Firstborn

by Paul B. Thompson

  “By Astarin,” muttered Kith-Kanan. “Is there anyone left in Silvanost?”

  The nobles parted ranks, the lancers moved to one side, and Sithas rode forward. “Greetings, Brother. Is everything in order?” asked the heir to the throne.

  Kith-Kanan grinned. “Not everything,” he said, looking up at Sithas. “But we’re doing well enough.”

  The leader of the Wildrunners strode through the blocks of mounted elves toward his father.

  Soldiers, nobles, and courtiers parted for him with mechanical precision. There was Sithel, astride a splendid white charger, his golden mantle draped across the animal’s rump. The crown of Silvanos sparkled on his brow.

  Kith-Kanan bowed from the waist. “Hail, great speaker!”

  “Hail to you, my son.” Sithel waved the emerald and ivory scepter of Silvanos, and Kith-Kanan straightened, “How have you been?”

  “Mostly well, Father. The militia has been a great success. Incidents of marauding have ceased and, until recently, everyone we met was with us.”

  Sithel laid the scepter in the crook of his arm. “Until recently?” he asked with a frown.

  “Yes. The inhabitants of the woods are not eager for our help. I believe we can eventually win them to our side, though.”

  The speaker’s charger shook its head and did a slow half-circle. A groom ran forward to hold the animal’s bridle as Sithel patted his horse’s snowy neck.

  “I would hear more about this,” he said solemnly. Kith-Kanan took the bridle from the groom and led his father’s mount toward the unfinished fortress.

  *

  The vast formation of soldiers and courtiers dispersed, and a regular tent city grew up on the plain in and around the stockade of Sithelbec. The speaker moved into the incomplete keep, as did Sithas. There, on a rough table of green oak planks, Kith-Kanan served them dinner and told them about the problems they’d been having winning the confidence of the woods elves.

  “The impudence of it,” Sithas complained vehemently. “I think you should go in and drag the wretches out.”

  Kith-Kanan couldn’t believe his ears. “And make them blood enemies forever, Sith? I know the Kagonesti. They prize freedom above all things and won’t submit even with a sword at their throat. Unless we’re willing to burn down the whole forest, we’ll never flush them out. It’s their element; they know every inch of it. Most of all, it’s their home.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Sithel broke it.

  “How is the hunting?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Outstanding,” Kith-Kanan said, glad of the change in subject. “The woods are fairly bursting with game, Father.”

  They gossiped a bit about life back in the city. Lady Nirakina and Tamanier Ambrodel were continuing their efforts on behalf of the homeless. The new Market was almost finished. Given the huge abundance of the coming harvest, even the new, expanded Market would be taxed to handle the volume.

  “How is Hermathya?” Kith-Kanan asked politely.

  Sithas shrugged, “As well as always. She spends too much and still craves the adoration of the common folk.”

  They made plans for a boar hunt that would take place on the morrow. Only a small party would go-the speaker, Sithas, Kith-Kanan, Kencathedrus, another royal guard, Parnigar, and half a dozen favored courtiers. They would assemble at dawn and ride into the forest armed with lances. No beaters or hounds would be used. The speaker viewed such measures as unsporting.

  *

  Though the sun had not yet shown itself, there was an early heat in the air, a promise of the stifling day to come. Kith-Kanan stood by a small campfire with Parnigar, eating some bread and porridge. Sithas and Sithel emerged from the half-built keep, dressed in drab brown hunting clothes.

  “Good morning,” Kith-Kanan said energetically.

  “Going to be hot, I think,” appraised Sithel. A servant appeared silently at his elbow with a cup of cool apple cider. A second servant offered Sithas similar refreshment.

  The courtiers appeared, looking ill at ease in their borrowed hunting clothes. Kencathedrus and Parnigar were more lethal looking. The commander leaned on his lance with an easy grace, seeming fully awake, the benefit of many years rising before the sun. The hunting party ate in relative silence, chewing bread and cheese, spooning porridge quickly, and washing everything down with cider.

  Sithel finished first. He thrust his empty cup and plate at a servant and took a lance from the pyramid of weapons stacked outside the keep.

  “To horse,” he announced. “The prey awaits!”

