The History of Krynn: Vol III

by Dragon Lance

  Nirakina walked three steps behind them, and after her the honor guard fell in with the clank and rattle of armor and metal sandals. The boys led the procession in slow step, banging their sistrums against their hands. To this steady rhythm the elf girls followed, strewing flower petals in the path of the bride.

  Outside, the sun was high and bright, and every spire in Silvanost boasted a streaming banner.

  When Hermathya appeared on the steps of the Palace of Quinari, the assembled crowd let out a shout of greeting.

  “What do I do?” Hermathya murmured. “Do I wave?”

  “No, that would be vulgar. You must be above it all,” said Nirakina softly.

  A phalanx of pipers, clad in brilliant green, formed in front of the sistrum-bearing boys and played a bright fanfare. The music settled into a march as the procession wound around the Gardens of Astarin, following the circular road. According to ritual, the bride was first taken to the temple of Quenesti Pah, where she underwent a rite of purification. At the same time, the groom was receiving similar rites in the temple of E’li.

  Then the two came together before the speaker in the Tower of the Stars, where they exchanged golden rings shaped to resemble twining branches and where their joining was finally accomplished.

  The sun shone down from a spring sky unsullied by a single cloud, and the marble buildings glowed in the midst of velvety green foliage. The crowd cheered mightily for the spectacle. Perhaps, Hermathya thought idly, in time they will cheer so for me....

  “Careful, Lady,” warned Kencathedrus. The flower petals were being trodden to mush, and the road was getting a bit treacherous. Hermathya’s golden sandals were stained with the crushed pulp. She lifted the hem of her diaphanous white gown out of the debris.

  The squat, conical tower of the Temple of E’li appeared ahead on her right. Hermathya could see Sithas’s guard of honor-at least a hundred warriors-drawn up on the. Steps. Just as her own attendants were bedecked in gold and white, so Sithas’s attendants wore gold and green. She tried to keep her eyes straight ahead as they passed the temple, but she was drawn irresistibly to look in the open doors. It was dark inside the house of worship, and though she could see torches blazing on the wall, she could see neither Sithas nor anyone else within.

  As the bride’s entourage rounded the curve, the press of the crowd became greater and the cheering intensified. The shadow cast by the Tower of the Stars fell across the street. It was thought to be good luck to stand in the structure’s shadow, so hundreds were crammed into the narrow space.

  On a sudden impulse, Hermathya abandoned her distant, serene demeanor and smiled. The cheering increased. She raised her free hand and waved, once to the people of Silvanost. A roar went up such as the ‘City had never heard, a roar that excited her.

  In the Temple of E’li, Sithas heard the roar. He was kneeling before the high priest, about to be anointed with sacred oils. He raised his head slightly and turned one ear toward the sound. The warrior who knelt behind him whispered, “$ball I see what is the matter, Lord?”

  “No” replied Sithas levelly. “I believe the people have just met the bride.”

  *

  The Temple of Quenesti Pah, goddess of health and fertility, was a light, airy vault with a roof of transparent tortoiseshell. There was no great central tower, as in most of the other temples. Instead, four thin spires rose from the comers of the roof, solid columns of rock that reached skyward. Though not as imposing as the House of E’li, or as somber as the Temple of Matheti, Mermathya thought the Temple of Quenesti Pah the prettiest building in Silvanost.

  The pipers, sistrum players, and flower girls all turned aside and flanked the entrance to the temple. The honor guard halted at the foot of the steps.

  Nirakina stepped up beside Hermathya. “If you have finished performing for the crowd, we will go in.” In her tone could be detected a sharpness, and Hermathya hid a smile. Without replying, Hermathya gave the crowd one last wave before she entered the temple.

  Nirakina watched her ascend the steps. She was really trying to get along with the girl, but every passing moment added to her irritation. For Sithas’s sake, she wanted the marriage to be a success, but her overwhelming feeling was that Hermathya was a spoiled child.

  Inside, the ritual was brief, consisting of little more than prayers and the washing of Hermathya’s hands in scented water. Nirakina hovered over her, her distaste for the younger woman’s behavior just barely concealed. But Hermathya had understood Nirakina’s annoyance, and she found that she enjoyed it. It added to her sense of excitement.

