Firstborn

11 — Early Autumn, Year of the Hawk

The traditional way across the river to Silvanost was by ferry. Large, flat-bottomed barges were drawn back and forth across the Thon-Thalas by giant turtles. Some time in the distant past, priests of the Blue Phoenix, god of all animal life, had woven the spells that brought the first giant turtles into being.

They had taken a pair of common river turtles, usually the size of a grown elf’s palm, and worked their spells over them until they were as big as houses. Thereafter, the priests bred their own giants, creating quite a sizeable herd. The vast green domes of the turtles’ shells had become a common sight as the placid beasts gave faithful service for many centuries.

Lady Nirakina stood on the riverbank, watching a barge of refugees, pulled by just such a turtle, arrive from the west bank. Beside her stood Tamanier Ambrodel, his arm still in a sling. A month had passed since the Trial Days, and during that time more and more settlers from the western plains and forests had retreated to Silvanost for protection.

“How many does that make?” asked Nirakina, shading her eyes to see the crowded barge.

Tamanier checked the tally he was keeping. “Four hundred and nineteen, my lady,” he said. “And more coming all the time.”

The settlers were mostly from the poorer families of Silvanesti who had gone west to work new land and make new lives for themselves.

Though largely unharmed, they were footsore, exhausted, and demoralized. Their stories were all the same: bands of humans and Kagonesti elves had burned down their houses and orchards and ordered them to leave. The Silvanesti, unarmed and unorganized, had little choice but to pack their meager belongings and trek back to Silvanost.

Nirakina had received her husband’s blessing to organize relief for the displaced settlers. A field along the southern end of the city was set aside for them, and a shanty town of tents and lean-tos had sprung up in the last few weeks. Nirakina had persuaded many of the city guilds and great temples to contribute food, blankets, and money for the care of the refugees.

Sithel was doing all he could for the refugees, too, but his job was made far more complicated by the demands of the state. The Tower of the Stars was filled daily with petitioners who entreated the speaker to call together the army and clear the plains of the raiders. Sithel quite rightly realized this was not a practical solution. A big, slow-moving army would never catch small, mobile raider bands.

“Our neighbors to the west, Thorbardin and Ergoth, would be very unhappy to see an elven army on their borders,” Sithel told his more bellicose nobles. “It would be an invitation to war, and that is an invitation I will not countenance.”

So the refugees continued to come, first in a trickle, then in a steady stream. As he was acquainted with them and knew first-hand the problems they faced, Tamanier Ambrodel was chosen by Lady Nirakina to be her chief assistant. He proved a tireless worker, but even with his efforts, the camp along the riverbank became dirty and rowdy as more and more frightened settlers swelled its ranks. A pall of smoke and fear hovered over the refugee camp. It did not take long for the residents of Silvanost to lose their sympathy and regard the refugees with disgust.

This day Nirakina had gone down to the water’s edge to speak to the refugees as they came ashore. The weary, grimy travelers were amazed to see the speaker’s wife waiting on the muddy bank, her richly made gown trailing in the mud, only Tamanier Ambrodel standing beside her.

“They are so sad, so tired,” she murmured to him. He stood by her side making notations on a wax tablet.

“It’s a sad thing to lose your home and those you love best, my lady.” Tamanier filled a square of twenty and blocked it off. “That makes two hundred and twenty in one barge, including sixty-six humans and half-humans.” He eyed her uncertainly. “The speaker will not be pleased that those not of our blood are entering the city.”

“I know the speaker’s heart,” Nirakina said a little sharply. Her slight figure bristled with indignation. “It is the others at court who want to cause trouble for these poor folk.”

An elf woman struggled ashore from a small boat, carrying a baby in her arms. She slipped and fell to her knees in the muddy water. Other exhausted refugees tramped past her. Nirakina, without hesitation, waded into the press of silent people and helped the elf woman to her feet. Their eyes met, and the raggedly dressed woman said, “Thank you, my lady.”

With nothing else to say, she held her child to her shoulder and slogged ashore. Nirakina was standing, openly admiring the woman’s dogged courage, when a hand touched her arm.

