Firstborn Read online

  Elven Nations Trilogy

  Volume One

  Firstborn

  Paul B. Thompson

  & Tonya R. Carter

  Cover art

  Brom

  Interior Illustrations

  Robin Raab

  DRAGONLANCE® Saga

  Elven Nations

  Volume One

  Firstborn

  Copyright 1991 TSR, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.

  Distributed to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc., and in Canada by Random House of Canada, Ltd.

  Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.

  All DRAGONLANCE characters and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks of TSR. Inc.

  DRAGONLANCE, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, ADVANCED DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, AD&D, and D&D are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

  TM designates other trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

  First Printing: February 1991

  These ePub and Mobi editions v3.1 by Dead^Man March, 2012

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-71491

  987654321

  ISBN: 1-56076-051-6

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  TSR, Inc.

  P.O. Box 756

  Lake Geneva, W1

  53147 U.S.A.

  TSR Ltd.

  120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

  Cambridge CBl 3LB

  United Kingdom

  For Marty and Renee

  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 falte
ringly.

  “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 would plunge 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.

  “Now!” 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.
<
br />   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.