by Dragon Lance
By the time Kith-Kanan had made his tenth blaze, it was dark as night. He leaned against an ash tree and tried to see through the closely growing branches overhead. At this point he’d just as soon have squirrel for dinner as venison. That was growing more likely, too.
Tiny points of sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing as the wind stirred the branches. It was almost like seeing the stars, only these points of light moved. The effect was quite hypnotic, which only made Kith-Kanan more tired than he already was. He’d dozed only fitfully in the saddle and had eaten nearly nothing since the day before. Perhaps he’d stop for a moment. Take a bit of rest. Overhead the points of light danced and swayed.
Kith-Kanan’s sword, resting in the crook of his arm, slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground, sticking point first in the soft soil.
Points of light. Dancing. How very tired he was! His knees folded, and he slid slowly down the trunk until he was sitting on his haunches, back against the tree. His gaze remained on the canopy of leaves overhead. What an odd forest this was. Not like home. Not like the woods of SilvanostD
As in a dream, the prince saw the airy corridors of the Palace of Quinari. The servants bowed to him, as they always did. He was on his way to a feast in the Hall of Balif. There would be simmered roasts, legs of lamb, fruits dripping with juice, fragrant sauces, and delicious drafts of sweet nectar.
Kith-Kanan came to a door. It was just a door, like any other in the palace. He pushed the door open, and there, in loving embrace, were Sithas and Hermathya. She turned to face him, a smile on her face. A smile for Sithas.
“No!”
He leaped forward, landing on his hands and knees. His legs were completely numb. It was pitch dark around him, and for a few seconds Kith-Kanan didn’t know where he was. He breathed deeply. Night must have fallen, he realized. But the dream had seemed so real! The elf’s senses told him he’d broken some spell, one that had come over him as he looked at the patterns of light and shadow up in the trees. He must have been dreaming for hours.
After a long minute waiting for the feeling to return to his legs, Kith-Kanan cast about for his sword. He found it sticking in the moss. He freed the weapon and shoved it into its scabbard. A vague sense of urgency turned him back to the blasted clearing. His last blaze was visible in the night, but the second to last was almost gone. New bark was covering the cut he’d made. The next mark was a mere slit, and the one after that he found only because he remembered the oddly forked trunk of the ash tree he’d hacked it into. There were no more to find after that. The cuts had healed.
For a moment the elf prince knew fear. He was lost in the silent forest at night, hungry, thirsty, and alone. Had enough time passed for the cuts to heal naturally, or was the grove enchanted? Even the darkness that surrounded him seemed, well, darker than usual. Not even his elven eyesight could penetrate very far.
Then the training and education of a prince reasserted itself, banishing much of the fear. Kith-Kanan, grandson of the great Silvanos, was not about to be bested on his first night in the wilderness.
He found a dry branch and set about making a torch to light his way back to the clearing. After gathering a pile of dead leaves for tinder, Kith-Kanan pulled out his flint and striker. To his surprise, no sparks flew off the iron bar when he grated the flint against it. He tried and tried, but all the fire seemed to have gone out of the flint.
There was a flutter of black wings overhead. Kith-Kanan leaped to his feet in time to see a flock of crows take up perches on a limb just out of reach. The dozen birds watched him with unnerving intelligence.
“Shoo!” he yelled, flinging a useless branch at them. The crows flapped up and, when the branch had passed, settled again in the same place and posture.
He pocketed his flint and striker. The crows followed his movements with unblinking eyes. Tired and bewildered, he addressed the birds directly. “I don’t suppose you can help me find my way back, can you?”
One by one, the birds took wing and disappeared into the night. Kith-Kanan sighed. I must be getting desperate if I’m talking to birds, he concluded. After drawing his sword, he set off again, cutting new blazes as he hunted for the clearing where he had left Arcuballis. That way, at least he could avoid walking in circles.
