Firstborn

by Paul B. Thompson

  In the clearing, Arcuballis reared up on its hinds legs and spread its wings in greeting. The beast had returned from hunting to find everyone gone. Kith-Kanan paid it no heed as he rushed toward Anaya’s home-their home.

  The prince ran to the hollow tree and laid Anaya on a silver wolf pelt that Mackeli had dragged outside. Her eyes were closed and her skin was ice cold. Kith-Kanan felt for a pulse. There was none.

  “Do something!” he screamed at Mackeli. The boy stared at Anaya, his mouth open. Kith-Kanan grabbed the front of his tunic. “Do something, I said!”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “You know about roots and herbs!” he begged.

  “Ny is dead, Kith. I cannot call her back to life. I wish I could, but I can’t!”

  When the prince saw the tears in Mackeli’s eyes, he knew that the boy spoke the truth. Kith-Kanan let go of Mackeli’s tunic and rocked back on his heels, staring down at the still form of Anaya. Anaya.

  Rage and anguish boiled up inside the prince. His sword lay on the ground by the tree, where Voltorno had found and discarded it. Kith-Kanan picked up the blade and stared at it. The halfhuman had murdered his wife, and he had done nothing. He’d let Voltorno murder his wife and child-to-be.

  Kith-Kanan screamed-a horrible, deep, wrenching cry-then slammed the flat of the blade against the oak tree. The cold iron snapped five inches above the hilt. In anger he threw the sword hilt as far as he could.

  *

  Night. Mackeli and Kith-Kanan sat inside the tree, not moving, not talking. They had covered Anaya with her favorite blanket, one made from the pelts of a dozen rabbits. Now they sat in darkness. The broken blade of his sword lay across Kith-Kanan’s lap.

  He was cursed. He felt it in his heart. Love always eluded him. First Hermathya had been taken away. So be it. He had found a better life and a better wife than Hermathya would ever have been. His life had just begun again. And now it had ended. Anaya was dead. Their unborn child was dead. He was cursed.

  A gust of wind blew in the open door, sweeping leaves and dust in tiny whirlwinds around Mackeli’s ankles. He sat with his head on his knees, staring blankly at the floor. The shriveled brown oak leaves were lifted from the ground and spun around. He followed their dancing path toward the doorway, and his eyes widened.

  The green glow that filled the open entrance to the hollow tree transfixed Mackeli. It washed his face and silver hair.

  “Kith,” he murmured. “Look.”

  “What is it?” the prince asked tiredly. He looked toward the doorway, and a frown creased his forehead. Then, throwing the mantle off his shoulders, he got up. With a hand on the door edge, Kith-Kanan looked outside. The soft mound that was Anaya beneath her blanket was the source of the strange green light. The Silvanesti prince stepped outside. Mackeli followed.

  The light was cool as Kith-Kanan knelt by Anaya’s body and slowly pulled the rabbit-fur blanket back. It was Anaya herself that was glowing.

  Her emerald eyes sprang open.

  With a strangled cry, Kith-Kanan fell back. Anaya sat up. The strong light diminished, leaving only a mild verdant aura surrounding the elf woman. She was green from hair to toes.

  “Y – You’re alive!” he stuttered.

  “No,” Anaya said sadly. She stood, and he did likewise. “This is part of the change. This was meant to happen. All the animal life has left me, and now, Kith, I am becoming one with the forest.”

  “I don’t understand.” To speak with his wife when he’d all but resigned himself to never seeing her again brought Kith-Kanan great joy. But her manner, the tone of her words, frightened him more than her death. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

  The green Anaya put a hand to his cheek. It was cool and gentle. She smiled at him, and a lump grew in his throat. “This happened to the other keepers. When their time was done, they became one with the forest, too. I am dead, dear Kith, but I will be here for thousands of years. I am joining the wildwood.”

  Kith-Kanan took her in his arms. “What about us? Is this what you want?” he asked, and fear made his voice harsh.

  “I love you, Kith” Anaya said passionately, “but I am content now. This is my destiny. I am glad I was able to explain it to you.” She pulled free of his embrace and walked off a few yards.

  “I have always liked this spot in the clearing. It is a good place”, she said with satisfaction.

