. “Then I will stay with him gladly, mis—Laurana, if that is your wish.” She lowered her head, and they could barely hear her words. “My true name, Silvara, means silver-haired. Silvart is what they call me.” She glanced at the Silvanesti warriors, then her eyes went back to Laurana. “Please, I want you to call me Silvara.”
The Silvanesti elves brought over a makeshift litter they had constructed of a blanket and tree limbs. They lifted the elflord—not ungently—onto the litter. Silvara walked beside it. Tasslehoff walked near her, still chattering, pleased to find someone who had not yet heard his stories. Laurana and Elistan walked on the other side of Gilthanas. Laurana held his hand in hers, watching over him tenderly. Behind them came Derek, his face dark and shadowed, the chest with the dragon orb on his shoulder. Behind them marched a guard of Silvanesti elves.
Day was just beginning to dawn, gray and dismal, when they reached the line of trees along the shore. Flint shivered. Twisting his head, he gazed out to sea. “What was that Derek said about a—a ship to Sancrist?”
“I am afraid so,” Sturm replied. “It is also an island.”
“And we’ve got to go there?”
“Yes.”
“To use the dragon orb? We don’t know anything about it!”
“The Knights will learn,” Sturm said softly. “The future of the world rests on this.”
“Humpf!” The dwarf sneezed. Casting a terrified glance at the night-dark waters, he shook his head gloomily. “All I know is I’ve been drowned twice, stricken with a deadly disease—”
“You were seasick.”
“Stricken with a deadly disease,” Flint repeated loudly, “and sunk. Mark my words, Sturm Brightblade—boats are bad luck to us. We’ve had nothing but trouble since we set foot in that blasted boat on Crystalmir Lake. That was where the crazed magician first saw the constellations had disappeared, and our luck’s gone straight downhill from there. As long as we keep relying on boats, it’s going to go from bad to worse.”
Sturm smiled as he watched the dwarf squish through the sand. But his smile turned to a sigh. I wish it were all that simple, the knight thought.
3
The Speaker of the Suns.
Laurana’s decision.
The Speaker of the Suns, leader of the Qualinesti elves, sat in the crude shelter of wood and mud the Kaganesti elves had built for his domicile. He considered it crude, the Kaganesti considered it a marvelously large and well-crafted dwelling, suitable for five or six families. They had, in fact, intended it as such and were shocked when the Speaker declared it barely adequate for his needs and moved in with his wife—alone.
Of course, what the Kaganesti could not know was that the Speaker’s home in exile became the central headquarters for all the business of the Qualinesti. The ceremonial guards assumed exactly the same positions as they had in the sculptured halls of the palace in Qualinost. The Speaker held audience at the same time and in the same courtly manner, save that his ceiling was a mud-covered dome of thatched grass instead of glittering mosaic, his walls wood instead of crystal quartz.
The Speaker sat in state every day, his wife’s sister’s daughter by his side acting as his scribe. He wore the same robes, conducted business with the same cold aplomb. But there were differences. The Speaker had changed dramatically in the past few months. There were none in the Qualinesti who marveled at this, however. The Speaker had sent his younger son on a mission that most considered suicidal. Worse, his beloved daughter had run away to chase after her half-elven lover. The Speaker expected never to see either of these children again.
He could have accepted the loss of his son, Gilthanas. It was, after all, a heroic, noble act. The young man had led a group of adventurers into the mines of Pax Tharkas to free the humans imprisoned there and draw off the dragonarmies threatening Qualinesti. This plan had been a success—an unexpected success. The dragonarmies had been recalled to Pax Tharkas, giving the elves time to escape to the western shores of their land, and from there across the sea to Southern Ergoth.
The Speaker could not, however, accept his daughter’s loss—or her dishonor.
It was the Speaker’s elder son, Porthios, who had coldly explained the matter to him after Laurana had been discovered missing. She had run off after her childhood friend—Tanis Half-Elven. The Speaker was heartsick, consumed with grief. How could she do this? How could she bring disgrace upon their household? A princess of her people chasing after a bastard half-breed!
Laurana’s flight quenched the light of the sun for her father. Fortunately, the need to lead his people gave him the strength to carry on. But there were times when the Speaker asked what was the use? He could retire, turn the throne over to his eldest son. Porthios ran almost everything anyway, deferring to his father in all that was proper, but making most decisions himself. The young elflord, serious beyond his years, was proving an excellent leader, although some considered him too harsh in his dealings with the Silvanesti and the Kaganesti.
The Speaker was among these, which was the main reason he did not turn things over to Porthios. Occasionally he tried to point out to his elder son that moderation and patience won more victories than threats and sword-rattling. But Porthios believed his father to be soft and sentimental. The Silvanesti, with their rigid caste structure, considered the Qualinesti barely part of the elven race and the Kaganesti no part of the elven race at all, viewing them as a subrace of elves, much as gully dwarves were seen as a subrace of the dwarves. Porthios firmly believed, although he did not tell his father, that it must end in bloodshed.
His views were matched on the other side of the Thon-Tsalarian by a stiff-necked, cold-blooded lord named Quinath, who, it was rumored, was the betrothed of the Princess Alhana Starbreeze. Lord Quinath was now leader of the Silvanesti in her unexplained absence, and it was he and Porthios who divid
ed the isle between the two warring nations of elves, disregarding the third race entirely.
The borderlines were patronizingly communicated to the Kaganesti, as one might communicate to a dog that it is not to enter the kitchen. The Kaganesti, notable for their volatile tempers, were outraged to find their land being divided up and parceled out. Already the hunting was growing bad. The animals the Wilder elves depended on for their survival were being wiped out in great numbers to feed the refugees. As Laurana had said, the River of the Dead could, at any moment, run red with blood, and its name change tragically.
And so the Speaker found himself living in an armed camp. But if he grieved over this fact at all, it was lost in such a multitude of griefs that eventually he grew numb. Nothing touched him. He withdrew into his mud home and allowed Porthios to handle more and more.
The Speaker was up early the morning the companions arrived in what was now called Qualin-Mori. He always rose early. Not so much because he had a great deal to do, but because he had already spent most of the night staring at the ceiling. He was jotting down notes for the day’s meetings with the Heads of Household—an unsatisfactory task, since the Heads of Household could do nothing but complain—when he heard a tumult outside his dwelling.
The Speaker’s heart sank. What now? he wondered fearfully. It seemed these alarms came once or twice every day. Porthios had probably caught some hot-blooded Qualinesti and Silvanesti youths raiding or fighting. He kept writing, expecting the tumult to die down. But instead it increased, coming nearer and nearer. The Speaker could only suppose something more serious had happened. And not for the first time, he wondered what he would do if the elves went to war again.
Dropping the quill pen, he wrapped himself in his robes of state and waited with dread. Outside, he heard the guards snap to attention. He heard Porthios’s voice perform the traditional rights of seeking entry, since it was before hours. The Speaker glanced fearfully at the door that led to his private chambers, fearing his wife might be disturbed. She had been in ill health since their departure from Qualinesti. Trembling, he rose to his feet, assuming the stern and cold look he had become accustomed to putting on as one might put on an article of clothing, and bade them come inside.
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