  The ritual done, the bride rose to her feet and thanked Miritelisina, the high priestess. Then, without waiting for Nirakina, she walked swiftly from the temple. The crowd was waiting breathlessly for her reappearance, and Hermathya did not disappoint them. A thunder of approval built from the back of the crowd, where the poorest elves stood. She flashed them a smile, then moved with quick grace down to Kencathedrus. Nirakina hurried after her, looking harassed and undignified.

  The procession reformed, and the pipers played “Children of the Stars,” the ancient tune that every elf knew from childhood. Even Hermathya was surprised, however, when the people began to sing along with the pipers.

  She slowed her pace and gradually stopped. The procession strung out until the pipers in the fore realized that those behind had halted. The music swelled higher and louder until Harmathya felt that she was being lifted by it.

  With little prelude, the bride sang. At her side, Kencathedrus looked at her in wonder. He glanced over his armored shoulder to Lady Nirakina, who stood silent and straight, arms held rigidly at her sides. Her voluminous sleeves covered her tightly clenched fists.

  Some in the crowd ceased their own singing that they might hear the bride. But as the last verse of the song began, they all joined in; once more the sound threatened to raise the city from its foundations. When the last words of “Children of the Stars” faded in the throats of thousands, silence fell over Silvanost. The silence seemed more intense because of the tumult earlier. Everyone assembled in the street, every elf on rooftops and in tower windows had his or her eyes on Hermathya.

  Casually the bride took her hand from Kencathedrus’s arm and walked through the procession toward the Tower of the Stars. The flower girls and sistrum-bearers parted in complete silence. Hermathya walked with calm grace through the ranks of the pipers. They stood aside, their silver flutes stilled. Up the steps of the Tower of the Stars she moved, appearing in the doorway alone.

  Sithas stood in the center of the hall, waiting. With much less fanfare, he had come from the Temple of E’li with his retainers. Farther inside, Sithel sat on his throne. The golden mantle that lay on the speaker’s shoulders spread out on the floor before him, trailing down the two steps of the dais, across the platform and down the seven steps to where Sithas stood. In front of the throne dais was an ornate and intricately carved golden tray on a silver stand. On the tray rested the golden rings the couple would exchange.

  Hermathya came forward. The silence continued as if the entire elven nation was holding its breath. Part of the sensation was awe, and part was amazement. The bride of the speaker’s heir had broken several traditions on her way to the tower. The royal family had always maintained an aloofness, an air of unbreachable dignity. Hermathya had flaunted herself before the crowd, yet the people of Silvanost seemed to love her for it.

  Sithas wore ceremonial armor over his robe of gold. The skillfully worked breastplate and shoulder pieces were enameled in vibrant green. Though the cuirass bore the arms of Silvanos, Sithas had attached a small red rosebud to his sleeve, a small but potent symbol of his devotion to his patron deity.

  When Hermathya drew near, he said teasingly, “Well, my dear, has the celebration ended?”

  “No,” she said, smiling sweetly. “It has just begun.”

  Hand in hand, they went before Sithel.

  *

  The feasting that began that even
ing continued for four days. It grew quite wearing on the newlyweds, and after the second day they retired to the fifth floor of the Quinari tower, which had been redecorated as their living quarters. At night, Hermathya and Sithas stood on their balcony overlooking the heart of the city and watched the revelries below.

  “Do you suppose anyone remembers what the celebration is for?” asked Hermathya.

  “They don’t tonight. They will tomorrow,” Sithas said forcefully.

  Yet he found it difficult being alone with her. She was so much a stranger to him – and always, in the back of his mind, he wondered if she compared him to Kith-Kanan. Though they were nearly identical in looks, Sithel’s heir knew that he and his brother were worlds apart in temperament. Sithas grasped the balcony rail tightly. For the first time in his life he was at a loss as to what to do or say.

  “Are you happy?” Hermathya asked after a long, mutual silence.

  “I am content,” he said carefully.

  “Will you ever be happy?” she asked coyly.

