Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“Follow me,” advised Vedvedsica. At least that’s what Sithas thought he said. The words came to his ear distantly, waveringly, as if the cleric spoke from the bottom of a well.

They ascended the steps, passing a trio of handmaids on the way. The elf girls’ forms were indistinct to Sithas, though the background of stair and wall was solid and clear. The maids’ eyes flickered over the prince and his companion, but no recognition showed on their faces. They continued on down the stair. The “fog of uncertainty” was working just as the cleric had claimed.

On the penultimate floor of the tower, they paused before the doors to the speaker’s private rooms. Servants stood outside, idle. They paid no heed to the prince or the cleric.

“Strange,” mused Sithas, words falling from his lips like drops of cold water. His own voice sounded muffled. “Why are they not inside with the speaker?”

He opened the door and hurried in. “Father?” he called. Sithas passed through the antechamber, with Vedvedsica close behind. After a glance around the room, he saw his father’s crumpled form lying on the stone floor by the window. He shouted for assistance.

“They cannot hear you.” Vedvedsica said, wafting into Sithas’s line of sight. Desperately the prince knelt and lifted his father. How light he felt, the great elf who ruled the elven nation! As Sithas placed his father on the bed, Sithel’s eyes fluttered open. His face was dazed.

“Kith? Is that you?” he asked in a strange, faraway voice.

“No, Father, it’s Sithas,” said the elf prince, stricken with anguish.

“You’re a good boy, Kith…but a willful fool. Why did you bare a weapon in the tower? You know it’s a sacred place.”

Sithas turned to the waiting Vedvedsica. “Take the spell off us!” he demanded fiercely. The cleric bowed and dampened a cloth at a wash basin, then wiped the prince’s forehead clean. Immediately, it seemed, the fog vanished from his senses. Just seconds later the cleric materialized, seemingly out of nowhere.

Swiftly Vedvedsica took some dried herbs from his shoulder pouch and crushed them into a pewter goblet that stood on a table near the speaker’s bed. Concerned, Sithas watched him work. The cleric next soaked the crushed dry leaves in crimson nectar, swirled the goblet to mix the ingredients, and held out the goblet to the prince.

“Let him drink this,” he said with confidence. “It will clear his head.”

Sithas held the goblet to his father’s lips. No sooner had the first red drops passed Sithel’s mouth, than his eyes lost their rheumy haze. Tightly he gripped Sithas’s wrist.

“Son, what is this?” He looked beyond Sithas and espied the sorcerer. Sharply he said, “Why are you here? I did not send for you!”

“But you did, great speaker.” Vedvedsica bowed deeply from the waist. “Your fevered mind called to me for help some hours ago. I came.”

“Do you know him, Father?” Sithas asked.

“All too well.” Sithel sank back on his pillows, so the prince set the goblet aside. “I’m sorry you had to meet him under such circumstances, son. I might have warned you.”

Sithas looked at Vedvedsica, his face mixed with gratitude and distrust. “Is he cured?”

“Not yet, my prince. There are other potions I must prepare. They will cure the speaker.”

“Get on with it, then,” Sithas commanded.

Vedvedsica flinched. “There is the matter of our bargain.”

Sithel coughed. “What bargain have you made with this old spider?” the speaker demanded.

“He will cure your fever if you allow me to call Kith-Kanan home,” Sithas said honestly. Sithel arched his white brows in surprise, and the prince averted his eyes from his father’s intense gaze.

“Call Kith?” he asked skeptically. “Vedvedsica, you’re no altruist. What do you want for yourself out of this?”

The cleric bowed again. “I ask only that the speaker’s heir pay me such an amount as he thinks appropriate.”

Sithel shook his head. “I don’t see why Kith-Kanan should interest you, but I don’t object,” he said with a heavy sigh, then turned to his heir. “What will you pay him, Sithas?”

The prince thought once more of the broken sword and the terrible feeling of suffering he’d felt from his twin. “Fifty gold pieces,” he said decisively.

Vedvedsica’s eyes widened. “A most handsome amount, great prince.”

Father and son watched in silence as the cleric compounded his healing potion. When at last it was done, he filled a tall silver beaker with the muddy green fluid. To Sithas’s surprise, Vedvedsica took a healthy swig of the mixture himself first and seemed satisfied. Then he held it out to the prostrate speaker.

“You must drink it all,” he insisted. Sithas handed the beaker to his father. Sithel raised himself on his elbows and downed the brew in three swallows. He looked expectantly at his son. In turn, Sithas turned to Vedvedsica.

“Well?”

“The effect is a subtle one, great prince, but rest assured, the speaker will shortly be cured of his fever.”

Indeed, Sithel’s forehead had become cooler to the touch. The speaker exhaled gustily, and sat up straighter. A tinge of color was returning to his pale cheeks. Vedvedsica nodded grandly.

“Leave us, sorcerer,” Sithel said tersely. “You may collect your payment later.”

Another deep bow. “As the speaker commands.” Vedvedsica produced the small bottle of unguent and began to apply it as before.

Holding up a hand, the prince said acidly, “Out the door first, cleric.”

Vedvedsica’s smile was wide as he departed.

Sithas left his father looking more fit than he had in a month, then proceded to make his way through the palace to spread word of his recovery. Vedvedsica wasn’t mentioned. The speaker’s recovery was reported as natural, a sign of the gods’ favor.

Finally, Sithas went down the tower steps to Kith-Kanan’s old room. No one was around. Dust lay thickly over everything for nothing had disturbed it since his brother had left in disgrace. How long ago had it been? Two years?

The room held all sorts of Kith’s personal items. His silver comb. His second favorite bow, now warped and cracked from the room’s dry air. All his courtly clothes hung in the wardrobe. Sithas touched each item of clothing, trying to concentrate his thoughts on his lost brother. All he felt were old memories. Some pleasant, many sad.

A strange sensation came over the prince. He felt as if he were moving up and away, though his body hadn’t stirred an inch. Smoke from a campfire teased his nose. The sound of wind in a forest filled his ears. Sithas looked down at his hands. They were browned by the sun and hardened by work and combat. These were not his hands; they were Kith-Kanan’s. The prince knew then that he must try to communicate with his twin, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his throat was tight. It was hard to form words. He concentrated instead on forming them in his mind.

Come home, he willed. Come home, Kith. Come home.

Sithas forced his lips to work. “Kith!” he cried.

Speaking his twin’s name ended the experience abruptly. Sithas staggered backward, disoriented, and sat down on his twin’s old bed. Dust rose around him. Streaks of sunlight, which had reached across the room when he came in, now had retreated to just under the window sill. Several hours had passed.

Sithas shook the queer disorientation out of his head and went to the door. He had definitely made contact with Kith, but whether he had made the fabled Call, he didn’t know. It was late now, and he needed to see how his father was doing.

Sithas left the room so hastily he didn’t pull the door completely closed behind him. And as he mounted the steps to the upper floor of the palace tower, the prince didn’t notice the door to Kith-Kanan’s room slowly swing open and remain that way.