Firstborn

25 — By Next Dawn

When it came to the spread of important news, the great city of Silvanost was just like a tiny village.

By the next morning, word of the tentative agreement between the speaker and the representatives of Ergoth and Thorbardin had penetrated every corner of the capital. The city, and the elven nation itself, seemed to let out a long-held breath. Fear of war had been uppermost in the minds of all the people, followed closely by fear that large numbers of refugees would once more be driven back into the city by the bandit raids.

When the new day dawned, rimmed by low clouds and chilly with the threat of rain, the people of Silvanost behaved as if it was a bright, sun-filled day. The nobility, priests, and guildmasters heard cheering as their sedan chairs were carried through the streets.

Kith-Kanan went into the city that morning on horseback with Lord Dunbarth. It was the prince’s first chance to see Silvanost since his return. His appetite had been whetted when he and the dwarf had dined at the Inn of the Golden Acorn. There, with good food and drink, stirred by the strains of a bardic lyre, Kith-Kanan had rediscovered his love for the city, dormant for all his months in the wildwood.

He and Dunbarth rode through the crowded streets of the family quarter, where most of Silvanost’s population lived. Here the houses were less grand than the guildmasters’ halls or the priestly enclaves, but they mimicked the styles of the great homes. Beautifully sculpted towers rose, but only for three or four stories. Tiny green plots of land in front of each home were molded by elven magic to support dazzling gardens of red, yellow, and violet flowers; shrubs formed into wave patterns like the river; and trees that bowed and twined together like the braids in an elf maiden’s hair. Nearly every house, no matter how small, was built in imitation of the homes of the great, around a central atrium that held the family’s private garden.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed it,” Kith-Kanan said, steering his horse around a pushcart full of spring melons.

“Miss what, noble prince?” asked Dunbarth.

“The city. Though the forest became my home, a part of me still lives here. It’s like I’m seeing Silvanost for the first time!”

Both elf and dwarf were dressed plainly, without the fine embroidery, golden jewelry, or other outward signs of rank. Even their horses were trapped in the simplest possible style. Kith-Kanan wore a wide-brimmed hat, like a fisher, so that his royal features would be less obvious. They wanted to see the city, not be surrounded by crowds.

Together the duo turned off Phoenix Street and rode down a narrow alley. Kith-Kanan could smell the river even more strongly here. When he emerged in the old Market quarter, ruined by the great riot and now under repair, Kith-Kanan reined up and surveyed the scene. The entire marketplace, from where his horse stood down to the banks of the Thon-Thalas, had been razed. Gangs of Kagonesti elves swarmed around the site, sawing lumber, hauling stones, mixing mortar. Here and there a robed priest of E’li stood, directing the work.

For a large project, like a high tower, magic would be used to shape and raise the stones of the walls and meld the blocks together without need for mortar. In the mundane buildings of the marketplace, more ordinary techniques would be used.

“Where do all the workers come from?” Kith-Kanan wondered aloud.

“As I understand it, they’re slaves from estates to the north and west, owned by the priests of E’li,” said Dunbarth without inflection.

“Slaves? But the speaker put severe limits on the number of slaves anyone could own.”

Dunbarth stroked his curly beard. “I know it may shock Your Highness, but outside of Silvanost the speaker’s laws aren’t always followed. They are bent to suit the needs of the rich and powerful.”

“I’m certain my father doesn’t know about this,” Kith-Kanan said firmly.

“Forgive me, Highness, but I believe he does,” Dunbarth remarked confidentially. “Your mother, the Lady Nirakina, has many times pleaded with the speaker to free the slaves of Silvanesti, to no avail.”

“How do you know these things? Aren’t they private matters of the palace?”

The dwarf smiled benignly. “It is a diplomat’s purpose to listen as well as talk. Five weeks in the Quinari Palace exposes one to all sorts of gossip and idle talk. I know the love lives of your servants and who among the nobility drinks too much—not to mention the sad plight of slaves in your own capital city.” With that, Dunbarth’s smile vanished.

“It’s intolerable!” Kith-Kanan’s horse sensed his rider’s agitation and pranced around in a half-circle. “I’ll put a stop to this right now!”

