tunic had been washed to sickly greenish yellow, and the front had been torn from collarbone to abdomen. A rivulet of blood dripped from the elf lord's mouth, and one eye was swelling shut. Xenoth's gown bore a splash of mud down the front. Tanis looked down at his own clothes; one mud-caked moccasin lay against a bench. The sand color of his breeches had disappeared under a coat of slimy mud. And the bow-the weapon that had started all this-was in pieces at his feet. Although spots of blood dotted his shirt, he didn't appear to be injured beyond minor bruises and cuts, however.
Then Tanis's breath caught in his throat. For on the granite path, cracked and broken, lay Flint's carving.
As the wheezing adviser helped Porthios into the palace-screeching, 'You'll hear about this, half-elf!' — Tanis dropped to his knees and tenderly picked up the fragments of the carving. One fish survived unbroken, but the thin chain that had attached it to the crossbar had snapped. The crossbar itself was missing. And the base-the delightfully carved representation of the bottom of a rocky stream-had cracked right through the middle. He gathered the pieces together, finding the crossbar in a puddle about five paces away, and wrapped them in the front tail of his loose shirt.
Tanis looked up. The door had slammed behind Xenoth and Porthios, and he stood alone in the gray courtyard.
The rain continued to pour down.
The Speaker of the Sun strode swiftly down the corridor, his forest green cloak billowing out behind him like some fantastic storm cloud, its golden trim flashing like strange, metallic lightning. But it was the lightning in his eyes that caused startled servants and courtiers to step quickly from his path as he passed through the palace on his way toward the family chambers. All knew from experience it took much to anger the Speaker, but mercy to those unfortunate enough to be caught in his path when he was finally moved to ire.
'Tanis!' he called out sternly as he pushed through the door to the half-elf's bedchamber. 'Tanthalas!'
The room was unlit by lamp, but a form, silhouetted in the red light of Lunitari, which streamed in through one window, shifted on the bed.
'Tanthalas,' Solostaran repeated.
The figure sat up. 'Yes.' The voice was like lead-flat, heavy, immovable.
The Speaker moved to strike a flint and light a small lamp. He looked over at the slumped figure on the bed, and caught his breath.
Bruises and scabs stood out against the pale skin of Tanis's face and arms. He shifted his weight, inhaled sharply and grasped his side, then just as quickly sat up straighter.
Over the years Solostaran had learned to force his emotions into the cool mask that he presented at court. That training stood him in good stead now as he watched the adopted nephew he loved so well struggle to maintain a look of nonchalance-as though a wealth of welts and bruises were a normal part of everyday life.
The Speaker remained standing, voice devoid of warmth. 'To be fair, I will tell you that Porthios refuses to explain what happened. And apparently he has cowed, coerced, or cajoled everyone else out there-even Lord Xenoth, to my surprise-into keeping silent as well. Will you tell me what occurred in the courtyard today?'
The figure on the bed remained silent. Then Tanis looked down at his lap and shook his head.
The Speaker's voice continued implacably. 'Somehow, I am not surprised at your reticence, Tanthalas. And I will not force you to speak-if, indeed, I could. This appears to be something that you and Porthios must work out on your own. But I will tell you one thing.' He stopped speaking. 'Are you listening?'
The figure nodded but didn't look up.
The Speaker went on. 'Good. Then let me tell you this: This will not happen again. Ever. I will not have my son and my… nephew rolling in the dirt, acting like… like…'
'Like humans,' Tanis finished softly. The phrase shivered in the evening air.
Solostaran sighed, searched for another way to phrase it, then decided that bluntness might work best. 'Yes, if you will. Like humans.'
The figure on the bed waited several heartbeats and nodded again. Solostaran stepped closer; Tanis held something in his hands. A carved wooden fish? A shock of suspicion went through the Speaker.
'Don't tell me that all of this was over a broken toy,' he demanded.
When Tanis didn't answer, Solostaran sighed and prepared to go. 'I will send Miral with salves. Get some sleep.' His tone grew gentler. 'Can I have anything or anyone sent to you, Tanthalas?'
The reply, when it came, was so soft that the Speaker barely heard the words.
'Flint Fireforge.'
Chapter 6
'You can drop that oven by the furnace, lad,' Flint said as he led the way into the clutter of his shop.
With a groan of relief, Tanis let go of the heavy sack. It plummeted to the floor.
'I didn't mean that literally,' Flint growled at the winded-looking half-elf as he carefully set down the sack that had rested on his own shoulder.
'Sorry,' Tanis said wearily, rubbing his aching arm.
The two had just returned from an ore-gathering trip, though Tanis wondered now how he had ever managed to let the dwarf talk him into it. An hour or two ago, in the early morning sunshine, Flint had led the way south out of the city, empty sacks in hand. After a pleasant mile, the forest had given way to a rocky outcrop, littered with rusty-looking chunks of stone that Flint said was iron ore. Ten minutes later, Tanis had found himself staggering under the weight of the load the dwarf had lifted onto his shoulders.
'Wouldn't it be easier to bring a horse to carry this back?' Tanis had asked through clenched teeth.
'A horse?' Flint said with a snort. 'Are you daft? Reorx! No dwarf in his right mind would trust a crazy animal to carry his ore.'
Tanis knew there was little point in arguing with the dwarf. Flint had lifted his sack-which must have held five times the ore Tanis's had-as if it were filled with feathers and started back toward the city. Tanis had followed, stumbling along as best he could, reminding himself to be wary next time Flint suggested they go for 'a nice little walk.'
Tanis had visited with Flint nearly every day, ever since the Speaker sent the dwarf a message late in the evening a week ago, asking him to go to the half-elf in his quarters in the palace. They'd spoken of precious little of importance in that visit-weather and Solace and metalworking and carving-but Tanis, looking a bit battered, seemed to draw some comfort from the meeting. Since then, the half-elf's scrapes and bruises had nearly faded, but the rift between him and the Speaker's heir would be much longer in healing.
'But how are you going to turn that rock into iron?' Tanis asked now as the dwarf lifted the heavy cover of the furnace out behind the shop.
'You'll only learn by doing,' Flint told him. 'At least, that was what my father's father, old Reghar Fireforge, used to say. Or so my mother says he said.'
The furnace was round, as tall as the dwarf, made of thick, fire-scorched mudbricks. The bottom was funnel- shaped with a small hole, and below that rested a crucible the size of a helmet. Under Flint's direction, Tanis half- filled the furnace with layers of iron ore, hard coal, and a chalky kind of rock that Flint called limestone. Through a small door in the bottom of the furnace, Flint lit the coal, then Tanis helped him replace the lid.
'What now?' Tanis asked.
'We wait,' Flint said, dusting his sooty hands off. 'Once that coal starts to burn hot, the iron will melt right out of the rock, leaving the slag behind, and drip down into the crucible. But that will take a good day, so we might as well turn our hands to another task.'
Flint showed Tanis what the iron would look like after it had collected in the bowl: a heavy, black lump he called 'pig iron,' though Tanis didn't think it looked at all piglike.