He smote the nearest elm twice, chipping out palm-sized bits of bark. He was about to strike a third time when he noticed the shadow of his sword arm against the gray tree trunk. Shadow? In this well of ink? Kith-Kanan turned quickly, sword ready. Floating six feet off the ground, more than a dozen feet away, was a glowing mass the size of a wine barrel. He watched, half anxious, half curious, as the glowing light came toward him. It halted two feet from his face, and Kith-Kanan could clearly see what it was.
The cool yellow mass of light was a swarm of fireflies. The insects flew in circles around each other, creating a moving lamp for the lost prince. Kith-Kanan stared at them in shock. The glowing mass moved forward a few yards and halted. Kith-Kanan took a step toward them, and they moved on a bit farther.
“Are you leading me back to the clearing?” the prince asked in wonder. In response, the fireflies moved another yard forward. Kith-Kanan followed warily, but grateful for the soft sphere of light the fireflies cast around him.
In minutes, they had led him back to the clearing. The blasted tree was just as he remembered – but Arcuballis was gone. Kith-Kanan ran to the spot where the griffon had lain to rest. The leaves and moss still carried the impression of the heavy beast, but that was all. Kith-Kanan was astonished.
He couldn’t believe Arcuballis had flown off without him. Royal griffons were bonded to their riders, and no more loyal creatures existed on Krynn. There were tales of riders dying, and their griffons following them into death out of sheer grief. Someone or something must have taken Arcuballis. But who? Or what? How could such a powerful creature be subdued without sign of a struggle?
Sick in his heart, Kith-Kanan wandered to the lightningseared tree. More bad news! His boar spear remained stuck in the trunk, but the sack containing his possessions was~gone. Angrily, he reached up and wrenched the spear free. He stood in the clearing, gazing at the dark circle of trees. Now he was truly alone. He and Arcuballis had been companions for many years. More than a means of transport, the griffon was a trusted friend.
He sagged to the ground, feeling utterly wretched. What could he do? He couldn’t even find his way around the forest in broad daylight. Kith-Kanan’s eyes brimmed, but he steadfastly refused to weep like some abandoned child.
The fireflies remained by his head. They darted forward, then back, as if reminding him they were there.
“Get away!” he snarled as they swooped scant inches from his nose. The swarm instantly dispersed. The fireflies flew off in all directions, their tiny lights flitting here and there, and then were gone.
*
“Won’t you come in? You’ll catch a chill.”
Sithel drew a woolen mantle up over his shoulders. “I am warmly dressed,” he said. His wife pulled a blanket off their bed, wrapped it around her own shoulders, and stepped out on the balcony with him.
Sithel’s long white hair lifted off his neck as a chill wind passed over the palace tower. The private rooms of the speaker and his consort took up the penultimate floor of the palace’s tower. Only the Tower of the Stars provided a higher vantage point in Silvanost.
“I felt a faint cry not long ago,” Sithel said. “Kith-Kanan?” The speaker nodded. “Do you think he is in danger?” asked Nirakina, drawing her blanket more closely about herself.
“I think he is unhappy. He must be very far away. The feeling was faint.”
Nirakina looked up at her husband. “Call him, Sithel. Call him home.”
“I will not. He offended me, and he offended the noble assembly. He broke one of our most sacred laws by drawing a weapon inside the Tower of the Stars.”
“These things can be forgiven,” she said quietly. “What else is it that makes it so hard for you
to forgive him?”
Sithel stroked his wife’s soft hair. “I might have done what he did, had my father given the woman I loved to another. But I don’t approve of his deed, and I will not call him home. If I did, he wouldn’t learn the discipline he must have. Let him stay away a while. His life here has been too easy, and the outside world will teach him to be strong and patient.”
“I’m afraid for him,” Nirakina said. “The world beyond Silvanost is a deadly place.”
Sithel raised her chin so their eyes met. “He has the blood of Silvanos in his veins. Kith-Kanan will survive, beloved, survive and prosper.” Sithel looked away, out at the dark city. He held out his arm. “Come, let us go in.”
They lay down together, as they had for more than a thousand years. But while Nirakina soon fell asleep, Sithel lay awake, worrying.
