Douglas Niles - The Kinslayer Wars

Reluctantly Sithas forced his mind back to the present, to his current location. He cast his eyes around his surroundings to force the transition in his thoughts. A dozen elven guards, in silver breastplates and tall, plumed helmets, snapped their halberds to attention around the periphery of the hall. They stood impassive and silent as the noble lord marched toward the throne. Otherwise the great hall, with its gleaming marble floor and the ceiling towering six hundred feet overhead, was empty.

Sithas looked at Quimant. The elven noble wore a long cloak of black over a silk tunic of light green. Tights of red, and soft, black boots, completed his ensemble.

Lord Quimant of Oakleaf was a very handsome elf indeed. But he was also intelligent, quick-witted, and alert to many threats and opportunities that might otherwise have missed Sithas’s notice.

“This is my nephew,” the lord explained. “Ganrock Ethu, master smith. I recommend him, my Speaker, for the position of palace smith. He is shrewd, quick to learn, and a very hard worker.”

“But Herrlock Redmoon has always handled the royal smithy,” Sithas protested. Then he remembered: Herrlock had been blinded the week before in a tragic accident, when he had touched spark to his forge. Somehow the kindled coal had exploded violently, destroying his eyes beyond the abilities of Silvanost’s clerics to repair. After seeing that the loyal smith was well cared for and as comfortable as possible, Sithas had promised to select a replacement. He looked at the young elf before him. Ganrock’s face showed lines of maturity, and the thick muscle of his upper torso showed proof of long years of work.

“Very well,” Sithas agreed. “Show him the royal smithy and find out what he needs to get started.” He called to one of his guards and told the elf to accompany Ganrock Ethu to the forge area, which lay in the rear of the Palace of Quinari.

“Thank you, Your Eminence,” said the smith, with a sudden bow. “I shall endeavor to do fine work for you.”

“Very good,” replied the Speaker. Quimant lingered as the smith left the hall. Lord Quimant’s narrow face tightened in determination as he turned back to Sithas.

“What is it, my lord? You look distressed.” Sithas raised a hand and bade Quimant stand beside him.

“The Smelters Guild, Your Highness,” replied the noble elf. “They refuse—they simply refuse—to work their foundries during the hours of darkness. Without the additional steel, our weapon production is hamstrung, barely adequate for even peacetime needs.”

Sithas cursed quietly. Nevertheless, he was thankful that Quimant had informed him. The proud heir of Clan Oakleaf had greatly improved the efficiency of Silvanost’s war preparations by spotting details—such as this one—that would have escaped Sithas’s notice.

“I shall speak to the smelter Kerilar,” Sithas vowed. “He is a stubborn old elf, but he knows the importance of the sword. I will make him understand, if I have to.”

“Very good, Excellency,” said Lord Quimant, with a bow. He straightened again. “Is there news of the war?”

“Not since the last letter, a week ago. The Wildrunners remain besieged in Sithelbec, while the humans roam the disputed lands at will. Kith has no chance to break out. He’s now surrounded by a hundred thousand men.” The lord shook his head grimly before fixing Sithas with a hard gaze. “He must be reinforced—there’s no other way. You know this, don’t you?” Sithas met Quimant’s gaze with equal steadiness. “Yes—I do. But the only way I can recruit more troops is to conscript them from the city and the surrounding clan estates. You know what kind of dispute that will provoke!”

“How long can your brother hold his fort?”

“He has rations enough for the winter. The casualties of the battle were terrible, of course, but the remainder of his force is well disciplined, and the fortress is strong.”

The news of the battlefield debacle had hit the elven capital hard. As the knowledge spread that two thousand of the city’s young elves—two out of every five who had marched so proudly to the west—had perished in the fight, Silvanost had been shrouded in grief for a week.

Sithas learned of the battle at the same time as he heard that his brother had fallen and was most likely lost. For two days, his world had been a grim shroud of despair. Knowing that Kith had reached safety lightened the burden to some extent, but their prospects for victory still seemed nonexistent. How long would it be, he had agonized, before the rest of the Wildrunners fell to the overwhelming tide around them?

Then gradually his despair had turned to anger—anger at the shortsightedness of his own people. Elves had crowded the Hall of Audience on the Trial Days, disrupting the proceedings. The emotions of the city’s elves had been inflamed by the knowledge that the rest of the Wildrunners had suffered nowhere near the size of losses inflicted upon the elves of Silvanost. It was not uncommon now to hear voices raised in the complaint that the western lands should be turned over to the humans and the Wildrunner elves, to let them battle each other to extinction.

“Very well—so he can hold out.” Quimant’s voice was strong yet deferential.

“But he cannot escape! We must send a fresh army, a large one, to give him the sinew he needs!”

“There are the dwarves. We have yet to hear from them,” Sithas pointed out.

“Pah! If they do anything, it will be too late! It seems that Than-Kar sympathizes with the humans as much as with us. The dwarves will never do anything so long as he remains their voice and their ears!” Ah—but he is not their voice and ears. Sithas had that thought with some small satisfaction, but he said nothing to Quimant as the lord continued, though his thoughts considered the potential of hope. Tamanier Ambrodel, I am depending upon you!

“Still, we must tolerate him, I suppose. He is our best chance of an alliance.”

“As always, good cousin, your words are the mirror of my thoughts.” Sithas straightened in his throne, a signal that the interview drew to a close. “But my decision is still to wait. Kith-Kanan is secure for now, and we may learn more as time goes on.”

He hoped he was right. The fortress was strong, and the humans would undoubtedly require months to prepare a coordinated assault. But what then?

“Very well.” Quimant cleared his throat awkwardly, then added, “What is the word of my cousin? I have not seen her for some weeks now.”

“Her time is near,” Sithas offered. “Her sisters have come from the estates to stay with her, and she has been confined to bed by the clerics of Quenesti Pah.”

Quimant nodded. “Please give her my wishes when next you see her. May she give birth speedily, to a healthy child.”

“Indeed.”

Sithas watched the elegant noble walk from the hall. He was impressed by Quimant’s bearing. The lord knew his worth to the throne, proven in the halfyear since he had come to Silvanost. He showed sensitivity to the desires of the Speaker and seemed to work well toward those ends.

He heard one of the side doors open and looked across the great hall as a silk-gowned female elf entered. Her eyes fell softly on the figure seated upon the brilliant throne with its multitude of green, gleaming facets.

“Mother,” said Sithas with delight. He didn’t see much of Nirakina around the palace during these difficult days, and this visit was a pleasant surprise. He was struck, as she approached him, by how much older she looked.

“I see you do not have attendants now,” she said quietly to Sithas, who rose and approached her. “So often you are busy with the affairs of state ... and war.”

He sighed. “War has become the way of my life—the way all Silvanost lives now.” He felt a twinge of sadness for his mother. So often Sithas looked upon the death of his father as an event that had placed the burden of rule on his own shoulders. He tended to forget that it had, at the same time, made his mother a widow.