  “Good-bye, Ny!” Mackeli called tearfully. “You were a good sister!”

  “Good-bye, Keli. Live well.”

  Kith-Kanan rushed to her. He couldn’t accept this. It was all too strange. It was happening too quickly! He tried to take Anaya in his arms once more, but her feet were fixed to the ground.

  Her eyes rebuked him gently as she said consolingly, “Don’t fight it, Kith.” Her voice becoming faint, the keeper added, “It is right.”

  “What of our child?” he asked desperately.

  Anaya placed a hand on her belly. “He is there still. He was not part of the plan. A long, long time from now he will be born... “The light slowly dwindled in her eyes. “Farewell, my love.”

  Kith-Kanan held Anaya’s face between his hands and kissed her. For a moment only, her lips had the yielding quality of flesh. Then a firmness crept in. The elf prince pulled back and, even as he touched her face for the last time, Anaya’s features slowly vanished. What had been skin roughened into bark. By the time Kith-Kanan spoke her name once more, Anaya had found her destiny. At the clearing’s edge, the prince of the Silvanesti was embracing a fine young oak tree.

  21

  SILVANOST, YEAR OF THE RAM

  FOR A MONTH THE AMBASSADORS MET WITH THE SPEAKER OF THE Stars, yet nothing was accomplished. Nothing, except that Speaker Sithel fell ill. His health had been deteriorating over the preceding weeks, and the strain of the conference had sapped his strength to the point that by the morning of the twenty-ninth day, he could not even rise from his bed. Sickness was so rare for the speaker that a mild panic gripped the palace. Servants dashed about, conversing in whispers. Nirakina summoned Sithas and Hermathya to the speaker’s bedside. So grave was her tone, Sithas halfexpected to find his father on the verge of death.

  Standing now at the foot of his father’s bed, the prince could see that Sithel was wan and dispirited. Nirakina sat beside her ailing husband, holding a damp cloth to his head. Hermathya hovered in the background, obviously uncomfortable in the presence of illness.

  “Let me call a healer,” Nirakina insisted.

  “It’s not necessary,” Sithel said testily. “I just need some rest.”

  “You have a fever!”

  “I do not! Well, if I do, do you think I want it known that the Speaker of the Stars is so feeble he needs a healer to get well? What sort of message do you suppose that sends to our people? Or to the foreign emissaries?” This short speech left him winded, and he breathed heavily, his face pale against the cream-colored pillows.

  “Regarding the ambassadors, what shall I tell them?” Sithas asked. “If you cannot attend the conference today —”

  “Tell them to soak their heads,” Sithel muttered. “That devious dwarf and that contentious human female.” His words subsided.

  “Now, husband, that’s no way to talk,” Nirakina said agreeably. “There’s no stigma to being ill, you know. You’d get well a lot sooner if a healer treated you.”

  “I’ll heal myself, thank you.”

  “You may lie here for weeks, fevered, ill-tempered —”

  “I am not ill-tempered!” Sithel shouted.

  Nirakina rose from the bed purposefully. To Sithas she directed her questions. “Who can we get? Who is the best healer in Silvanost?”

  From the far wall, Hermathya uttered one word: “Miritelisina.”

  “Impossible,” the prince said quickly, looking at his wife with reproach. “She is in prison, as you well know, Lady.”

  “Oh, tosh,” responded his mother. “If the speaker wants the best healer, he c
an order her release.” Neither father nor son spoke or showed any sign of heeding Nirakina’s counsel. “Miritelisina is high priestess of Quenesti Pah. No one else in Silvanost can come near her expertise in the healing art.” She appealed to Sithas. “She’s been in prison more than six months. Surely that’s punishment enough for a moment’s indiscretion?”

  Sithel coughed, a loud, racking paroxysm that nearly doubled him over in bed. “It’s the old delta fever,” he gasped. “It’s known to recur.”

  “Delta fever?” asked Sithas.

  “A legacy of misspent youth,” the speaker said weakly. When he sat up in bed, Nirakina gave him a cup of cool water to sip. “I used to hunt in the marshes at the mouth of the Thon-Thalas when I was young. I caught delta fever then.”

  Nirakina looked up at Sithas. “That was more than two hundred years before you were born,” she said reassuringly. “He’s had other, milder attacks.”