“You’d best be careful, Lady,” Tamanier said.

Unheeding, Nirakina replied, “The priests and nobles will fume about this, about the mixed-blood people especially.” Her serene expression darkened. “They should all be made to come here and see the poor innocents they would deny comfort and shelter!”

Tamanier gently tugged Lady Nirakina back to the riverbank.

On the other side of the city, the Tower of the Stars rang with denunciations of the refugees.

“When the gods created the world, they made our race first, to be the guardians of right and truth,” declared Firincalos, high priest of E’li. “It is our sacred duty to preserve ourselves as the gods made us, a pure race, always recognizable as Silvanesti.”

“Well said! Quite true!” The assembly of nobles and clerics called out in rising voices.

Sithas watched his father. The speaker listened placidly to all this, but he did not look pleased. It was not so much that his father disagreed with the learned Firincalos; Sithas had heard similar sentiments espoused before. But he knew the speaker hated to be lectured to by anyone, for any reason.

Since the Trial Days, Sithas had been at his father’s side daily, taking a hand in the day-to-day administration of the country. He’d learned new respect for Sithel when he saw how his father managed to balance the pleas of the priests, the ideas of the nobles, and the needs of the guilds against his own philosophy of what was best for Silvanesti.

Sithas had learned respect—but not admiration. He believed his father was too flexible, gave in too often to the wrong people. It surprised him, for he had always thought of Sithel as a strong ruler. Why didn’t he simply command obedience instead of constantly compromising?

Sithel waved for the assembled elves to be quiet. Miritelisina, high priestess of Quenesti Pah, was standing, seeking the speaker’s grant to comment. The hall quieted, and Sithel bade Miritelisina begin.

“I must ask the pure and righteous Firincalos what he would do with the husbands, wives, and children now languishing in huts along the riverbank, those who are not pure in our blood yet who have the deepest ties to some number of our race?” Her rich voice filled the high tower. In her youth, Miritelisina had been a renowned singer, and she played upon her listeners with all her old skills. “Shall we throw them into the river? Shall we drive them from the island, back onto the swords and torches of the bandits who drove them east?”

A few harsh voices cried “Yes!” to her questions.

Sithas folded his arms and studied Miritelisina. She cut a regal figure in her sapphire headband and white robe with its trailing, sky-blue sash. Her waist-length, flaxen hair rippled down her back as she swept a pointing finger over the mostly male crowd of elves.

“Shame on you all!” she shouted. “Is there no mercy in Silvanost? The humans and half-humans are not here because they want to be! Evil has been done to them, evil that must be laid at someone’s door. But to treat them like animals, to deny them simple shelter, is likewise evil. My holy brothers, is this the way of rightness and truth of which the honorable Firincalos speaks? It does not sound that way to me. I would more expect to hear such harsh sentiments from devotees of the Dragonqueen!”

Sithas stiffened. The willful priestess had gone too far! Firincalos and his colleagues thought so, too. They pushed to the front of the crowd, outraged at being compared to the minions of the Queen of Evil. The air thickened with denunciations, but Sithel, sitting back on his throne, did nothing to restrain the angry clerics.

Sithas turned to his father. “May I speak?” he asked calmly. “I’ve been waiting for you to take a stand,” Sithel said impatiently. “Go ahead. But remember, if you swim with snakes, you may get bitten.”

Sithas bowed to his father. “This is a hard time for our people,” he began loudly. The wrangling on the floor subsided, and the prince lowered his voice. “It is evident from events in the West that the humans, probably with the support of the emperor of Ergoth, are trying to take over our plains and woodland provinces, not by naked conquest, but by displacing our farmers and traders. Terror is their tool, and so far it is working far better than they could have dreamed. I tell you this first and ask you all to remember who is responsible for the situation in which we now find ourselves.”

Sithel nodded with satisfaction. Sithas noted his father’s reaction and went on.

