Firstborn

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Yes, Father.” When Sithel explained it like that, it almost made sense. Still, Kith-Kanan knew that no amount of logic and lawful argument would ever convince him that slavery was anything but wrong.

  Sithas listened to Sithel’s words with his arms folded in satisfaction. Kith was not as infallible as he seemed, thought the firstborn. Facing down Kith’s sentimental ramblings made him feel every inch the next Speaker of the Stars.

  “Now I have a command for you, son,” Sithel said to Kith-Kanan. “I want you to lead the new militia.”

  Utter silence. Kith-Kanan tried to digest this. He was just back home, and now he was being sent away. He looked at Sithas-who glanced away-then back at the speaker. “Me, Father?” he asked, dazed.

  “With your experience as a warrior and ranger, who better? I have already spoken with Lady Teralind and Lord Dunbarth, and they agree. A speaker’s son, ranger, and a friend of the Kagonesti, you are the best choice.”

  Kith-Kanan looked to Sithas. “This was your idea, Sith?”

  His brother shrugged. “Clear reasoning pointed to you and no one else.”

  Kith-Kanan ran a hand through his tousled hair. The crafty old Dunbarth knew all through their ride this morning and hadn’t said a word. In fact, had he led the way to the Market to show Kith-Kanan the slaves at work there? To prepare him for this?

  “You can refuse,” noted the speaker, “if you wish.” He plainly expected no such reaction from his stalwart son.

  A rush of images and thoughts flooded Kith-Kanan’s mind. In quick succession he saw the ruined village he and Mackeli had found; Voltorno, roving and plundering at will through Silvanesti; Anaya, mortally stricken, fighting bows and swords with a flint knife; Kagonesti slaves, stripped of

  their lives.

  The prince also heard his own words: “If the people had possessed a few spears, and had known how to fight, they might all have been saved.” Kith-Kanan’s gaze remained on his twin for a long moment, then he looked at the speaker. “I accept,” he said quietly.

  *

  With Mackeli at his side, Kith-Kanan spent the next few days interviewing members of the royal guard who had volunteered for the militia. As he had predicted, the lure of free land was a powerful inducement to soldiers who seldom owned anything more than the clothes on their backs. Kith-Kanan could select the very best of them as his sergeants.

  A great public celebration had been declared, both to honor the new agreement with Ergoth and Thorbardin and to honor Kith-Kanan’s ascent to command of the new militia of House Protector. The force was already being called the Wildrunners, after the old name given to the armed bands of Kagonesti who had fought for Silvanos during the wars of elven unification.

  *

  “I still don’t understand why we don’t just fly out there,” Mackeli said, struggling under the weight of real armor and a pot-shaped iron helmet.

  “Griffons are reserved as mounts of House Royal,” Kith-Kanan said. “Besides, there aren’t enough of them for this whole company.” He cinched a rope tight around the last bundle of his personal gear. His chestnut charger, Kijo, bore the weight of bedroll and armor well. Kith-Kanan had been pleased to discover that his old mount was still as spirited as ever.

  Mackeli regarded the horses skeptically. “Are you sure these beasts are tame?”

  Kith-Kanan smiled. “You rode Arcuballis one thousand feet up in the air, and now you’re worried about riding on horseback?”

  “I know Arcuballis,” the boy said apprehensively. “I don’t know these animals.”

  “It will be all right.” Kith-Kanan went down the line of horses and warriors. The last knots were made, and the good-byes were being said.

  The Processional Road was full of elves and horses. Two hundred and fifty warriors and an equal number of mounts milled about. Unlike Sithel’s earlier, ill-fated expedition, Kith-Kanan’s band was to be entirely mounted and self-sufficient. This was the largest force to leave Silvanost since the days of the founding wars.

  It was a splendid spectacle, and the sides of the street were lined with townsfolk. The warriors had discarded their fancy parade armor in favor of more practical equipment. Each elf wore a hammered iron breastplate and a simple, open-faced helmet. Bronze shields, shaped like hourglasses, hung from each saddlehorn. Every warrior carried a bow, twenty arrows, a sword, a knife, and a heavy javelin that could be used for thrusting or throwing. The horses wore only minimal trapping, as mobility was more important than protection.

