Firstborn

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 Teralind’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.”

“I’ll do what I can, noble prince,” said Tamanier earnestly.

“Good. As chamberlain, you’ll have access to every part of the palace. I want you to use your authority to root out the spy and reveal him to me.” Sithas paused and looked straight at Tamanier. “But be wise. I don’t want the wrong person accused. And I don’t want the culprit alerted.”

“Do you have any suspects?” asked Tamanier. “Officially, no. Personally, yes,” Sithas said grimly. “I suspect my own wife, Lady Hermathya.”

“Your wife!” Tamanier was so shocked he could hardly believe what he had heard. “Surely, noble prince, your wife loves you. She would not betray you to the humans!”

Sithas rubbed his hands slowly together. “I only have suspicions. All I can say about Hermathya’s motives is that she so loves attention and the cheers of the people, that she spends huge amounts of money to keep their favor. I do not give her coins to scatter in the streets, yet she never seems to lack for money.”

Shocked, yet pitying the prince at the same time, Tamanier asked, “Do you suspect anyone else?”

“Yes, and perhaps he is the stronger candidate. His name is Vedvedsica. He is a sorcerer and a priest, he claims, of Gilean the Gray Voyager. My father sometimes uses his clairvoyant skills, but Vedvedsica is a greedy conniver who would do anything for gold or power.”

“The emperor of Ergoth has plenty of gold,” Tamanier said sagely.

They talked for several minutes more. Tamanier vowed to detect the traitor, and Sithas listened approvingly, nodded, then walked away. The newly created chamberlain was left in the east garden, surrounded by fallen petals and singing birds.

The farmers were apprehensive when they first saw the column of armed warriors ride by, but when they realized who the Wildrunners were, they came to greet these newcomers. Along the way, Kith-Kanan sent troopers to help one farmer to fell a tree, another to free an ox from a boggy ditch, and a third to mend a fence. Word of these kindnesses spread ahead of the Wildrunners’ march and increased the number of enthusiastic elves—Silvanesti and Kagonesti—who came out to greet Kith-Kanan and his troops.

For the next few days, the way of the march was lined with grateful farmers and their families, bearing gifts of new nectar, smoked meat, and fruit. Wreaths of flowers were hung around the Wildrunners’ necks. Kith-Kanan’s mount Kijo was draped with a garland of white roses. At one point, the prince ordered his pipers to play a lively tune, and the Wildrunners passed through the countryside in a swirl of music, flowers, and smiling settlers. It was more like a festival than a military expedition. Some of the more veteran warriors were astonished.

Now, ten days from Silvanost, sitting around the blazing campfire, warriors asked Kith-Kanan why he was making such a show of helping the farmers and herders they met.

“Well,” he explained, stirring his soup with a wooden spoon, “if this militia idea is to succeed, the people must see us as their friends and not just their protectors. You see, our ranks will be filled by the same farmers, woodcutters, and herders we help along the way. They will be the troops, and all of you will be their leaders.”

“Is it true we’re to take in humans and dwarves in the ranks?” asked a captain with some distaste.

“It is,” said Kith-Kanan.

“Can we rely on such fighters? I mean, we all know humans can fight, and the dwarves are stout fellows, but will they obey orders to attack and slay fellow humans or dwarves if those orders come from an elf?” asked one of the older sergeants.

“They will, or they’ll be expelled from the militia and lose its protection,” Kith-Kanan responded. “You ask if humans will serve us by fighting humans. Some will, some won’t. We’ll be fighting elves, too, I expect. I’ve heard tales of robber bands made up of humans, Kagonesti, and even mixed-bloods. If they rob, if they kill, then we will bring them to justice. We make no distinctions out here.”

Sleep followed dinner, and guards were posted. The horses were corralled in the center of the camp, and one by one the lamps went out in the Wildrunners’ tents.

Mackeli usually slept at Kith-Kanan’s side, and that night was no exception. Though the boy often slept soundly, the months he’d spent out of the old forest hadn’t completely dulled his senses; he was the first one to sense something amiss. He sat up in the dark tent and rubbed his eyes, unsure of what had roused him. He heard nothing, but he saw something very odd.

