Coryphene stood aside, gesturing for the Qualinesti to precede him. The bearers walked two paces behind.
The roof of the city was nearer now, the ramp narrowing to meet it. With no word of warning, the Dargonesti warriors suddenly halted in close ranks. When Vixa and Armantaro stopped as well, Coryphene ordered them to continue. It was then that the Qualinesti found themselves engulfed in a blazing white light.
Vixa threw up an arm to protect her eyes. Heat washed over her. In seconds she was dry and warm for the first time in what seemed like days. The sensation lasted perhaps five seconds; then the light disappeared. Vixa stood blinking in the dimness. When she could see once more, she realized that Coryphene was gone. She and Armantaro were alone.
“Colonel?” she said softly. “What happened?”
“I have no idea. At least I’m not so cold now.” Armantaro rubbed his eyes and looked around, adding, “But where are we?”
Above their heads, the thick stone arches that made up the framework of the city beneath the sea had ended, revealing a transparent dome composed of millions of quartz crystals, fitted together with supreme skill. Beyond this clear barrier could be seen the deep blue of the ocean depths. Schools of fish swam overhead, the reflected light from the city flashing off their silver bodies.
Vixa and Armantaro stood in the center of a large disk of white marble situated in the center of a great round plaza. At the plaza’s perimeter rose a colonnade, supporting a palatial building made of green stone. Though the building’s facade was pierced by hundreds of unglazed windows, none of these openings showed any light. The only illumination was a subdued, shifting, greenish glow.
“Magnificent,” Vixa sighed, turning round and round. “Really quite beautiful.”
Armantaro was frowning. “Where is everyone? And where in the name of the Abyss is the entrance?” Try as he might, he could find no trace of the spiral ramp, only the smooth disk of white in the middle of the green-paved plaza. The old colonel slipped a hand under his battered shirt. Vixa saw the hard gleam of a dagger hilt.
“Put that away,” she hissed. He made no reply but tucked the slim knife back inside his clothing.
The faint sound of footsteps reached their ears. Out of the shadows of the colonnade to their right came a tall figure carrying a glowing yellow globe. It was Coryphene. The light beneath his chin cast weird shadows across his sharp features.
“I know that landed folk require a great deal more light than we Dargonesti,” said Coryphene, his voice echoing in the stillness. He stopped several paces away. Armantaro’s fingers touched the dagger hilt through his shirt. There were no guards in sight. If he could take Coryphene hostage, they might be able to force the Dargonesti to release them.
Coryphene threw the glowing globe into the air. It rose to twice his height and vanished in a silent yellow burst. Instantly the plaza was filled with the tawny golden illumination of a summer evening in Qualinost.
“You’re a sorcerer,” Vixa stated.
“I have some skill in the art of magic. Another example.” He pointed a webbed blue finger at Armantaro. To the colonel’s surprise, he felt the blade of his hidden dagger growing warm. He tried to ignore it, keeping his face impassive, but the blade grew hotter and hotter, until it burned like a branding iron. With a yelp, Armantaro snatched the dagger out and flung it away. He put his scorched fingers into his mouth.
Coryphene picked up the dagger. He tested its edge with his thumb and slapped the flat of the blade against his palm. With a nod, he slipped the knife into his own belt.
Vixa spoke up quickly. “Are you the ruler of this place? Are you Speaker of the sea elves?” she inquired.
Coryphene’s violet eyes narrowed. “I am Protector of my people and First Servant of our divine queen.” He clapped his hands twice, and a troop of servants appeared from the shadows of the colonnade. For Coryphene, they brought a chair carved from a single concretion of blood coral. Two large, flat-topped sponges were set in place to serve as stools for the Qualinesti. Two lackeys carried a hamper of woven seaweed. It was evidently quite heavy.
“Sit,” Coryphene said, the word more a command than an invitation. “Refresh yourselves.”
Supporting his chin with folded hands, he rested his elbows on the arms of his scarlet chair. Armantaro and Vixa sank gratefully to the stools, glad to rest their tired feet. Eagerly, the princess opened the hamper.
“Our food may seem strange to you, but I am certain you will find it superior to any you have ever eaten.”
Vixa hesitated. Was it possible this odd elf wished to poison them? She glanced at Armantaro, who was likewise uncertain, then she looked at Coryphene.
A frown was gathering on the Protector’s face. He was clearly ready to take offense if they refused his hospitality. Shrugging fatalistically, the Qualinesti helped themselves.
The food was indeed strange. There were planks of dried, spiced fish; greenish cakes made of seaweed; a smoky, strongly flavored meat paste; and cups of sweet relish that might have been animal or vegetable. Servants handed them goblets made of bell mussel shells and filled with a light, fermented beverage rather like the nectar of Qualinost.
Coryphene waited until the edge was off their hunger before asking, “What ship were you sailing on?”
“
“I have heard of that place. What was your destination?”
“The Gulf of Ergoth, specifically the Greenthorn River,” replied Armantaro. “If it please you, my lord, may I ask how it is you know of our country, when we know nothing of yours?”
“Do none of the ancient race remember the Dargonesti?”
Vixa swallowed a mouthful of nectar. “I’ve heard legends that tell of sea-dwelling elves, but I always thought they were stories for children-tall tales passed around the fireside. I never honestly believed such a race existed.”
For some reason, this answer pleased Coryphene. He smiled and ordered the servants to bring him a cup of nectar.
“For thirteen hundred years my kind has dwelt in the depths,” he told them. “The Graystone transformed us, and we were able to escape the unfair rule of Silvanos by taking to the sea. Untouched by landed folk and their bloody wars, we perfected all the arts and sciences. The Quoowahb, or Dargonesti, are the most perfect of all the races created by the gods.”
Vixa, trying to maintain an attitude of polite interest, nearly choked at this calm statement of superiority. Armantaro thumped her on the back. Unconcerned, the Protector of Urione went on.
“From time to time, the ships of the landed folk fall into our domain. I have seen many of the land races: humans, dwarves, kender. Thus have I learned of your cities and nations.” He handed his empty cup to a hovering servant. “What rank are you and your niece?”
The swift change of subject caught Armantaro by surprise. “I am freeborn, Excellence, a subject of the Speaker of the Sun in Qualinost. My niece is an orphan, so I have adopted her as my own child.”
“Qualinost is ruled by Silveran, son of the mighty Kith-Kanan, yes?”
“Why, yes. You know of Kith-Kanan?”
Coryphene stared off into space. “The birds of the air and the wind above the waves have spoken the name of Kith-Kanan,” he murmured. His gaze returned to them, and he next inquired, “Are the nobles of your country required to bear arms?”
“Ah, no. No one is compelled to serve,” Vixa replied warily.
“What is the size of Speaker Silveran’s army?”
Armantaro placed a hand upon Vixa’s wrist, but the warning wasn’t necessary. The princess had no intention of giving this arrogant fellow such important information. She opened her mouth to deliver an evasive answer, and suddenly the air was split by a loud chorus of bleating notes. Coryphene leapt to his feet, knocking aside his cup of nectar. Vixa and Armantaro exchanged a baffled look as the plaza erupted into furious activity.
Servants came running and cleared away the food and chairs, practically dumping the Qualinesti from their seats. Four Dargonesti sped from the colonnade bearing a suit of exotic armor and arms. As Coryphene stood with feet apart and arms held out, the servants girded their master as though for battle.
“What is it?” Vixa demanded. “What’s happening?”
“An attack,” Coryphene said tersely.
The bleating grew louder, and Vixa spotted the source of the terrible racket. A trio of white-robed Dargonesti