He tightened the reins and turned his mount’s head. Before he could ride over to confront the supervising priests, Danbarth caught his reins and held him back.

“Don’t be hasty, my prince. The priesthoods are very powerful. They have friends at court who will speak against you.”

Kith-Kanan was indignant. “Who do you mean?”

Dunbarth’s gaze was level. “I mean your brother, the noble Sithas.”

Kith-Kanan squinted from under the brim of his hat. “My twin is not a slave driver. Why do you say this to me, my lord?”

“I only say what is true, Highness. You know the court; you know how alliances are made. Prince Sithas has become the defender of the temples. In turn, the priests support him.”

“Against whom?”

“Anyone who opposes him. The priestess Miritelisina, of the Temple of Quenesti Pah, for one. She tried to defend those who fled from the slaughter on the plains. You know of the riot?” Kith-Kanan knew Sithas’s version of the story. He indicated Dunbarth should continue.

“The riot began because Prince Sithas and the priests, along with the guildmasters, wanted to expel the poor farmers from the city. Miritelisina warned them. They misunderstood her and, believing they were to be sent back to the plains, rioted. For that the priestess was put in prison. The speaker has let her go free, but she continues her work for the poor and homeless.”

Kith-Kanan said nothing, but watched as three Kagonesti passed by with a ten-inch-thick log braced on their shoulders.

In each one he saw Anaya—the same dark eyes and hair, the same passion for freedom.

“I must speak out against this,” he said at last. “It is wrong for one of the firstborn race to own another.”

“They will not hear you, Highness,” Dunbarth said sadly.

Kith-Kanan put his horse’s head toward the palace. “They will hear me. If they don’t listen, I’ll shout at them till they do.”

They rode back at a brisk canter, avoiding the clogged streets in the center of the city and keeping to the riverside roads. By the time they reached the plaza in front of the palace, a light rain had started to fall. Mackeli was standing in the courtyard in his new squire’s livery, a studded leather jerkin and helmet. When Kith-Kanan rode up, Mackeli hurried over and held the prince’s horse while he dismounted.

“You look splendid,” Kith-Kanan said, sizing up Mackeli’s new outfit.

“Are you sure this is what squires wear?” asked the boy. He hooked a finger in the tight collar and tugged at the stiff leather. “I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a steer.”

Kith-Kanan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Wait until you put on your first real armor,” he said exuberantly. “Then you’ll feel like one of our giant turtles has swallowed you!”

The three left the horses for the servants to stable and entered the palace. Maids appeared with dry towels. Kith-Kanan and Dunbarth made perfunctory swipes at their faces, then handed the cloths back. Mackeli dried himself carefully, all the while eyeing the handmaids with frank interest. The girls, both of whom were about the boy’s age, blushed under his studied gaze,

“Come along,” Kith-Kanan scolded, dragging at Mackeli’s sleeve. Dunbarth plucked the towel from his hand and returned it to the servants.

“I wasn’t finished,” Mackeli protested.

“If you’d dried yourself any longer, you’d have taken hide and hair off, too,” observed the dwarf.

“I was looking at the girls,” Mackeli said bluntly.

“Yes, like a wolf looks at his dinner,” noted Kith-Kanan. “If you want to impress the fair sex, you’d best learn to be a little more discreet.”

“What do you mean?”

“He means, don’t stare,” advised Dunbarth. “Smile at them and say something pleasant.”

Mackeli was puzzled. “What should I say?”

Kith-Kanan put a hand to his chin and considered. “Pay them a compliment. Say, ‘what pretty eyes you have!’ or ask them their name and say, ‘what a pretty name!’ ”

“Can I touch them?” asked Mackeli innocently.

“No!” exclaimed the two in unison.

They spotted Ulvissen in the corridor, accompanied by one of the human soldiers. The Ergothian seneschal was handing the soldier a large brass tube, which the man furtively tucked into a leather bag hung from his shoulder. Ulvissen stood up straight when he saw Kith-Kanan. The soldier with the tube saluted and went on his way.

“How goes it, Master Ulvissen?” the prince asked blandly.

“Very well, Your Highness. I have dispatched a copy of the preliminary agreement we’ve made to His Imperial Majesty.”

“Just now?”

