Firstborn

4 — Three Days Later

After three sunrises, Kith-Kanan was in despair. He’d lost his griffon and his spare clothing. When he tried his flint and striker again, he managed to start a small fire. It comforted him somewhat, but he found no food whatsoever to cook. On his third morning in the forest, he ran out of water, too.

There was no point remaining in the clearing, so he shouldered his spear and set out to find food and water. If the maps he remembered were correct, the Kharolis River lay to the west. It might be many miles, but at least it was something to aim for.

The only animals he saw on the way were more crows. The black birds stayed with him, flitting from tree to tree, punctuating their flight with short, sharp caws. The crows were Kith-Kanan’s only company, so he started talking to them. It helped keep his spirits up.

“I don’t suppose you know where my griffon is?” he asked. Not surprisingly, the birds didn’t answer, but continued to fly from tree to tree, keeping up with him.

The day dragged on and grew hotter. Even down in the eternal shade of the deep forest, Kith-Kanan sweltered, because no breeze stirred the air. The lay of the land grew rougher, too, with hills and gullies running north to south along his line of march. This encouraged him at first, because very often springs and brooks could be found at the bottom of ravines. But as he scrambled up one hill and down another, he found only moss and stones and fallen trees.

After skidding down a hillside into the nineteenth gully, Kith-Kanan paused to rest. He sat on a fallen tree, dropping the spear in front of him. He licked his dry lips again and fought down the rising feeling that he had made a grave mistake by running away. How could he have been so foolish to abandon his life of privilege for this? As soon as he asked himself the question the vision of Hermathya marrying his brother rose up in his mind, horribly vivid. Pain and loss welled up inside. To dispel the image, he stood up abruptly and started off again, shouldering his boar spear. He took two steps across the bottom of the ravine, and his feet sank an inch or so into mud, covered by a thin layer of dead leaves.

Where there’s mud, there’s water, he realized happily. Kith-Kanan went along the ravine to his right, looking for the water that must be there somewhere. He could see the ravine widen up ahead. Perhaps there was a pool, a pool of clear, sweet water….

The ravine converged on several others, making a steepsided bowl in the hills. Kith-Kanan slogged through the increasingly wet mud. He could smell water ahead. Then he could see it—a small pool, undisturbed by a ripple. The sight drew him like magic. The mud rose above his knees but he plunged on, right to the center of the pool. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and raised them to his lips.

Immediately he spit the water out again. It tasted vile, like rotted leaves. Kith-Kanan stared down at his reflection in the water. His face twisted with frustrated rage. It was no use. He would just have to keep going.

His leg wouldn’t come up out of the pool. He tried the other. It was also stuck. He strained so hard to pull them up, he nearly lost his balance. Arms flailing, Kith-Kanan twisted his hips from side to side, trying to work himself free. Instead he sank deeper into the mire. He glanced around quickly for a tree branch to grab, or a trailing vine. The nearest trees were ten feet away.

The mud was soon up to his waist. He began to sink even faster. “Help!” he cried desperately. “Is there anyone to hear?”

A flock of crows settled on the hillside facing Kith-Kanan. They watched with unnerving calm as he foundered in the killing mud.

You won’t pick my eyes, he vowed silently. When the end comes, I’ll duck under the mud before I let you black carrion eaters pick me over.

“They’re not really so bad once you get to know them,” said a voice. Kith-Kanan jerked as if struck by lightning.

“Who’s there?” he shouted, looking around at the still trees. “Help!”

“I can help you. I don’t know that I will.” It was a high, childish voice, full of smugness.

In replying, the speaker had given himself away. Kith-Kanan spotted him, to his left, in a tree. Sitting comfortably on a thick branch, his back propped against the ancient oak trunk, was a slender young person, clad in mottled green-brown tunic and hose. A hood was drawn up over his head. The tan face that showed under the hood was painted with loops and lines, done in bright red and yellow pigment.

“Help me!” Kith-Kanan shouted. “I can reward you handsomely!”

“Really? What with?”

“Gold. Silver. Jewels.” Anything, he vowed to himself. Anything in all of Krynn.

