01 Firstborn

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Dragonlance

~|~ Firstborn ~|~

The Elven Nations Trilogy

Volume One

Paul B. Thompson & Tonya R. Carter

Prelude

Year of the Dolphin (2308 PC)

The great river Thon-Thalas flowed southward through the forests of

Silvanesti. Three-quarters of the way down its length, the broad waterway

branched and twin streams flowed around an island called Fallan. On this island

was the capital city of the elven nation, Silvanost.

Silvanost was a city of towers. Gleaming white, they soared skyward, some

dwarfing even the massive oak trees on the mainland. Unlike the mainland,

Fallan Island had few trees. Most had been removed to make way for the city.

The island's naturally occurring marble and quartz formations had then been

spell-shaped by the Silvanesti, transforming them into houses and towers.

Approaching the island from the west on the King's Road, a traveler could see

the marble city gleaming with pearly light through the trees. At night, the city

absorbed the starlight and moonlight and radiated it softly back to the

heavens.

On this particular night, scudding clouds covered the sky and a chill rain fell.

A brisk breeze swirled over the island. The streets of Silvanost, however, were

full. In spite of the damp cold, every elf in the city stood outside, shouting,

clapping, and singing joyfully. Many carried candles, hooded against the rain,

and the dancing lights added to the strange yet festive air.

A wonderful thing had happened that evening in the capital. Sithel, Speaker

of the Stars, ruler of all Silvanesti, had become a father. Indeed the great

fortune of Speaker Sithel was that he had two sons. He was the father of twins,

an event rare among elves. The Silvanesti began to call Sithel "Twice Blest."

And they celebrated in the cool, damp night.

The Speaker of the Stars was not receiving well-wishers, however. He was

not even in the Palace of Quinari, where his wife, Nirakina, still lay in her

birthing bed with her new sons. Sithel had left his attendants and walked alone

across the plaza between the palace and the Tower of the Stars, the

ceremonial seat of the speaker's power. Though common folk were not allowed

in the plaza by night, the speaker could hear the echoes of their celebrations.

He strode through the dark outlines of the garden surrounding the tower.

Wending his way along the paths, he entered the structure through a door

reserved for the royal family.

Circling to the front of the great emerald throne, Sithel could see the vast

audience hall. It was not completely dark. Six hundred feet above him was a

shaft in the roof of the tower, open to the sky. Moonlight, broken by clouds,

filtered down the shaft. The walls of the tower were pierced by spiraling rows

of window slits and encrusted with precious jewels of every description. These

split the moonlight into iridescent beams, and the beams bathed the walls and

floor in a thousand myriad colors. Yet Sithel had no mind for this beauty now.

Seating himself on the throne he had occupied for two centuries, he rested his

hands on the emerald arms, allowing the coolness of the stone to penetrate

and soothe his heavy heart.

A figure appeared in the monumental main doorway. "Enter," said the

speaker, He hardly spoke above a whisper, but the perfect acoustics of the hall

carried the single word clearly to the visitor.

The figure approached. He halted at the bottom of the steps leading up to the

throne platform and set a small brazier on the marble floor. Finally the visitor

bowed low and said, "You summoned me, great Speaker:' His voice was light,

with the lilt of the north country in it.

"Vedvedsica, servant of Gilean," Sithel said. "Rise."

Vedvedsica stood. Unlike the clerics, of Silvanost, who wore white robes and

a sash in the color of their patron deity, Vedvedsica wore a belted tabard of

solid gray. His god had no temple in the city, because the gods of Neutrality

were not officially tolerated by the priests who served the gods of Good.

Vedvedsica said, "May I congratulate Your Highness on the birth of his sons?"

Sithel nodded curtly. "It is because of them that I have called you here," he

replied. "Does your god allow you to see the future?"

"My master Gilean holds in his hands the Tobril, the Book of Truth.

Sometimes he grants me glimpses of this book." From the priest's expression it

appeared this was not a practice he enjoyed.

"I will give you one hundred gold pieces," said the speaker. "Ask your god,

and tell me the fate of my sons."

Vedvedsica bowed again. He dipped a hand into the voluminous pockets of

his tabard and brought out two dried leaves, still shiny green, but stiff and

brittle. Removing the conical cover from the brazier, he exposed hot coals and

held the leaves by their stems over the dully glowing fire.

"Gilean, the Book! Gray Voyager! Sage of Truth, Gate of Souls! By this fire,

open my eyes and allow me to read from the book of all-truth!"

