Firstborn

by Paul B. Thompson

  There were many abbreviations in the writing. Sithas read the message out loud, just to be certain he had it right. “‘Great speaker,’ “it said, “‘I write this knowing I may not be alive tomorrow, and this is the only chance I have to tell what has happened. Two days ago we were attacked by a body of humans, elves, and mixed-bloods. The horsemen trapped us between the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains and the falls of the Keraty River. There are only fifteen of us left. I will send this message with my best fighter, Nortifinthas. Great speaker, these men and elves are not bandits, they are formidable cavalry. They also knew where to ambush us and how many we were, so I feel, too, that we were betrayed. There is a traitor in Silvanost. Find him or all shall perish. Long live Silvanesti!’ “

  Sithas stared at his father in horrified silence for a long moment. Finally, he burst out, “This is monstrous!”

  “Treachery in my own city. Who could it be?” Sithel asked.

  “I don’t know, but we can find out. The greater question is, who pays the traitor? It must be the emperor of Ergoth!” declared his son.

  “Yes.” Surely there was no one else with the money or reason to wage such an underhanded campaign against the elven nation. Sithel looked at the prince, who suddenly seemed much older than before. “I do not want war, Sithas. I do not want it. We have not yet received a reply from the emperor or from the king of Thorbardin regarding our request for a conference. If both nations agree to come and talk, it will give us a chance for peace.”

  “It may give the enemy the time they need, too,” said Sithas.

  The speaker took the belt and wooden cylinder from his son. He restored the cylinder to its place in the side of the throne. The belt he fastened around his own waist. Sithel had regained his calm, and the years fell away once more when resolve filled his face.

  “Son, I charge you with the task of finding the traitor. Male or female, young or old, there can be no mercy.”

  “I shall find the traitor,” Sithas vowed.

  *

  Dinner each night in the Quinari Palace was held in the Hall of Balif. It was as much a social occasion as a meal, for all the courtiers were required to attend and certain numbers of the priestly and noble classes, too. Speaker Sithel and Lady Nirakina sat in the center of the short locus of the vast oval table. Sithas and Hermathya sat on Nirakina’s left, and all the guests sat to the left of them in order of seniority. Thus, the person to Sithel’s right was always the most junior member of the court. That seat fell to Tamanier Ambrodel nowadays; for saving Lady Nirakina’s life during the riot, he’d been granted a minor title.

  The hall was full, though everyone was still standing when Tamanier and Hermathya arrived together. Sithel had not yet come, and no one could sit until the speaker did so himself. For his part, Sithas stood behind his chair, impassive. Hermathya hoped he might react jealously upon seeing her on the arm of the stalwart Tamanier, but the prince kept his pensive gaze focused on the golden plate set before him.

  Sithel entered with his wife. Servants pulled the tall chairs for the speaker and Nirakina, and Sithel took his place. “May the gods grant you all health and long life,” he said quietly. The vast hall had been constructed so that conversation at one end could be heard by parties at the other. The traditional greeting before meals carried easily to the entire oval table.

  “Long life to you, Speaker of the Stars,” the diners responded in unison. Sithel sat. With much shuffling and squeaking of chairs, the guests sat down, too.

  A troop of servers appeared, bearing a large pot. The pot swung on a long pole supported on the shoulders of two elves. Behind these servants, two more servers carried a slotted bronze box, from which a dull glow radiated. The box was full of large hearthstones that had been banked against the kitchen fires all day. Two servants set the bronze box on a stone slab, and the pot carriers eased the great cauldron onto the box. Now the soup would stay hot all through dinner – which could last several hours.

  Young elf maidens clad in shifts of opaque yellow gauze slipped in and out among the seated guests, filling their bowls with steaming turtle soup. For those not inclined to soup, there was fresh fruit, picked that morning in the vast orchards on the eastern shore. Elf boys staggered under the weight of tall amphorae, brimming with purple-red nectar. The goblets of the guests were kept full.

  With the first course served, Stankathan signaled to the servants at the doors of the hall. They swung them open, and a trio of musicians entered. The players of flute, lyre, and sistrum, arranged themselves in the far comer of the hall as conversation in the room began in earnest.