“What is gold?”

The mud was halfway up Kith-Kanan’s chest. The pressure against his body made it difficult to draw breath. “You’re mocking me,” he gasped. “Please! I haven’t much time!”

“No, you haven’t,” noted the hooded figure uninterestedly. “What else would you give me if I help you?”

“My bow! Would you like that?”

“I can pick that out of the mire once you’re gone.”

Blast the fellow! “I haven’t anything else!” The cold muck was nearly at his shoulders. “Please, for the gods’ sake, help me!”

The hooded figure rolled nimbly forward onto his feet. “I will help you, for the gods’ sake. They often do things for me, so it seems only fair I do something for their sake now and again.”

The stranger walked heel to toe along the branch until he was almost directly over Kith-Kanan. The prince’s shoulders were in the mud, though he held his arms above his head to keep them free until the last possible second. The fellow in the tree unwrapped a belt from his waist. It had circled his slim body several times and, when unwound, was over ten feet long. Lying flat on the branch, he lowered the leather strap to Kith-Kanan. The prince caught it in his left hand.

“What are you waiting for? Pull me out!” Kith-Kanan ordered.

“If you can’t pull yourself out, I cannot do it for you,” his rescuer remarked. He looped the belt around the tree limb a few times and secured it with a knot. Then he lay on the branch, his head propped on one hand, awaiting the outcome.

Kith-Kanan grimaced and started to haul himself out by the strap. With much gasping and cursing, Kith-Kanan climbed out of the deadly mire and pulled himself up to the tree branch. He threw a leg over the branch and lay panting.

“Thank you,” he finally said, a little sarcastically.

The young fellow had moved several feet back toward the oak tree and sat with his knees drawn up. “You’re welcome,” he replied. Behind the barbarous face paint, his eyes were brilliant green. He pushed back his hood, revealing himself to be a boy with a shock of bone-white hair. His high cheekbones and tapered ears bespoke his heritage. Kith-Kanan sat up slowly, astride the branch.

“You are Silvanesti,” he said, startled.

“No, I am Mackeli.”

Kith-Kanan shook his head. “You are of the race of the Silvanesti, as am I.”

The elf boy stood on the branch. “I don’t know what you mean. I am Mackeli.”

The branch was too narrow for Kith-Kanan to stand on, so he inched his way forward to the tree trunk. The deadly mud below was hidden once more under its covering of water. He shuddered as he looked down upon it. “You see we are alike, don’t you?”

Mackeli, hopping nimbly along the branch, glanced back at Kith-Kanan and said, “No. I don’t see that we are alike.”

Exasperated and too tired to continue, Kith-Kanan gave up that line of conversation.

They climbed down to solid ground. Kith-Kanan followed the scampering boy slowly. Even so, he lost his grip on the trunk and fell the last few feet. He landed on his rear with a thud and groaned.

“You are clumsy,” Mackeli observed.

“And you are rude. Do you know who I am?” the prince said haughtily.

“A clumsy outlander.” The elf boy reached around his back and brought back a gourd bottle, laced tightly with deerskin. He poured a trickle of clear water into his open mouth. Kith-Kanan watched intently, his throat moving with imaginary swallows.

“May I—may I have some water?” he pleaded.

Mackeli shrugged and handed him the bottle. Kith-Kanan took the gourd in his muddy hands and drank greedily. He drained the bottle in three gulps.

“May the gods bless you,” he said, handing the empty container to the boy.

Mackeli upended the bottle, saw that it was indeed completely dry, and gave Kith-Kanan a disgusted look.

“I haven’t had any water in two days,” Kith-Kanan explained. “Nor have I eaten. Do you have any food?”

“Not with me. There is some at home.”

“Would you take me there?”

Mackeli raised his hood again, hiding his startlingly white hair. With it covered, he was superbly camouflaged, blending into the forest. “Won’t know if that would be right. Ny might not like it.”

“I appeal to you, friend. I am desperate. I have lost my steed and my way, and I cannot seem to find any game in this accursed forest. If you don’t help me, I shall starve in this wilderness.”