The cleric's voice was stronger now, resonating through the empty hall.

"Open the Tobril! Find for Speaker Sithel the fates of his two sons, born this

day!"

Vedvedsica laid the dry leaves on the coals. They caught fire immediately,

flames curling around them with a loud crackle. Smoke snaked up from the

brazier, thick, gray smoke that condensed as it rose. Sithel gripped the arms of

his throne and watched the smoke coil and writhe. Vedvedsica held up his

hands as if to embrace it.

Gradually the smoke formed into the wavering shape of an open scroll. The

back of the scroll faced Sithel. The front was for Vedvedsica only. The cleric's

lips moved as he read from the book that contained all the knowledge of the

gods.

In less than half a minute the leaves were totally consumed. The fire flared

three feet above the golden brazier, instantly dispelling the smoke. In the flash

of flame, the priest cried out in pain and reeled away. Sithel leaped up from his

throne as Vedvedsica collapsed in a heap.

After descending the steps from the throne platform, Sithel knelt beside the

cleric and carefully turned him over. "What did you see?" he asked urgently.

"Tell me-I command you!"

Vedvedsica took his hands from his face. His eyebrows were singed, his face

blackened. "Five words . . . I saw only five words, Highness," he said

falteringly.

"What were they?" Sithel nearly shook the fellow in his haste to know. "The

Tobril said, 'They both shall wear crowns . . .' "

Sithel frowned, his pale, arching brows knotting together. "What does it

mean? Two crowns?" he demanded angrily. "How can they both wear crowns?"

"It means what it means, Twice-Blest."

The speaker looked at the brazier, its coals still glowing. A few seconds'

glimpse into the great book had nearly cost Vedvedsica his sight. What would

the knowledge of Gilean's prophecy cost Sithel himself? What would it cost

Silvanesti?

1 - Spring-Year of the Hawk (2216 PC)

Clouds scattered before the wind, bright white in the brilliant sunshine. In the

gaps of blue that showed between the clouds, a dark, winged form darted and

wheeled. Far larger than a bird, the creature climbed with powerful strokes of

its broad wings. It reached a height above the lowest clouds and hovered

there, wings beating fast and hard.

The beast was a griffon, a creature part lion, part eagle. Its magnificent

eagle's head and neck gave way to the torso and hindquarters of a lion. A

plumed lion's tail whipped in the wind. Behind the beast's fiercely beaked head

and unblinking golden eyes, the leather straps of a halter led back to a saddle,

strapped to the griffon's shoulders. In the saddle sat a helmeted figure clad in

green and gold armor. An elven face with brown eyes and snow-colored hair

peered out from under the bronze helmet.

Spread out below them, elf and griffon, was the whole country of Silvanesti.

Where wind had driven the clouds away, the griffon rider could see the green

carpet of forests and fields. To his right, the wandering silver ribbon of the

Thon-Thalas, the Lord's River, flowed around the verdant Fallan Island. On this

island was Silvanost, city of a thousand white towers.

"Are you ready, Arcuballis?" whispered the rider to his mount. He wound the

leather reins tightly around his strong, slender hand. "Nowl" he cried, drawing

the reins sharply down.

The griffon put its head down and folded its wings. Down they plummeted,

like a thunderbolt dropped from a clear sky. The young elf bent close to the

griffon's neck, burying his fingers in the dense, copper-hued feathers. The

massive muscles under his fingers were taut, waiting. Arcuballis was well

trained and loyal to its master; it would not open its wings again until told to

do so. If its master so desired, the griffon wouldplunge straight into the fertile

soil of Silvanesti.

They were below the clouds, and the land leaped into clear view. The rich

green canopy of trees was more obvious now. The griffon rider could see the

pines and the mighty oaks reaching up, connecting soil to sky. It was a view of

the land few were ever granted.

He had dropped many thousands of feet, and only a few hundred remained.

The wind tore at his eyes, bringing tears. He blinked them away. Arcuballis

flexed its folded wings nervously, and a low growl sounded in its throat. They

were very low. The rider could see individual branches in the trees, see birds

fleeing from the griffon's rapidly growing shadow.

"Nowl" The rider hauled back sharply on the reins. The broad wings opened

slowly. The beast's hindquarters dropped as its head rose. The rider felt himself

slide backward, bumping against the rear lip of the tall saddle. The griffon

soared up in a high arc, wings flailing. He let the reins out, and the beast

leveled off . He whistled a command, and the griffon held its wings out

motionless. They started down again in a steep glide.