  Sithas turned to his wife and said, “I will endeavor to try.”

  “Do you miss Kith-Kanan?”

  The calm golden eyes clouded for a moment. “Yes, I miss him. Do you, Lady?”

  Hermathya touched the starjewel she wore pinned to the throat of her gown. Slowly she leaned against the prince and slipped an arm about his waist. “No, I don’t miss him,” she said a little too strongly.

  Chapter 6

  THE SAME DAY, IN THE FOREST

  Shorn of his armor and city-made clothes, Kith-Kanan padded through the forest in a close-fitting deerskin tunic and leggings such as Mackeli wore. He was trying to circle Mackeli’s house without the boy hearing him.

  “You’re by the gray elm,” Mackeli’s voice sang out. And so Kith-Kanan was. Try as he might, he still made too much noise. The boy might keep his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see the heat of Kith-Kanan’s body, but Mackeli’s keen ears were never fooled.

  Kith-Kanan doubled back six feet and dropped down on his hands. There was no sound in the woods. Mackeli called, “You can’t steal up on anyone by sitting still.”

  The prince stepped only on the tree roots that humped up above the level of the fallen leaves. In this way he went ten paces without making a sound. Mackeli said nothing, and the prince grinned to himself. The boy couldn’t hear him! At last.

  He stepped far out from a root to a flat stone. The stone was tall enough to allow him to reach a low limb on a yew tree. As silently as possible, he pulled himself up into the yew tree, hugging the trunk. His green and brown tunic blended well with the lichen-spotted bark. A hood concealed his fair hair. Immobile, he waited. He’d surprise the boy this time!

  Any second now, Mackeli would walk by and then he’d spring down on him. But something firm thumped against his hood. Kith-Kanan raised his eyes and saw Mackeli, clinging to the tree just three feet above him. He nearly fell off the branch, so great was his surprise.

  “By the Dragonqueen!” he swore. “How did you get up there?”

  “I climbed,” said Mackeli smugly.

  “But how? I never saw —”

  “Walking on the roots was good, Kith, but you spent so much time watching your feet I was able to slip in front of you.”

  “But this tree! How did you know which one to climb?”

  Mackeli shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I made it easy for you. I pushed the stone out far enough for you to step on and climbed up here to wait. You did the rest.”

  Kith-Kanan swung down to the ground. “I feel like a fool. Why, your average goblin is probably better in the woods than I am.”

  Mackeli let go of the tree and fell in a graceful arc. He caught the low branch with his fingertips to slow his descent. Knees bent, he landed beside Kith-Kanan.

  “You are pretty clumsy,” he said without malice. “But you don’t smell as bad as a goblin.”

  “My thanks.” said the prince sourly.

  “It’s really just a matter of breathing.”

  “Breathing? How?”

  “You breathe like this.” Mackeli threw back his shoulders and puffed out his thin chest. He inhaled and exhaled like a blacksmith’s bellows. The sight was so absurd, Kith-Kanan had to smile. “Then you walk the way you breathe.” The boy stomped about exaggeratedly, lifting his feet high and crashing them into the scattered leaves and twigs.

  Kith-Kanan’s smile flattened into a frown. “How do you breathe?” he asked.

  Mackeli rooted about at the base of the tree until he found a cast-off feather. He lay on his back and placed it on his upper lip. So smoothly did the elf boy draw breath, the feather never wavered.

  “Am I going to have to learn how to breathe?” Kith-Kanan demanded.

  “It would be a good start,” said Mackeli. He hopped to his feet. “We go home now.”

  Several days passed slowly for Kith-Kanan in the forest. Mackeli was a clever and engaging companion, but his diet of nuts, berries, and water did not agree with the elf prince’s tastes. His belly, which was hardly ample to start with, shrank under the simple fare. Kith-Kanan longed for meat and nectar. Only Ny could get meat, the boy insisted. Yet there was no sign of the mysterious “Ny.”

  There was also no sign of the missing Arcuballis. Though Kith-Kanan prayed that somehow they could be reunited, he knew there was little hope for this. With no idea where the griffon had been taken and no way of finding out, the prince tried to accept that Arcuballis was gone forever. The griffon, a tangible link with his old life, was gone, but Kith-Kanan still had his memories.

