Paul Thompson - Firstborn

The delegations, mingled as they were behind the chairs of their respective leaders, began to debate among themselves the merits of a joint administration of the disputed land. Their voices got louder and louder. After a moment, Kith-Kanan couldn’t stand it any longer. He jumped to his feet.

Sithel raised a hand for quiet. “My son Kith-Kanan would speak,” he said. The faintest trace of a smile crossed his lips.

“As you know, I have only just returned to Silvanost,” the prince said, speaking quickly and nervously. “For some time I have been living in the wildwood, far to the south, where I came to know all sorts of people. Some, like my friend Mackeli, called the forest home. Others saw it as a place to be plundered. Ships from Ergoth have been lying off the coast while their crews steal inland to cut timber.”

“This is outrageous!” Teralind exploded. “What has this to do with the current question? Worse, these charges have no proof behind them!”

For once Sithel cast aside his assumed air of impartiality. “What my son tells you is true,” he said icily. “Believe it.” The force in his words stifled Teralind’s reply, and the speaker bade Kith-Kanan continue.

“The heart of the matter is that while kings and emperors wrestle over problems off national pride and prestige, people—innocent elves and humans—are dying. The gods alone know where the true blame lies, but now we have a chance to put an end to the suffering.”

“Tell us how!” said Teralind sarcastically.

“First, by admitting that peace is what we all want. I don’t have to be a soothsayer to know there are many in Daltigoth and Silvanost who think war is inevitable. So I ask you, is war the answer?” He turned to Lord Dunbarth. “You, my, lord. Is war the answer?”

“That’s not a proper diplomatic question,” countered the dwarf uncomfortably.

Kith-Kanan would not be put off. “Yes or no?” he insisted.

The entire company was looking at Dunbarth. He shifted in his chair. “War is never the answer, where people of good will…”

“Just answer the question!” snapped Teralind. Dunbarth arched one bushy eyebrow.

“No,” he said firmly. “War is not the answer.”

Kith-Kanan turned to the silent, crippled praetor and his wife. “Does Ergoth think war is the answer?”

The praetor’s head jerked slightly. As usual, his wife answered for him. “No,” Teralind replied. “Not when peace is cheaper.”

He turned at last to his father. “What do you say, great speaker?”

“You’re being impudent,” Sithas warned.

“No,” his father said simply, “it’s only right he ask us all. I don’t want war. I never have.”

Kith-Kanan nodded and looked around at the entire group. “Then, can’t some way be found to rule the land jointly, elves, humans, and dwarves?”

“I don’t see what the dwarves have to do with this,” said Teralind sulkily. “Hardly any of them live in the disputed land.”

“Yes, but we’re speaking of our entire land border,” Dunbarth reminded her. “Naturally, we are concerned with who is on the other side of it.”

Sunlight filtered into the hall through the hundreds of window slits up the walls of the tower; a mild breeze flowed in through the doorway. The day beckoned them out of the stuffy debate. Sithel rubbed his hands together and announced, “This is a good time to pause, not only for reflection on the question of peace, but also to take bread and meat, and stroll in the sunshine.”

“As ever, Your Highness is the wisest of us all,” said Dunbarth with a tired smile.

Teralind started to object, but the speaker declared the meeting adjourned for lunch. The hall rapidly emptied, leaving Teralind, Praetor Ulwen, and Ulvissen by themselves. Wordlessly, Ulvissen gathered the frail praetor in his strong arms and carried him out. Teralind worked to master her anger, tearing one of her lace handkerchiefs to bits.

It was a fine day, and the delegations spilled out the huge front doors into the garden that surrounded the mighty tower. Servants from the palace arrived bearing tables on their shoulders. In short order the processional walkway at the tower’s main entrance was filled with tables. Snow-white linen was spread on the tables, and a pleasant array of fruit and meats was set out for the speaker’s guests. A cask of blush nectar was rolled to the site, its staves making booming noises like summer thunder as the barrel rolled.

The ambassadors and their delegations crowded around the tables. Dunbarth took a brimming cup of nectar. He tasted the vintage, found it good, and wandered over to inspect the food. From there he spied Kith-Kanan standing at the edge of the garden by himself. Food in hand, the dwarf strolled over to him.

“May I join you, noble prince?” he asked.

“As a guest you may stand where you want,” Kith-Kanan replied genially.

“An interesting session this morning, don’t you think?” Dunbarth pulled apart a capon and gnawed at a leg. “This is the most progress we’ve made since we first convened.”

Kith-Kanan took a large bite from an apple and regarded the dwarf with some surprise. “Progress? All I heard was a lot of contentious talk.”

The dwarf flipped up the brim of his hat in order to hoist his golden goblet high. He drained the nectar and wiped the sticky liquid from his mustache. “Reorx bless me, Highness! Diplomacy is not like a hunt. We don’t track down our quarry, pot him, and cart him home to be eaten. No, noble prince, diplomacy is like an old dwarf combing his hair—every hair that comes out in his comb is a defeat, and every one that stays in his head is a victory!”

Kith-Kanan chuckled and looked around the garden. He missed the weight of a sword at his hip. And even more, he missed the sights and smells of the forest. The city seemed too bright, the air tinged with too much smoke. Odd, he’d never noticed those things before.

“What are you thinking, Highness?” asked Dunbarth.

What was he thinking? He returned his gaze to the dwarf. “The praetor’s wife is rather short-tempered, and the praetor himself never speaks. You’d think the emperor would have more able representatives,” Kith-Kanan commented. “I don’t think Lady Teralind does their cause much good.”

Dunbarth looked for a place to throw the capon leg bone, now that he had cleaned it of meat. A servant appeared as if summoned and collected the refuse. “Yes, well, smooth and subtle she’s not, but a lot can be accomplished by sheer stubbornness, too. Prince Sithas…” Dunbarth quickly recalled to whom he spoke and thought the better of what he had been about to say.

“Yes?” Kith-Kanan prompted him.

“It’s nothing, Highness.”

“Speak, my lord. Truth is not to be feared.”

“I wish I had Your Highness’s optimism!” A passing servitor refilled Dunbarth’s cup. “I was going to say that Prince Sithas, your noble brother, is a match for Lady Teralind in stubbornness.”

Kith-Kanan nodded. “It is only too true. They are much alike. Both believe they have right always on their side.”

He and Dunbarth exchanged some further pleasantries, then the dwarf said an abrupt good-bye. He wanted to mingle with the others a bit, he said, and wandered off aimlessly. But Kith-Kanan could read the purpose in his stride. He shook his head. Dwarves were supposedly bluff and hearty, but Dunbarth was more subtle than a Balifor merchant.

The prince strolled off on his own, among the head-high hedges of flowering vines and the artfully molded sculptures of boxwood and cedar.

The vigorous spring seemed to have followed him from the wildwood to Silvanost. The garden was a riot of bloom.

He thought of the clearing where he and his little family had lived. Had the bees built their hives in the hollow oak yet? Were the flowering trees dropping their blossoms into the pool that was the entrance to Anaya’s secret cave? In the midst of all the splendor and majesty that was Silvanost, Kith-Kanan remembered wistfully the simple life he had shared with Anaya.