  “I have heard,” opened old Rengaldus, guildmaster of the gemcutters, “that there is to be a conclave with representatives of Ergoth.”

  “That’s old news,” said Zertinfinas, the priest. He hacked open a juicy melon and poured the seedy center pulp onto his plate. “The dwarves of Thorbardin are invited, too.”

  “I have never seen a human close up,” remarked Hermathya. “Or talked to one.”

  “You haven’t missed much, Lady,” Rengaldus replied. “Their language is uncouth and their bodies thick with hair.”

  “Quite bestial,” agreed Zertinfinas.

  “Those are your opinions,” Tamanier interjected. Many eyes turned to him. It was unusual for the junior noble to speak at all. “I knew humans out on the plains, and many of them were good people.”

  “Yes, but aren’t they inherently treacherous?” asked the guildmaster of the sandalmakers. “Do humans ever keep their word?”

  “Frequently.” Tamanier looked to his patron, Sithas, for signs of displeasure. The speaker’s son, as usual, ate sparingly, picking grapes one at a time from the cluster on his plate. He did not seem to have heard Tamanier’s comments, so the favored young courtier continued. “Humans can be fiercely honorable, perhaps because they know so many of their fellows are not.”

  “They are unredeemably childish in their tempers,” Zertinfinas asserted. “How can they not be?

  With only seventy or so years of life how can they accumulate any store of wisdom or patience?”

  “But they are clever,” noted Rengaldus. He slurped a mouthful of nectar and wiped his chin with a satin napkin. “A hundred years ago there wasn’t a human alive who could cut a diamond or polish a sapphire. Now craftsmen in Daltigoth have learned to work gems, and they have undercut our market! My factors in Balifor say that human-cut gems are selling well there, mainly because they are far cheaper than ours. The buyers care less about quality than they do about the final price.”

  “Barbarians,” muttered Zertinfinas into his cap.

  The second course was brought out: a cold salad of river trout with a sweet herb dressing. Murmurs of approval circled the great table. Loaves of pyramid-shaped bread were also provided, smeared with honey, a confection greatly loved by elves.

  “Perhaps one of the learned clerics can tell me,” Hermathya said, cutting herself a chunk of warm bread, “why humans have such short lives?” Zertinfinas cleared his throat to speak, but from the opposite side of the table, a new voice answered the lady’s question.

  “It is generally considered that humans represent a middle race, farther removed from the gods and closer to the realm of the animals. Our own race – the first created, longer lived, and possessing a greater affinity for the powers of magic – is closest to the gods.”

  Hermathya tilted her head to get a better look at the soft spoken cleric. “I do not know you, holy one. Who are you?”

  “Forgive me, Lady, for not introducing myself. I am Kamin Oluvai, second priest of the Blue Phoenix.” The young elf stood and bowed to Hermathya. He was a striking-looking fellow, in his brilliant blue robe and golden headband, with its inlay of a blue phoenix. His golden hair was long even by elven standards. Sithas studied him circumspectly. This Kamin Oluvai had not been to many royal dinners.

  “What about these humans?” complained Zertinfinas loudly, beginning to feel his nectar. “What is to be d
one about them?”

  “I believe that is a matter best left to the speaker,” Sithas replied. One hundred and fifty pairs of eyes looked to Sithel, who was listening with great care while eating his fish.

  “The sovereignty of Silvanesti will be preserved,” the speaker said calmly. “That is why the conclave has been called.”

  The prince nodded, then asked, “Is it true, Ambrodel, that there are more humans living in our western provinces than Silvanesti and Kagonesti?”

  “More than the Silvanesti, Highness. But the true number of the Kagonesti is difficult to state. So many of them live in the remote parts of the forest, mountains, and plains.”

  “Humans breed at any point past age fifteen,” blurted Zertinfinas. “They regularly have five and six children in a family!” Whispers of surprise and concern circled the table. Elven parents seldom had more than two children in their entire, lengthy lifetimes.

  “Is that true?” Nirakina queried Tamanier.