The lower air was rough, full of eddies and currents, and the griffon bobbed

and pitched. The rider threw back his head and laughed.

They skimmed over the trees. Abruptly the woods gave way to orderly rows

of trees, orchards of cherry, plum, and fima nuts. Elves working in the orchards

saw only a large object hurtle over their heads, and they panicked. Many

tumbled down ladders, spilling baskets of fruit. The rider put a brass horn to

his lips, sounding a shrill note. The griffon added its own eerie call, a deep,

trilling growl that was also part lion, part eagle.

The rider urged the beast up. The wings beat lazily, gaining a few dozen feet

of height. They banked right, swooping over the slow-flowing waters of the

Thon-Thalas. There were many watercraft plying the river-flat log rafts poled

by sturdy, sunbrowned elves, piled high with pots and cloth to be traded in the

wild south; the slender dugouts of the fishers, the bottoms of which were

silvered with the morning's catch. The griffon swept over them in a flurry of

wings. The rafters and fishers looked up idly from their work. As travelers up

and down the great waterway, they were not easily impressed, not even by the

sight of a royal griffon in flight.

On they flew, across the river to Fallan Island. The rider wove his flying steed

among the many white towers so skillfully that the griffon never once scraped

a wingtip. Their shadow chased them down the streets.

The rider approached the center point of the city, and the center point of

every elf's life and loyalty, the Tower of the Stars. At six hundred feet, it was

the tallest spire in Silvanost and the seat of power of the Speaker of the Stars.

He steered the griffon in a quick circle around the white marble tower. The

horn was at his lips again, and he blew a rude, flat warning. It was a lark, a bit

of aerial fun, but halfway around the tower the rider spied a lone figure on the

high balcony, looking out over the city. He reined back and sideslipped

Arcuballis toward the tower. The white-haired, white-robed figure was no one

less than Sithel, Speaker of the Stars.

Startled, the rider clumsily turned the griffon away. His eyes met those of the

elven monarch for a moment, then Sithel turned and re-entered the tower. The

griffon rider shook his head and made for home. He was in trouble.

North of the tower, across the ornate Gardens of Astarin, stood the Palace of

Quinari. Here the descendants of Silvanos, the House Royal, lived. The palace

stood clear of the trees and consisted of three, three-story wings radiating

from a rose-colored marble tower. The tower soared three hundred feet from

base to pinnacle. The three wings of the palace were faced with beautiful

colonnades of green-streaked marble.

The columns spiraled gracefully upward from their bases, each in imitation of

a unicorn's horn.

The rider's heart raced as the palace came into view. He'd been away four

days, hunting, flying, and now he had an appointment to keep. He knew there

would be trouble with the speaker for his insolent behavior at the Tower of the

Stars, but for now thoughts of his upcoming rendezvous made him smile.

He brought the griffon in with firm tugs on the reins. He steered toward the

eastern wing of the palace. Lion's claws behind and eagle's talons in front

touched down on the cool slate roof. With a tired shudder, Arcuballis drew in its

wings.

Servants in sleeveless tunics and short kilts ran out to take the beast's bridle.

Another elf set a wooden step ladder against the animal's side. The rider

ignored it, threw a leg over the griffon's neck, and nimbly dropped to the

rooftop. More servants rushed forward, one with a bowl of clean water, the

other with a neatly folded linen towel.

"Highness," said the bowl bearer, "would you care to refresh yourself?"

"A moment." The rider pried off his helmet and shook his sweat-damp hair.

"How goes everything here?" he asked, dipping his hands and arms in the

clean water, once, twice, three times. The water quickly turned dingy with dirt.

"It goes well, my prince," the bowl bearer replied. He snapped his head at his

companion, and the second servant proffered the towel.

"Any word from my brother, Prince Sithas?"

"In fact, yes, Highness. Your brother was recalled yesterday by your father.

He returned from the Temple of Matheri this morning."

Puzzlement knit the rider's pale brows. "Recalled? But why?"

"I do not know, my prince. Even now, the speaker is closeted with Prince

Sithas in the Tower of the Stars."

The rider tossed the towel back to the servant who'd brought it. "Send word

to my mother that I have returned. Tell her I shall see her presently.