“The refugees come to Silvanost seeking our protection, and we cannot fail to give it. It is our duty. We protect those not of our race because they have come on bended knee, as subjects must do before their lords. It is only right and proper that we shield them from harm, not only because the gods teach the virtue of mercy, but also because these are the people who grow our crops, sell our goods, who pay their taxes and their fealty.” A murmur passed through the assembly. Sithas’s calm, rational tone, so long honed in debates with the priests of Matheri, dampened the anger that had reigned earlier. The clerics relaxed from their previous trembling outrage. Miritelisina smiled faintly.

Sithas dropped his hands to his hips and looked over the gathering with stern resolve. “But make no mistake! The preservation of our race is of the greatest importance. Not merely the purity of our blood, but the purity of our customs, traditions, and laws. For that reason, I ask the speaker to decree a new place of refuge for the settlers, on the western bank of the Thon-Thalas, for the sole purpose of housing all humans and half-humans. Further, I suggest that all non-Silvanesti be sent across to there from the current tent village.”

There was a moment of silence as the assembly took in this idea, then the tower erupted with calls of “Well spoken! Well said!”

“What about the husbands and wives who are full-blooded Silvanesti?” demanded Miritelisina.

“They may go with their families, of course,” replied Sithas evenly.

“They should be made to go,” insisted Damroth, priest of Kiri Jolith. “They are an insult to our heritage.”

Sithel rapped the arm of his throne with his massive signet ring. The sound echoed through the Tower of the Stars. Instant silence claimed the hall.

“My son does me honor,” the speaker said. “Let all he has said be done.” The priestess of Quenesti Pah opened her mouth to protest, but Sithel rapped on his throne again, as a warning. “Those Silvanesti who have taken humans as mates will go with their kin. They have chosen their path, now they must follow it. Let it be done.”

He stood, a clear signal that the audience was over. The assembly bowed deeply as one and filed out. In a few minutes, only Sithel and Sithas were left.

“That Miritelisina,” said Sithel wryly. “She’s a woman of extreme will.”

“She’s too sentimental,” Sithas complained, coming to his father’s side. “I didn’t notice her offering to take the half-breeds into her temple.”

“No, but she’s spent a third of the temple treasury on tents and firewood, I hear.” The speaker rubbed his brow with one hand and sighed gustily. “Do you think it will come to war? There’s no real proof Ergoth is behind these attacks.”

Sithas frowned. “These are not ordinary bandits. Ordinary bandits don’t scorn gold in favor of wrecking fruit trees. I understand this new emperor, Ullves X, is an ambitious young schemer. Perhaps if we confront him directly, he would restrain the ‘bandits’ now at liberty in our western lands.”

Sithel looked doubtful. “Humans are difficult to deal with. They have more guile than kender, and their rapaciousness can make a goblin pale. And yet, they know honor, loyalty, and courage. It would be easier if they were all cruel or all noble, but as it is, they are mostly…difficult.” Rising from the throne, the speaker added, “Still, talk is cheaper than war. Prepare a letter to the emperor of Ergoth. Ask him to send an emissary for the purpose of ending the strife on the plains. Oh, you’d better send a similar note to the king of Thorbardin. They have a stake in this, too.”

“I will begin at once,” Sithas assented, bowing deeply.

Usually, diplomatic notes to foreign rulers would be composed by professional scribes, but Sithas sat down at the onyx table in his private room and began the letter himself. He dipped a fine stylus in a pot of black ink and wrote the salutation. “To His Most Excellent and Highborn Majesty, Ullves X, Emperor, Prince of Daltigoth, Grand Duke of Colem, etc., etc.” The prince shook his head. Humans dearly loved titles; how they piled them after their names. “From Sithel, Speaker of the Stars, Son of Silvanos. Greetings, Royal Brother.”

Hermathya burst into the room, red-gold hair disheveled, mantle askew. Sithas was so startled he dropped a blot of ink on the page, spoiling the fine vellum.

“Sithas!” she exclaimed breathlessly, rushing toward him. “They are rioting!”

“Who’s rioting?” he growled irritably.

