Destiny

Chapter 8

Kerian hurled herself at Gilthas as the corona of light engulfed him, and they both went down. She tried to twist and fall beneath him, to cushion his landing, but she was only partially successful. For a moment she lay unmoving, not breathing, eyes closed. Who knew where the will-o’-the-wisps might have sent them.

Nowhere, it seemed. She and Gilthas had done nothing more than strike the ground. They were still in Inath-Wakenti. The night sky still arched over them. And Gilthas was held fast in her arms.

“So,” he grunted, opening his eyes. “Apparently I am not worth taking.”

“Be still,” she hissed, listening intently. “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

A troop of cavalry galloped up, forestalling further discussion.

Leading them was Hamaramis, pale with shock.

“Great Speaker! Lady Kerianseray! Are you all right?”

Kerian helped her husband stand, and they reassured the old general. The spectral monsters were gone. Will-o’-the-wisps were maneuvering in the mist, rising along the tree line a dozen yards away, and the elves did not hang about. Hamaramis offered his horse, but Gilthas climbed up behind him instead. The Speaker was swaying on his feet and even Hamaramis’s well-behaved bay might prove too vigorous for his unsteady hand. Never one to worry about protocol or appearances, Kerian simply vaulted up behind the closest soldier, a young Qualinesti much astonished to find himself sharing a horse with his queen.

Shouts greeted the Speaker and the Lioness on their return. Everyone marveled at the Speaker’s miraculous survival. Elves crowded his horse, eager to confirm Gilthas was truly unharmed.

After reassuring his people, Gilthas headed for his tent, ordering a council be convened immediately. Soon enough, Hamaramis, Taranath, and the chosen leaders of the people—members of the Thalas-Enthia, the Qualinesti senate—had joined the Lioness in the Speaker’s tent. Gilthas was seated in his camp chair, legs covered by Kerian’s crimson mantle. Despite Truthanar’s worry for his health, the healer had to be content with serving his king a draft of soothing elixir then retiring into the background.

Gilthas and Kerian related their experiences. Unlike his wife, at no time had Gilthas been paralyzed, but he had felt very strongly the specters’ opposition to the elves’ presence. The sensation emanating from the ghostly assemblage was hatred, pure unvarnished loathing, he told the council. Gilthas’s reassurances had had no effect.

“You did stop their attack on me,” Kerian pointed out.

A puzzling development, but true, Gilthas admitted. When he commanded them to release his wife, the angry ghosts surprisingly obeyed, but their hatred had grown stronger. They had retreated only when the will-o’-the-wisps appeared, demonstrating the two presences were at odds.

Much as he regretted causing distress to so many unhappy souls, Gilthas was adamant. “They must give way. They will give way. We are here, and I intend we shall stay.”

“Could we lay the ghosts to rest somehow?” asked a Silvanesti, a minor member of House Cleric.

Gilthas was doubtful. No one among the elves had the knowledge and skill. And an ordinary cleric might banish one or two ghosts in his entire career. What could be done against hundreds of malevolent specters?

A pall descended on the group. Nothing was to be heard but the crackle of torches and the scratching of Varanas’s quill. The scribe was seated on the Speaker’s right, slightly behind the makeshift throne, dutifully taking notes on all that was said. In the shadows behind Varanas, the healer fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, obviously impatient for the council to end so his patient could be put to bed.

The discussion resumed, in an unfocused, halfhearted fashion. No one had any useful suggestions to offer. Gilthas listened, chin in hand, a frown of concentration on his face. Kerian wasn’t fooled. She knew he was nearing the end of his endurance. Exhaustion had sharpened the lines on his face even as it blurred his gaze. She was about to insist they adjourn for the evening when a thought struck her with blinding suddenness.

“I know someone wise enough to tell us if it is possible to put the ghosts to rest,” she exclaimed. “Lady Sa’ida!”

Sa’ida was the high priestess of the Khurish goddess Elir-Sana. During the elves’ exile in Khuri-Khan, the priestess had proven herself a valuable ally, albeit a covert one given her desire not to offend her people’s sensitivity to all things foreign. She had loaned the Speaker the temple documents that mentioned the valley. Gilthas had them carefully copied and continued to study them alongside the wise works of his own race.

“She might as well be on one of the moons,” observed Hamaramis.