  “At least in the wild country it is. I cannot say what families are like in the more settled areas of Ergoth. But many of the children do not survive into adulthood. Human knowledge of the healing arts is not nearly so advanced as ours.”

  The musicians completed their program of light tunes and began to play “The Sea-Elf’s Lament.” The main course was served.

  It came rolling in on a large cart, a huge sculpture of a dragon done in golden-brown pie crust. The “beast” reared up five feet high. His back was scaled with mint leaves, his eyes and talons made red with pomegranates. The head and spiky tail of the dragon were covered with glazed nut meats.

  The diners applauded this culinary creation, and Sithel himself smiled. “You see, my friends, how the cook is master of us all,” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “For centuries the dragons preyed upon us, and now we have them to dinner.”

  Stankathan stood by the pastry dragon, a sword in his hand. He jerked his head, and servants positioned a golden tray under the dragon’s chin. With a force that belied his age, the servant lopped off the dragon’s head. A flight of live sparrows burst from the open neck of the creation, each bird having silver streamers tied to its legs. The assembly gave a collective gasp of admiration.

  “I trust the rest of the insides are more thoroughly cooked,” quipped Sithel.

  The servants bore the head of the dragon to the speaker. With smaller knives, they carved it to pieces. Under the crusty pastry skin, the head was stuffed with delicate meat paste, whole baked apples, and sweet glazed onions.

  Stankathan attacked the rest of the pastry like some culinary thespian portraying the mighty Huma slaying a real dragon. The body of the beast was filled with savory sausages, stuffed peppers, whole capons, and vegetable torts. The room filled with noise as every diner commented on the elegance of this evening’s feast.

  Zertinfinas, rather loudly, called for more nectar. The serving boy had none left in his amphora, so he ran to the door to fetch more. Sithas called to the servant as he passed, and the elf boy dropped to one knee by the prince’s chair.

  “Yes, Highness?”

  “The holy one has had too much to drink. Have the cellar master cut the nectar with water. Half for half,” ordered Sithas in a confidential tone.

  “As you command, sire.”

  “The cook really has outdone himself,” Hermathya remarked. “It is a wonderful feast.”

  “Is it a special occasion?” asked Rengaldus.

  “The calendar does not list a holiday,” Kamin Oluvai noted. “Unless it is a special day for the speaker.”

  “It is, holy one. By this feast we do honor to a dead hero,” Sithel explained.

  Nirakina set down her goblet, puzzled. “What hero, my husband?”

  “His name was Nortifinthas.”

  Head wobbling, Zertinfinas asked, “Was he a companion of Huma Dragonsbane?”

  “No,” Kamin Oluvai assisted. “He sat in the first great Synthal-Elish, did he not?”

  “You are both mistaken,” Sithel replied. “Nortifinthas was a simple soldier, a Kagonesti who died nobly in service to this house.”

  Conversation around the table had died just as the flutist trilled the high solo from the lament.

  “This morning,” the speaker continued, “this soldier named

  Nortifinthas returned to the city from the western province. He was the only survivor of the fifty warriors I sent out to find the bandits who have troubled our people lately. All his comrades were slain. Even though he was fearfully wounded, the brave Nortifinthas returned with the last dispatch of his commander.” Sithel looked around the table, meeting each guest eye to eye. The prince sat very still, his left hand clenched into a fist in his lap. “One of you here, one of you seated at my table eating my food, is a traitor.”

  The musicians heard this declaration and ceased playing. The speaker waved a hand to them to continue, and they did so, awkwardly.

  “You see, the force that wiped out my fifty warriors was not a band of hit-and-run bandits, but a disciplined troop of cavalry who knew where and when my soldiers would come. It was not a battle. It was a massacre.”

  “Do you know who the traitor is, Speaker?” Hermathya asked with great earnest.

  “Not yet, but the person will be found. I spent most of my day compiling a list of those who could have known the route of my warriors. At this point, I suspect everyone.”

  The speaker looked around the large table. The gaiety was gone from the dinner, and the diners looked at the delicacies on their plates without enthusiasm.

  Sithel picked up his knife and fork. “Finish your food,” he commanded. When no one else emulated him, he held up his hands expressively and said, “Why do you not eat? Do you want this fine meal to go to waste?”

