He became aware that the soldiers were the only inhabitants, that the tree had been evacuated, like the surrounding countryside.
Time and again he tried calling the others—Darad, Jalon, Andor, or even old Sagorn. The spell never worked for him. He had to put in more living, even if he wore out his heart in doing so. The elves were determined that there be one of two possible outcomes—either he would arrive at his destination or he would die. He could barely remember a time when he had not been climbing stairs.
6
He was in a big, bright hall, whose walls and pillars of intricately carved cedar were barely visible through clouds of scented steam. Someone had just told him to strip. He fumbled helplessly with buttons, then golden hands came to help him, moving swiftly, urgently—two elves undressing him. He did not know what sex they were and did not care. As his pants fell around his ankles, a gentle push sent him toppling backward into a pool of scalding hot water. When he surfaced, spluttering and choking, two soaked male elves were having hysterics on the brink, holding each other up in mutual convulsions of mirth.
After that they spared no more time for jollity. They jumped right in beside him, scrubbed him, shampooed him, ducked him, and then hauled him out to dry and clothe him. He could not stand unsupported, so they fetched a chair.
“Whasall the burnin’ hurry?” he muttered, and one of them took that opportunity to shove a foamy toothbrush in his mouth and scour his teeth.
“The High War Chief awaits!” exclaimed the other, lathering Thinal’s face for shaving.
He relaxed. He had been afraid it might be the warlock. He dozed off during the shave.
Clad in fine wool garments of silver and burgundy, he was hastened out to a chill morning. The low sun blinded him, blazing in over pine trees, reflecting also from a sky of carved diamond far above, glittering on the frosty grass beside the path and the film of ice on the lake. Steadied by hands on his arms, he stumbled along obediently. The air was much too thin to breathe. He was surrounded by elves, but none of them wore mail or helmets; sunlight flamed on the spun gold of their hair and the myriad colors of their garb.
Then he registered a stranger, a head that stood clear of all the others and was topped by riotous brown thatch. Rap! He was clad in white and gray, the same gray as his eyes, a whale among a school of goldfish—Thinal wondered whose idea that outfit had been. In a moment, Rap glanced around and saw him. His ugly faun face lit up like the sunlight.
What? Pleasure? Relief? In his fog of fatigue and hopelessness, Thinal wrestled with the amazing thought that the king of Krasnegar seemed glad to see him. Had even been worried, maybe? It was an incredible notion, a mind-crippling astonishment, a sensation so unfamiliar that his mind could not grasp it. He knew what the other four thought of him. He knew who his friends were back in Hub, and they were no more trustworthy than he was; any of them would sell him for a copper groat. Somebody cared?
No, that was ridiculous. It must have been a trick of the light.
He stumbled up the steps into the great wooden hall that stood on the lake shore, barely noticing the ornate carvings, the bronze-studded doors, the ankle-deep rugs within. Then his gaze was caught by a figurine on an onyx table. It was Kerithian workmanship, undoubtedly, but of a style he had never seen before—a horse rising on its hind legs, spreading butterfly wings. The porcelain was so fine that it was transparent and the colors richer than rubies. He had not known that the merfolk crafted for elvish tastes, but of course why shouldn’t they? And the thought of the price that piece would fetch from the fences of Grunge Street made his head ache.
Then he had gone by that wonder and was being hurried past a portrait of some elvish beauty, unquestionably the work of the legendary Puin’lyn. No one else had ever mastered her technique of setting gemstones in crystal. With breathtaking artistry, the mosaic face smiled back at him mysteriously, as if challenging him to assess her worth. God of Greed! Of course he’d have to melt it down and job the gems by the cupful, but he’d still pocket enough to buy a palace.
More, and more! Everywhere his eyes turned they found wonders and treasure. The itch in his hands was driving him crazy. Jalon’s head would explode if he ever saw this, and his own was like to. Thinal gave no spit for beauty; it was the value that stunned him. He had not known there was so much wealth in the world. This room would buy the Impire and leave enough change for a couple of Zarks.
The sky tree’s leaves were narrow, up here near the summit. High and vast and airy, the hall was set on the very brink, its great windows overlooking a mauve sky. All of Pandemia lay below, curving away into a vague fog where the horizon should be. Thinal did not notice any of that. He stood in a fog of gold and riches.
The solitary chair on the dais before those windows had its back to the chamber. Thinal had been placed beside Rap, flanked by a small group of elves. Two were token soldiers, the rest civilians. Everyone was waiting respectfully for that chair to do something-everyone except Thinal. He was estimating tapestry by the square cubit. He was assessing the diamond and crystal chandeliers, the sculptures and paintings. He was wondering if he could sidle closer to some of the jewel-encrusted bric-a-brac on the side tables. It was torment.
The chair pivoted slowly to face the assembly. A youth in white velvet lounged upon the carmine satin of its cushions. Even Thinal noticed the drama of that quiet move. A quiver of warning raced down his spine. He had seen that lad somewhere before. No, Jalon had. Jalon’s recall of events was usually a blur, but his visual memories were acute as razors. A waiter? No, a dishwasher.
How could that be? Why should even Jalon remember a juvenile dishwasher of no exceptional beauty, at least by elvish standards? Thinal’s knees buckled. That long-ago flunky had turned out to be Warlock Lith’rian himself!
Fortunately everyone else was bowing, and he converted his involuntary curtsey into a bow more or less like theirs. When he straightened up, he pushed his knees hard together and tucked his sweating hands out of sight behind him.
Rap spoke first. Surprised, Thinal glanced up. He saw no smile to accompany the words, but there must be a smile intended, or they would be outrageous.
“I am Rap, son of Grossnuk. I come in peace. Your foes are mine.”
Surely no elf in all history had ever heard that greeting spoken in his sky tree, but the warlock’s expression did not change by an eyelash, for there was no expression on his face at all. If he made a signal, it was not mundane. Two young pages hurried forward, one from either side, each bearing a silver tray. Warlock and king were tendered goblets.
Lith’rian took his with graceful golden fingers and raised it in salutation. ”Safe haven and good sport,” he said softly. It was, of course, the correct response, but he did not drink. The opal eyes shimmered to new shades. ”Chieftain Rap, you are welcome to our hearth and spring. We offer what we have, and may the Good be prospered by your coming. May your stay be joyful and your leaving long delayed.”
Rap glanced down, met Thinal’s worried stare, and flickered him a wink. Probably he was taking a moment to nudge his memory, but when he replied to the warlock he did not stumble: “May the Good grow within your house and the Evil diminish. May your men be strong and your women fertile, your children wax in beauty and your elders in wisdom. May your crops flourish, your herds increase, and all your arrows fly true.”
The wink had produced a very odd sensation in Thinal’s throat. It had said, of course, that Rap remembered who had taught him the faunish salutation, and where, in days that were gone. But it might have said more than that—he would have to consider . . . Why had the warlock not touched crystal to lip yet? He wasn’t waiting on Thinal to do something, was he? Panic!
No—Rap seemed puzzled, also. “Your Omnipotence, I confess I am ignorant of the correct elvish greeting.”
The youth sprawled in the chair made an inscrutable gesture with his free hand. “Strangers within sky trees are so rare that we have never developed one. In most places it is customary for the guest to drink first.”