Chapter 4
THREE DAYS LATER
After three sunrises, Kith-Kanan was in despair. He’d lost his griffon and his spare clothing. When he tried his flint and striker again, he managed to start a small fire. It comforted him somewhat, but he found no food whatsoever to cook. On his third morning in the forest, he ran out of water, too.
There was no point remaining in the clearing, so he shouldered his spear and set out to find food and water. If the maps he remembered were correct, the Kharolis River lay to the west. It might be many miles, but at least it was something to aim for.
The only animals he saw on the way were more crows. The black birds stayed with him, flitting from tree to tree, punctuating their flight with short, sharp caws. The crows were Kith-Kanan’s only company, so he started talking to them. It helped keep his spirits up.
“I don’t suppose you know where my griffon is?” he asked. Not surprisingly, the birds didn’t answer, but continued to fly from tree to tree, keeping up with him.
The day dragged on and grew hotter. Even down in the eternal shade of the deep forest, Kith-Kanan sweltered, because no breeze stirred the air. The lay of the land grew rougher, too, with hills and gullies running north to south along his line of march. This encouraged him at first, because very often springs and brooks could be found at the bottom of ravines. But as he scrambled up one hill and down another, he found only moss and stones and fallen trees.
After skidding down a hillside into the nineteenth gully, Kith-Kanan paused to rest. He sat on a fallen tree, dropping the spear in front of him. He licked his dry lips again and fought down the rising feeling that he had made a grave mistake by running away. How could he have been so foolish to abandon his life of privilege for this? As soon as he asked himself the question the vision of Hermathya marrying his brother rose up in his mind, horribly vivid. Pain and loss welled up inside. To dispel the image, he stood up abruptly and started off again, shouldering his boar spear. He took two steps across the bottom of the ravine, and his feet sank an inch or so into mud, covered by a thin layer of dead leaves.
Where there’s mud, there’s water, he realized happily. Kith-Kanan went along the ravine to his right, looking for the water that must be there somewhere. He could see the ravine widen up ahead. Perhaps there was a pool, a pool of clear, sweet water....
The ravine converged on several others, making a steepsided bowl in the hills. Kith-Kanan slogged through the increasingly wet mud. He could smell water ahead. Then he could see it Da small pool, undisturbed by a ripple. The sight drew him like magic. The mud rose above his knees but he plunged on, right to the center of the pool. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and raised them to his lips.
Immediately he spit the water out again. It tasted vile, like rotted leaves. Kith-Kanan stared down at his reflection in the water. His face twisted with frustrated rage. It was no use. He would just have to keep going.
His leg wouldn’t come up out of the pool. He tried the other. It was also stuck. He strained so hard to pull them up, he nearly lost his balance. Arms flailing, Kith-Kanan twisted his hips from side to side, trying to work himself free. Instead he sank deeper into the mire. He glanced around quickly for a tree branch to grab, or a trailing vine. The nearest trees were ten feet away.
The mud was soon up to his waist. He began to sink even faster. “Help!” he cried desperately. “Is there anyone to hear?”
A flock of crows settled on the hillside facing Kith-Kanan. They watched with unnerving calm as he foundered in the killing mud.
You won’t pick my eyes, he vowed silently. When the end comes, I’ll duck under the mud before I let you black carrion eaters pick me over.
“They’re not really so bad once you get to know them,” said a voice. Kith-Kanan jerked as if struck by lightning.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, looking around at the still trees. “Help!”
“I can help you. I don’t know that I will.” It was a high, childish voice, full of smugness.
In replying, the speaker had given himself away. Kith-Kanan spotted him, to his left, in a tree.
Sitting comfortably on a thick branch, his back propped against the ancient oak trunk, was a slender young person, clad in mottled green-brown tunic and hose. A hood was drawn up over his head. The tan face that showed under the hood was painted with loops and lines, done in bright red and yellow pigment.
“Help me!” Kith-Kanan shouted. “I can reward you handsomely!”
“Really? What with?”
“Gold. Silver. Jewels.” Anything, he vowed to himself. Anything in all of Krynn.
“What is gold?”
