Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“That’s common knowledge,” said Sithas quickly. He was especially elegant today, having forsworn his usual robe in favor of a divided kilt and a thigh-length tunic of quilted cloth of gold. His headband, too, was golden.

“What about the law?” asked Kith-Kanan, his voice rising. “No household is supposed to have more than two slaves at a time, yet I saw two hundred or more working away, watched over by clerics from the Temple of E’li.”

“The law only applies to those who live in Silvanost,” Sithas said, preempting his father again. Sithel kept quiet and let his sons argue. He was curious to see which would prevail. “The slaves you saw come from temple estates on the Em-Bali River, north of the city,” added the speaker’s firstborn.

“That’s an evasion,” Kith-Kanan said heatedly. “I never heard of a law that applied only in Silvanost and not to the entire nation!”

“Why all this concern about slaves?” Sithas demanded.

“It isn’t right.” Kith-Kanan clenched his hands into fists. “They are elves, the same as us. It is not right that elves should own one another.”

“They are not like us,” Sithas snapped. “They are Kagonesti.”

“Does that automatically condemn them?”

Sithel decided it was time to intervene. “The workers you saw were sold into slavery because they were convicted of crimes against the Silvanesti people,” he said gently. “That they are Kagonesti is of no significance. Your concern for them is misplaced, Kith.”

“I don’t think so, Father,” his son argued earnestly. “We’re all proud of our Silvanesti blood, and that’s good. But pride should not lead us to exploit our subjects.”

“You have been in the woods too long,” said Sithas coolly. “You have forgotten how the world works.”

“Hold your tongue,” Sithel intervened sharply. “And you too, Kith.” The Speaker of the Stars looked rueful. “I am glad to know both my sons feel so passionately about right and wrong. The blood of Silvanos has not run thin, I can see. But this debate serves no purpose. If the slaves in the Market are well treated and do their allotted work, I see no reason to tamper with the situation.”

“But, Father…”

“Listen to me, Kith. You’ve only been back four days. I know you grew used to much freedom in the forest, but a city and a nation cannot operate like a camp in the wildwood. Someone must command, and others must obey. That’s how a speaker can protect the weak and rule with justice.”

“Yes, Father.” When Sithel explained it like that, it almost made sense. Still, Kith-Kanan knew that no amount of logic and lawful argument would ever convince him that slavery was anything but wrong.

Sithas listened to Sithel’s words with his arms folded in satisfaction. Kith was not as infallible as he seemed, thought the firstborn. Facing down Kith’s sentimental ramblings made him feel every inch the next Speaker of the Stars.

“Now I have a command for you, son,” Sithel said to Kith-Kanan. “I want you to lead the new militia.”

Utter silence. Kith-Kanan tried to digest this. He was just back home, and now he was being sent away. He looked at Sithas—who glanced away—then back at the speaker. “Me, Father?” he asked, dazed.

“With your experience as a warrior and ranger, who better? I have already spoken with Lady Teralind and Lord Dunbarth, and they agree. A speaker’s son, ranger, and a friend of the Kagonesti, you are the best choice.”

Kith-Kanan looked to Sithas. “This was your idea, Sith?”

His brother shrugged. “Clear reasoning pointed to you and no one else.”

Kith-Kanan ran a hand through his tousled hair. The crafty old Dunbarth knew all through their ride this morning and hadn’t said a word. In fact, had he led the way to the Market to show Kith-Kanan the slaves at work there? To prepare him for this?

“You can refuse,” noted the speaker, “if you wish.” He plainly expected no such reaction from his stalwart son.

A rush of images and thoughts flooded Kith-Kanan’s mind. In quick succession he saw the ruined village he and Mackeli had found; Voltorno, roving and plundering at will through Silvanesti; Anaya, mortally stricken, fighting bows and swords with a flint knife; Kagonesti slaves, stripped of their lives.

The prince also heard his own words: “If the people had possessed a few spears, and had known how to fight, they might all have been saved.” Kith-Kanan’s gaze remained on his twin for a long moment, then he looked at the speaker. “I accept,” he said quietly.

With Mackeli at his side, Kith-Kanan spent the next few days interviewing members of the royal guard who had volunteered for the militia. As he had predicted, the lure of free land was a powerful inducement to soldiers who seldom owned anything more than the clothes on their backs. Kith-Kanan could select the very best of them as his sergeants.

A great public celebration had been declared, both to honor the new agreement with Ergoth and Thorbardin and to honor Kith-Kanan’s ascent to command of the new militia of House Protector. The force was already being called the Wildrunners, after the old name given to the armed bands of Kagonesti who had fought for Silvanos during the wars of elven unification.

“I still don’t understand why we don’t just fly out there,” Mackeli said, struggling under the weight of real armor and a pot-shaped iron helmet.

“Griffons are reserved as mounts of House Royal,” Kith-Kanan said. “Besides, there aren’t enough of them for this whole company.” He cinched a rope tight around the last bundle of his personal gear. His chestnut charger, Kijo, bore the weight of bedroll and armor well. Kith-Kanan had been pleased to discover that his old mount was still as spirited as ever.

Mackeli regarded the horses skeptically. “Are you sure these beasts are tame?”

Kith-Kanan smiled. “You rode Arcuballis one thousand feet up in the air, and now you’re worried about riding on horseback?”

“I know Arcuballis,” the boy said apprehensively. “I don’t know these animals.”

“It will be all right.” Kith-Kanan went down the line of horses and warriors. The last knots were made, and the good-byes were being said.

The Processional Road was full of elves and horses. Two hundred and fifty warriors and an equal number of mounts milled about. Unlike Sithel’s earlier, ill-fated expedition, Kith-Kanan’s band was to be entirely mounted and self-sufficient. This was the largest force to leave Silvanost since the days of the founding wars.

It was a splendid spectacle, and the sides of the street were lined with townsfolk. The warriors had discarded their fancy parade armor in favor of more practical equipment. Each elf wore a hammered iron breastplate and a simple, open-faced helmet. Bronze shields, shaped like hourglasses, hung from each saddlehorn. Every warrior carried a bow, twenty arrows, a sword, a knife, and a heavy javelin that could be used for thrusting or throwing. The horses wore only minimal trapping, as mobility was more important than protection.

Kith-Kanan tucked his gauntlets under his arm as he mounted the steps to the processional entrance of the Tower of the Stars. There stood his father and mother, Sithas and Hermathya, Lady Teralind, Praetor Ulwen in his chair, and Ulvissen. Lord Dunbarth had begged off attending the departure ceremony. He was afflicted with a colic, according to his faithful secretary, Drollo. Kith-Kanan knew that the old rascal had been living it up in the inns and taverns along the riverfront since the treaty had been approved by the emperor of Ergoth and the king of Thorbardin.

The prince ascended the steps in measured tread, keeping his eyes fixed on his father. Sithel was wearing the formal Crown of Stars, a magnificent golden circlet that featured as its central stone the famed Eye of Astarin, the largest emerald in all of Krynn. The gem caught the rays of the midmorning sun and sent flashes of verdant light across the street and gardens.