  “Father, send for the priestess,” Sithas decided gravely. The speaker raised his brows questioningly. “The negotiations with the dwarves and humans must go ahead, and only a strong, healthy speaker can see that justice is done.”

  “Sithas is right,” Nirakina agreed. She pressed her small hand to Sithel’s burning cheek. “Send for Miritelisina.” The speaker sighed, the dry, rattling sound rising from his fevered throat. “Very well,” he said softly. “Let it be done.”

  *

  Later that morning came a knock at the door. Nirakina called for the person to enter. Tamanier came in, looking downcast.

  “Great speaker, I spoke with Miritelisina,” he said abjectly.

  “Where is she?” asked Sithas sharply.

  “She-she refuses to come, my prince.”

  “What?” said Sithas.

  “What?” echoed Nirakina.

  “She will not come to Your Highness, nor will she accept pardon from prison,” Tamanier announced, shaking his head.

  “Has she gone mad?” demanded Sithas.

  “No, sire. Miritelisina believes her suffering in prison will bring the plight of the homeless ones to the attention of all.”

  In spite of his weakness, the speaker began to laugh softly. “What a character!” he said. The laughter threatened to turn into coughing, so he checked himself.

  “It’s extortion,” Sithas said angrily. “She means to dictate her own terms!”

  “Never mind, son. Tamanier, have the door of Miritelisina’s cell left open. Tell the warders to bring her neither food nor water. When she gets hungry enough, she’ll leave.”

  “What will you do if she doesn’t come?” Nirakina asked, bewildered.

  “I shall survive,” he replied. “Now, all of you go. I wish to rest.”

  Tamanier went on his errand. Sithas and Nirakina drifted out, looking back frequently at the speaker. Sithas marveled at how small and weak his father looked in the great bed.

  Alone, Sithel sat up slowly. His head pounded, but after a moment it cleared. He put his feet on the floor, and the cool marble soothed him. He stood and moved carefully to a window. The whole of Silvanost spread out below him. How he loved it! Not the city, which was just a collection of buildings, but the people, the daily rhythm of life that made Silvanost a living place.

  A rainstorm had ended the day before, leaving the air crystal clean with a bite of cold. High, lacy clouds stretched from the horizon to mid-sky, like delicate fingers reaching up to the abode of the gods.

  All of a sudden Sithel gave a shudder. The white clouds and shining towers reeled before him. He clutched the curtains for support, but strength faded from his hands and he lost his grip. Knees buckling, he slid to the floor. No one was around to see him fall. Sithel lay still on the marble floor, warmed by a patch of sunshine.

  *

  Sithas walked the palace halls, looking for Hermathya. He saw that she had not stayed with the speaker, so fearful was she of catching his illness. Some sort of intuition drew him up the tower stairs to the floor where his old bachelor room was. To his surprise, the prince found his devotional candle lit and a fresh red rose, sacred to Matheri, lying on the table by his bachelor bed. He had no idea who had left it. Hermathya had no reason to come here.

  The sight of the rose and candle soothed his worried mind somewhat. He knelt by the table and began to meditate. At last he prayed to Matheri for his father’s recovery and for more understanding in dealing with Hermathya.

  Time passed. How much, he didn’t know. A tapping sound filled the small chamber. Sithas ignored it. It grew louder. He raised his head and looked around for the source of the intrusive noise. He saw his seldom-worn sword, the twin of Kith-Kanan’s weapon, hanging in its scabbard from a peg on the wall. The sword was vibrating inside its brass-bound sheath, causing the tapping noise.

  Sithas rose and went to the weapon. He looked on in amazement as the length of iron shook itself like a trembling dog. He put out his hand, grasping the sword’s hilt to try and still the vibrations.

  The shivering climbed Sithas’s arm, penetrating his body and sending tingles up his arm. He took the sword hilt in both hands-

  In a flash the speaker’s heir had a sudden, clear impression of his twin brother. Great rage, great anguish, heartache, a mortal blow-

  A loud crack smote his ears, and the sword ceased vibrating. Slightly dazed, Sithas, drew the blade out. It was broken cleanly, about five inches above the hilt.

