Destiny

Chapter 21

The camp was a shambles. But if their worldly goods had suffered, every elf felt reborn.

All had been restored to excellent health. Wounds from the war in the desert and injuries acquired from the harsh, daily battle for survival healed outright. Sicknesses endemic to the population since the fall of their homelands—afflictions such as pox, ague, and consumption—were banished. Even greater miracles were recorded. Lost faculties returned. Deafness and blindness were cured. So were madness and despair. Oddly, elves who had lost arms and legs fighting the nomads did not have these restored, but those who lost eyes to arrows or to the poisonous flies so common in the desert found those organs grown anew. The great healing followed a logic and law of its own. Many tried to fathom the Great Change (as it came to be called), but no one understood it.

Eager to explore the new-made valley, Gilthas sent scouting parties out on horseback and afoot immediately. Most were charged with finding food, and they returned quickly, their hampers overflowing. Apples, pears, grapes, and berries of every sort grew in abundance, as did wild onions, various greens, and many kinds of nuts. Sage, rosemary, basil, and other herbs grew in broad swaths like green lakes. A profusion of crops, which naturally ripened at different times during the year, had been created instantly. Mounted hunters brought back venison, rabbit, and squab and reported sighting bears, although the creatures had been extinct in central Ansalon since the First Cataclysm. One band of warriors returned driving a shaggy aurochs before them. The presence of wild oxen in the valley meant there would be not just meat, but leather too.

Water birds proved especially abundant. Flocks of geese and pintail darkened the sun as they passed over the camp. Swans and loons populated the lakeshores. Ponds and streams teemed with fish. Honeybees swarmed the fields of blossoms. Soon there would be wax, honey, and later, mead.

Other finds, seemingly less dramatic, were of equal import. Flax was discovered growing wild. The elves would be able to make linen again. The valley was filled with tall, sturdy hardwoods of the most useful species, including oak, walnut, ash, and yew. In the shade beneath the trees sprouted fantastic mushrooms, twice normal size. Every variety, from the delicate pink shell mushroom to the rare subterranean blacknut, was as common as weeds in a summer garden. The more widely the elves searched, the greater the bounty they discovered.

The valley’s riches were being catalogued by Varanas and the scribes. Vixona Delambro, who had demonstrated her mapping ability in the tunnels, was commissioned by the Speaker to map the entire valley. Gilthas intended to send a warrior with her, to aid in her work and protect her from wild animals. Before he could designate an elf for the task, however, one volunteered: Hytanthas Ambrodel. In the months to come, the two would be gone for days at a time, either on horseback or mounted on Hytanthas’s griffon, Kanan. It surprised no one when warrior and scribe eventually married.

To Kerian, the change wrought in Gilthas was more amazing than the entire litany of wonders they had found thus far. Every trace of the horrible disease had been cleansed from his body, leaving him thin but vigorous.

An equally vigorous appetite soon returned the flesh to his bones. It was almost as though, having been more ill than anyone else, he was granted the greatest healing. He positively glowed with vitality. It shone from him like some invisible aura. He seemed unaware of it, but Kerian found it nearly unbearable. When he was near, his presence intoxicated her like a draft of the most potent nectar. When he touched her, she felt almost sick with love. Even the slight contact he considered proper in public left her shaken.

They were in public at that moment, awaiting the arrival of the human prisoner Jeralund. The setting had been carefully staged. A light canopy had been erected near the northern bank of Lioness Creek, in a meadow awash in bluebells. All the newfound bounty of the valley was piled beneath the canopy. In the center of it all, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars sat in a tall wooden chair. Although hastily finished and intended as only a temporary throne, the chair was strikingly beautiful, made from a single piece of ash and embellished by carvings of intertwined oak and ash leaves. Elves skilled in wood shaping had invested each detail with loving care, relishing the chance not only to serve their king, but to practice their art for the first time in years.

Kerian watched her husband twirl an ash twig in his fingers. The shield-shaped foliage reminded her of the falls of leaves they had encountered in Khur on more than one occasion. For a long time, the presence of Faeterus had colored her view of any magic they encountered. Finally she understood the sorcerer was only one of the sources of magic that had been at work around them. The falls of ash leaves had been caused by another. Gilthas had told her of the strange rain of edible ash leaves which had saved the nation from starvation in the desert. The powerful force that had intervened to save Alhana’s life at Redstone Bluffs may have been a third. Whatever their source, the different magics seemed to have counter-acted each other, allowing the elves to win through.

Gilthas let the ash twig drop from his hands as the human prisoner arrived. Jeralund gaped at the bounty arranged around the throne.

Gilthas ordered his bonds removed then asked politely, “Are you well?”

Jeralund said he was. The Great Change had healed his relatively minor injuries too.

