Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“I make the formal announcement when the white moon rises tonight. The priests and nobles will gather in the tower,” Sithel said. “You must be there, Kith.”

“I—I’ll be there, Father,” Kith-Kanan said. “I just need to rest.”

Sithas walked with his brother to the door. Before they went out, Sithel remarked, “Oh, and leave your horn at the palace, Kith. One act of impudence a day is enough.” The speaker smiled, and Kith-Kanan managed a weak grin in reply.

“Shall I send a healer to you?” asked Nirakina.

“No. I’ll be fine, Mother,” Kith-Kanan said.

In the corridor outside, Sithas braced his brother’s shoulders and said, “Looks as if I’m to be lucky; both brains and beauty in my wife.”

“You are lucky,” Kith-Kanan said. Sithas looked at him in concern. Kith-Kanan was moved to say, “Whatever happens, Sith, don’t think too badly of me.”

Sithas frowned. “What do you mean?”

Kith-Kanan inhaled deeply and turned to climb up the stairs to his room. “Just remember that nothing will ever separate us. We’re two halves of the same coin.”

“Two branches of the same tree,” Sithas said, completing the ritual the twins had invented as children. His concern deepened as he watched Kith-Kanan climb slowly up the stairs.

Kith-Kanan didn’t let his brother see his face contort with pain. He had only a scant two hours before Solinari, the white moon, rose above the trees. Whatever he was going to do, he had to think of it before then.

The great and noble of Silvanesti filed into the open hall of the Tower of the Stars. Rumors flew through the air like sparrows, between courtier and cleric, noble clan father and humble acolyte. Such assemblies in the tower were rare and usually involved a matter of state.

A pair of young heralds, draped in bright green tabards and wearing circlets of oak and laurel, marched into the hall in perfect step. They turned and stood on each side of the great door. Slender trumpets went to their lips, and a stirring fanfare blared forth. When the horns ceased, a third herald entered.

“Free Elves and True! Give heed to His Highness, Sithel, Speaker of the Stars!”

Everyone bowed silently as Sithel appeared and walked to his emerald throne. There was a spontaneous cry of “All hail the speaker!” from the ranks of the nobles; the hall rang with elven voices. The speaker mounted the steps, turned, and faced the assembly. He sat down, and the hails died.

The herald spoke again. “Sithas, son of Sithel, prince heir!”

Sithas passed through the doorway, bowed to his father, and approached the throne. As his son mounted the seven steps to the platform, Sithel held out his hand, indicating his son should stand to the left of the throne. Sithas took his place, facing the audience.

The trumpets blared again. “Lady Nirakina, wife, and Prince Kith-Kanan, son of Sithel!”

Kith-Kanan entered with his mother on his arm. He had changed to his courtly robes of sky-blue linen, clothing he rarely wore. He moved stiffly down the center aisle, his mother’s hand resting lightly on his left arm.

“Smile,” she whispered.

“I don’t know four-fifths of them,” Kith-Kanan muttered.

“Smile anyway. They know you.”

When he reached the steps, the pommel of Kith-Kanan’s sword poked out from under his ceremonial sash. Nirakina glanced down at the weapon, which was largely concealed by the voluminous folds of his robe.

“Why did you bring that?” she whispered.

“It’s part of my costume,” he replied. “I have a right to wear it.”

“Don’t be impertinent,” his mother said primly. “You know this is a peaceful occasion.”

A large wooden chair, cushioned with red velvet, was set in place for the speaker’s wife on the left of Prince Sithas. Kith-Kanan, like his twin, was expected to stand in the presence of his father, the monarch.

Once the royal family was in place, the assembled notables lined up to pay their respects to the speaker. The time-honored ritual called for priests first, the clan fathers of House Cleric next, and the masters of the city guilds last. Kith-Kanan, far to the left of Sithel, searched for Hermathya in the press of people. The crowd numbered some three hundred, and though they were quiet, the shuffling of feet and the rustle of silk and linen filled the tower. The heralds advanced to the foot of the speaker’s throne and announced each group as they formed up before Sithel.

The priests and priestesses, in their white robes and golden headbands, each wore a sash in the color of their patron deity—silver for E’li, red for Matheri, brown for Kiri Jolith, sky blue for Quenesti Pah, and so on. By ancient law, they went barefoot as well, so they would be closer to the sacred soil of Silvanesti.

The clan fathers shepherded their families past the speaker. Kith-Kanan caught his breath as Lord Shenbarrus of Clan Oakleaf reached the head of the line. He was a widower, so his eldest daughter stood beside him.

Hermathya.

Sithel spoke for the first time since entering the Tower of the Stars. “Lady,” he said to Hermathya, “will you remain?”

Hermathya, clad in an embroidered gown the color of summer sunlight, her striking face framed by two maidenly braids—which Kith-Kanan knew she hated—bowed to the speaker and stood aside from her family at the foot of the throne platform. The hiss of three hundred whispering tongues filled the hall.

Sithel stood and offered a hand to Hermathya. She went up the stair without hesitation and stood beside him. Sithel nodded to the heralds. A single note split the air.

“Silence in the hall! His Highness will speak!” cried the herald.

A hush descended. Sithel surveyed the crowd, ending his sweep by looking at his wife and sons. “Holy clerics, elders, subjects, be at ease in your hearts,” he said, his rich voice echoing in the vast open tower. “I have called you here to receive joyous news. My son, Sithas, who shall be speaker after me, has reached the age and inclination to take a wife. After due consultation with the gods, and with the chiefs of all the clans of House Cleric, I have found a maiden suitable to be my son’s bride.”

Kith-Kanan’s left hand strayed to his sword hilt. A calm had descended over him. He had thought long and hard about this. He knew what he had to do.

“I have chosen this maiden knowing full well the disappointment that will arise in the other clans,” Sithel was saying. “I deeply regret it. If this were a barbarian land, where husbands may have more than one wife, I daresay I could make more of you happy.” Polite laughter rippled through the ranks of the nobles. “But the speaker may have only one wife, so one is all I have chosen. It is my great hope that she and my son will be as happy together as I have been with my Nirakina.”

He looked at Sithas, who advanced to his father’s side. Holding Hermathya’s left hand, the speaker reached for Sithas’s right. The crowd held its breath, waiting for him to make the official announcement.

“Stop!”

The couple’s fingers were only a hairsbreadth apart when Kith-Kanan’s voice rang out. Sithel turned in surprise to his younger son. Every eye in the hall looked with shock at the prince.

“Hermathya cannot marry Sithas!” Kith-Kanan declared.

“Be silent,” Sithel said harshly. “Have you gone mad?”

No, Father,” Kith-Kanan said calmly. “Hermathya loves me.”

Sithas withdrew his hand from his father’s slack fingers. In his hand he held a starjewel, the traditional betrothal gift among elves. Sithas knew something had been brewing. Kith-Kanan had been too obviously troubled by the announcement of his bride-to-be. But he had not guessed at the reason.

“What does this mean?” demanded Lord Shenbarrus, moving to his daughter’s side.