Firstborn

by Paul B. Thompson

  Dunbarth and his entourage were lodged on the third floor of the north wing. The airy suite, with its curtains of gauze and mosaic tile floor in shades of gold and sea-green, was quite unlike any place in the dwarven realm of Thorbardin. The ambassador stopped to stare at a two-foot-long wooden model of a dove poised over his bed. When Drollo set Dunbarth’s bags on the bed, the cloth-covered wings of the dove began to beat slowly, wafting a gentle breeze over the bed.

  “By Reorx!” exclaimed the secretary. Dunbarth exploded with laughter.

  “A minor spell,” Stankathan explained hurriedly. “Activated when anything or anyone rests on the bed. If it bothers your lordship, I shall have it stopped.”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right,” Dunbarth said merrily.

  “If you require anything, my lord, simply ring the bell,” said Stankathan.

  The elves withdrew. In the hallway beyond Dunbarth’s closed door, Stankathan asked when the human delegation was expected.

  “At any time,” answered Sithas. “Keep the staff alert.”

  The major-domo bowed. “As you command, sire.”

  *

  Lord Dunbarth dined that night with the Speaker of the Stars in a quiet, informal dinner that included only the closest confidantes of both sides. They talked for a long time about nothing of importance, taking the measure of each other. Lady Nirakina, in particular, seemed to find the elderly dwarf engaging.

  “Are you married, my lord?” she asked at one point.

  “No; Lady, never again!” Dunbarth boomed. He shrugged. “I am a widower.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “She was a good wife, my Brenthia, but a real terror at times.” He drained a full cup of elven nectar. Smoothly, a servant stepped forward to refill his goblet.

  “A terror, my lord?” asked Hermathya, intrigued.

  “Quite so, Lady. I remember once she burst into the Council of

  Thanes and dressed me down for being late for supper five nights in a row. It took years for me to live that down, don’t you know. The Daewar faction used to taunt me, when I was speaking in the council, by saying, ‘Go home, Ironthumb, go home. Your dinner is ready.’ “He laughed loudly, his deep bass voice echoing in the nearly empty Hall of Balif.

  “Who are these Daewar?” asked Hermathya. “They sound rude.”

  “The Daewar are one of the great clans of the dwarven race,” Sithel explained smoothly. He prided himself on his knowledge of dwarves and their politics. “You are yourself of the Hylar clan, are you not, Lord Dunbarth?”

  The ambassador’s blue eyes twinkled with happy cunning. “Your Highness is most knowledgeable.

  Yes, I am Hylar, and cousin to many kings of Thorbardin.” He slapped a blunt hand on the back of his secretary, who was seated on his right. “Now, Drollo here, is half-Theiwar, which accounts for his dark looks and strange temperament.” Drollo looked studiously at his plate and said nothing.

  “Is it usual for dwarves to marry outside their class?” asked Sithas curiously.

  “Not really. Speaking of such things,” Dunbarth said languorously, “I hear tales that some elves have married humans.”

  A sharp silence fell in the hall. Sithel leaned back in his tall chair and put a finger to his lips. “It is unfortunately true,” said the speaker tersely. “In the wilds of our western provinces, some of the Kagonesti have taken humans as mates. No doubt there is a shortage of suitable elven spouses. The practice is pernicious and forbidden by our law.”

  Dunbarth bowed his head, not in agreement, but in recognition of Sithel’s admirable powers of restraint. The mixed-race issue was a very sensitive one, as the dwarf well knew. His own people were race-proud too, and no dwarf had ever been known to intermarry with another race.

  “I met many half-humans among the refugees who lately came to our city for shelter from bandits,” Lady Nirakina said gently. “They were such sad folk, and many were quite presentable. It seems wrong to me to blame them for the follies of their parents.”

  “Their existence is not something we can encourage,” Sithel countered with noticeable vigor. “As you say, they are known to be melancholy, and that makes them dangerous. They often figure in acts of violence and crime. They hate the Silvanesti because we are pure in blood, while they languish with human clumsiness and frailty. I suppose you in Thorbardin have heard of the riot we had in late summer?”

  “There were mutterings of such an event,” said Dunbarth casually.