  The speaker mounted with ease and swung the long ash lance in a broad circle around his head. Kith-Kanan couldn’t help but smile at his father who, despite his age and dignity, was more expert with horse and lance than any of them, except perhaps Kencathedrus and Parnigar.

  Sithas was a fair horseman, but fumbled with the long lance and reins. The courtiers, more used to loose robes and tight protocol, wobbled aboard their animals. The nervous animals were made more so by the lances bobbing and dancing just behind their heads.

  Forming a triangle with Sithel in the lead, the party rode toward the forest, half a mile away. Dew was thick on the tall grass, and crickets sang until the horses drew near. The silver rim of Solinari could been seen on the western horizon.

  Sithas rode on the speaker’s left. Kith-Kanan rode on his father’s right, resting the butt of his lance in his stirrup cup. They rode at an easy pace, not wanting to tire the horses too early. If they flushed a boar, they’d need all the speed they could muster from their chargers.

  “I haven’t been hunting in sixty years,” Sithel said, breathing deeply of the morning air. “When I was your age, all the young bucks had to have a boar’s head on their clan hall wall to show everyone how virile they were.” Sithel smiled. “I still remember how I got my first boar. Shenbarrus, Hermathya’s father, and I used to go to the marshes at the mouth of the Thon-Thalas. Marsh boar were reputed to be the fiercest of the fierce, and we thought we’d be the most famous hunters in Silvanost if we came back with a trophy. Shenbarrus was a lot thinner and more active in those days. He and I went down river by boat. We landed on Fairgo Island and immediately started tracking a large beast.”

  “You were on foot?” asked Kith-Kanan, incredulous.

  “Couldn’t get a horse on the island, son. It was too marshy. So Shenbarrus and I went in the spikerod thickets, armed with spears and brass bucklers. We got separated and the next thing I knew, I was alone in the marsh, with ominous rustlings in the bushes around me. I called out: ‘Shenbarrus! Is that you?’ There was no answer. I called again; still no answer. By then I was certain the noise I’d heard was a boar. I raised my spear high and thrust it through the thick brush. There was a scream such as mortal elf never heard, and Shenbarrus came pounding through the spikerod into the open. I’d jabbed him in, hmm, the seat of his robe.”

  Kith-Kanan laughed. Sithas laughed and asked, “So you never got your marsh boar?”

  “Oh, I did!” Sithel said. “Shenbarrus’s yells flushed a monster of a pig out of the brush. He ran right at us. Despite his painful wound Shenbarrus stabbed first. The pig thrashed and tore up the clearing. I got my spear back and finished the beast off.”

  “Who got the head?” asked Sithas.

  “Shenbarrus. He drew first blood, so it was only right,” said his father warmly.

  Kith-Kanan had been in Hermathya’s father’s house many times and had seen the fierce boar’s head in the dining hall over the fireplace. He thought of old Shenbarrus getting poked in the “seat of his robe” and he burst out laughing all over again.

  The sky had lightened to pink by the time they reached the dark wall of trees. The party spread out, far enough apart for easy movement, but near enough to stay in sight of one another. All idle talk ceased.

  The sun rose behind them, throwing long shadows through the trees. Kith-Kanan sweated in his cotton tunic and mopped his face with his sleeve. His father was ahead to his lef
t, Parnigar slightly behind to his right.

  Being in the forest again brought Anaya irresistibly to mind. Kith-Kanan saw her again, lithe and lively, flitting through the trees as silent as a ghost. He remembered her brusque manners, her gentle repose, and the way she felt in his arms. That he remembered best of all.

  The heavy rains of summer had washed the sandy soil of the forest away, leaving chuckholes and protruding roots. Kith-Kanan let his horse pick its way along, but the animal misjudged its footing and hit a hole. The horse stumbled and recovered, but Kith-Kanan lost his seat and tumbled to the ground. The stump of a broken sapling gouged him in the back, and he lay there for a moment, stunned.

  His vision cleared and he saw Parnigar leaning over him. “Are you all right, sir?” the old sergeant asked concernedly.

  “Yes, just dazed. How’s my horse?”