And should my father and brother return from the tower before sunset, tell

them the same."

The servants bowed. "It shall be done, my prince."

The elf prince went briskly to the stair that led from the rooftop into the

palace. The servants hastened after him, sloshing dirty water from the bowl as

they went.

"Prince Kith-Kanan! Will you not take some food?" called the bowl bearer.

"No. See to it Arcuballis is fed, watered, and brushed down."

"Of course . . ."

"And stop following me!"

The servants halted as if arrow-shot. Prince Kith-Kanan rattled down the

stone steps into the palace. As it was early summer, all the window shutters

were open, flooding the interior corridors with light. He strode along, scarcely

acknowledging the bows and greetings of the servants and courtiers he met.

The length of the shadows on the floor told him he was late. She would be

angry, being kept waiting.

Kith-Kanan breezed out the main entrance of the palace. Guards in burnished

armor snapped to attention as he passed. His mood lightened with every step

he took toward the Gardens of Astarin. So what if his father dressed him down

later? It wouldn't be the first time, by any means. Any amount of lecturing was

worth his hurried flight home to be on time for his rendezvous with Hermathya.

The gardens bulked around the base of the great tower. Not long after

Silvanos, founder of the elven nation, had completed the Tower of the Stars,

priests of the god Astarin asked for permission to create a garden around the

structure. Silvanos gladly granted their request. The clerics laid out a garden in

the plan of a four-pointed star, each point aligned with one of the cardinal

directions. They wove spells granted to them by Astarin, the Bard King, spells

that formed the trees and flowers in wonderful ways. Thornless red and white

roses grew in delicate spirals around the trunks of evergreen oaks. Wisteria

dripped purple blossoms into still, clear pools of water. Lilacs and camellias

drenched the air with their perfume. Broad leaves of ivy spread over the

garden paths, shading them and protecting strollers from all but the harshest

rains. And most remarkably, laurels and cedars grew in circular groves, their

tops coming together to form perfect shelters, where elves could meditate.

Silvanos himself had favored a grove of laurels on the west side of the garden.

When the august founder of the elven nation had died, the leaves on the

laurels there changed from green to gold, and they remained that way ever

after.

Kith-Kanan did not enter the Gardens of Astarin by one of the paths. In his

deerskin boots, he crept silently beside the shoulder-high wall of spell-shaped

mulberry. He hoisted himself over the wall and dropped down on the other

side, still without a sound. Crouching low, he moved toward the grove.

The prince could hear the impatient rustle of footsteps inside the golden

grove. In his mind he saw Hermathya pacing to and fro, arms folded, her red-

gold hair like a flame in the center of the gilded trees. He slipped around to the

entrance to the grove. Hermathya had her back to him, her arms folded tight

with vexation. Kith-Kanan called her name.

Hermathya whirled. "Kith! You startled me. Where have you been?"

"Hurrying to you," he replied.

Her angry expression lasted only a moment longer, then she ran to him, her

bright blue gown flying. They embraced in the arched entry of Silvanos's

retreat. The embrace became a kiss. After a moment, Kith-Kanan drew back a

bit and whispered, "We'd best be wary. My father is in the tower. He might see

us."

In answer, Hermathya pulled the prince's face down to hers and kissed him

again. Finally, she said breathlessly, "Now, let us hide." They entered the

shelter of the laurel grove.

Under the elaborate rules of courtly manners, a prince and a well-born elf

maiden could not consort freely, as Kith-Kanan and Hermathya had for the

past half-year. Escorts had to accompany both of them, if they ever saw each

other at all. Protocol demanded that they not be alone together.

"I missed you terribly," Hermathya said, taking Kith-Kanan's hand and

leading him to the gray granite bench. "Silvanost is like a tomb when you're

not here."

"I'm sorry I was late. Arcuballis had headwinds to fight all the way home."

This was not strictly true, but why anger her further? Actually Kith-Kanan had

broken camp late because he had stayed to listen to two Kagonesti elves tell

tall tales of adventures in the West, in the land of the humans.

"Next time," Hermathya said, tracing the line of Kith-Kanan's jaw with one

slender finger, "take me with you."

"On a hunting trip?"

She nipped at his ear. Her hair smelled of sunshine and spice. "Why not?"

He hugged her close, burying his face in her hair and inhaling deeply. "You

could probably handle yourself right enough, but what respectable maiden

would travel in the forest with a male not her father, brother, or husband?"

