Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“I have some doubts about the efficacy of such a militia,” Dunbarth put in, “but never let it be said that Dunbarth of Dunbarth wasn’t willing to give it a try!” The dwarf whipped off his bothersome hat. “I smell peace!” he declared, throwing the hat to the shiny marble floor.

“Don’t be hasty,” Sithas warned. His cool voice dampened the growing elation in the hall. “My brother’s plan has its merits, but it doesn’t address the problem of sovereignty. I say, let there be a militia, but only elves may bear arms in it.”

Kith-Kanan looked stricken, and Teralind rapidly lost her serene expression. She said, “No! That’s impossible. Ergoth will not allow humans to live as hostages among an army of elves!”

“Quite right,” said Dunbarth, picking up his hat and dusting it off against his leg.

“We cannot abandon our ancestral right to this land!” Sithas insisted.

“Be still,” the speaker said, frowning. Now it was Sithas’s turn to look aggrieved. “This is a practical business we’re in. If Ergoth and Thorbardin like Kith-Kanan’s proposal, I cannot in good conscience throw away the best chance we have for peace.”

Sithas opened his mouth to speak, but Sithel stifled him with a glance. The prince turned away, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

After a short while, when more specific details were worked out, a basic agreement was reached. Each of the three nations was to provide a corps of experienced warriors to serve as organizers of the new militia. Armories would be set up, where the warrior officers would reside. And in times of trouble all able bodied settlers within twenty miles would present themselves at the armory to receive weapons and leadership. No single nation would command the militia.

“You expect professional warriors to live in the wilderness, shepherding a motley rabble of farmers?” Sithas asked with ill-concealed irritation. “What will keep them in their place?”

Kith-Kanan folded his arms. “Land,” he declared. “Give them a stake in the peace of the country.”

“Give them enough to be worth working,” said Dunbarth, catching the gist of Kith-Kanan’s idea.

“Exactly! Five acres for every sergeant, twenty acres for every captain. A whole new class of gentry will arise, loyal to the land and to their neighbors,” Kith-Kanan predicted.

The speaker ordered the scribes to prepare a draft of the decree. Then, as it was nearly dusk, he adjourned the session. Everyone stood while Sithel went out, looking tired but very pleased. Teralind’s shoulders sagged, and she was supported on the arm of Ulvissen, who did not look at all happy with events. Neither did Sithas as he left. Kith-Kanan was about to start after him when Dunbarth called to him.

“My prince,” he enthused, “Congratulations on your masterful stroke!”

Kith-Kanan watched his twin disappear out the private exit to the palace. “Yes, thank you,” he said distantly.

“I praise the gods for bringing you back,” continued the dwarf, folding his hands across his round belly. “That’s what this problem needed, a fresh perspective.” Dunbarth cleared his throat.

“Oh, your pardon, my lord. I’m being rude,” said Kith-Kanan, turning his attention to the ambassador from Thorbardin.

“Do not trouble about it.” Dunbarth glanced at the rear exit and commented, “Your brother is proud, and he hasn’t yet learned the benefit of flexibility. Your father is wise. He understands.”

The elf prince’s brow furrowed with thought. “I suppose,” he replied uncertainly.

Guards opened the vast double doors of the tower. Beyond the entryway, the red rays of the setting sun painted the world scarlet. Only Dunbarth’s small retinue, two scribes and his secretary, Drollo, remained, waiting patiently for their master.

Dunbarth’s eyes shone as he plopped his hat on his head. “Noble prince, would you dine with me? I have an urge to try some inn in your city tonight—not that the dining is poor in the palace. Far from it! It’s just that I crave some hearty, simple fare.”

Kith-Kanan smiled. “I know a place, right on the river. Fried catfish, cabbage rolls, a suet pudding…”

“Beer?” said the dwarf hopefully. Elves don’t drink beer, so the ambassador hadn’t had any since coming to Silvanost. “I think the innkeeper ought to be able to scratch some up,” Kith-Kanan assured him. The elf prince and the dwarven ambassador walked out the high doors and into the crimson evening.

After leaving the Tower of the Stars, Sithas walked through the starlit streets. He wanted to be alone, to think. Anger propelled his steps, and habit steered him to the Temple of Matheri, where so much of his early life had been spent. The crystal dome of the sanctum of the god rose above the sculpted trees like a rising moon, lit a golden yellow from within. Sithas took the steps two at a time. At the door, he dipped his hands in the bowl of rose petals set on a tripod and scattered them on the paving before him.

In quick, barely audible tones, he said, “Wise Matheri, grant me entrance that I may commune with you.” The buffed wooden doors parted silently, with no hand to stir them. Sithas went inside.

In the center of the floor, directly under the great dome, the ever-burning lamp of Matheri stood. The silent, smokeless flame cast harsh shadows around the circular room. Along the outer edge of the temple were the meditation chambers of the monks. Sithas knew them well. This was where he had lived for thirty years of his life.

He went to his old cubicle. It was empty, so he entered. Sitting on the hard floor, he crossed his legs. The prince tried to meditate, to find the reason for his resentment of Kith-Kanan’s success. As the priests had taught him, he imagined a dialogue with himself.

“You are angry, why?” he asked aloud.

In his mind, he formed a reply. Kith’s suggestion is dangerous to the nation .

“Is it? Why?”

It allows the humans to remain on land that rightfully belongs to us .

“They have been there for years. Is their presence intrinsically bad?”

The land belongs to the elven nation. No one else .

“An inflexible attitude. Is this the reason you’re angry?”

Sithas paused and considered. He closed his eyes and examined closely the feelings that crowded inside his heart.

No. I’ve been working at father’s side for weeks, discussing, planning, thinking, and re-thinking, yet nothing was accomplished. I should have thought of the militia plan. I have failed .

“You are jealous of Kith-Kanan.”

I have no reason to be jealous. I am the speaker’s heir. Yet a short time ago I found myself wishing I hadn’t called him back.

“Why did you?”

He’s my brother. I missed him. I thought father might die —

Before he could ponder his feelings further, the carved rosewood door of the cell swung open. Sithas looked up, ready to lash out at whomever would intrude. It was Hermathya.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly.

She stepped into the little room. Covered from head to toe in a midnight-black cape, she dropped the hood from her head. Diamonds gleamed faintly from her earlobes.

“I knew you would be here,” she said in a low voice. “You always come here when you’re upset.”

Sithas felt an icy mask of resolve fall into place, covering his painful emotions. “I am not upset,” he said coldly.

“Tosh, I heard you raving to yourself as soon as I came in.”

He stood and brushed the dust from his knees. “What is it you want?” he demanded again.

“I heard what happened at the tower today. It doesn’t look good for you, does it? All these days of negotiating for nothing, then Kith solves everything in one day.”