  Kith-Kanan tucked his gauntlets under his arm as he mounted the steps to the processional entrance of the Tower of the Stars. There stood his father and mother, Sithas and Hermathya, Lady Teralind, Praetor Ulwen in his chair, and Ulvissen. Lord Dunbarth had begged off attending the departure ceremony. He was afflicted with a colic, according to his faithful secretary, Drollo. Kith-Kanan knew that the old rascal had been living it up in the inns and taverns along the riverfront since the treaty had been approved by the emperor of Ergoth and the king of Thorbardin.

  The prince ascended the steps in measured tread, keeping his eyes fixed on his father. Sithel was wearing the formal Crown of Stars, a magnificent golden circlet that featured as its central stone the famed Eye of Astarin, the largest emerald in all of Krynn. The gem caught the rays of the midmorning sun and sent flashes of verdant light across the street and gardens.

  Beside Sithel stood Lady Nirakina. She was dressed in a gown of palest blue and wore a filigree silver torc around her throat. Her honey-colored hair was held in a silver cloth scarf. There was something sad and remote about her expression-no doubt it was the realization that she was losing her younger son again, after he’d been home less than a month.

  Kith-Kanan reached the step just below the landing where the royal family was gathered. He removed his helmet and bowed to his father.

  “Noble father, gracious mother,” he said with dignity.

  “Stand with me,” said Sithel warmly. Kith-Kanan made the final step and stood beside his father.

  “Your mother and I have something to give you,” the speaker said in a private tone. “Open it when you are alone.” Nirakina handed her husband a red silk kerchief, the corners of which were tied together. Sithel pressed this into Kith-Kanan’s hand.

  “Now for the public words,” the speaker said with the faintest trace of a smile. Sithel looked out over the crowd. He raised his hand and declaimed, “People of Silvanost! I present you my son, Kith-Kanan, in whose trust I place the peace and safety of the realm.” To Kith-Kanan he asked loudly, “Will you faithfully and honorably discharge the duties of lord constable in all parts of our realm and any other provinces you may enter?”

  Loudly and clearly Kith-Kanan replied, “By E’li, I swear I will.” The crowd roared in approval.

  Standing apart on the speaker’s left were Sithas and Hermathya. The lady, who was radiantly beautiful in cream white and gold, had a serene expression on her fine-boned face. But Kith-Kanan’s twin smiled on him as he approached for a blessing.

  “Good hunting, Kith,” said Sithas warmly. “Show the humans what elven mettle is like!”

  “That I’ll do, Sith.” Without warning, Kith-Kanan embraced his brother. Sithas returned Kith-Kanan’s embrace with fervor.

  “Keep yourself safe, Brother,” Sithas said softly, then broke away.

  Kith-Kanan turned to Hermathya. “Farewell, Lady.”

  “Good-bye,” she replied coldly.

  Kith-Kanan descended the steps. Mackeli was holding Kijo’s reins. “What did the lady say?” he asked, gazing up at Hermathya with rapt admiration.

  “You noticed her, did you?”

  “Well, yes! She’s like a sunflower in a hedge of thistles —”

  Kith-Kanan swung into the saddle. “By Astarin! You’re starting to sound like a bard! It’s a good thing we’re getting you out of the city. Anaya wouldn’t know you, talking like that!”

  The warriors followed Kith-Kanan and Mackeli in ranks of five, wheeling with
precision as the prince led them down the curving Processional Road. The assembled Silvanesti let out a roar of approbation, which quickly turned into a steady chant:

  “Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan...”

  The chanting continued as the slow procession wound its way to the riverside. Two ferry barges were waiting for the warriors. Kith-Kanan and the Wildrunners boarded the ferries, and the huge turtles towed them away. The people of Silvanost lined the shore and called out Kith-Kanan’s name until long after the barges were lost against the dark strip of the western riverbank.

  26

  EARLY SUMMER, YEAR OF THE RAM

  LORD DUNBARTH’S PARTY LOADED ALL THEIR POSSESSIONS ONTO wagons and formed up to depart. Sithas and his honor guard were there to see the dwarven ambassador off.

  “Much better weather than when I arrived,” Dunbarth remarked. He was sweating under his woolen coat and vest. Summer was upon

  Silvanost, and a warm, humid wind blew in from the river.