No party of elves could hope to make it to the capital city and back. If the desert and the nomads didn’t kill them, Sahim-Khan might. Once, the khan had tolerated the elves because of their contribution to his coffers. But they no longer had enough money in their treasury to tempt him, especially given the troubles he faced from those who despised the elves, including the followers of the god Torghan.

“Eagle Eye can take me there,” said Kerian.

She could fly to Khuri-Khan and fetch Lady Sa’ida, she explained. It was an intriguing idea. Gilthas disliked the notion of sending her alone, but no one could ride Hytanthas’s Kanan. A griffon would accept only his or her bonded rider. The formation of such a bond usually required many months of patient attention. Alhana had been able to break wild Golden griffons to the saddle by means of a special ritual, but there was no one in the valley who knew how to do what she had done.

“Even if you reached the city safely, we can’t be certain Sa’ida would agree to help us,” Gilthas added.

That was true. Whether Sa’ida’s help in their time of exile stemmed from true generosity of spirit or a more pragmatic desire to aid the enemies of her enemies, Kerian couldn’t say. Even if the human priestess was sympathetic to their plight, she might refuse to leave her sanctuary and undertake a journey to a haunted valley. It was well known she rarely left the temple’s sacred precincts. Kerian was confident she could persuade the woman to come back with her to the valley, but Gilthas put an end to the discussion.

“A proposed mission to Khuri-Khan is not practical. I cannot allow it.”

His peremptory tone caused Kerian to stare. He sat, frowning at no one in particular, his face so bloodlessly pale, it might have been carved of pure white Silvanesti marble. Kerian allowed the matter to drop, but while the others took a moment to pass around waterskins, she continued to observe him. He didn’t return her gaze, only stared down at the cup of medicine he held.

After sipping from the cup, he continued in a more measured tone. “I believe my experience tonight solves one of the valley’s mysteries. We face not a single malign force, but two distinct ones. The apparitions are ghosts of those who once inhabited Inath-Wakenti. Who they were, I don’t know, but they are at odds with the will-o’the-wisps. When the lights appeared, the ghosts fled.”

“But we don’t know who created the lights or how they are controlled,” Taranath put in.

“Guards?” mused Hamaramis. “The will-o’-the-wisps guard the valley from intruders like us, but they also keep the ghosts of the original inhabitants inside.”

Gilthas supported his intriguing theory, and the group fell to speculating about why the lights hadn’t carried off the Speaker.

“Blood of the Goldeneye.”

All eyes turned to Varanas, and Gilthas asked what he meant. The scribe looked up from his writing. Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he flushed to the roots of his pale blond hair and begged forgiveness for having interrupted.

Assured by the Speaker that he’d given no offense, the scribe answered, “That’s what the spirits called you, sire, Blood of the Goldeneye. They obeyed you once they knew your identity.” Varanas consulted his notes. “But their hatred of you only grew.”

“Maybe Silvanos Goldeneye was responsible for them being here,” Kerian said. “And maybe those of his line are immune to the guardian lights. I’m no scholar, but there is a certain warrior’s logic to it. The ghosts may have been elves once.” She hadn’t mentioned the spirits’ beastly metamorphosis. She would discuss that with Gilthas privately first. “Exile, imprisonment—however it was styled, suppose they were sent to this distant valley, guarded by powerful magic in the form of the floating lights. If Speaker Silvanos, or another of his line, had sentenced these wretches to eternal exile, it would make sense for his blood descendant to be immune to the spell that created the guardians.”

Again silence descended. The Lioness’s words hinted at a bleak tale rooted in the distant past. What crime could these malefactors have committed to earn such a terrible punishment? What sort of elves had the ghosts been?

Gilthas ended the silence. “An interesting thesis,” he said and turned the talk to other issues. A senator reminded him of the dwindling food supply. Meat continued to disappear even though the caches were heavily guarded. Grain, vegetables, and potable liquids were untouched, but animal flesh seemed utterly unwelcome there, even when cooked or preserved. Water supplies were adequate, but no new source had been found since they had left Lioness Creek. A former member of House Gardener claimed water abounded just below the surface. Divining rods wielded by sensitive elves detected plenty, and wells could be dug fairly easily.

With food the greatest priority, the Speaker decreed search parties would be dispatched the next day to comb the surrounding area for anything edible.

“What of the ghosts, sire?” Hamaramis wanted to know.

“If we don’t find food soon, we’ll all be ghosts,” grumbled Kerian.