Pink shadows wavered inside the tent. Mackeli saw his own hand, washed pink by an unknown light. He slowly raised his head and saw that a red circle of light showed through the tent’s canvas roof. A glare of heat on his face, Mackeli had no idea what the red glow portended, but he was sure it wasn’t friendly. He shook Kith-Kanan awake.

“Wha—What is it?” mumbled the prince.

“Look!” hissed Mackeli.

Kith-Kanan blinked at the red glow. He brushed the long hair from his eyes and threw back his blanket. In lieu of the sword he’d broken in the wildwood, he’d brought along a fine new weapon. Mackeli drew his own sword from its scabbard as, warily, Kith-Kanan lifted the flap on the tent with the tip of his blade.

Hovering over the camp, about twenty feet in the air, was a ball of red fire the size of a cart wheel. The crackling red light covered the camp. Kith-Kanan immediately felt a prickling sensation on his skin when the red glow touched him.

“What is it?” asked Mackeli wonderingly.

“I don’t know…”

The elf prince looked across the camp. The sentries were frozen, one foot raised in midstep, mouths open in the act of giving the alarm. Their eyes stared ahead, unblinking. Even the horses were rooted in place, some with hooves raised and necks arched in odd angles.

“They’re all paralyzed somehow,” Kith-Kanan said in awe. “This is evil magic!”

“Why aren’t we paralyzed?” Mackeli asked, but Kith-Kanan had no answer to that.

Through the line of tents shadowy figures moved. Bloodcolored light sparkled on naked sword blades. Kith-Kanan and Mackeli ducked down behind a tent. The shadow figures came on. There were five of them. By their clothing, features, and coloring, Kith-Kanan saw they were raffish Kagonesti. He held a finger to his lips, warning Mackeli to remain silent.

The Kagonesti approached the tent Kith-Kanan and Mackeli had been sleeping in minutes before. “Is this the tent?” hissed one of them.

“Yeah,” replied the leading elf. His face was heavily scarred, and instead of a left hand, he had a cruel-looking metal hook.

“Let’s be done with it an’ get outta here,” said a third Kagonesti. Hook-Hand made a snarling sound in his throat.

“Don’t be so hasty,” he advised. “There’s plenty of time for the kill and to fill our pockets besides.”

With sign language, Kith-Kanan indicated to Mackeli that he should circle around behind the band of magic-wielding killers. The boy vanished like a ghost, barefoot and wearing only his trousers. Kith-Kanan rose to his feet.

Hook-Hand had just ordered his men to surround the prince’s tent. The killers slashed the ropes holding the tent up. As the canvas cone collapsed, the five killers waded in, hacking and stabbing through the tent cloth.

Suddenly, with a shout, Mackeli burst from concealment and bravely attacked the gang. He ran the first one through, even as that elf was turning to face him. Kith-Kanan gritted his teeth. Mackeli had attacked too rashly, so the prince had to rush his own attack. With a shout, Kith-Kanan entered the fray; he felled a mace-wielding killer with his first stroke. Hook-Hand kicked through the slashed canvas of the fallen tent to get clear. “That’s him, boys!” he shouted as he retreated. “Finish ’em!”

From five, the villains were now down to three. Two of the Kagonesti went for Mackeli, leaving Hook-Hand and Kith-Kanan to duel. The scar-faced elf cut and thrust with deadly efficiency Snatching up a cut length of rope with his hook, he lashed at Kith-Kanan. The knotted end stung hard against the prince’s cheek.

Mackeli was not doing well against the other two. Already they had cut him on his left knee and right arm. Sweat sheened his body in the weird crimson glow. When the killer on his left thrust straight at him, Mackeli beat his blade and counterthrust into his opponent’s chest. This moment of triumph was shortlived. The other attacker stabbed Mackeli before the boy could free his blade. Cold iron touched his heart, and he fell to the ground.

“I got ’im!” shouted the victorious killer.

“Ya fool, that ain’t the prince—this is! Help me get ’im!” Hook-Hand shouted back, out of breath.