  Sithas was the first to take up his fork and resume eating. Hermathya and Nirakina did likewise. Soon, everyone was eating again, but with much less good humor than before.

  “I will say this,” Sithel added pointedly, cutting the glazed pomegranate eye from the pastry dragon’s face. “The traitor’s identity is suspected.”

  By now the elf boy had returned, his amphora full of diluted nectar. Into the absolute silence that followed his own last statement, the speaker said loudly, “Zertinfinas! Your nectar!”

  The cleric, his head snapping up at the sound of his name, had to be pounded on the back several times to save him from choking on a piece of pastry.

  Sithas watched his father as he ate. The speaker’s every movement was graceful, his face serene with resolve.

  14

  WHILE THE SPEAKER DINED

  THE WILDWOOD SLOWLY REGAINED ITS LIVELY CHARACTER. NO longer was there that absence of animal life that Kith-Kanan had found so puzzling when he first arrived. Daily, deer came to graze in the clearing. Rabbits and squirrels cavorted in and around the trees. Birds other than the ubiquitous corvae appeared. Bears, boars, and panthers roared in the night. As Mackeli had said, they’d been warned of the humans. Now that the humans were gone, the animals had returned.

  On this particular day, Mackeli wedged his tongue between his teeth and concentrated on lashing an arrowhead to a shaft. Kith-Kanan was teaching him the bow now. It was not something to which the boy took readily. As he tied off the end of the whipcord, the flint arrowhead sagged badly out of line.

  “That’s not tight enough,” Kith-Kanan cautioned. He handed the boy his dagger. “Start again and make it tight.”

  Neither of them had seen Anaya for over a week. It didn’t bother Mackeli a whit, but Kith-Kanan found himself missing the strange forest woman. He wondered if he should go and look for her. Mackeli said, and Kith-Kanan did not doubt, that the prince would never find her unless she wanted to be found.

  “What do you do if you need her in a hurry?” Kith-Kanan asked ingeniously. “I mean, suppose you got hurt or something. How would you call her?”

  “If I really need Ny, she knows it and comes for me.” Mackeli had almost finished his tying of the arrow.r />
  “You mean, you just will her to come, and-she does?”

  The boy knotted the tough silk string. “Mostly.” With a proud smile, he handed Kith-Kanan the newly lashed arrow. Kith shook it to see if the head would loosen. It didn’t. “Good,” he said, handing the arrow back. “You only need twenty more to fill your quiver.”

  *

  Late the next afternoon the Wildwood rang with laughter and splashing as Kith-Kanan and Mackeli swam in the pool. Mackeli was progressing well under the prince’s tutelage, so they had decided to finish their day with a swim in the crystal waters.

  Mackeli was treading water and looking around the pool for Kith-Kanan. The boy was a better swimmer than his sister, but not so skilled as the elf prince.

  “Where’d you go, Kith?” he said, eyeing the surface of the water uncertairnly. Suddenly a hand closed on his left ankle and Mackeli gave a yelp. He found himself lifted up and launched skyward. Laughing and yelling all the way, he flew several feet and landed back in the pool with a loud splash. He and Kith-Kanan surfaced at the same time.

  “It’s not fair,” Mackeli said, flinging his streaming hair from his eyes. “You’re bigger than me!”

  Kith-Kanan grinned. “You’ll catch up someday, Keli,” he said. Twisting gracefully in the water, the prince turned and swam toward the granite ledge on shore.

  As Kith-Kanan hoisted himself up on the ledge, Mackeli called to him, “I want to learn to swim like you. You move like a fish!”

  “Another result of my misspent youth.” Kith-Kanan stretched out full length on the warm ledge and closed his eyes.

  Minutes later, something moved to block the sunlight. Without opening his eyes, Kith-Kanan said, “I know you’re there, Keli. I heard you walk up. You’d better not – Hey!”

  With a cry, the prince sat up. A very sharp spear point had been poked into his bare stomach. Squinting in the bright light, he looked up. Several pairs of moccasin-clad feet were gathered around Kith-Kanan, and their owners – four dark figures – loomed over him.