The most distant searches, Gilthas said, would be carried out by mounted scouts, who might outrun any hostile spirits. All parties would return to camp an hour before sundown to avoid the marauding will-o’-the-wisps.

With that, the council broke up. As the last councilor was departing the Speaker’s tent, Truthanar stepped forward and conducted a brief examination of his king.

“Your fever is up. Too much exertion. Too much night air.”

“Too much being Gilthas,” said Kerian.

Smiling, the Speaker pled guilty to all charges then told Truthanar he could go. Plainly dissatisfied with his liege’s frivolous attitude, the healer took himself off to his own bedroll. The Speaker’s scribes approached, ready to take their places for the night’s reading and dictation, but Kerian dismissed them. Gilthas did not protest.

When the Speaker’s tent was empty but for the two of them, his brave posture collapsed. He leaned heavily on his wife’s arm for the short walk from camp chair to sleeping pallet.

Soon he was settled, sitting up beneath a pile of blankets and rugs that would have suffocated Kerian, and he asked her to refill his cup of medicine. As he sipped it, grimacing mightily (for it was exceedingly bitter), she broached a subject she knew he would not like.

“I can fetch the holy lady. I can convince her to come.”

“I can’t spare you.”

His comment held more of petulance than truth. She reminded him there was no overt threat that Hamaramis or Taranath couldn’t handle just as well in her stead. Her presence would confer no special advantage to the hunt for food. But having Sa’ida on their side might make all the difference in the world.

Elir-Sana was not only the goddess of plenty, she was also the deity of healing, the Khurish aspect of the goddess known to the Qualinesti as Quenesti Pah. Sa’ida was her highest representative in Khur, a favored daughter of long standing. The priestess had saved Khuri-Khan from plague after the death of Malys and ministered to the reprobate Sahim during years of intrigue, power plays, and poison plots. If anyone could heal the dying Speaker of the Sun and Stars, Sa’ida could.

Personal concerns would never carry the most weight with Gilthas, so Kerian said only, “Even if she cannot defeat the army of ghosts and floating lights, her counsel will be invaluable.”

“Khur is dangerous. Khuri-Khan doubly so,” he said stubbornly.

He’d been shivering during their exchange. Shuddering more violently, he abruptly fell back onto his pallet as if his body simply refused to support him any longer. He tried to sit up again, but his trembling arms weren’t strong enough to lift him.

She dropped to her knees by his side. “Gil!”

“I’m so tired.” Closing his eyes, he whispered, “And I’m afraid, Ken-li. If you go away, I fear I will not be here when you get back.”

He had never before admitted fear, nor the severity of his illness. She felt tears come to her eyes. She took him in her arms with heartbreaking care; one hand guided his head to rest on her shoulder, and the other smoothed the hair from his face.

“You put up such a front,” she murmured, her tears falling unchecked. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so gravely ill?”

“I can’t admit it too often. It’s bad for my morale.” He chuckled weakly.

“You need to rest—”

He turned his face to the warm hollow of her throat. The inane words of comfort died on her lips.

“I will do what I must for my people—even die, if I must,” he said. “But I can’t do it without you. I lost Planchet. I can’t—”

The agonized confession choked off abruptly. He pushed a little away from her. She watched him gather his strength, drawing it around himself like a threadbare robe.

She regarded his shivering form for a few seconds then asked, “Do you trust me, Gil?” A wordless nod was his answer. “We cannot live in this valley unless its enmity to animal life is overcome. We don’t have the resources to overcome it. Lady Sa’ida is our best hope. I can go to Khuri-Khan and return in a day and a half. Give me your permission to go.”

“You’re always storming off somewhere. The missions are always vital. You don’t value your life enough, Ken-li. When you rode out of Khurinost to face the nomads, I thought you were going to die.”

That had been her goal at the time, although he didn’t know it. She’d overcome that bit of madness.

“Now you want to go away again.” He sighed, eyelids drooping. “I’m in no condition to stop you.”

She rested a hand on his cheek. “You are my sovereign. You can stop me with a single word.”

Light sparkled briefly in his eyes. “If only I could find that word.” The eyelids came down, and the spark was gone. “You may go.”

Sleep stole him away. Kerian remained beside his pallet a long time. Several times his breathing went so shallow that she thought it had ceased, but her hand on his chest still felt the slow beat of his heart.