  “It is indeed,” Sithas said pleasantly. In spite of Dunbarth’s professional caginess, Sithas liked the old dwarf. There was a basic goodness about him.

  “You’ll find a case of amber nectar in your carriage,” said the prince. “With the compliments of Lady Nirakina and myself.”

  “Ah!” The dwarf looked genuinely touched. “Many thanks, noble prince. I shall be sure to share it with my king. He esteems elven nectar almost as much as Thorbardin ale.”

  The ambassador’s escort, augmented by an honor guard of twenty elven warriors, paraded past the wagon. Dunbarth and his secretary, Drollo, climbed into their closed metal coach. As the ambassador pushed back the fine mesh curtains, he extended a ring-heavy hand to Sithas.

  “In Thorbardin we wish friends a long life when parting, but I know you’ll outlive me by centuries,” Dunbarth said, a twinkle in his eye. “What do elves say when they part?”

  “We say, ‘Blessings of Astarin’ and “May your way be green and golden’,” Sithas replied. He clasped the ambassador’s thick, wrinkled hand.

  “May your way be green and golden, then, Prince Sithas. Oh, and some news for you, too. Our Lady Teralind is not what she pretends to be.”

  Sithas raised a brow. “Oh?”

  “She is Emperor Ullves’s eldest daughter.”

  Sithas feigned mild interest. “Really? That’s interesting. Why do you tell me this now, my lord?”

  Dunbarth tried to hide his smile. “The dealing is done, so there’s no advantage to my keeping her identity secret. I’ve seen her before, you see. In Daltigoth. Hmm, I thought your noble father might like to know so that he could-um-ah, give her a royal send-off.”

  “My lord, you are wise for one so young,” Sithas said, grinning. “Would that I were young!

  Farewell, Prince!” Dunbarth rapped on the side of the coach. “Drive on!”

  *

  When he returned to the palace, Sithas was summoned to the Ergothians’ quarters. There he was awaited by his father, his mother, and her courtier, Tamanier Ambrodel. The prince quickly informed them of the dwarven lord’s revelation.

  At one end of the room, Teralind was giving final orders to her servants in a cross, high-pitched voice. Dresses of heavy velvet and delicate lace were being squeezed into crates, which were then nailed shut. Toiletries rattled into rattan hampers.

  The strongbox containing Teralind’s jewelry was locked with a stout padlock and given to a soldier to guard personally.

  Sithel approached this hectic scene. He halted in the center of the room and clasped his hands behind his back. Lady Teralind had no choice but to leave off her packing and attend the speaker. She combed a strand of hair back from her face and curtsied to Sithel.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” she asked in a hurried tone that made it plain she regarded it as no honor at all.

  “It’s just come to my attention that I have been remiss in my duty,” Sithel noted with heavy irony. “I greeted you and your husband as befitted an ambassador, when I should have done you more honor. It is not often I have an imperial princess under my roof.”

  A twitch passed over Terahnd’s face. “What?” she murmured.

  “Surely you don’t deny your father? He is the emperor, after all.”

  The tension left the woman’s shoulders. Her back straightened slightly, and she immediately took on a more relaxed and regal attitude. “It doesn’t matter now. You are quite right, Highness. I am Xanille Teralind, first daughter of His Majesty, Ullves X.” She looped the stray strand of hair back again. “How did you find out?”

  “Lord Dunbarth recognized you. But why did you hide your identity?” asked Sithel curiously.

  “To protect myself,” she averred. “My husband is a helpless invalid. We traveled a long way from Daltigoth, through regions where my father is not loved. Can you imagine the danger we would have faced if every bandit chief and warlord knew I was an imperial princess? We should have needed a hundred times the escort we came with. And how would Your Highness have felt if we had shown up before Silvanost at the head of a thousand warriors?”

  “You are right. I would have thought you were trying to intimidate me,” Sithel said genially. He glanced at Tamanier Ambrodel. At the signal, the courtier handed the speaker a small rolled slip of vellum. Although Sithel made a fist around the scroll, he didn’t yet open it.

  The prince studied his father, mother, and Tamanier. What were they up to? No one had told him what was going to happen-and yet, something was about to happen, that was plain.