The mud was halfway up Kith-Kanan’s chest. The pressure against his body made it difficult to draw breath. “You’re mocking me,” he gasped. “Please! I haven’t much time!”
“No, you haven’t,” noted the hooded figure uninterestedly. “What else would you give me if I help you?”
“My bow! Would you like that?”
“I can pick that out of the mire once you’re gone.”
Blast the fellow! “I haven’t anything else!” The cold muck was nearly at his shoulders. “Please, for the gods’ sake, help me!”
The hooded figure rolled nimbly forward onto his feet. “I will help you, for the gods’ sake. They often do things for me, so it seems only fair I do something for their sake now and again.”
The stranger walked heel to toe along the branch until he was almost directly over Kith-Kanan. The prince’s shoulders were in the mud, though he held his arms above his head to keep them free until the last possible second. The fellow in the tree unwrapped a belt from his waist. It had circled his slim body several times and, when unwound, was over ten feet long. Lying flat on the branch, he lowered the leather strap to Kith-Kanan. The prince caught it in his left hand.
“What are you waiting for? Pull me out!” Kith-Kanan ordered.
“If you can’t pull yourself out, I cannot do it for you,” his rescuer remarked. He looped the belt around the tree limb a few times and secured it with a knot. Then he lay on the branch, his head propped on one hand, awaiting the outcome.
Kith-Kanan grimaced and started to haul himself out by the strap. With much gasping and cursing, Kith-Kanan climbed out of the deadly mire and pulled himself up to the tree branch. He threw a leg over the branch and lay panting.
“Thank you,” he finally said, a little sarcastically.
The young fellow had moved several feet back toward the oak tree and sat with his knees drawn up. “You’re welcome,” he replied. Behind the barbarous face paint, his eyes were brilliant green. He pushed back his hood, revealing himself to be a boy with a shock of bone-white hair. His high cheekbones and tapered ears bespoke his heritage. Kith-Kanan sat up slowly, astride the branch.
“You are Silvanesti,” he said, startled.
“No, I am Mackeli.”
Kith-Kanan shook his head. “You are of the race of the Silvanesti, as am I.”
The elf boy stood on the branch. “I don’t know what you mean. I am Mackeli.”
The branch was too narrow for Kith-Kanan to stand on, so he inched his way forward to the t
ree trunk. The deadly mud below was hidden once more under its covering of water. He shuddered as he looked down upon it. “You see we are alike, don’t you?”
Mackeli, hopping nimbly along the branch, glanced back at Kith-Kanan and said, “No. I don’t see that we are alike.”
Exasperated and too tired to continue, Kith-Kanan gave up that line of conversation.
They climbed down to solid ground. Kith-Kanan followed the scampering boy slowly. Even so, he lost his grip on the trunk and fell the last few feet. He landed on his rear with a thud and groaned.
“You are clumsy,” Mackeli observed.
“And you are rude. Do you know who I am?” the prince said haughtily.
“A clumsy outlander.” The elf boy reached around his back and brought back a gourd bottle, laced tightly with deerskin. He poured a trickle of clear water into his open mouth. Kith-Kanan watched intently, his throat moving with imaginary swallows.
“May I – may I have some water?” he pleaded.
Mackeli shrugged and handed him the bottle. Kith-Kanan took the gourd in his muddy hands and drank greedily. He drained the bottle in three gulps.
“May the gods bless you,” he said, handing the empty container to the boy.
Mackeli upended the bottle, saw that it was indeed completely dry, and gave Kith-Kanan a disgusted look.
“I haven’t had any water in two days,” Kith-Kanan explained. “Nor have I eaten. Do you have any food?”
“Not with me. There is some at home.”
“Would you take me there?”
Mackeli raised his hood again, hiding his startlingly white hair. With it covered, he was superbly camouflaged, blending into the forest. “Won’t know if that would be right. Ny might not like it.”
“I appeal to you, friend. I am desperate. I have lost my steed and my way, and I cannot seem to find any game in this accursed forest. If you don’t help me, I shall starve in this wilderness.”
