Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“But you are speaker,” Sithas argued. “What difference do the grumblings of a few priests make to you?”

Sithel smiled. “I cannot tear apart the nation for love of my son. Your mother said that to assuage the clerics I should name you co-ruler. Then they would be assured Kith-Kanan would have no part of the throne after my death.” Sithel gazed long into his eldest son’s troubled eyes. “Do you still want me to dismiss Lady Nirakina’s suggestion to make you my co-ruler?”

Sithas drew a long breath and let it out slowly. He knew that there was only one path to choose. He turned from the window. “If you seat me beside you on the throne, the people will say there is no Speaker of the Stars in Silvanost,” he said quietly.

“Explain that.”

“They will say great Sithel is old, not strong enough to rule alone. And they will say Sithas is too young and has not the wisdom to be sole speaker. Two halves do not a speaker make.” He looked down at his father’s strong face. “You are the Speaker of the Stars. Do not relinquish one drop of your power or, as from a pinhole in a waterskin, it will all leak out and you will have nothing.”

“Do you know what this decision means?” Sithel demanded.

The prince made a fist and pressed it against his mouth. There were other words he wanted to say; he wanted to have Kith home and let the consequences be damned. But Sithas knew he must not let these words out. The future of Silvanesti was at stake.

“Then I will be Speaker, and will remain sole Speaker until the day the gods call me to a higher plane,” Sithel said after a long silence.

“And…Kith-Kanan?”

“I will not call him,” Sithel said grimly. “He must return on his own, as a supplicant begging for forgiveness.”

“Will mother be angry with you?” Sithas asked softly.

The speaker sighed and scooped steaming water up in his hands, letting it trickle down over his closed eyes. “You know your mother,” he said. “She will be hurt for a while, then she will find a cause to which she can devote herself, something to help her forget her pain.”

“Hermathya will be angry.” Of this, Sithas had no doubt.

“Don’t let her bully you,” counseled Sithel, wiping his face with his hands.

Sithas flushed. “I am your son. No one bullies me.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” After a pause, Sithel added, “I’ve just thought of another reason why you ought not want to be speaker just yet. I’m a husband, father, and monarch. So far, you’re only a husband.” A wry smile quirked his lips. “Have children. That will bring age and hasten wisdom.”

Kith-Kanan and Anaya paused in their pursuit of Voltorno’s band. The half-human and his followers were headed almost due south, straight for the seacoast. Kith-Kanan was surprised when Anaya called a temporary halt. He was ready for anything, from a stealthy approach to a headlong, pitched battle. True, his feet ached and his hands were covered with cuts, but the knowledge that this Voltorno held not only Mackeli but his griffon steeled the prince to go on.

When he asked if she’d sensed Mackeli was near, Anaya said, “No. I smell animals nearby. It’s time to hunt. You stay here and don’t move around. I will return soon.”

Kith-Kanan settled down with his back against a tree. In short order, he fell asleep. The next thing he knew, Anaya had tossed a brace of rabbits in his lap.

“You snore,” she said irritably. “I could have had us venison, but your roaring chased the deer away. All I could get were these rabbits.” She frowned at the scrawny little animals. “These must have been deaf.”

Quickly Anaya gutted and skinned the animals, then speared them over a twig fire. Kith-Kanan was impressed; her deftness was amazing. She dressed each rabbit in two strokes and started a fire with one nick of her flint against a blue fieldstone. Kith-Kanan doubted he could strike a spark at all against such a common, frangible rock.

She bent to tend the fire. Kith-Kanan watched her back for a moment, then he put down the rabbit. Quietly he unbuckled his sword belt and let it down soundlessly to the ground. He added his dagger to the pile. Then, using the steps Mackeli had taught him, he crept up behind Anaya.

She straightened, still with her back to him. When he was two feet from her, she whirled, presenting the point of her knife to his face.

“You smell better without the metal, but you still breathe too loud,” she said.

He pushed the flint knife aside and finished the step that brought them nose to nose. “Perhaps it’s not my breathing you hear, but my heart. I can hear yours, too,” he said teasingly.

Her brows knotted. “Liar.”

Kith-Kanan put a finger to her cheek and began tapping lightly. “Is that the rhythm?” he said. It was, and the look of consternation on Anaya’s face was delightful to him. She pushed him away.

“We’ve no time for games,” she said. “Pick up your metal. We can walk and eat at the same time.”

She moved on through the trees. Kith-Kanan watched her curiously as he buckled his swordbelt. Funny-looking Anaya, with painted face and most of her hair cropped shorter than his. He found himself taking pleasure in watching the easy way she wove through her forest home. There was a certain nobility about her.

The corvae circled ceaselessly, bringing Anaya news of the humans. Kith-Kanan and Anaya had followed them hotly all day, while the humans moved in a more leisurely manner. The prince felt ragged with fatigue, but he would not show weakness as long as Anaya remained bright and quick. Trouble was, she didn’t show any signs of tiring.

It was well past midday, and for the fourth time she had held up her hand and bid Kith-Kanan be still while she scouted ahead. Sighing, he sat down on a lichen-spotted boulder. Anaya vanished into the pallid green saplings as Kith-Kanan took out his dagger and absently began cleaning his fingernails.

Seconds lengthened into minutes, and the prince began to think Anaya was taking too long. Her reconnaissance forays never took more than a minute or two, sometimes only a few seconds. He slipped his dagger into the top of his leggings and listened hard. Nothing.

A crow alighted at his feet. He stared down at the black bird, which regarded him silently, its beady eyes seeming quite intelligent. Kith-Kanan stood up, and the crow flapped into the air, circled around, and settled on his shoulder. He spared a nervous glance at the bird’s sharp, pointed beak so close to his face. “You have something to show me?” he whispered. The crow cocked its head first left, then right. “Anaya? Mackeli?” The crow bobbed its head vigorously.

Kith-Kanan set out along the same path Anaya had gone down just a few minutes earlier. The crow actually directed him with pokes of its sharp beak. One hundred paces from a large boulder, Kith-Kanan heard the clinking of metal on metal. Ten steps more, and the faint whiff of smoke came to his nose. The crow plucked at his ear. Its beak stabbed painfully, and Kith-Kanan resisted the urge to swat the bird away. Then he saw what the crow was warning him about.

Ahead on the ground was a net, spread flat and covered with leaves. He knew the type; he’d often set such traps himself, for wild boar. Kith-Kanan squatted by the edge of the net and looked for trip lines or snare loops. He couldn’t see any. Circling to his left, he followed the perimeter of the trap until the ground dropped away into a dry wash ravine. From there the smell of wood smoke was stronger. Kith-Kanan skidded a few feet down the bank and crept along, his head just below the level of the ground. Every now and then he would peek up and see where he was going. The third time he did this, Kith-Kanan got quite a shock. He put his head up and found himself staring into the eyes of a human—a dead human, lying on his back with his eyes wide and staring. The human’s throat had been cut by a serrated knife.