“Have you any reason to complain of your treatment here?”

“No, Speaker.”

Gilthas leaned back in his chair and gestured for Jeralund to help himself from a nearby bowl of fruit. Drink was brought. Soon the sergeant was sipping rich red berry juice.

“Although you were the consort of an assassin, I have chosen to parole you.”

Jeralund choked on a mouthful of juice. Gilthas had had his suspicions about the human—plainly a soldier and not the type to enter Inath-Wakenti on his own. Kerian’s description of the killing of Faeterus smacked of a Nerakan plot. The sergeant’s reaction confirmed that theory. Exactly why the Order wanted Faeterus dead, Gilthas didn’t know.

“I release you for one purpose: to return to your masters and tell them what you have seen here.”

Jeralund wiped juice from his lips. He regarded the Speaker thoughtfully for a moment then repeated, “Tell them what I have seen?”

“In every detail. I wish it known in Neraka that we have recovered from our time in Khur. Tell them of our new strength and our new riches; then tell them to darken our doorstep no more.”

With freedom in his hands, Jeralund did an odd thing. He spoke the truth.

“Why should the lords of Neraka heed your command, Speaker?” he said. “Why shouldn’t they gather their armies and seize this fertile land for themselves?”

Gilthas glanced at Kerian. The Great Change had healed her griffon’s eye, and Eagle Eye stood like a fierce statue by his mistress’s right hand. Kagonesti and griffon wore similar expressions of proud disdain. It did not escape the Speaker’s notice that Jeralund kept darting uncertain looks in their direction. It was impossible to know which of them unnerved him more.

“Your masters will not come here,” Gilthas finally replied. “The same power that changed a sterile wasteland into a garden is still here. Consider what might happen should that power be unleashed with unfriendly intent.”

“If you have such power, why not use it now to extinguish your enemies forever?”

“I am tired of war. I want to build a nation, not conquer others. Tell your lords that too. If they let us be, we will let them be. Move against us, and the consequences will be dire.”

Jeralund bowed with rough grace and vowed to deliver the Speaker’s message as dictated.

After he had been escorted away, Kerian asked, “How do you know he’ll do what you ask? His masters don’t welcome ultimatums. He may turn south and never see Neraka again.”

“It might be more effective for us if he does just that. If he spreads his tale among those he meets along the way, the story will reach Neraka through a thousand channels instead of only one. The knights may be more likely to believe it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are devious,” she said. She meant it as a compliment.

The human spy dealt with, Kerian swung onto Eagle Eye’s back. A question had been nagging her since the Great Change. Consultation with the high priestess Sa’ida had not supplied an answer. To quiet her concerns, a return to Mount Rakaris was in order.

Before she took off, Gilthas asked how she was feeling. It was a question he asked frequently these days. Kerian had been up at dawn, losing what remained of her dinner the night before.

“I’m fine,” she said sourly. “And no, I don’t want an apple.” He had acquired an annoying tendency to press food upon her at every turn.

“Fruit is good for you.”

“Did I say you were devious? I meant cruel,” she shot back. She and Eagle Eye took wing.

Even as the breeze stirred up by the griffon’s departure died away, Sa’ida arrived. Just before the Great Change, the elves had found her unconscious in her tent, a terrible gash in her thigh. The magical blast healed her wound, but she remained unconscious for hours after everyone else had awakened. When finally she did revive, she awoke screaming. Truthanar told her what had happened—the explosions, the miraculous healing, and the astounding transformation of Inath-Wakenti. She nodded, then lapsed into a natural, restful sleep.

Still looking wan and moving slowly, she bowed to the Speaker. He bade her sit.

“How are you today, Holy One? I’m told that of all the souls in Inath-Wakenti, you are the only one not strengthened by the Great Change,” he said.

She admitted he was right, rubbing her forehead and grimacing. “Great Speaker, I’m not certain you realize just how much power was released here. It was”—she shivered—“overwhelming. I will live, sire, but I fear I will never practice the high art again.”

Attuned to the natural world by her devotion to the goddess, Sa’ida experienced the mighty surge as a blow that struck at the very core of her being. The tremendous force had burned her soul, and she could not bear the thought of coming into contact with magic again.

“What will you do, lady?” asked Hamaramis.

“I don’t know. I cannot return to the temple.” In that mystic place, she would be in constant torment, and of little use besides.

“Stay with us,” Gilthas offered. “You will always be welcome here.”

Her smile was forced. “Your Majesty is generous, but the air here crackles with latent power. I cannot remain.”

He did not waste time trying to persuade her. He did offer whatever she might need for her journey, including a griffon ride to the destination of her choice. Instead of aerial transport, she requested a cart and a sturdy horse to pull it. She wished to depart as soon as possible.

