Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“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.

“Lady Nirakina, wife of the Speaker,” announced the maidservant. Hermathya looked up from her mirror and nodded. The servant opened the door.

“Time is short, Lady,” Nirakina cautioned as she entered.

“I know.” Hermathya stood motionless in the center of a maelstrom of activity. Servants, dressmakers, and perfumers dodged and weaved around her, each trying to make final, finishing touches before the wedding ceremony began.

“You look beautiful,” Nirakina said, and she was not merely being polite to her daughter-to-be. The finest creators of beauty in Silvanost had labored for weeks to make Hermathya’s wedding gown and to compound the special oils and perfumes that would be hers alone.

The gown was in two parts. The first was an overdress in sheerest linen, too light to be worn alone and maintain modesty. Beneath this, Hermathya was wrapped in a single swath of golden cloth, many yards long. Six members of the Seamstress Guild had begun the winding Hermathya wore at her neck. A huge drum of gold was slowly wound around her, closely over her breasts and torso, more loosely over hips and legs. She had been forced to stand with her arms raised for two hours while the elf women worked.

Her feet were covered by sandals made from a single sheet of gold, beaten so thin it felt and flexed like the most supple leather. Golden laces crisscrossed her legs from ankle to knee, securing the sandals.

The elf’s hair and face had been worked over, too. Gone were the maidenly braids framing her face. Her coppery hair was waved, then spread around her shoulders. In the elven custom, it was the husband who gave his new wife the first of the clasps with which she would ever after bind her tresses.

The bride’s skin was smoothed of every roughness or blemish with aromatic oils and bone-thin soapstone. Her nails were polished and gilded, and her lips were painted golden. As befitted her noble rank and wealthy family, Hermathya wore sixteen bracelets—ten on her right arm and six on her left. These were all gifts from her parents, her siblings, and her female friends.

“That’s enough,” Nirakina said to the agitated servants. “Leave us.” With much bowing and flourishing, the mob funneled out the doors of the Hall of Balif. “All of you,” said the speaker’s wife. The regular palace servants withdrew, closing the doors behind them.

“So much work for such a brief ceremony,” Hermathya said. She turned ever so slowly, so as not to disturb her hair or gown. “Is this as great as your wedding, Lady?”

“Greater. Sithel and I were married during the Second Dragon War, when there was no time or gold to spare on fancy things. We didn’t know then if we’d be alive in a year, much less know if we’d have an heir to see married.”

“I have heard stories of those times. It must have been terrible.”

“The times make those who live in them,” Nirakina said evenly. Her own dress, as the speaker’s wife and mother of the groom, was quite conservative—white silk embroidered in silver and gold with the arms of House Royal. But with her honey-brown hair and liquid eyes she had a serene beauty all her own.

There was a loud, very masculine knock at the door. Nirakina said calmly, “Come in.”

A splendidly attired warrior entered the hall. His armor was burnished until it was almost painful to look at. Scarlet plumes rose from his helmet. His scabbard was empty—the ceremony was one of peace, so no weapons were allowed—but his fierce martial splendor was no less imposing.

“My ladies,” announced the warrior, “I am Kencathedrus, chosen by Lord Sithas to escort you to the Tower of the Stars.”

“I know you, Kencathedrus,” replied Nirakina. “You trained Prince Kith-Kanan in the warrior arts, did you not?”

“I did, my lady.”

Hermathya was glad she was facing away. Mention of Kith-Kanan brought a rush of color to her powdered face. It wasn’t so much that she still loved him, she decided. No, she was over that, if she ever did truly love him. But she knew that Kencathedrus, a mere soldier, was performing the duty Kith-Kanan should be doing. To escort the bride was a duty brother owed to brother.

Hermathya composed herself. This was the moment. She turned. “I am ready.”

In the corridor outside the Hall of Balif an honor guard of twenty warriors was drawn up, and farther down the hall twenty young elf girls chosen from the families of the guild masters stood ready to precede the honor guard. And beyond them, filling the other end of the corridor, were twenty elf boys dressed in long, trailing white robes and carrying sistrums. The size of the escort took Hermathya back for a moment. She looked out at the sea of expectant faces. It was rather overwhelming. All these people, and thousands more outside, awaited her. She called upon the core of strength that had carried her through troubles before, put on her most serene expression, and held out her hand. Kencathedrus rested her hand on his armored forearm, and the procession to the Tower of the Stars began.

Nirakina walked three steps behind them, and after her the honor guard fell in with the clank and rattle of armor and metal sandals. The boys led the procession in slow step, banging their sistrums against their hands. To this steady rhythm the elf girls followed, strewing flower petals in the path of the bride.

Outside, the sun was high and bright, and every spire in Silvanost boasted a streaming banner. When Hermathya appeared on the steps of the Palace of Quinari, the assembled crowd let out a shout of greeting.

“What do I do?” Hermathya murmured. “Do I wave?”

“No, that would be vulgar. You must be above it all,” said Nirakina softly.

A phalanx of pipers, clad in brilliant green, formed in front of the sistrum-bearing boys and played a bright fanfare. The music settled into a march as the procession wound around the Gardens of Astarin, following the circular road. According to ritual, the bride was first taken to the temple of Quenesti Pah, where she underwent a rite of purification. At the same time, the groom was receiving similar rites in the temple of E’li.

Then the two came together before the speaker in the Tower of the Stars, where they exchanged golden rings shaped to resemble twining branches and where their joining was finally accomplished.

The sun shone down from a spring sky unsullied by a single cloud, and the marble buildings glowed in the midst of velvety green foliage. The crowd cheered mightily for the spectacle. Perhaps, Hermathya thought idly, in time they will cheer so for me….

“Careful, Lady,” warned Kencathedrus. The flower petals were being trodden to mush, and the road was getting a bit treacherous. Hermathya’s golden sandals were stained with the crushed pulp. She lifted the hem of her diaphanous white gown out of the debris.

The squat, conical tower of the Temple of E’li appeared ahead on her right. Hermathya could see Sithas’s guard of honor—at least a hundred warriors—drawn up on the. Steps. Just as her own attendants were bedecked in gold and white, so Sithas’s attendants wore gold and green. She tried to keep her eyes straight ahead as they passed the temple, but she was drawn irresistibly to look in the open doors. It was dark inside the house of worship, and though she could see torches blazing on the wall, she could see neither Sithas nor anyone else within.