  These same memories returned to torment the prince in his dreams during those days. He heard once more his father announce Hermathya’s betrothal to Sithas. He relived the ordeal in the Tower of the Stars, and, most terrible of all, he listened to Hermathya’s calm acceptance of Sithas.

  Kith-Kanan filled his days talking with and learning from Mackeli, determined to build a new life away from Silvanost. Perhaps that life would be here, he decided, in the peace and solitude of the ancient forest.

  One time Kith-Kanan asked Mackeli where he’d been born, where he’d come from.

  “I have always been from here,” Mackeli replied, waving absently at the trees.

  “You were born here?”

  “I have always been here,” he replied stubbornly.

  At that, Kith-Kanan gave up. Questions about the past stymied the boy almost as much as queries about the future. If he stuck to the presents and whatever they were doing at the moment – he could almost have a conversation with Mackeli.

  In return for Mackeli’s lessons in stealth and survival, Kith-Kanan regaled his young friend with tales of Silvanost, of the great wars against the dragons, and of the ways of city-bred elves.

  Mackeli loved these stories, but more than anything, metal fascinated him. He would sit crosslegged on the ground and hold some object of Kith-Kanan’s – his helmet, a greave, a piece from his armor-and rub his small brown fingers against the cold surface again and again. He could not fathom how such hard material could be shaped so intricately. Kith-Kanan explained what he knew of smithy and foundry work. The idea that metal could be melted and poured absolutely astounded Mackeli.

  “You put metal in the fire,” he said, “and it doesn’t burn? It gets soft and runny, like water?”

  “Well, it’s thicker than water.”

  “Then you take away the fire, and the metal gets hard again?”

  Kith-Kanan nodded. “You made that up!” Mackeli exclaimed. “Things put in the fire get burned.”

  “I swear by E’li, it is the truth.”

  Mackeli was too slight to handle the sword, but he was able to draw the bow well enough to shoot. He had an uncanny eye, and Kith-Kanan wished he would use some of that stealth to bring down a deer for dinner. But it was not to be; Mackeli didn’t eat meat and he refused to shed blood for Kith-Kanan. Only Ny...

  On a gray and rainy morning, Mackeli went out to gather nuts and roots. Kith-Kanan remained
in the hollow tree, stoking the fire, polishing his sword and dagger. When the rain showed signs of letting up, he left his weapons below and climbed the ladder to the upper part of the oak tree. He stood on a branch thicker around than his waist and surveyed the rain-washed forest. Drops fell from the verdant leaves, and the air had a clean, fertile smell. Deeply the prince inhaled. He had found a small measure of peace here, and the meeting with the Forestmaster had foretold great adventure for his future.

  Kith-Kanan went back down and immediately noticed that his sword and dagger were gone. His first thought was that Mackeli had come back and was playing a trick on him, but the prince saw no signs the boy had returned. He turned around and was going back up the tree when something heavy struck him from behind, in the middle of his back.

  He crashed against the trunk, spun, and saw nothing. “Mackeli!” he cried, “This isn’t funny!” Neither was the blow on the back of his head that followed. A weight bore Kith-Kanan to the ground. He rolled and felt arms and legs around him. Something black and shiny flashed by his nose. He knew the move of a stabbing attack, and he put out both hands to seize the attacker’s wrist.

  His assailant’s face was little more than a whorl of painted lines and a pair of shadowed eyes. The flint knife wavered, and as Kith-Kanan backhanded the knife wielder, the painted face let out a gasp of pain. Kith-Kanan sat up, wrenched the knife out of its owner’s grasp, and pinned his attacker to the ground with one knee.

  “The kill is yours,” said the attacker. His struggles faded, and he lay tense but passive under Kith-Kanan’s weight.

  Kith-Kanan threw the knife away and stood up. “Who are you?”

  “The one who is here. Who are you?” the painted elf said sharply.

  “I am Kith, formerly of Silvanost. Why did you attack me?”

  “You are in my house.”