The elf boy laughed, a pleasant sound in the still air. “Yes, I heard there was an outlander blundering about in these parts. The corvae told me about you.”

“Corvae?”

Mackeli pointed to the crows, still watching from the nearby hillside. “They know everything that happens in the forest. Sometimes, when something strange occurs, they tell me and Ny about it.”

Kith-Kanan remembered the unnerving attention the crows had paid him. “Do you truly speak with birds?”

“Not only birds.” Mackeli held up a hand and made a shrill cawing sound. One of the black birds flew over and alighted on his arm, like a falcon returning to its master.

“What do you think?” the boy asked the bird. “Can I trust him?” The crow cocked its head and uttered a single sharp screech. Mackeli frowned. The whorls above his eyes contracted as he knitted his brow together.

“He says you carry an object of power. He says you cut the trees with it.”

Kith-Kanan looked down at his mud-caked scabbard. “My sword is not magical,” he said. “It’s just an ordinary blade. Here, you can hold it.” He reversed his grip and held the pommel out to Mackeli. The elf boy reached out tentatively. The crows chorused as if in warning, but Mackeli ignored them. His small hand closed over the diamond-shaped pommel.

“There is power here,” he said, snatching his hand back. “It smells like death!”

“Take it in your hands,” Kith-Kanan urged. “It won’t hurt you.”

Mackeli grasped the handle in both hands and lifted it out of the prince’s hand. “So heavy! What is it made of?” he grunted.

“Iron and brass.” Mackeli’s face showed that he did not know iron or brass, gold or silver. “Do you know what metals are, Mackeli?”

“No.” He tried to swing Kith-Kanan’s sword, but it was too heavy for him to control. The point dropped to the ground.

“I thought as much.” Gently the prince took the sword back and slid it into its sheath. “Are you satisfied I’m not dangerous?”

Mackeli sniffed his hands and made a face. “I never said you were dangerous,” he said airily. “Except maybe to yourself.”

He set off and kept up a brisk pace, slipping in and out of the big trees. Mackeli never walked straight more than a few yards. He pushed off from the massive trunks, hopped over fallen limbs, and scampered like a squirrel. Kith-Kanan trudged along, weighed down by hunger and several pounds of stinking mud. Several times Mackeli had to double back to find the prince and guide him along. Kith-Kanan watched the boy’s progress through the forest and felt like a tired old man. He’d thought he was such a fine ranger. This boy, who could be no more than sixty years old, made the foresters of Silvanost look like blundering drunkards.

The trek lasted hours and followed no discernible path. Kith-Kanan got the strong impression Mackeli didn’t want him to know where they were going.

There were elves who dwelt entirely in the wilderness, the Kagonesti. They were given to the practice of painting their skin with strange patterns, as Mackeli did. But they were dark-skinned and dark-haired; this boy’s features were pure Silvanesti. Kith-Kanan asked himself why a boy of the pure blood should be out here in the deep forest. Runaway? Member of a lost tribe? He finally imagined a secret forest hideaway, inhabited by outlaws driven from Silvanesti by his grandfather Silvanos’s wars of unification. Not everyone had followed the great leader to peace and unity.

Suddenly Kith-Kanan realized that he no longer heard Mackeli’s light tread in the carpet of fallen leaves. Halting, he looked ahead, then spied the boy a score of yards away, on his right. Mackeli was kneeling, his head bowed low. A hush had fallen over the already quiet forest.

As he observed the boy, wonderingly, a feeling of utter peace flowed over Kith-Kanan, a peace he’d never known before. All the troubles of recent days were washed away. Then Kith-Kanan turned and saw what had brought this tranquility, what had brought Mackeli to his knees.

Framed by ferns and tree trunks wrapped in flowering vines was a magnificent animal with a single white horn spiraling from its head. A unicorn, rarest of the rare, more scarce than the gods themselves. The unicorn was snowy white from her small, cloven hooves to the tips of her foaming mane. She radiated a soft light that seemed the essence of peace. Standing on a slight rise of ground, fifteen yards away, her eyes met Kith-Kanan’s and touched his soul.

