Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“No—” gasped the man.

He was forced to his knees. “I saw you!” Sithas insisted. “How can you deny it? Why did you do it?”

“I swear, Lord…”

Sithas could barely think or feel. His senses reeled with the fact that his beloved father was dead.

“Get him ready to travel,” the prince ordered numbly. “We will take him back to the fortress and question him properly there.”

“Yes, Speaker,” said Timonas.

Sithas froze. It was true. Even as his father’s blood ran into the ground, he was the rightful speaker. He could feel the burden of rulership settle about him like a length of chain laid across his shoulders. He had to be strong now, strong and wise, like his father.

“What about your father?” Kencathedrus asked gently.

“I will carry him.” Sithas put his arms under his father’s lifeless body and picked it up.

They walked out of the grove, the human with his arms wrenched behind him, the courtiers leading their horses, and Sithas carrying his dead father. As they came, the sound of hunting horns grew louder and the barking of dogs sounded behind them. Before the party had gone another quarter-mile, a band of mounted humans, armed with bows, appeared. There were at least thirty of them, and as they spread out around the party of elves, the Silvanesti slowed and stopped.

One human picked his way to Sithas. He wore a visored helmet, no doubt to protect his face from intruding branches. The man flipped the visor up, and Sithas started in surprise. He knew that face. It was Ulvissen, the human who had acted as seneschal to Princess Teralind.

“What has happened here?” Ulvissen asked grimly, taking in the scene.

“The Speaker of the Stars has been murdered,” Sithas replied archly. “By that man.”

Ulvissen looked beyond Sithas and saw the archer with his arms pinioned. “You must be mistaken. That man is my forester, Dremic,” he said firmly. “He is no murderer. This was obviously an accident.”

“Accident? That’s not an acceptable answer. I am speaker now, and I say that this assassin will face Silvanesti justice.”

Ulvissen leaned forward in his saddle. “I do not think so, Highness. Dremic is my man. If he is to be punished, I will see to it,” he said strongly.

“No,” disagreed Sithas.

The elves drew together. Some still carried their lances, others had courtly short swords at their waists. Kencathedrus held his sword to the neck of the human archer, Dremic. The standoff was tense.

Before anyone could act, though, a shrill two-tone whistle cut the air. Sithas felt relief well up inside him. Sure enough, through the trees came Kith-Kanan at the head of a company of the militia’s pikemen. The prince rode forward to where Sithas stood, holding their father in his arms.

Kith-Kanan’s face twisted. “I—I am too late!” he cried in anguish.

“Too late for one tragedy, but not too late to prevent another,” Sithas said. Quickly he told his twin what had happened and what was about to happen.

“I heard the hunting horns at Sithelbec,” Kith-Kanan said. “I thought there might be a clash, so I mustered the First Company. But this—if only I had stayed, kept up with Father…”

“We must have our man back, Highness,” Ulvissen insisted. His hunting party nocked arrows.

Sithas shook his head. Before he’d even finished the gesture, some of the humans loosed arrows. Kith-Kanan shouted an order, and his pikemen charged. The humans, with no time to reload, bolted. In seconds, not one human could be seen, though the sound of their horses galloping away could be heard clearly.

Kith-Kanan halted the militia and called the Wildrunners back to order. Kencathedrus had been hit in the thigh. The unfortunate Dremic had been shot by his own people and now lay dead on the grass.

“We must get back to Silvanost, quickly,” Sithas advised, “Not only to bury our father but to tell the people of war!”

Before the confused Kith-Kanan could question or protest, he was shocked to hear his own Wildrunners cheer Sithas’s inflammatory words. The humans’ cowardly flight had aroused their blood. Some were even ready to hunt down the humans in the forest, but Kith-Kanan reminded them that their duty was to their dead speaker and their comrades back at the fort.

They marched out of the woods, a solemn parade, bearing the bodies of the fallen on their horses. The dead human, Dremic, was left where he lay. A shocked and silent garrison greeted them at Sithelbec. Sithel was dead. Sithas was speaker. Everyone wondered if the cause of peace had died with the great and ancient leader.

Kith-Kanan readied his warriors in defensive positions in case of attack. Watch was kept throughout the night, but it proved to be a peaceful one. After midnight, when he’d finished his work for the day, Kith-Kanan went to the shell of the unfinished keep, where Sithas knelt by the body of their slain father.

“The Wildrunners are prepared should an attack come,” he said softly.

Sithas did not raise his head. “Thank you.”

Kith-Kanan looked down at his father’s still face. “Did he suffer?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He could not speak.”

Hands clenched into fists, Kith-Kanan wept. “This is my fault! His safety was my duty! I urged him to come here. I encouraged him to go hunting.”

“And you weren’t present when he was ambushed.” said Sithas calmly.

Kith-Kanan reacted blindly. He seized his twin by the back of his robe and hauled him to his feet. Spinning him around, he snarled, “You were there, and what good did it do him?”

Sithas gripped Kith-Kanan’s fists and pulled them loose from his shirt. With angry precision, he said, “I am speaker. I am. I am the leader of the elven nation, so you serve me now, Brother. You can no longer fly off to the forest. And do not trouble me about the rights of Kagonesti or half-human trash.”

Kith-Kanan let out a breath, long and slow. The twin he loved was swamped by hatred and grief, he told himself as he looked into Sithas’s stormy eyes. With equal precision he answered, “You are my speaker. You are my liege lord, and I shall obey you even unto death.” It was the ancient oath of fealty. Word for word, the twins had said it to their father when they’d reached maturity. Now Kith-Kanan said it to his twin, his elder by just three minutes.

Sithel’s body was borne back to his capital with haste. Sithas felt dignity was less important than speed; he wanted to present the nation with the terrible news as quickly as possible. The Ergothians might move at any time, and the elven nation was not ready to meet them.

The dire news flashed ahead of the caravan. By the time Sithel’s body was ferried across the Thon-Thalas, the city was already in mourning. The river was so thick with boats, it could be walked across. From the humblest fisher to the mightiest priest, all elves turned out to view the speaker for the last time. By the thousands they lined the street to the Tower of the Stars, bare-headed out of respect. Waiting for the cortège at the tower was Lady Nirakina. She was so stricken that she had to be carried in a sedan chair from the palace to the tower.

There were no hails or cheers as Speaker Sithas walked through the streets, leading the funeral cortège. His father lay in state in the Temple of E’li as thousands of his subjects came to pay him a last farewell. Then, with a minimum of ceremony, Sithel was put to rest beside his own father in the magnificent mausoleum known as the Crystal Tomb.

The very next day, Sithas composed an ultimatum to the emperor of Ergoth. “We consider the death of our father Sithel to be nothing less than deliberate murder,” Sithas wrote. “The Elven Nation demands retribution for its speaker’s death. If Your Imperial Highness wishes to avoid war, we will accept an indemnity of one million gold pieces, the expulsion of all Ergothian subjects from our western territories, and the surrender of all the men present at the murder of our father, including Ulvissen.”