While the cart was stocked with food and water, Sa’ida put two sealed scrolls into the Speaker’s hands. One was a letter to be delivered to her sisters in the Temple of Elir-Sana. The other, thicker roll of parchment was for Sahim-Khan. Gilthas eyed the latter as if it was a deadly serpent.

Sa’ida said, “I’ve told him I will not be returning to Khuri-Khan, and of my suspicions about the workings of the Nerakans in Khur and what I know of his son’s condition. I’m sure he will know what to do with the information.”

He promised to have both messages delivered. Robien was returning to Khur with the desiccated skull of Faeterus to collect a sizable bounty. He could carry the sealed scrolls as well as his prize.

The priestess’s departure was difficult for Gilthas. If she hadn’t braved the unknown and come to the valley, he would not have survived to see the Great Change. And because she had, she’d lost everything that was important to her. Truly grieving her loss, he rose and took her hand in both of his.

“If ever you need me, holy lady, you need only ask. You have the unending gratitude not only of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, but of Gilthas Pathfinder.”

Bestowing a kiss on her hand, he let her go. She limped away. Truthanar assured Gilthas the strange wound on her leg had disappeared completely, yet she still favored the limb.

The small, horse-drawn cart rolled down a natural lane of towering elms on its way out of Inath-Wakenti, eliciting little notice amid the general excitement and bustle. But General Taranath and the warriors on duty in the pass presented arms as the former high priestess passed their way.

Outside the pass, beyond the remnants of the wall begun by the nomads, Sa’ida let the reins hang slack, giving the horse its head. It veered southwest to keep the morning sun out of its eyes.

Sa’ida was drowsing beneath her sun hat when she became aware of a presence beside her. Bolting upright, she found herself sharing the cart seat with an old man. A pair of knowing eyes looked out at her from beneath short, unkempt white hair. A circlet of green leaves rested atop his head. His priestly robe was many-times patched.

“Who are you?” she demanded. No sooner had the words left her lips than she knew the answer. A mighty name whispered in her soul. She clasped her hands reverently, exclaiming, “My great lord!”

Gesturing at the slack reins, he said, “You’d best see to your horse.”

The prosaic words penetrated her awe, and she did as he bade, taking up the reins and guiding the wandering horse back onto the narrow desert track.

He settled more comfortably on the hard seat. “It’s all worked out rather well, don’t you think? For the elves.” She nodded dumbly. “They’ve suffered much, but now they have a chance to make a new life for themselves.”

Enlightenment dawned. “You saved them!”

“Well, I pointed them in the right direction. They saved themselves.”

The cart rolled along the base of dunes lately sculpted by the blast from Inath-Wakenti. Sa’ida’s companion took something from a fold in his robe: a brown bat.

“I don’t need you anymore,” he said, nose to nose with the tiny creature. It squeaked in response. He lifted his hand skyward. “Go home.”

The bat took wing. As it vanished in the bright sky, Sa’ida asked why he’d been carrying it. Had he nursed the injured animal back to health?

“No. It was part of my costume. To veil my activities, it was necessary for me to assume the appearance of a long-dead oracle.”

“The Oracle of the Tree!”

The god winked. “A useful diversion but one I no longer need.” Looking to the horizon, he asked where she was going.

“Where the horse takes me.”

“Ever been to Qualinesti? No? I think we’d find it a very interesting place.”

He pointed a stubby finger south-southwest, and the horse immediately adjusted its course accordingly. Sa’ida opened her mouth to protest but closed it without speaking. She’d told the Speaker she didn’t know what she would do. Now she did. She was bound for the elves’ old homeland, and had acquired a new patron. Just what he had in mind, for her and for Qualinesti, only time would tell.

Like the rest of Inath-Wakenti, the broad plateau known as the Stair of Distant Vision had undergone a profound change. The once-bare rock was completely covered by wild roses and honeysuckle. Eagle Eye circled it several times as Kerian tried to recognize landmarks submerged beneath the profusion of green leaves and yellow blossoms. When she finally directed the griffon to land, he remained balanced on his rear paws for several seconds before carefully lowering his front legs into the clinging growth. Champing his beak and growling, he made his displeasure known.

“There’s something I have to do,” she told him. “I won’t be long. Don’t be so finicky.”

Despite her testy words, she took time to slash a clear patch around him. He trilled softly. With a fond smile, she stroked his neck, and he settled down for a nap. Making use of her sword again, she cut a path to the broken pinnacle.

Faeterus’s remains were still there. Ants were busily stripping away the last bits of dry flesh, but it was the sorcerer’s bones that concerned Kerian. She’d seen for herself how the long-dead creatures of the valley had been reborn. From rabbits to aurochs, the animals of Inath-Wakenti had been remade from their ancient bones. Despite Hytanthas’s hopes, none of the elves taken by the will-o’-the-wisps had been so favored. No one knew why, but the elves, they remained lost.