The elf prince sank to his knees. He knew he was being granted a rare privilege, a glimpse of a creature thought by many to be only legend.

“Rise, noble warrior.” Kith-Kanan raised his head. “Rise, son of Sithel.” The voice was deep and melodic. Mackeli, still bowed, gave no sign that he had heard.

Kith-Kanan stood slowly. “You know me, great one?”

“I heard of your coming.” So enticing was the majestic creature, he wanted very badly to approach her, to see her more closely, to touch her. Before he could put the thought into action, she said sharply, “Stand where you are! It is not permitted for you to come too near.” Kith-Kanan involuntarily took a step back. “Son of Sithel, you have been chosen for an important task. I brought you and the boy Mackeli together, so he could be your guide in the forest. He is a good boy, much skilled in the ways of beast and bird. He will serve you well!”

“What do you wish me to do?” Kith-Kanan asked with sudden humility.

The unicorn tossed her head, sending pearly waves of mane cascading along her neck. “This deep forest is the oldest in the land. It was here that leaf and limb, animal and bird first lived. The spirits of the land are strong here, but they are vulnerable, too. For five thousand risings of the sun special ones have lived in the forest, protecting it from despoilers. Now a band of interlopers has come to this land, bringing fire and death with them. The spirits of the old forest cry out for help to me, and I have found you as the answer. You are the fated one, the one who carries iron. You must drive the despoilers out, son of Sithel.”

At that moment, Kith-Kanan would have fought armies of dragons had the unicorn but asked. “Where will I find these interlopers?” he said, his hand coming to the pommel of his sword.

The unicorn took a step backward. “There is another, who lives with the boy. Together, you three shall cleanse the forest.”

The unicorn took another step backward, and the forest itself seemed to close around her. Her alabaster aura shone briefly, and then she was gone, vanished into the secret depths of the greenwood.

After a few seconds Kith-Kanan recovered himself and ran to Mackeli. When he touched the boy’s shoulder, Mackeli shook himself as if coming out of a trance.

“Where is the Forestmaster?” he whispered.

“Gone,” said Kith-Kanan regretfully. “She spoke to me!”

A look of awe spread over Mackeli’s sharp face. “You are greatly favored, outlander! What did the Forestmaster say?”

“You didn’t hear?” Mackeli shook his head. Apparently the unicorn’s message was for him alone. He wondered how much to tell the boy and finally decided to keep his own counsel.

“You are to take me to your camp,” he said firmly. “I will need to learn everything you know about living in the woods.”

“That I will gladly teach you,” Mackeli said. He shivered with excitement. “In all my life, I have never seen the Forestmaster! There were times I sensed her passing, but never have I been so close!” He grasped Kith-Kanan’s hand. “Come! Let’s hurry. I can’t wait to tell Ny about this!”

Kith-Kanan glanced at the spot where the Forestmaster had stood. Flowers had burst up where her hooves had touched the ground. Before he could react, Mackeli had jerked him into motion. At breakneck speed, the sure-footed boy drew Kith-Kanan deeper into the forest. The undergrowth got thicker, the trees larger and closer together, yet Mackeli never faltered. At times he and Kith-Kanan had to wriggle through gaps in the trees so tight and low they had to go on hands and knees.

Just before sunset, when the crickets had begun to sing, Mackeli reached a large clearing and stopped.

“We are home,” said the boy.

Kith-Kanan went to the center of the open space, more than forty paces across, and turned a circle on one heel. “What home?” he asked.

Mackeli grinned, the effect weirdly emphasized by the red lines of paint dabbed on his cheeks. Jauntily he walked forward to the base of a truly massive oak. He grasped at a patch of relatively smooth bark and pulled. A door opened in the trunk of the tree, a door made from a curving section of oak bark. Beyond the open door was a dark space. Mackeli waved to Kith-Kanan.

“Come in. This is home,” the boy said as he stepped into the hollow tree.

Kith-Kanan had to duck to clear the low opening. It smelled like wood and spice inside, pleasant but strange to his city-bred nose. It was so black he could barely make out the dim curve of the wooden walls. Of Mackeli he could see nothing.