  The animal stood a few yards away, cropping moss. His right foreleg was held painfully off the ground.

  Parnigar helped Kith-Kanan stand as the last of the hunting party passed by. Kencathedrus, in the rear, asked if they needed any help.

  “No,” Kith-Kanan said quickly. “Go on. I’ll see to my horse.”

  The horse’s lower leg was bruised but, with care, it wouldn’t be a crippling injury. Parnigar offered Kith-Kanan his horse, so he could catch up to the rest.

  “No, thank you, Sergeant. They’re too far ahead. If I go galloping after them, I’ll scare off any game in the area “He put a hand to his aching back.

  Parnigar asked, “Shall I stay with you, sir?”

  “I think you’d better. I may have to walk back to Sithelbec from here.” His back stabbed at him again, and he winced.

  The news that Kith-Kanan had dropped out was passed ahead. The speaker expressed regret that his son would miss the hunt. But this was a rare day, and the expedition should continue. Sithel’s course through the trees meandered here and there, taking the path best suited to his horse. At more than one place he paused to examine tracks in the moss or mud. Wild pig, definitely.

  It was hot, but the elves welcomed such heat-for it was a good change from the ever-present coolness of the Quinari Palace and the Tower of the Stars. While Silvanost was constantly bathed in fresh breezes, the heat of the plains made the speaker’s limbs feel looser and more supple, his head clearer. He reveled in the sense of freedom he felt out here and urged his horse on.

  In the far distance, Sithel heard the call of a hunting horn. Such horns meant humans, and that meant dogs. Sure enough, the sound of barking came very faintly to his ears. Elves never used dogs, but humans rarely went into the woods without them. Human eyesight and hearing being so poor, Sithel reckoned they needed the animals to find any game at all.

  The horns and dogs would likely frighten off any boar in the area. In fact, the dogs would flush everything-boar, deer, rabbits, foxes-out of hiding. Sithel shifted his lance back to his stirrup cup and sniffed. Humans were so unsporting.

  There was a noise in the sumac behind and to his right. Sithel turned his horse around, lowered the tip of his lance, and poked through the bushes. A wild pheasant erupted from the green leaves, bleating shrilly. Laughing, the speaker calmed his prancing horse.

  Sithas and a courtier named Timonas were close enough to see each other when the hunting horn sounded. The prince also realized that it meant humans in the woods. The idea filled him with alarm. He tightened his reins and spurred his horse in a tight circle, looking for other members of the party. The only one he could spot was Timonas.

  “Can you see anyone?” Sithas called. The courtier shouted back that he could not.

  Sithas’s alarm increased. It was inexplicable, but he felt a dangerous presentiment. In the heat of the summer morning, the prince shivered.

  “Father!” he called. “Speaker, where are you?”

  Ahead, the speaker had decided to turn back. Any boar worth bagging had long since left these woods, driven off by the humans. He retraced his path and heard Sithas’s call from not too far away.

  “Oh, don’t shout,” he muttered irritably. “I’m coming.”

  Catching up to him, Sithas pushed through a tangle of vines and elm saplings. As the prince spurred his mount toward the speaker, the feeling of danger was still with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of metal in a stand of cedar.

  Then he saw the arrow in flight.

  Before Sithas could utter the cry that rose to his lips, the arrow had struck Sithel in the left side, below his ribs. The Speaker of the Stars dropped his lance and pitched forward, but he did not fall from the saddle. A scarlet stain spread out from the arrow, running down the leg of Sithel’s trousers.

  Timonas rode up on Sithas’s left. “See to the speaker!” Sithas cried. He slapped his horse’s flank with the reins and bore down on the cedar trees. Lance lowered, he burst through the dark green curtain. A quick glimpse of a white face, and he brought the handguard of his lance down on the archer’s head. The archer pitched forward on his face.

  The royal guardsman accompanying the party appeared. “Come here! Watch this fellow!” Sithas shouted at him and then rode hard to where Timonas supported Sithel on his horse.

  “Father,” Sithas said breathlessly. “Father...”

  The speaker stared in wordless shock. He could say nothing as he reached a bloody hand to his son.