  “It was all due to the violent natures of some humans and half-humans we had unwisely allowed on the island. The riot was quelled, and the troublemakers driven away.” Nirakina sighed noticeably. Sithel ignored his wife as he continued to make his point. “There can never be peace between Silvanesti and human, unless we keep to our own borders – and our own beds.”

  Dunbarth rubbed his red, bulbous nose. He had a heavy ring on each of his fingers, and they glittered in the candlelight. “Is that what you will tell the emissary from Ergoth?”

  “It is,” Sithel said vehemently.

  “Your wisdom is great, Sithel Twice-Blest. My king has given me almost exactly the same words to speak. If we present a united front to the humans, they will have to accede to our demands.”

  The dinner ended quickly. Toasts were made to the health of the king of Thorbardin and to the hospitality of the Speaker of the Stars. That done, Lord Dunbarth and Drollo withdrew.

  Sithas strode to the door after it closed behind the ambassador. “That old fox! He was trying to make an alliance with you before the humans even arrive! He wants to promote a conspiracy!”

  Sithel dipped his hand in a silver bowl of rosewater held by a servant. “My son, Dunbarth is a master of his craft. He was testing our eagerness to compromise. Had he behaved otherwise, I would have thought King Voldrin a fool to have sent him.”

  “This all seems very confusing to me,” complained Lady Nirakina. “Why don’t you all speak the truth and work from there!”

  Sithel did a rare thing. He burst out laughing. “Diplomats tell the truth! My dear Kina, the stars would fall from heaven and the gods would faint with horror if diplomats started speaking the truth!”

  *

  Later that night came a knock on Sithas’s door. A storm-drenched warrior strode in, bowed, and said in a ringing voice, “Forgive this intrusion, Highness, but I bring word of the emissary from Ergoth!”

  “Yes?” said Sithas tensely. There was so much talk of treachery, he feared foul play had befallen the humans.

  “Highness, the ambassador and his party are waiting on the bank of the river. The ambassador demands that he be met by a representative of the royal house.”

  “Who is this human?” Sithas asked.

  “He gave his name as Ulwen, first praetor of the emperor of Ergoth,” replied the soldier.

  “First praetor, eh? Is the storm worse?” Sithas questioned.

  “It is bad, Highness. My boat nearly sank crossing the Thon-Thalas.”

  “And yet this Ulwen insists on crossing immediately?”

  The soldier said yes. “You will pardon me, sire, for saying so, but he is very arrogant, even for a human.”

  “I shall go,” Sithas said simply. “It is my duty. Lord Dunbarth was met by me, and it is only just that I greet Praetor Ulwen likewise.”

  The prince left with the soldier, but not before sending word to the clerics of E’li, to ask them to begin working their spells to deflect the storm. It was unusual for so strong a storm to come before the winter season. The conference promised to be difficult enough without the added threat of wind and water.

  16

  WHILE THE STORM RAGED

  HOW WONDERFUL THIS TIME IS, KITH-KANAN THOUGHT. NOT ONLY did he have his growing love for Anaya, which was sweeter than anything he’d ever known, but his friendship with Mackeli, as well. They had become a family – Anaya, his wife, and Mackeli, like a son.

  It was not an easy life, by any means. There was always work to be done, but t
here was time to laugh too, to swim in the pool, to take short flying excursions on Arcuballis, to tell stories around the fire at night. Kith-Kanan had began to understand the Silvanesti who had left Silvanost to start new lives in the wilderness. The days ran their own course in the forest. There were no calendars and no clocks. There was no social hierarchy either; there were no rich and no poor. You hunted for yourself, provided for your own needs. And no one stood between an elf and the gods. As he looked over a forest glade, or knelt by a brook, Kith-Kanan felt closer to the gods than he ever had in the cold, marble precincts of Silvanost’s temples.

  No priests, no taxes, no protocol. For a long time, Kith-Kanan had believed that his life had ended the day he’d left Silvanost. Now he knew it had been a new beginning.

  As the weeks went by, hunting grew poorer and poorer. Anaya went out, sometimes for two or three days at a time, and returned only with a brace of rabbits, squirrels, or other small game. At one point she had been reduced to catching pigeons, a poor return for her days in the woods.

