Paul Thompson - Firstborn

Sithel’s long white hair lifted off his neck as a chill wind passed over the palace tower. The private rooms of the speaker and his consort took up the penultimate floor of the palace’s tower. Only the Tower of the Stars provided a higher vantage point in Silvanost.

“I felt a faint cry not long ago,” Sithel said. “Kith-Kanan?” The speaker nodded. “Do you think he is in danger?” asked Nirakina, drawing her blanket more closely about herself.

“I think he is unhappy. He must be very far away. The feeling was faint.”

Nirakina looked up at her husband. “Call him, Sithel. Call him home.”

“I will not. He offended me, and he offended the noble assembly. He broke one of our most sacred laws by drawing a weapon inside the Tower of the Stars.”

“These things can be forgiven,” she said quietly. “What else is it that makes it so hard for you to forgive him?”

Sithel stroked his wife’s soft hair. “I might have done what he did, had my father given the woman I loved to another. But I don’t approve of his deed, and I will not call him home. If I did, he wouldn’t learn the discipline he must have. Let him stay away a while. His life here has been too easy, and the outside world will teach him to be strong and patient.”

“I’m afraid for him,” Nirakina said. “The world beyond Silvanost is a deadly place.”

Sithel raised her chin so their eyes met. “He has the blood of Silvanos in his veins. Kith-Kanan will survive, beloved, survive and prosper.” Sithel looked away, out at the dark city. He held out his arm. “Come, let us go in.”

They lay down together, as they had for more than a thousand years. But while Nirakina soon fell asleep, Sithel lay awake, worrying.

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.