'The scar, the tea, the heir,' he whispered. He'd made the same mistake with 'T' that he'd made with 'air.' He remembered, now, after the attempt on his life, taking the cup of tea from Miral, and the way Ailea had later administered one of her own potions, causing him to vomit. Then, several days later, the mage had asked Flint whether his medicinal tea had had any effect-minutes before they'd received Ailea's message that she understood Lord Xenoth's death.
The mage had given him poisoned tea! And Ailea had realized it. Yet Ailea had taken the time to mull over the situation before making an accusation. Then, when she was sure, when some last bit of information had snapped into place, she had excitedly sent a message to Flint-who had immediately shared it with… the killer!
'Reorx, help me!' the dwarf prayed as he scrabbled through the debris at the bottom of the shaft, flinging pine cones aside in his search for anything that would help him.
If he was correct, Porthios, the Speaker, Gilthanas, and Laurana would not survive the day.
In the middle of his search, as though Reorx had heard his call and sent the most unlikely rescuer possible, Flint heard a mule bray. Suddenly the light dimmed, and Flint looked up. Something was blocking the chute's opening. Instead of out-of-focus pine boughs, the dwarf now saw a grotesque muzzle, two ears nearly as long as his leg, and a pair of brown eyes steaming with passion.
'Fleetfoot!' He stood. 'You wonderful animal!' The creature blinked. 'I'm still in Qualinesti!'
He never thought he'd see a day when the sight of his mule would bring tears to his eyes. What particularly thrilled him, however, was the ten feet of chewed rope attached to her collar. The elves had laughed when he'd fashioned a collar for a mule; now he'd have the laugh on them. A bridle never would have held.
Except that he was still fifteen feet short of the rope that dangled in the shaft while Fleetfoot snorted above.
Flint took stock. He had flint and steel, hammer, dagger, and rope ladder. The ladder probably would reach from the top to the bottom of the shaft, but the mechanics of setting up a limp rope ladder from the bottom seemed hopeless.
Fleetfoot brayed again. The sound reverberated in the stone chute, nearly deafening Flint.
'Stop that noise!' Flint called. When the mule began to back away from the hole, pulling the lead rope with her, he shouted, 'No! Wait! I didn't mean it!'
Tentatively, Fleetfoot peered over the edge again. Not very attractive at eye level, she looked absolutely absurd from below. She also looked irked. Flint had a sudden horrible vision of the mule stomping off in a huff. And indeed, she began to pull away from the edge again, and the end of the rope rose higher in the chute.
'Fleetfoot, you'-He thought quickly and changed to a wheedling tone-'entrancing creature, please come back.'
The rope stopped, trembled, and dropped down a few inches. Wet brown eyes searched his. One ear flopped.
Flint unwrapped the rope ladder from his middle. If he could just get the thing up to the mule… He gauged the distance and tossed the ladder overhand.
The thing dropped back down on him like a pile of snakes, and Fleetfoot brayed.
'Sure, you beast,' Flint muttered. 'Laugh.'
He untangled himself and tried again, with the same result. Finally, on the third try, his shoulder aching from the effort, he tried an underhand toss and a foot of the ladder looped over the edge of the chute, where it snagged for the barest second on a rock. Fleetfoot lowered her wet muzzle and snuffled at the ladder, dislodging it and sending it spinning back down on Flint.
'Fleetfoot!' Flint chided. He affected a falsetto that reminded him of an elf girl addressing her dolls. 'Do you want me to die down here, my dear?'
A hee-haw boomed down the shaft like thunder.
He threw the ladder again. This time, two feet of ladder flipped over the edge, lying on the ground right next to the mule, who gazed at it with stupid eyes. The bottom edge of the ladder dangled before Flint's face, but the dwarf didn't dare touch it lest he jiggle it loose. The ropes began to slide back into the chute, and Flint cursed softly.
Then Fleetfoot lifted one dinner-plate-size hoof and held it above the inching ladder. The dwarf held his breath.
Just as the last rung was going by, the mule delicately, deliberately, placed her foot on it. The ladder stopped with a jerk.
With a delighted cry, Flint placed one hand on the bottom rung and tugged. The mule snorted and appeared disconcerted at this sudden pressure on her hoof, but she maintained her stance.
Favoring his shoulder as much as he could, Flint clambered halfway up the ladder. Soon the end of the rope that he'd attached to the mule's collar swung at his side. He had another ten feet to climb.
The mule shifted restlessly.
'Fleetfoot, no!' the dwarf shouted.
She lifted her foot.
Flint lunged for the dangling rope, and the mule's neck bobbed a foot because of his sudden added weight. The ladder hurtled by him to the chute floor below. 'You mule-brained idiot!' he hollered, dangling from the rope.
With a jerk, the mule reared back from the shaft and galloped several paces. With a strangled cry that exploded as he emerged, the dwarf came shooting up out of the hole like a trout hooked by an angler.
'I'm sorry, Tanis,' Gilthanas said as they trotted along the path above the ravine.
For a moment, the words sent a shock of recognition through Tanis. The murderer had said that.
'You know I have to do this,' Gilthanas said. 'I'm pledged, as a ceremonial guard, to uphold the Speaker's edicts.' He'd long since sheathed the sword in the scabbard, which he'd also taken from Tanis. He seemed to assume Tanis would make no move to escape.
The half-elf nodded. He was too busy pondering his situation to engage in chitchat. Yet…
He might learn something that he could use later.
'I understand,' the half-elf said. He looked over at the elf. Gilthanas's face was ruddy from the pace they'd maintained for nearly an hour. His cousin looked back, and for the first time in years, Tanis saw the friend he'd had when they were little. 'What part do you have in the ceremony?'
Gilthanas, panting, drew to a stop in a clearing. He waved Tanis to a seat on a nearby boulder and took one himself, not far away.
'When Porthios leaves the chamber beneath the palace, he will lift his hood-he's wearing a gray robe, like this one-to conceal his face. He will pass from the chamber to a spiral staircase-ninety-nine steps, one for each year of his life so far. The steps are called
'And you…?' Tanis prompted, wondering briefly why he himself had not been taught the specifics of the ceremony.
Gilthanas continued. 'Beyond the alcove will be a long hallway, which appears on no maps of Qualinost because it is used only by elves who are neither child nor adult-elves who, therefore, don't really exist. Thus, the corridor doesn't exist and appears on no maps.'
Tanis tried again. 'Your part…' But Gilthanas, entranced by the celebration that he too would undergo someday, appeared determined to tell the whole tale.
'The corridor is called
So that was where Gilthanas came in. He sounded as though he had learned his role by rote-repeating it to Miral, no doubt. 'I will wait outside the door until a gong sounds. Then I will open the door, slip inside, let the door close, take the candle from Porthios, and say-in the old tongue, of course- 'I am your childhood. Leave me behind in the mists of the past. Pass ahead to your future.' Porthios will open the door and move into the Tower of the Sun.'
