Paul Thompson - Firstborn

Beside Sithel stood Lady Nirakina. She was dressed in a gown of palest blue and wore a filigree silver torc around her throat. Her honey-colored hair was held in a silver cloth scarf. There was something sad and remote about her expression—no doubt it was the realization that she was losing her younger son again, after he’d been home less than a month.

Kith-Kanan reached the step just below the landing where the royal family was gathered. He removed his helmet and bowed to his father.

“Noble father, gracious mother,” he said with dignity.

“Stand with me,” said Sithel warmly. Kith-Kanan made the final step and stood beside his father.

“Your mother and I have something to give you,” the speaker said in a private tone. “Open it when you are alone.” Nirakina handed her husband a red silk kerchief, the corners of which were tied together. Sithel pressed this into Kith-Kanan’s hand.

“Now for the public words,” the speaker said with the faintest trace of a smile. Sithel looked out over the crowd. He raised his hand and declaimed, “People of Silvanost! I present you my son, Kith-Kanan, in whose trust I place the peace and safety of the realm.” To Kith-Kanan he asked loudly, “Will you faithfully and honorably discharge the duties of lord constable in all parts of our realm and any other provinces you may enter?”

Loudly and clearly Kith-Kanan replied, “By E’li, I swear I will.” The crowd roared in approval.

Standing apart on the speaker’s left were Sithas and Hermathya. The lady, who was radiantly beautiful in cream white and gold, had a serene expression on her fine-boned face. But Kith-Kanan’s twin smiled on him as he approached for a blessing.

“Good hunting, Kith,” said Sithas warmly. “Show the humans what elven mettle is like!”

“That I’ll do, Sith.” Without warning, Kith-Kanan embraced his brother. Sithas returned Kith-Kanan’s embrace with fervor.

“Keep yourself safe, Brother,” Sithas said softly, then broke away.

Kith-Kanan turned to Hermathya. “Farewell, Lady.”

“Good-bye,” she replied coldly.

Kith-Kanan descended the steps. Mackeli was holding Kijo’s reins. “What did the lady say?” he asked, gazing up at Hermathya with rapt admiration.

“You noticed her, did you?”

“Well, yes! She’s like a sunflower in a hedge of thistles…”

Kith-Kanan swung into the saddle. “By Astarin! You’re starting to sound like a bard! It’s a good thing we’re getting you out of the city. Anaya wouldn’t know you, talking like that!”

The warriors followed Kith-Kanan and Mackeli in ranks of five, wheeling with precision as the prince led them down the curving Processional Road. The assembled Silvanesti let out a roar of approbation, which quickly turned into a steady chant:

“Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan, Kith-Ka-nan…”

The chanting continued as the slow procession wound its way to the riverside. Two ferry barges were waiting for the warriors. Kith-Kanan and the Wildrunners boarded the ferries, and the huge turtles towed them away. The people of Silvanost lined the shore and called out Kith-Kanan’s name until long after the barges were lost against the dark strip of the western riverbank.

Lord Dunbarth’s party loaded all their possessions onto wagons and formed up to depart. Sithas and his honor guard were there to see the dwarven ambassador off.

“Much better weather than when I arrived,” Dunbarth remarked. He was sweating under his woolen coat and vest. Summer was upon Silvanost, and a warm, humid wind blew in from the river.

“It is indeed,” Sithas said pleasantly. In spite of Dunbarth’s professional caginess, Sithas liked the old dwarf. There was a basic goodness about him.

“You’ll find a case of amber nectar in your carriage,” said the prince. “With the compliments of Lady Nirakina and myself.”

“Ah!” The dwarf looked genuinely touched. “Many thanks, noble prince. I shall be sure to share it with my king. He esteems elven nectar almost as much as Thorbardin ale.”

The ambassador’s escort, augmented by an honor guard of twenty elven warriors, paraded past the wagon. Dunbarth and his secretary, Drollo, climbed into their closed metal coach. As the ambassador pushed back the fine mesh curtains, he extended a ring-heavy hand to Sithas.

“In Thorbardin we wish friends a long life when parting, but I know you’ll outlive me by centuries,” Dunbarth said, a twinkle in his eye. “What do elves say when they part?”

“We say, ‘Blessings of Astarin’ and ‘May your way be green and golden’,” Sithas replied. He clasped the ambassador’s thick, wrinkled hand.

“May your way be green and golden, then, Prince Sithas. Oh, and some news for you, too. Our Lady Teralind is not what she pretends to be.”

Sithas raised a brow. “Oh?”

“She is Emperor Ullves’s eldest daughter.”

Sithas feigned mild interest. “Really? That’s interesting. Why do you tell me this now, my lord?”

Dunbarth tried to hide his smile. “The dealing is done, so there’s no advantage to my keeping her identity secret. I’ve seen her before, you see. In Daltigoth. Hmm, I thought your noble father might like to know so that he could—um—ah, give her a royal send-off.”

“My lord, you are wise for one so young,” Sithas said, grinning. “Would that I were young! Farewell, Prince!” Dunbarth rapped on the side of the coach. “Drive on!”

When he returned to the palace, Sithas was summoned to the Ergothians’ quarters. There he was awaited by his father, his mother, and her courtier, Tamanier Ambrodel. The prince quickly informed them of the dwarven lord’s revelation.

At one end of the room, Teralind was giving final orders to her servants in a cross, high-pitched voice. Dresses of heavy velvet and delicate lace were being squeezed into crates, which were then nailed shut. Toiletries rattled into rattan hampers.

The strongbox containing Teralind’s jewelry was locked with a stout padlock and given to a soldier to guard personally.

Sithel approached this hectic scene. He halted in the center of the room and clasped his hands behind his back. Lady Teralind had no choice but to leave off her packing and attend the speaker. She combed a strand of hair back from her face and curtsied to Sithel.

“To what do I owe this honor?” she asked in a hurried tone that made it plain she regarded it as no honor at all.

“It’s just come to my attention that I have been remiss in my duty,” Sithel noted with heavy irony. “I greeted you and your husband as befitted an ambassador, when I should have done you more honor. It is not often I have an imperial princess under my roof.”

A twitch passed over Teralind’s face. “What?” she murmured.

“Surely you don’t deny your father? He is the emperor, after all.”

The tension left the woman’s shoulders. Her back straightened slightly, and she immediately took on a more relaxed and regal attitude. “It doesn’t matter now. You are quite right, Highness. I am Xanille Teralind, first daughter of His Majesty, Ullves X.” She looped the stray strand of hair back again. “How did you find out?”

“Lord Dunbarth recognized you. But why did you hide your identity?” asked Sithel curiously.

“To protect myself,” she averred. “My husband is a helpless invalid. We traveled a long way from Daltigoth, through regions where my father is not loved. Can you imagine the danger we would have faced if every bandit chief and warlord knew I was an imperial princess? We should have needed a hundred times the escort we came with. And how would Your Highness have felt if we had shown up before Silvanost at the head of a thousand warriors?”