  Gently Sithas and Timonas lowered the speaker to the ground. The rest of the hunting party quickly collected around them. The courtiers argued whether to remove the arrow, but Sithas silenced them all as Kencathedrus studied the wound. The look he gave the prince was telling. Sithas Understood.

  “Father,” Sithas said desperately, “can you speak?”

  Sithel’s lips parted, but no sound came. His hazel eyes seemed full of puzzlement. At last, his hand touched his son’s face, and he breathed his last. The hand fell to the ground.

  The elves stood around their fallen monarch in abject disbelief. The one who had ruled them for three hundred and twenty-three years lay dead at their feet.

  Kencathedrus had retrieved the fallen archer from the guardsman who watched him. The commander dragged the unconscious fellow by the back of his collar to where Sithel lay. “Sire, look at this,” he said. He rolled the inert figure over.

  The archer was human. His carrot-colored hair was short and spiky, leaving his queerly rounded ears plainly visible. There was a stubble of orange beard on his chin.

  “Murder,” muttered one of the courtiers. “The humans have killed our speaker!”

  “Be silent!” Sithas said angrily. “Show some respect for the dead.” To Kencathedrus he declared, “When he wakes we will find out who he is and why he did this.”

  “Perhaps it was an accident,” cautioned Kencathedrus, inspecting the man. “His bow is a hunting weapon, not a war bow.”

  “He took aim! I saw him,” Sithas said hotly. “My father was mounted on a white horse! Who could mistake him?”

  The human groaned. Courtiers surrounded him and dragged him to his feet. They were not very gentle about it. By the time they finished shaking and pummeling him, it was a wonder he opened his eyes at all.

  “You have killed the Speaker of the Stars!” Sithas demanded furiously, “Why?”

  “No —” gasped the man.

  He was forced to his knees. “I saw you!” Sithas insisted. “How can you deny it? Why did you do it?”

  “I swear, Lord —”

  Sithas could barely think or feel. His senses reeled with the fact that his beloved father was dead.

  “Get him ready to travel,” the prince ordered numbly. “We will take him back to the fortress and question him properly there.”

  “Yes, Speaker,” said Timonas.

  Sithas froze. It was true. Even as his father’s blood ran into the ground, he was the rightful speaker. He could feel the burden of rulership settle about him like a length of chain laid across his shoulders. He had to be strong now, strong and wise, like his father.

  “W
hat about your father?” Kencathedrus asked gently.

  “I will carry him.” Sithas put his arms under his father’s lifeless body and picked it up.

  They walked out of the grove, the human with his arms wrenched behind him, the courtiers leading their horses, and Sithas carrying his dead father. As they came, the sound of hunting horns grew louder and the barking of dogs sounded behind them. Before the party had gone another quarter-mile, a band of mounted humans, armed with bows, appeared. There were at least thirty of them, and as they spread out around the party of elves, the Silvanesti slowed and stopped.

  One human picked his way to Sithas. He wore a visored helmet, no doubt to protect his face from intruding branches. The man flipped the visor up, and Sithas started in surprise. He knew that face.

  It was Ulvissen, the human who had acted as seneschal to Princess Teralind.

  “What has happened here?” Ulvissen asked grimly, taking in the scene.

  “The Speaker of the Stars has been murdered,” Sithas replied archly. “By that man.”

  Ulvissen looked beyond Sithas and saw the archer with his arms pinioned. “You must be mistaken. That man is my forester, Dremic,” he said firmly. “He is no murderer. This was obviously an accident.”

  “Accident? That’s not an acceptable answer. I am speaker now, and I say that this assassin will face Silvanesti justice.”

  Ulvissen leaned forward in his saddle. “I do not think so, Highness. Dremic is my man. If he is to be punished, I will see to it,” he said strongly.

  “No,” disagreed Sithas.

  The elves drew together. Some still carried their lances, others had courtly short swords at their waists. Kencathedrus held his sword to the neck of the human archer, Dremic. The standoff was tense.

  Before anyone could act, though, a shrill two-tone whistle cut the air. Sithas felt relief well up inside him. Sure enough, through the trees came Kith-Kanan at the head of a company of the militia’s pikemen. The prince rode forward to where Sithas stood, holding their father in his arms.