“I am your wife,” she said, although she knew he couldn’t hear. “And I will return.”

Two riders picked their way through the debris of the nomad camp. The man wore brown trews and boots, and his leather jerkin concealed a mail shirt. His sword he wore openly. His dark hair had grown long and was grizzled at the sides. The woman was fifteen years younger. She wore her hair in a single black braid that reached the middle of her back. Her outfit was much like his but black instead of brown. A crossbow of unusual design rested across the pommel of her saddle.

Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily, and sergeant Jeralund had traveled a very long way to reach this point. They had come from Qualinesti by foot, by ship, and by horse, pursuing a legend in the making. Their quarry was the stranger who had emerged from the depths of the forest in the former elf kingdom. He had incited a rebellion against the bandit lord Samuval with startling success. Although he was covered from head to toe by a rough robe, gloves, and a mask that bared only his eyes, they had reason to believe him to be an elf of good birth.

When the efforts of that troublemaker came to the attention of the Knights of Neraka, Breetan was sent to collar him. Her command was wiped out but for a handful of men, including the sergeant, who had dubbed the rebel leader “Scarecrow” for his ragged appearance. Breetan’s superiors had given her one chance to redeem her failure: find the Scarecrow and kill him before the revolt he had inspired consumed all of Qualinesti.

She thought she had him cornered in the Skywall Peaks south of Qualinesti, but he managed to flee on a griffon before she could put a crossbow bolt through his heart. From one of the elves he’d left behind, Breetan learned the Scarecrow’s destination. The answer was puzzling. The griffon riders were making for a spot in far northern Khur near the mountain range that separated the desert kingdom from Neraka.

Puzzled or not, Breetan had maintained the chase. Her burning haste cost them a fine saddle horse apiece just getting to the west shore of the New Sea. A fast ship carried them to the far end of the sea. On land again, skirting the western edge of the Khurish desert, Breetan found nomads who loved Nerakan money more than they hated Nerakan Knights. They told her the exiled elves had left behind their sanctuary at Khuri-Khan, crossed the desert, and taken refuge in a valley known variously as Alya-Alash, Valley of the Blue Sands, and the Silent Vale. Whatever its name, it was located in the northernmost reaches of Khur—the very place the Scarecrow and his griffon riders were reputedly going. So there she and the sergeant were, many days and many miles later.

Nothing usable remained in the wreckage of the camp. What hadn’t burned had been scavenged. Dead horses lay where they had fallen. Broken arrows and shattered swords littered the stony ground. A rubble stone wall ran straight as an arrow across the pass, yet it could not have been intended as a defensive work. It was incomplete. The ruined nomad camp lay between one unfinished end and the west side of the pass. No wonder the Khurs had been routed. Well-trained elf cavalry sweeping around the head-high wall would put any barbarians to flight.

Jeralund dismounted and picked through the debris for clues. Breetan rode slowly along the wall. The dead had been removed, but the amount of blood spilled on the stones gave ample evidence of the fight that had raged. Near the end of the wall, she reined up. The desert stretched out ahead, shimmering in the pitiless sun. It was only midmorning, and already she felt as though she’d been hung over a fire to roast. She pulled her wide-brimmed Khurish grass hat lower on her head and pulled away the loosely woven linen strip that protected her eyes from the sun’s glare. The sand around her was churned with the prints of horses and human feet, but the trail leading away was obvious. Defeated at the valley mouth, the nomads had fled into the realm they knew, the great wasteland.

Her appraisal was interrupted by an odd sound: the clatter of stone on stone. It came from somewhere to her right. She rode toward the sound, gripping the wrist of the crossbow with her free hand.

In a hollow behind a sandy knoll, she found a lone man. He knelt amid scattered stones, piling rocks onto a new cairn. By its size and length, Breetan knew it for a grave. Alert for ambush, she gave in to her curiosity and urged her horse down the sand drift. She circled around so when she halted, the sun was behind her.

“Greetings,” she said. “What happened here?”

He glanced up from under his wide-brimmed hat then resumed stacking stones. “One of many pointless battles,” he replied. “This is the grave of the last to fall.”

“A kinsman?”

“My clan, my tribe. The Weyadan.”

The intricacies of Khurish relations did not interest Breetan. She asked the Khur whether he’d seen any elves.

“Who wants to know, Neraka?”

Apparently her accent was clear enough, even if her garb was that of a western rover.

