Glanthon said, “You’ve mentioned ‘strange forces’ at work in the valley. What do you mean?”
“Just that. Strange, unnatural things happen here. I myself
“Patches of mist!” Glanthon scoffed.
“No, they moved against the wind,” the archivist insisted.
The Lioness cut the air with an imperative hand. “We’re not here to collect ghost stories, Favaronas! I want to know who’s taking my people!”
“I don’t know! Perhaps”-he gestured vaguely at the fallen monolith-”the same force that carried off the sand beast?”
After that discussion, with no other conjecture to test, Kerian decided to investigate the hole beneath the stone spire. Rocks dropped into it revealed the bottom to be at least twenty feet down. Their hollow-sounding impacts hinted at a chamber of some size.
As the sun lowered itself behind the western peaks, trees were felled, trimmed, and lashed into a frame to support ropes lowered into the hole. Kerian intended to descend herself, but her officers wouldn’t hear of it. None doubted she was prepared to do anything she might ask of her warriors, but Glanthon reminded her she did not have the luxury of taking such risks. As General of the Speaker’s Army, her life was too valuable to risk unnecessarily.
It finally was agreed that Glanthon would enter the hole. To Favaronas’s dismay, he was tapped to accompany Glanthon.
“Me? Why me?” the archivist said, his face pale even in the firelight.
Kerian said, “You’re the scholar. There may be things down there you can recognize.”
Her phrasing was unfortunate. Favaronas blanched even whiter at the notion of “things down there.” So, Kerian un- buckled her own sword and fastened the scabbard around his waist. “If you see any ghosts, give them steel. If they’re flesh and blood, they’ll feel it.” She smiled. “And if they’re not flesh and blood, they can’t hurt you.”
He did not look reassured.
A pair of stout ropes was tied to the handles of a small round shield that would serve as a platform. Glanthon and Favaronas climbed on, holding tight to the ropes. With the whole command looking on, they were lowered into the hole. The opening wasn’t much wider than the shield on which they stood.
As their feet sank into the black aperture, Favaronas said, “Tell me again why we’re doing this?”
“To find clues to our comrades’ disappearance,” said Glanthon stoutly. “And to carry out the Speaker’s command to learn all we can about this valley. Aren’t you curious?”
“Not any more.”
Their heads disappeared below the surface. They entered a square shaft lined with stone. The air cooled rapidly. Only eight feet below the surface, their breath streamed out as white vapor.
“All right?” the Lioness called, sounding very far away.
“We could use a light!” Favaronas said, his voice rising.
Glanthon assured him torches would be dropped down the hole after they reached bottom.
“Seems backward to me.”
“No sense announcing our coming.”
“Announcing? Announcing to whom?” Favaronas’s voice was a squeak now.
Their shield footrest, which had been lightly scraping the sides of the shaft, entered open air. They swung back and forth a few times, then bumped into a solid floor.
“Step back,” Glanthon said. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted, “Torch!”
A flaming brand crackled down the shaft. Where it caromed off the walls, showers of sparks fell on them. Favaronas yelped and leaped backward, but Glanthon caught the falling torch deftly in one hand. A second followed it. Favaronas didn’t attempt to copy the warrior’s action; the second torch hit the ground and went out.
The floor was ankle-deep in thick white mist. It was cold and damp, but caused them no apparent harm. Glanthon retrieved the second torch, lit it from his own, and handed it to the archivist.
“Merciful ancestors,” Favaronas breathed, holding the brand high. “What is this place?”
Ahead and behind them stretched a tunnel, arrowing straight northwest and southeast. The ceiling had a slight arch to it and was high enough for both elves to stand erect. Favaronas’s awed comment had been inspired by the walls of the passage.
The tunnel was covered, floor to ceiling, with the most beautiful painting either elf had ever seen. It depicted a landscape in such exquisite detail and realistic color they almost expected the trees to sway in the breeze, could almost smell the scent of the flowers, and hear the splash of the silvery river winding through the scene. The ceiling was a serene blue, with wispy white clouds. Who had painted this lovely vista? And why bury it under the ground?
Glanthon reached out to touch the wall, but Favaronas caught his arm…
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t touch anything!” Glanthon nodded in solemn agreement.
They walked slowly down the tunnel, the movement of their feet stirring the viscous fog. The hem of Favaronas’s robe grew dark with damp. Dew glistened on Glanthon’s boots.
As they marveled at the unfolding work of art, Glanthon noted an oddity. There were no living creatures depicted. The scenery was beautiful and varied, but contained no people, nor any animals.
“Like the valley above,” Favaronas said. He frowned, staring at the right-hand wall. “It seems familiar somehow.”
Not to Glanthon. Born and raised in Qualinesti, he knew its towns, forests, and farmlands well. This painted landscape resembled no place he’d ever seen.
“It looks older than Qualinesti somehow, and more.. Glanthon searched for the right word. “More formal. Like a lord’s garden.”
Favaronas stopped abruptly. “Are there any Silvanesti in our company?”
“Yes. Why?”
He pointed to the silver-blue river that serpentined through the landscape on the right-hand wall. “They should see this. I think that’s the Thon-Thalas.”
“Are you certain?”
“Not certain, no; I’ve never been to Silvanesti. But it matches descriptions I’ve read.”
“Could this place have been made by ancient Silvanesti?”
Favaronas wasn’t sure. The ruins above were without any identifying marks, yet they had none of the air of refinement associated with Silvanesti sites. The stonework was monumental but rather crude, much more reminiscent of human handiwork than elven. Yet if he was right, then whoever had painted this scene had at least visited the Silvanesti heartland.
Glanthon suddenly grabbed his companion’s arm in a painful grip. Startled, the archivist yelped loudly. “What? Is there danger? Where?” He tried to draw the Lioness’s sword with one hand.
The warrior’s grip tightened further. “Quiet!” he hissed. “Look!”
Far down the tunnel, in the darkness beyond the reach of the torchlight, something stirred. Vaguely upright, it was coming toward them.
Glanthon’s sword was already in his hand. Favaronas managed to free his borrowed blade from its scabbard, but Glanthon whispered, “Do nothing unless I say so.”
Nodding vigorously, Favaronas stepped closer to the warrior.
The approaching figure was small, under five feet in height, and of indistinct shape. It resembled a person draped in diaphanous gray. Carrying no light, it came on assuredly, at a steady pace. A very faint glow, more attenuated than foxfire, radiated from the figure and the pale aura was reflected by the mist, which remained undisturbed by its passage.
Sweat trickled down Favaronas’s neck. He was shaking so hard he couldn’t hold the sword steady. Never again, he vowed silently; never again would he leave his archive. Not even for the Speaker of the Sun and Stars would he abandon his beloved manuscripts again-if he lived to get back to them!
The apparition seemed heedless of the two elves. As it passed between them, head lowered, it brushed