But Mackeli managed to heave himself up with great effort and stab his foe in the leg. With a scream, the Kagonesti went down. He fell against Hook-Hand’s back, throwing his chief off balance. That was all Kith-Kanan needed. Ignoring the flailing rope, he closed in and rammed his blade through the assassin. Hook-Hand let out a slow, rattling gasp and died as he fell.

Mackeli lay face-down in the dirt. His right arm was outstretched, still clutching his sword. Kith-Kanan threw himself down by the boy. He gently turned him over and then felt his own heart constrict. Mackeli’s bare chest was covered with blood.

“Say something, Keli!” he begged. “Don’t die!”

Mackeli’s eyes were open. He looked at Kith-Kanan, and a frown tugged one corner of his mouth.

“This time…I can’t obey, Kith,” he said weakly. The life left his body with a shuddering sigh. Sightlessly his green eyes continued to gaze up at his friend.

An anguished sob wracked Kith-Kanan. He clutched Mackeli to him and wept. What curse was he under? How had he offended the gods? Now all of his family from the wildwood was gone. All gone. His tears mingled with Mackeli’s blood.

A sound penetrated Kith-Kanan’s grief; the brute that Mackeli had stabbed in the leg groaned. Kith-Kanan lowered the boy’s body to the ground and gently closed his eyes. Then, with a growl, he grabbed the wounded mercenary by the tunic and dragged him to his feet.

“Who sent you?” he snarled. “Who sent you to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” gasped the elf. He trembled on his injured leg. “Mercy, great lord! I’m just a hireling!”

Kith-Kanan shook him by the shirt front, his face twisted into a hideous mask of rage. “You want mercy? Here’s mercy: tell me who hired you, and I’ll cut your throat. Don’t tell me, and it will take far longer for you to die!”

“I’ll tell, I’ll tell!” babbled the terrified elf. Kith-Kanan threw him to the ground. The light from the fireball suddenly grew more intense. The elf let out a scream and threw an arm over his face. Kith-Kanan turned in time to see the fiery globe come hurtling at them. As he leaped aside, the fireball hit the wounded elf. There was a thunderclap, and the globe exploded.

Slowly, sight and hearing returned to Kith-Kanan, and darkness reclaimed the camp. The prince raised his head and found that his right arm and leg were scorched from the fireball’s impact. The wounded elf was gone, vaporized.

Mackeli was buried in a simple grave on the banks of the Khalkist River. The Wildrunners laid his sword across his chest, as was the custom with elven warriors. At the head of his grave, in lieu of a marker, Kith-Kanan planted the sprig of oak he’d snipped from Anaya’s tree. All this time it had remained green. The prince was certain the sprig would grow into a fine tree, and that Mackeli and Anaya would be united somehow in renewed life once more.

As the camp was breaking up, Kith-Kanan fingered the small ring he now wore on his left little finger. This was the ring Silvanos had given to his great general Balif during the Dragon War. Sithel had passed the ring on to his son as a parting gift; it had been wrapped in the red silk handkerchief the speaker had passed to his son. Kith-Kanan had donned the ring with pride, but now he wondered if it was an unintentional portent of tragedy. After all, Balif had been murdered by his rivals, certain high-ranking elves who resented the kender’s influence with Silvanos. Now similar treachery had struck at Kith-Kanan and had taken his young friend.

With somber diligence the Wildrunners struck their tents. When they were done, the senior captain, a Kagonesti named Piradon, came to Kith-Kanan.

“Highness, all is ready,” he announced.

Kith-Kanan studied the captain’s face. Like all the Kagonesti who served in the royal guard, Piradon did not wear skin paint. It made his face seem naked.

“Very well,” he said flatly. “The usual columns of four, and I want outriders ahead, behind, and on both flanks. No one’s going to surprise us again.”

Kith-Kanan put a foot in his stirrup and swung a leg over his horse. He slapped the reins against his horse’s rump and cantered down to the road. The golden ring of Balif felt tight on his finger, making his pulse throb in his fingertip. The prince decided then that the feeling would stand as a constant reminder of Mackeli’s death and of his own vulnerability.