  Nothing like this had ever happened before, according to Mackeli. Usually, Anaya went out and set a snare or trap and a likely prize would practically fall into it. Now, the animals were nowhere to be seen. In hopes of adding to the meager hunting, Kith-Kanan worked harder to develop his woodland skills. He hunted frequently, but had yet to bring anything back.

  This day a lone hart moved slowly through the forest, its small hooves sinking deep into drifts of fallen leaves. Its black nose twitched as the wind brought smells from far away.

  Kith-Kanan, wedged ten feet off the ground into the fork of a linden tree, was motionless. He willed the deer not to smell him, not to see him. Then, as slowly as possible, the prince drew his bow and swiftly let fly. His aim was true. The hart leaped away, but only for a few yards before it collapsed into the leaves.

  Kith-Kanan let out a yell of triumph. Eight months in the wildwood, and this was his first hunting success. He skittered down the tree and ran to the fallen deer. Yes! The arrow had hit the beast right in the heart.

  He dressed the carcass. As he slung it over his shoulder, Kith-Kanan realized that he couldn’t stop grinning. Wouldn’t Anaya be surprised?

  The air was chill, and under his burden Kith-Kanan panted, sending little puffs of vapor from his nostrils and mouth. He walked quickly, making a lot of noise, but it didn’t matter now. He had made a kill! He’d been walking for some time when the first flakes of snow began to fall. A sort of steady hiss pervaded the forest as the light flakes filtered down through the bare tree limbs. It wasn’t a heavy fall, but as the prince’s trek continued, the brown leaves on the forest floor gradually acquired a thin frosting of white.

  He climbed the hill to the clearing, meeting Mackeli on the way.

  “Look what I have!” Kith-Kanan exclaimed. “Fresh meat!”

  “Congratulations, Kith. You’ve worked hard to get it,” the boy said, but a frown creased his forehead.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Mackeli looked at him and blinked. “It’s snowing.”

  Kith-Kanan shifted the weight of the carcass to a more comfortable position. “What’s wrong with that? It is winter, after all.”

  “You don’t understand,” said the boy. He took Kith-Kanan’s quiver and bow, and together they proceeded up the hill. “It never snows in our clearing.” They gained the crest of the hill. The clearing was already lightly dusted with snow.

  With a stone axe, Kith-Kanan removed the rib section and gave it to Arcuballis. The griffon had been brought to the hollow oak, and a roof of hides had been stretched from the overhead limbs to keep the rain off the mount. The noble eagle head of Arcuballis protruded from the crude shelter. The beast repeatedly ruffled its neck feathers and shook its head, trying to shake off the snowflakes. Kith-Kanan dropped the meat at the griffon’s feet.

  “This is no weather for you, eh boy?” he said, scratching the animal’s neck through its thick feathers. Arcuballis made hoarse grunting sounds and lowered its head to its meal.

  Kith-Kanan left his dagger and sword in a covered basket inside Arcuballis’s shelter. Brushing the snow off his shoulders, he ducked into the tree. It was snug and warm inside, but very close. A small fire burned on the hearth. As the prince sat crosslegged by the fire and warmed his hands, Mackeli scuttled about in the stores of nuts and dried fruit overhead.

  After a short time, the bark-covered door swung open. Anaya stood in the doorway.

  “Hello!” Kith-Kanan cried cheerfully. “Come in out of the cold. I had good hunting today!”

  Anaya pulled the door closed behind her. When autumn arrived, she had changed from her green-dyed buckskins to natural brown ones. Now, coated with snow, she looked small and cold and unhappy. Kith-Kanan went to her and pushed back the hood from her head. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, searching for an answer in her eyes.

  “It’s snowing in my clearing,” she said flatly.

  “Mackeli said that this is unusual. Still, remember that the weather follows its own laws, Anaya.” Kith-Kanan tried to soothe the hopeless look on her face; after all, it was only a little snow. “We’ll be fine. Did you see the deer I took?” He’d hung the quarters of meat outside to cool.

  “I saw it,” she said. Anaya’s eyes were dull and lifeless. She pulled free of Kith-Kanan’s arms and unlaced her rawhide jacket. Still standing by the door, she looked at him. “You did well. I didn’t even see a deer, much less take one. Something is wrong. The animals no longer come as they used to. And now snow in the clearing...”