"I don't want to be respectable."

Kith-Kanan studied her face. Hermathya had the dark blue eyes of the

Oakleaf Clan and the high cheekbones of her mother's family, the Sunberry

Clan. In her slender, beautiful face he saw passion, wit, courage-

"Love," he murmured.

"Yes," Hermathya replied. "I love you too."

The prince looked deep into her eyes and said softly, "Marry me,

Hermathya." Her eyes widened, and she pulled away from him, chuckling.

"What is funny?" he demanded.

"Why talk of marriage? Giving me a starjewel will not make me love you

more. I like things the way they are."

Kith-Kanan waved to the surrounding golden laurels. "You like meeting in

secret? Whispering and flinching at every sound, lest we be discovered?"

She leaned close again. "Of course. That makes it all the more stimulating."

He had to admit his life had been anything but boring lately. Kith-Kanan

caressed his lover's cheek. Wind stirred through the gilded leaves as they drew

closer. She entwined her fingers in his white hair. The prince thought no more

of marriage as Hermathya filled his senses.

* * * * *

They parted with smiles and quiet touches on each other's faces. Hermathya

disappeared down the garden path with a toss of bronze-red hair and a swish

of clinging silk. Kith-Kanan stood in the entrance of the golden grove and

watched her until she was lost from sight. Then, with a sigh, he made for the

palace.

The sun had set and, as he crossed the plaza, the prince saw that the

servants were setting lamps in the windows of the palace. All Silvanost

glimmered with light by night, but the Palace of Quinari, with its massive tower

and numerous tall windows, was like a constellation in the heavens. Kith-Kanan

felt very satisfied as he jauntily ascended the steps by the main doors.

The guards clacked their spears against their shoulder armor. The one on

Kith-Kanan's right said, "Highness, the speaker bids you go to the Hall of Balif."

'Well, I'd best not keep the speaker waiting," he replied. The guards snapped

to, and he passed on into the deep, arched opening. Even the prospect of a

tongue-lashing by his father did little to lower Kith-Kanan's spirits. He still

breathed the clean, spicy scent of Hermathya, and he still gazed into the

bottomless blue depths of her eyes.

The Hall of Balif, named for the kender general who had once fought so well

on behalf of the great Silvanos, took up an entire floor of the central tower.

Kith-Kanan swung up the broad stone stairs, clapping servants on the back and

hailing courtiers heartily. Smiles followed in the elf prince's wake.

Oddly, two guards stood outside the high bronze doors of the Hall of Balif.

The doors were not usually guarded. As Kith-Kanan approached, one guard

rapped on the bronze panel behind him with the butt of his spear. Silently Kith-

Kanan stood by as the two soldiers pushed the heavy portals apart for him.

The hall was indifferently lit by a rack of candles on the oval feasting table.

The first face Kith-Kanan saw did not belong to his father, Sithel.

"Sithas!"

The tall, white-haired young elf stood up from behind the table. Kith-Kanan

circled the table and embraced his twin brother heartily. Though they lived in

the same city, they saw each other only at intervals. Sithas spent most of his

time in the Temple of Matheri, where the priests had been educating him since

he was a child. Kith-Kanan was frequently away, flying, riding, hunting. Ninety

years they'd lived, and by the standards of their race they were barely adults.

Time and habit had altered the twins, so much so that they were no longer

exact copies of each other. Sithas, elder by scant minutes, was slim and pale,

the consequence of his scholarly life. His face was lit by large hazel eyes, the

eyes of his father and grandfather. On his white robe he wore a narrow red

stripe, a tribute to Matheri, whose color it was.

Kith-Kanan, because of his outdoor life, had skin almost as brown as his

eyes. The life of a ranger had toughened him, broadened his shoulders and

hardened his muscles.

"I'm in trouble," he said ruefully.

"What have you done this time?" Sithas asked, loosening his grip on his twin.

"I was out flying on Arcuballis . . ."

"Have you been scaring the farmers again?"

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Dragonlance~|~Firstborn~|~TheElvenNationsTrilogyVolumeOnePaulB.Thompson&TonyaR.CarterPreludeYearoftheDolphin(2308PC)ThegreatriverThon-ThalasflowedsouthwardthroughtheforestsofSilvanesti.Three-quartersofthewaydownitslength,thebroadwaterwaybranchedandtwinstreamsflowedaroundanislandcalledFallan.Onthisis...

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01 Firstborn

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