“I am Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily. I seek a laddad wanted for crimes committed against my Order.”

“Your law means nothing here.” Two more rocks thunked into place. “This is a land of hard edges, where right and wrong are always clear—even if men and women choose not to see them.”

Breetan drew a purse from her belt and tossed it at his feet. The rattle of coins within was unmistakable. “Perhaps steel will encourage a change in your philosophy. The laddads are in the valley, yes?”

“Whether one or one hundred, it is only laddad.”

He went back to work on the grave, and Breetan gave up on amiable persuasion. She leveled her crossbow at his right thigh. “Whether whole or lame, you will answer me, Khur,” she said, mocking his elaborate manner of speech.

He pushed himself to his feet and doffed his hat. His eyes were grey. None of the nomads she’d encountered thus far had such odd, pale eyes.

“The laddad went into the valley twenty days ago,” he said.

Jeralund appeared atop the dune. He gestured for the young knight to join him. Breetan lowered the heavy repeating bow. From all she knew, the Khurs always had been willing friends of Neraka. And they had little love for the elves.

“Work hard, old man,” she said. “And keep the purse. You earned it.”

She cantered up the long slope and disappeared over the crest.

Wapah shook his head. He’d learned long ago not to bandy words with fools or killers. Still less should one waste wisdom on killers who were also fools. He put his hat back on and resumed piling stones on Adala’s grave. When his hand, seeking a stone, touched the purse instead, he picked it up. The velvet bag was heavy. He dropped it into a hollow between two rocks, and covered it with more stones.

After saying the proper prayers, begging Torghan to accept the soul of Adala Fahim, he was done and a great emptiness chilled his soul. He had thought balance would be restored when the laddad found their valley. Adala’s death, unwelcome though it was, also had redressed the hard edge of justice. The arrival of the nemosh (the “over-the-mountain people”) threatened to upset the balance again. Trouble would continue unless the laddad were very watchful.

Wapah felt no guilt for misleading the nemosh woman. Many laddad had gone into the valley, just as he had said. Of course, some had come out again, so where her quarry might be, only Those on High could know.

A final glance at the cairn and Wapah turned away. His horse, waiting in a nearby hollow, came when he whistled.

He put the mountains at his back. He wanted to see the ocean. For four nights, be had dreamt about walking on the beach with the ceaseless waves lapping at his feet. Such recurring dreams were sent by Those on High, and the message of that one was clear. He would not return to the desert, but would abide by the ocean till the end of his days. The sea would wash his bones. His soul would dwell evermore among the righteous.

A mile away Jeralund and Breetan rode into the narrow pass, eyeing the peaks rearing up on either side. It was, as Jeralund pointed out, an excellent place for an ambush. He wondered why the elves weren’t defending it.

“They don’t expect anyone to follow them in here,” she said. “Khurish nomads are superstitious savages, and our armies are far away.”

Nonetheless, it offended both soldiers’ tactical sense to ride openly into territory held by an enemy. Jeralund was a soldier of wide experience. He said they should hug the eastern side of the pass. They’d be in shadow in the morning and could travel during the coolest part of the day. They would watch the line of sunlight advance, and when their position was about to be exposed, they could rest and await sunset before resuming their trek.

Breetan found his reasoning sound. They rode to the eastern side of the pass. When the terrain grew rough, they dismounted and led their horses along a track barely wide enough for a goat. No sooner had they gained the first prominence than a squadron of cavalry came trotting down the pass. The Nerakans pulled their horses behind the cover of a large boulder and watched the patrol go by. Jeralund counted forty mounted elves.

He whispered, “Those aren’t foresters or town elves, lady.”

Breetan’s assumption was proved incorrect. Gilthas, the exiled elf king, had fled with more than civilian refugees. The pass was patrolled.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, blithely dismissing the elf cavalry. “If the Scarecrow were in a crystal tower in Silvanost, I’d still get him!”

The sergeant made no reply. A dozen times on their journey, she would have been lost without him to set her straight. Breetan Everride was brave and tenacious, but far too arrogant and inflexible for her own good.

The mounted elves divided into three groups, each riding off in a different direction. When the rumble of hooves faded, the Nerakans moved out again. Jeralund judged they had about three hours before sunlight hit them. By then they would be two thousand feet higher up, and well inside the wall of mountains that guarded Inath-Wakenti.