  “Where, my lady, is your seneschal?” Sithel asked nonchalantly.

  “Ulvissen? Seeing to the loading of my baggage. Why?” The question seemed to put Teralind on the defensive.

  “Would you summon him? I wish to speak with the man.”

  In short order Ulvissen himself entered from the courtyard where the Ergothians’ wagons were being loaded. He was sweating heavily in his thick wool and leather outfit. In turn he bowed grandly to Teralind and Sithel.

  “You wished to speak to me, Highness?” he asked the speaker awkwardly.

  “Yes. Since this is a day of revelations, I see no reason why you shouldn’t be part of them.” Sithel opened his hand, displaying the slip of vellum. “I have here a report prepared by Prince Kith-Kanan before his departure to the West. In it, he describes a half-human bandit he met in the wilderness, Voltorno by name. Many months ago, he encountered this Voltorno in the company of a band of humans. He states that you were one of these men.”

  Ulvissen looked from the small scroll to the speaker’s face, but betrayed no guilt. “No offense intended, great speaker, but your son is mistaken. I have never been to Silvanesti prior to coming as my lady’s seneschal,” he said evenly.

  “Mistakes are possible, even by Kith-Kanan,” Sithel said, closing his fingers around the parchment again. “Which is why I had my scribes search the archives of the Temple of Kiri Jolith. There are kept accounts of all wars and battles fought since the dawn of time. And whose name should be found as high admiral of the Ergothian fleet, but one Guldur Ul Vissen? A name strangely similar to your own, wouldn’t you agree? Since your princess saw fit to come here in disguise, it does not tax belief to think you may have also.” The speaker clasped his hands behind his back. “What have you to say, Master Ulvissen?”

  Ulvissen regarded the Speaker of the Stars with utter coolness. “Your Highness is mistaken,” he said firmly. “A similarity of names proves nothing. Vissen is a common name in Ergoth.”

  “Do you agree, Lady?”

  Teralind flinched. “Yes. What is the point? I’ve told you why I pretended to be someone else. But my seneschal is who he claims to be.”

  Sithel tucked the parchment into his sash. “As an imperial princess, please go with my best wishes and every hope of safety, but do not bring your ‘seneschal’ to Silvanost again. Do you understand?” The harsh tone was unusual for the speaker. “Those who despoil my country and kill my subjects are not welcome in my city
or my house. Please let this be known when you arrive in Daltigoth, Lady.”

  With that, the speaker turned on his heel and walked away. Nirakina. Followed. Tamanier bowed and did likewise. Sithas, wide-eyed, went last.

  In the rotunda outside the humans’ quarters, Sithel turned to his wife with a broad smile on his face. He shook a fist at the ceiling.

  “At last!” he said fiercely. “I’ve given that contentious woman her own back!” He turned to Tamanier. “You have been of great service to me. You shall be rewarded.”

  Tamanier blinked and bowed. “I seek only to serve Your Highness and Lady Nirakina,” he said.

  “So you shall.” Sithel pondered for a moment, stroking his pointed chin. “I wish to appoint you chamberlain of the court. The management of daily court life shall fall to you. You will be known as Lord Ambrodel, and your clan shall have the right to inherit the title.” The speaker folded his arms and asked, “What say you to that, Lord Ambrodel?”

  Tamanier gaped like a startled child. At last he collected himself and dropped to one knee. “I thank you, Highness,” he said humbly. “I will serve you to the end of my days!”

  “I think my days will end before yours,” Sithel said wryly. “But you can serve my son after.”

  Laughing, the royal family and their new chamberlain left the rotunda. Sithas put a hand on Tamanier Ambrodel’s arm.

  “A word, my new lord,” Sithas said in a confidential whisper, pulling him aside.

  “Yes?” said Tamanier discreetly.

  “Let us go to a more private location.”

  They left the palace. Outside, the air was sweet with flowers and the marble walks were covered with blossoms fallen from the trees. Sithas said nothing until they were some distance from any observers.

  “You know someone in the palace has been giving information to the Ergothians,” Sithas said conspiratorially, looking eastward to the fine houses of the nobility. “I would appreciate it if you would help me find out who the traitor is.”