Paul Thompson - Firstborn

She was only reinforcing what his bitter heart had been saying. Sithas moved until he was only inches from her. He could smell the rosewater she’d bathed in. “Are you trying to provoke me?” he asked, staring into her eyes.

“Yes.” He felt her breath on his face when she said it. “I’m trying to provoke you into being a prince and not some sort of high-born monk!”

He drew away. “You are as tactful as ever, Lady. Leave me to recover my temper. Your advice is not needed or welcome.”

Hermathya made no move to go. “You need me,” she insisted. “You’ve always needed me, but you’re too stubborn to know it.”

Sithas swept a hand over the single candle that lit the cubicle. Darkness, save for a stray shaft of light that slipped in around the closed door, claimed the room. He could see the heat outline of Hermathya, her back to the door, and she could hear his quick breathing.

“When I was a child, I was sent to this temple to learn patience and wisdom. The first three days I was here, I wept all my waking hours because I’d been separated from Kith. I could live without my mother and father, but cut off from Kith…I felt like I’d been cut open and part of me had been torn out.”

Hermathya said nothing. The diamonds in her ears sparkled like stars in the scant light.

“Later, when we were older, I was allowed to go home to the palace and visit a few days each month. Kith was always doing something interesting—learning to ride, fence, shoot a bow. He was always better than me,” Sithas said.

Resignation was creeping into his voice.

“There is one thing you have that he hasn’t,” Hermathya said soothingly, reaching out in the dark for Sithas’s hand.

“What’s that?”

“Me.”

Sithas uttered a short, sardonic laugh. “I daresay he could have you if he wanted you!”

She snatched her hand from his and slapped Sithas hard across the cheek. Her blow stung his face. Forgetting his training, the prince seized his wife roughly and brought their faces together until they were only a finger’s width apart. Even in the dim cubicle, he could see her pale features clearly, and she his.

She said desperately, “I am your wife!”

“Do you still love Kith-Kanan?” Despite the coldness of their marriage, Sithas braced himself for her answer.

“No,” she whispered fiercely. “I hate him. Anything that angers you, I hate.”

“Your concern for me is touching. And quite new,” he said skeptically.

“I admit that I thought I might still love him,” she whispered, “but since seeing him, I know it’s not true.” Tremors shivered through her. “You are my husband,” Hermathya declared passionately. “I wish Kith-Kanan were gone again, so he couldn’t ever make you feel small!”

“He’s never tried to make me feel small,” Sithas retorted.

“And what if he wins your father’s favor completely?” she parried. “The speaker could declare Kith-Kanan his heir if he felt he would do a better job of ruling than you.”

Father would never do that!”

Her lips were by his ear. She pressed her cheek against his and felt his tight grip relax. Quickly she said, “The militia must have an overall commander. Who better than Kith-Kanan? He has the skills and experience for it. With all those square miles to patrol, he could be gone for decades.”

Sithas turned his head away, and she knew he was thinking about it. A small, triumphant smile played about her lips. “By then,” she murmured, “we will have a son of our own, and Kith could never come between you and the throne.”

The prince said nothing, but Hermathya was patient. Instead of prompting him further, she laid her head on his chest. His heartbeat was strong in her ear. After a time, Sithas slowly brought his hand up and stroked her copper-gold hair.

When it came to the spread of important news, the great city of Silvanost was just like a tiny village.

By the next morning, word of the tentative agreement between the speaker and the representatives of Ergoth and Thorbardin had penetrated every corner of the capital. The city, and the elven nation itself, seemed to let out a long-held breath. Fear of war had been uppermost in the minds of all the people, followed closely by fear that large numbers of refugees would once more be driven back into the city by the bandit raids.

When the new day dawned, rimmed by low clouds and chilly with the threat of rain, the people of Silvanost behaved as if it was a bright, sun-filled day. The nobility, priests, and guildmasters heard cheering as their sedan chairs were carried through the streets.

Kith-Kanan went into the city that morning on horseback with Lord Dunbarth. It was the prince’s first chance to see Silvanost since his return. His appetite had been whetted when he and the dwarf had dined at the Inn of the Golden Acorn. There, with good food and drink, stirred by the strains of a bardic lyre, Kith-Kanan had rediscovered his love for the city, dormant for all his months in the wildwood.

He and Dunbarth rode through the crowded streets of the family quarter, where most of Silvanost’s population lived. Here the houses were less grand than the guildmasters’ halls or the priestly enclaves, but they mimicked the styles of the great homes. Beautifully sculpted towers rose, but only for three or four stories. Tiny green plots of land in front of each home were molded by elven magic to support dazzling gardens of red, yellow, and violet flowers; shrubs formed into wave patterns like the river; and trees that bowed and twined together like the braids in an elf maiden’s hair. Nearly every house, no matter how small, was built in imitation of the homes of the great, around a central atrium that held the family’s private garden.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed it,” Kith-Kanan said, steering his horse around a pushcart full of spring melons.

“Miss what, noble prince?” asked Dunbarth.

“The city. Though the forest became my home, a part of me still lives here. It’s like I’m seeing Silvanost for the first time!”

Both elf and dwarf were dressed plainly, without the fine embroidery, golden jewelry, or other outward signs of rank. Even their horses were trapped in the simplest possible style. Kith-Kanan wore a wide-brimmed hat, like a fisher, so that his royal features would be less obvious. They wanted to see the city, not be surrounded by crowds.

Together the duo turned off Phoenix Street and rode down a narrow alley. Kith-Kanan could smell the river even more strongly here. When he emerged in the old Market quarter, ruined by the great riot and now under repair, Kith-Kanan reined up and surveyed the scene. The entire marketplace, from where his horse stood down to the banks of the Thon-Thalas, had been razed. Gangs of Kagonesti elves swarmed around the site, sawing lumber, hauling stones, mixing mortar. Here and there a robed priest of E’li stood, directing the work.

For a large project, like a high tower, magic would be used to shape and raise the stones of the walls and meld the blocks together without need for mortar. In the mundane buildings of the marketplace, more ordinary techniques would be used.

“Where do all the workers come from?” Kith-Kanan wondered aloud.

“As I understand it, they’re slaves from estates to the north and west, owned by the priests of E’li,” said Dunbarth without inflection.

“Slaves? But the speaker put severe limits on the number of slaves anyone could own.”

Dunbarth stroked his curly beard. “I know it may shock Your Highness, but outside of Silvanost the speaker’s laws aren’t always followed. They are bent to suit the needs of the rich and powerful.”

“I’m certain my father doesn’t know about this,” Kith-Kanan said firmly.