  Fear seized him. Fear for Kith-Kanan. He had no idea how he knew, but as he held the stump of the sword, Sithas knew without a doubt that Kith was in grave danger, perhaps even near death. He had to tell someone-his father, his mother. Sithas rushed to the dark oaken door of his old room and flung it open. He was startled to find someone standing just outside, shadowed by the massive overhang of the stone arch over the door.

  “Who are you?” Sithas demanded, presenting the foreshortened sword. The figure seemed ominous somehow.

  “Your sword is broken,” said the stranger soothingly. “Be at peace, noble prince. I mean you no harm.”

  The stranger stepped forward into the pale light emanating from Sithas’s candle, still burning on the table. He wore a nondescript gray robe. A hood covered his head. The air around him throbbed with an aura of power. Sithas felt it, like heat on his face from a nearby fire.

  “Who are you?” the prince repeated with great deliberation. The oddly menacing figure reached up with slim pink fingers to throw back the hood. Beneath the soft gray material, his face was round and good-natured. He was nearly bald; only a fringe of mouse-brown hair covered the sides of his head. His ears were small and tapered.

  “Do I know you?” Sithas asked. He relaxed a bit, for the stranger looked like nothing more than a beggarly cleric.

  “At a royal dinner some time ago, you met an elf with long blond hair who introduced himself as Kamin Oluvai, second priest of the Blue Phoenix. That was me.” The strange elf seemed pleased with Sithas’s evident surprise.

  “You’re Kamin Oluvai? You look nothing like him,” said the puzzled prince.

  “A simple disguise.” He shrugged. “But in truth, Kamin Oluvai is another of my masks. My real name is Vedvedsica, and I am at Your Highness’s service.” He bowed low.

  It was a northern name, such as Silvanesti used in regions near Istar. Such elves were reputed to be deeply involved in sorcery. Sithas watched Kamin Oluvai-or was it Vedvedsica?-warily.

  “I’m very busy,” the prince said abruptly. “What do you want?”

  “I came in answer to a call, great prince. For some years I have been of use to your noble father, helping him in certain discreet matters. The speaker is ill, is he not?”

  “A seasonal chill,” said Sithas stiffly. “Speak plainly and tell me what you want, or else get out of my way.”

  “The speaker requires a healer to dispel his delta fever.” Sithas could not hide his surprise at the fact that Vedvedsica knew the nature of his father’s illness. “I have treated the speaker before, banishing the fever. I can do so agai
n.”

  “You are not a priest of Quenesti Pah. Who do you serve?”

  Vedvedsica smiled and stepped farther into the small room. Sithas automatically backed away, maintaining the distance between them. “Your Highness is an elf of great erudition and education. You know the unfairness of Silvanesti law, which only allows the worship of —”

  “Who do you serve?” Sithas repeated sharply.

  The gray-robed elf dropped his reticence. “My master is Gilean, the Gray Voyager.”

  Sithas tossed the broken end of his sword on the table. His concern was eased. Gilean was a god of Neutrality, not Evil. His worship was not officially recognized in Silvanost, but it wasn’t actively suppressed either.

  “My father has consulted with you?” he asked skeptically.

  “Frequently.” Vedvedsica’s face took on a crafty expression, as if he were privy to things even the speaker’s heir did not know.

  “If you can cure my father, why did you come to me?” wondered Sithas.

  “The speaker is an old, noble prince. Today he is ill. Someday, when he is gone, you will be speaker. I wish to continue my relationship with House Royal,” he said, picking his words carefully.

  Anger colored Sithas’s face. He snatched up the broken sword and held the squared-off edge to the sorcerer’s throat. His relationship with House Royal indeed! Vedvedsica held his ground, though he tilted his round head away from the blade.

  “You speak treason,” Sithas said coldly. “You insult me and my family. I will see you in chains in the lowest reaches of the palace dungeons, gray cleric!”

  Vedvedsica’s pale gray eyes bored into Sithas’s furious face. “You wish to have your twin brother home, do you not?” the cleric asked insinuatingly.

  The broken sword remained at Vedvedsica’s throat, but Sithas’s interest was piqued. He frowned.

  The sorcerer sensed his hesitation. “I can find him, great prince.” Stated Vedvedsica firmly. “I can help you.”