And then the boy’s hand touched his, and Kith-Kanan flinched like a frightened child. “Light a candle or a lamp, will you?” he said, embarrassed.

“Do what?”

“Light a—never mind. Can you make a fire, Mackeli? I can’t see a thing in here.”

“Only Ny can make fire.”

“Is Ny here?”

“No. Gone hunting, I think.”

Kith-Kanan groped his way along the wall. “Where does Ny build his fires?” he asked.

“Here.” Mackeli led him to the center of the room. Kith-Kanan’s foot bumped a low hearth made of rocks plastered together with mud. He squatted down and felt the ashes. Stone cold. No one had used it in quite a while.

“If you get me some kindling, I’ll make a fire,” he offered.

“Only Ny can make fire,” Mackeli repeated doubtfully.

“Well, I may not be the stealthiest tracker or the best forester, but, by Astarin, I can make fire!”

They went back out and gathered armfuls of windblown twigs and small, dead branches. A weak bit of light cut into the hollow tree through the open door as Kith-Kanan arranged the dry sticks in a cone over a heap of bark and shavings he had whittled off with his dagger. He took out his flint and striker from the pouch at his waist. Leaning on his knees on the stone hearth, he nicked the flint against the roughened iron striker. Sparks fell on the tinder, and he blew gently on them. In a few minutes he had a weak flicker of flame and not long after that, a crackling fire.

“Well, boy, what do you think of that?” the prince asked Mackeli.

Instead of being impressed, Mackeli shook his head. “Ny’s not going to like this.”

Lightened by the fire, the interior of the hollow tree was finally visible to Kith-Kanan. The room was quite large, five paces wide, and a ladder led up through a hole to the upper branches and the outside of the tree. Smoke from the fire also went out through this hole. The walls were decorated with the skulls of animals—rabbit, squirrel, a fierce-looking boar with upthrust tusks, a magnificent eight-point buck, plus a host of bird skulls Kith-Kanan could not identify. Mackeli explained that whenever Ny killed an animal not killed before, the skull was cleaned and mounted on a peg on the wall. That way the spirit of the dead beast was propitiated and the god of the forest, the Blue Phoenix, would grant success to future hunts.

“Which of these did you kill?” Kith-Kanan asked.

“It is not permitted for me to shed the blood of animals. That’s Ny’s work.”

The elf boy slipped back his hood. “I talk to the animals and listen to what they say. I do not shed their blood.”

Kith-Kanan sat down on a pallet filled with moss. He was weary and dirty and very hungry. Mackeli fidgeted about, giving the prince frequent looks of displeasure. Eventually, Kith-Kanan asked Mackeli what was wrong.

“That’s Ny’s place. You must not sit there,” the boy said irritatedly.

Kith-Kanan heaved himself off. “This Ny has more privileges than the Speaker of the Stars,” he said, exasperation clearing his voice. “May I sit here?” He indicated the floor of the hollow tree, which was covered with pine needles. Mackeli nodded.

Soon after that exchange, Kith-Kanan asked for something to eat. The elf boy scampered up the ladder and, leaning out to the center of the hollow space, pushed aside various gourds and skin bags that hung by thongs from the ceiling. He found the one he wanted and brought it down. Sitting cross-legged beside Kith-Kanan, Mackeli bade the prince hold out his hands. He did, and the boy filled them with roasted wild chestnuts, neatly peeled.

“Do you have any meat?” Kith-Kanan asked.

“Only Ny eats meat.”

The prince was getting tired of the litany of things only Ny could do. Too tired, in fact, to dispute with the boy, Kith-Kanan ate chestnuts in silence. He was grateful for whatever he could get.

“Do you know,” he said at last, “you’ve never asked me my name?”

Mackeli shrugged. “I didn’t think you had one.”

“Of course I have a name!” The elf boy rubbed his nose, getting yellow paint on his fingers. “My name is Kith,” the prince said, since Mackeli obviously wasn’t going to ask.

Mackeli shook more chestnuts into his paint-stained palm. “That’s a funny name,” he noted and popped a chestnut into his mouth.