Ulvissen nodded. Behind his beard and graying hair, he looked haggard. Kith-Kanan guessed Lady Teralind had kept him up very late, preparing the dispatch.

“Would you know where my father and Prince Sithas might be?”

“I last saw them in the reception hall, where seals were being put to the copies of the agreement,” said Ulvissen courteously. He bowed.

“Thank you.” Kith-Kanan and Dunbarth walked on. Mackeli, too, drifted past the tall, elder human, looking at him with curiosity.

“How old are you?” asked Mackeli impetuously.

Ulvissen was surprised. “Forty and nine years,” he replied.

“I am sixty-one,” said the boy. “Why is it you look so much older than I?”

Kith-Kanan swung around and took Mackeli by the elbows. “Forgive him, Excellency,” said the prince. “The boy has lived all his life in the forest and knows little about manners.”

“It is nothing,” said Ulvissen. Yet he continued to watch with an intense expression as the prince and the dwarf ambassador hustled Mackeli away.

The reception hall of the palace was on the ground floor of the central tower, one floor below the Hall of Balif. Dunbarth took his leave of Kith-Kanan in the corridor outside. “My old bones need a nap,” he apologized.

Mackeli started to follow the prince, who told him to remain behind. The boy objected, but Kith-Kanan said sharply, “Find some other way to be useful. I’ll be back soon.”

When Kith-Kanan entered, the vast, round room was full of tables and stools, at which scribes were furiously writing. The entire transcript of the conference was being written out in full and copied as quickly as the master scribe could finish a page.

Sithel and Sithas stood in the center of this organized chaos, approving sheets of parchment covered with spidery handwriting. Boys darted among the tables, filling inkpots, sharpening styluses, and piling up fresh stacks of unmarked vellum. When Sithel espied him, he shoved the parchment aside and gestured for the assistant to leave.

“Father, I need to speak with you. And you, Brother,” Kith-Kanan said, gesturing to a quieter side of the hall. When they had moved, the prince asked bluntly, “Do you know that gangs of slaves are working in the city, working to rebuild the Market?”

“That’s common knowledge,” said Sithas quickly. He was especially elegant today, having forsworn his usual robe in favor of a divided kilt and a thigh-length tunic of quilted cloth of gold. His headband, too, was golden.

“What about the law?” asked Kith-Kanan, his voice rising. “No household is supposed to have more than two slaves at a time, yet I saw two hundred or more working away, watched over by clerics from the Temple of E’li.”

“The law only applies to those who live in Silvanost,” Sithas said, preempting his father again. Sithel kept quiet and let his sons argue. He was curious to see which would prevail. “The slaves you saw come from temple estates on the Em-Bali River, north of the city,” added the speaker’s firstborn.

“That’s an evasion,” Kith-Kanan said heatedly. “I never heard of a law that applied only in Silvanost and not to the entire nation!”

“Why all this concern about slaves?” Sithas demanded.

“It isn’t right.” Kith-Kanan clenched his hands into fists. “They are elves, the same as us. It is not right that elves should own one another.”

“They are not like us,” Sithas snapped. “They are Kagonesti.”

“Does that automatically condemn them?”

Sithel decided it was time to intervene. “The workers you saw were sold into slavery because they were convicted of crimes against the Silvanesti people,” he said gently. “That they are Kagonesti is of no significance. Your concern for them is misplaced, Kith.”

“I don’t think so, Father,” his son argued earnestly. “We’re all proud of our Silvanesti blood, and that’s good. But pride should not lead us to exploit our subjects.”

“You have been in the woods too long,” said Sithas coolly. “You have forgotten how the world works.”

“Hold your tongue,” Sithel intervened sharply. “And you too, Kith.” The Speaker of the Stars looked rueful. “I am glad to know both my sons feel so passionately about right and wrong. The blood of Silvanos has not run thin, I can see. But this debate serves no purpose. If the slaves in the Market are well treated and do their allotted work, I see no reason to tamper with the situation.”

“But, Father…”

“Listen to me, Kith. You’ve only been back four days. I know you grew used to much freedom in the forest, but a city and a nation cannot operate like a camp in the wildwood. Someone must command, and others must obey. That’s how a speaker can protect the weak and rule with justice.”

“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.