  The keeper threw her jacket on the floor and looked up at the chimney hole. Dry, cold flakes fell in, vanishing in the column of rising smoke before they reached the fire. “I must go to the cave and commune with the forest. The Forestmaster may know what has happened,” she said, then sighed. “But I am so tired now. Tomorrow. I will go tomorrow.”

  Kith-Kanan sat by the fire and pulled Anaya gently down beside him. When she put her head in his lap and closed her eyes, the prince leaned back against the side of the tree, intending to keep an eye on the fire. He continued to stroke Anaya’s face. In spite of her distress over the snow, Kith-Kanan couldn’t believe that anything was really wrong. He had seen snow in the streets of Silvanost after many years of none. As he’d said, the weather followed its own laws. Kith-Kanan’s eyes closed, and he dozed. The fire shrank in its circle of stones, and the first flakes of snow reached the floor of the tree, collecting on Anaya’s eyelashes.

  Kith-Kanan awoke with the slow realization that he was cold. He tried to move and discovered he was buried under two bodies – Anaya on his left and Mackeli on his right. Though asleep, the need for warmth had drawn them together. Furs were piled up around them, and as Kith-Kanan opened his eyes, he saw that more than half a foot of snow had collected in the tree. The snowfall had extinguished the coals of the fire and drifted around the sleeping trio.

  “Wake up,” he said thickly. When neither Anaya nor Mackeli moved, Kith-Kanan patted his wife’s cheek. She exhaled sharply and turned over, putting her back to him. He tried to rouse Mackeli, but the boy only started to snore.

  “By Astarin,” he muttered. The cold had obviously numbed their senses. He must build a fire.

  Kith-Kanan heaved himself up, pushing aside the inch of snow that had fallen across his lower legs. His breath made a long stream of fog. There was dry kindling in one of the wattle baskets, against the wall and out of the way of the falling snow. He dug the snow out of the hearth with his bare hands and laid a stand of twigs and bark shavings on the cold stones. With a flint and strike stone, he soon had a smoldering pile of tinder. Kith-Karen fanned it with his breath, and soon a crackling fire was burning.

  It had stopped snowing, but the bit of sky he could glimpse through the chimney hole was gray and threatening. Reluctantly the prince eased the door open, even against the resistance from the two feet of snow that had drifted against the tree.

  The clearing had been transformed.
Where formerly the forest had been wrought in green and brown, now it was gray and white. An unbroken carpet of snow stretched across the clearing. All the imperfections of the ground were lost under the blanket of white.

  A snuffling sound caught his ear. Kith-Kanan walked around the broad tree trunk and saw Arcuballis huddled under its flimsy shelter, looking miserable.

  “Not like your warm stall in Silvanost, is it, old friend?” Kith-Kanan said. He untied the griffon’s halter and led it out a few yards from the tree.

  “Fly, boy. Warm yourself and come back.” Arcuballis made a few faltering steps forward. “Go on. It’s all right.”

  The griffon spread its wings and took to the air. It circled the clearing three times, then vanished upward into the low gray clouds.

  Kith-Kanan examined the venison haunches he’d hung up the day before. They were frozen solid.

  He untied one and braced it on his shoulder.

  Back inside the tree, it was already much warmer, thanks to the fire. Anaya and Mackeli were nestled together like spoons in a drawer.

  Kith-Kanan smiled at them and knelt to saw two cutlets from the venison haunch. It was hard going, but soon he had whittled the steaks out and had them roasting on a spit over the fire.

  “Mmm.” Anaya yawned. Eyes still closed, she asked, “Do I smell venison roasting?”

  Kith-Kanan smiled again. “You certainly do, wife. I am making our dinner.”

  She stretched long and hard. “It smells wonderful.” She yawned again. “I’m so tired.”

  “You just lie there and rest,” he replied. “I’ll provide for us this time.” The prince gave his attention to the venison cutlets. He turned them carefully, making sure they were cooked all the way through. When they were done, he took one, still on its stick, and knelt by Anaya. “Dinner is served, my lady,” he said and touched her shoulder.

  Anaya smiled and her eyelids fluttered open. She raised her head and looked at him.