“The farmers—the settlers lately come from the West. Word got out that the speaker was going to force them to leave Silvanost, and they began to smash and burn things. A band of them attacked the Market! Parts of it are on fire!”

Sithas rushed to the balcony. He threw aside the heavy brocade curtain and stepped out. His rooms faced away from the Market district, but through the muggy autumn air he caught the distant sounds of screaming.

“Has the royal guard been turned out?” he asked, returning inside quickly.

Hermathya inhaled deeply, her pale skin flushed as she tried to get her breathing under control. “I think so. I saw warriors headed that way. My sedan chair was blocked by a column of guards, so I got out and ran to the palace.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said sternly. Sithas imagined Hermathya running down the street like some wild Kagonesti. What would the common folk think, seeing his wife dashing through town like a wild thing?

When she planted her hands on her hips, the prince noticed that Hermathya’s mantle had slipped down, leaving one white shoulder bare. Her flame-bright hair had escaped its confining clasp and tendrils streamed around her reddened face. Her blush deepened at Sithas’s words.

“I thought it important to bring you the news!”

“The news would have come soon enough,” he stated tersely. He pulled a bell cord for a servant. An elf maid appeared with silent efficiency. “A bowl of water and a towel for Lady Hermathya,” Sithas commanded. The maid bowed and departed.

Hermathya flung off her dusty mantle. “I don’t need water!” she exclaimed angrily. “I want to know what you’re going to do about the riot!”

“The warriors will quell it,” the prince stated flatly as he returned to the table. When he saw that the parchment was ruined, Sithas frowned at the letter.

“Well, I hope no harm comes to Lady Nirakina!” she added.

Sithas ceased twirling the stylus in his fingers. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

“Your mother is out there, in the midst of the fighting!”

He seized Hermathya by the arms. His grip was so tight, a gasp was wrenched from his wife. “Don’t lie to me, Hermathya! Why should Mother be in that part of the city?”

“Don’t you know? She was at the river with that Ambrodel fellow, helping the poor wretches.”

Sithas released her quickly, and she staggered back a step. He thought fast. Then, turning to an elegant wardrobe made of flamewood, he pulled his street cloak off its peg and flipped it around his shoulders. On another peg was a sword belt holding a slender sword, the twin of his brother’s. He buckled the belt around his waist. It settled lopsidedly around his narrow hips.

“I’m going to find my mother,” he declared.

Hermathya grabbed her mantle. “I’ll go with you!”

“You will not,” he said firmly. “It isn’t seemly for you to roam the streets. You will stay here.”

“I will do as I please!”

Hermathya started for the door, but Sithas caught her wrist and pulled her back. Her eyes blazed furiously.

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about the danger!” she hissed.

Voice tight with control, Sithas replied, “Lady, if you wish to remain in my good graces, you will do as I say.”

She stuck out her chin. “Oh? And if I don’t, what will you do? Strike me?” Sithas felt impaled by her deep blue eyes and, in spite of his anxiety about his mother, he felt a surge of passion. The starjewel at Hermathya’s throat flashed. There was color in her cheeks to match the heat in her eyes.

Their life together had been so cold. So little fire, so little emotion. Her arms were smooth and warm in Sithas’s hands as he leaned close. But in the instant before their lips met, Hermathya whispered, “I will do as I please!”

The prince pushed his wife back and turned away, breathing deeply to calm himself. She used her beauty like a weapon, not only on the commoners, but even on him. Sithas closed the collar of his cloak with a trembling hand.

“Find my father. Tell the speaker what has happened and what I intend to do.”

“Where is the speaker?” she said sulkily.

He snapped, “I don’t know. Why don’t you look for him?” Without another word, Sithas hurried from the room.

On his way out, the prince passed the servant as she returned with a bowl of tepid water and a soft, white towel. The elf maiden stood aside to let Sithas pass, then presented the bowl to Hermathya. She scowled at the girl, then, with one hand, knocked the basin from the servant’s hands. The bronze bowl hit the marble floor with a clang, splashing Hermathya’s feet with water.