Still Kerian could not rid herself of the nagging fear that a powerful sorcerer such as Faeterus would find some way back from death. Wise Sa’ida and well-read Favaronas had been unable to assure her that her suspicions were groundless, so she would make absolutely certain Faeterus could never again darken the world.

The joints had fallen apart, and the bones were scattered. She cut away greenery and raked through the dirt with her fingers, seeking even the tiniest bones. As she found each one, she laid it atop the sorcerer’s rotted robe. When she was satisfied she’d left none behind, she soaked the pile and the dirty fabric with lamp oil and set it alight.

The pyre blazed up, sending a stream of dirty yellow smoke skyward. She fed the fire with vine cuttings and windfall limbs, turning it into a genuine bonfire.

The morning passed. Kerian sat on the edge of the Stair and ate wild blueberries. The view was spectacular, and she allowed herself to be captured by it. Fluffy clouds floated high over Inath-Wakenti, dappling mighty trees and lush foliage with patterns of light and shade. Flocks of starlings wheeled overhead. Nearby, squirrels leaped from treetop to treetop, and birds trilled and sang.

She kept the bonfire hot, adding kindling and splashes of oil. Only when the sun hovered above the western peaks did she allow the flames to die out. Raking through the ashes with a tree branch, she crushed any remaining bits of bone to dust. The hot ashes and bone dust went into a clay pot that she carried back to Eagle Eye.

The last scraps of the creature that called itself Faeterus would not remain in Inath-Wakenti. Kerian and Eagle Eye winged down the valley toward the pass. They flew far out into the desert before the Lioness upended the clay pot. The cloud of ashes was taken by the wind and scattered across many miles of Khurish sand.

A line of nomads riding on the shady side of a dune spied a very odd thing: a lone figure walking toward them. No one but foolish laddad went about in the desert on foot. The nomads—they were Weya-Lu, as it happened-halted their horses and watched in cautious curiosity hands resting on sword hilts. The stranger wore only a ragged breechcloth. His skin was burned by the sun to the color of cinnabar. He was either mad, possessed by a desert spirit, or a monster in disguise. He hailed them.

“Stand where you are!” the eldest nomad commanded. He drew his sword and pointed its curved blade at the sun-baked apparition. “Name yourself!”

“I am Shobbat, son of Sahim, Khan of All the Khurs!”

That decided the issue. He was a madman.

Advancing slowly, hands held high, he cried, “Look upon me and know the truth!”

“What truth?”

“I have come from the land of the dead-from the Valley of the Blue Sands. I, who was cursed and given the form of a beast by a vile foreign sorcerer, have been cured by the gods! Now I return to cleanse the land of Khur!”

His words fell upon fertile ground. The Weya-Lu, still grieving the loss of so many of their kin as well as their Weyadan, listened. They let the stranger come into their midst. Under the deep-desert burn, the features of the khan’s eldest son were apparent. Still, their allegiance was not so easily won.

“How long have you been in the desert?” one man asked.

Shobbat shrugged. “I don’t know. I awoke in the valley, naked as the day I was born. I set out each morning with the rising sun on my right shoulder, three mornings so far.”

The Weya-Lu exclaimed. He carried nothing with him; had he once had provisions? None at all, he said. Immediately, they pressed a waterskin on him. He drank, not with the desperate thirst that should have afflicted him, but slowly, his actions those of a true child of the desert, who is always careful not to waste a drop of precious water. The nomads were awed. Surely Those on High were watching over the prince. How else to explain his not simply surviving in the desert for three days, but being in such good health?

“May we escort you back to Khuri-Khan, Highness?” asked the eldest.

“In time.” Shobbat took another drink. “When I return to the city of the khan, I will wipe clean the stain of corruption there. My father treats with all manner of foreigners. He takes their coin, fawns over them, and protects them, all the while oppressing the righteous believers of his own nation, those who follow the Condor.”

The nomads nodded their approval of the epithet. Not even Torghan’s own children used his true name lightly.

Shobbat added, “I will not allow this to continue. Those on High have spared me to lead the righteous against a corrupt and unworthy ruler!”

The fire of righteousness blazed from Shobbat’s eyes. Each man felt it, breath-stealing as a dash of icy water in the face. One by one, swords were drawn and lifted high. The nomads likewise lifted their voices, shouting, “Hail the Desert-Blessed Prince! Hail the Son of the Avenger!”

The shouts continued for a longtime. Shobbat stood in the center of the ring of men, soaking up the acclaim as a tree soaks up spring water. These dozen Weya-Lu were his first converts. More would follow, many more, and the walls of Khuri-Khan would tremble.