several words he could not puzzle out, then: “Many were weak and reverted [or changed] by this time. The work went slowly. Many died, and their spirits walked by night, confined by the power [or place?] they sought to control.”
Now Favaronas really did feel a headache coming on. The thicket of ambiguous syllables yielded their secrets so slowly he knew translating the cylinders would require weeks of continuous labor. He would never be able to keep their secrets for that long in the confines of Khurinost.
Why keep them a secret at all? He raised the cup of water to his lips with a trembling hand. The answer was terribly clear. Power. A frightening theory was growing in his mind: that the fabled dragonstones were buried under the ruins, that a secret colony had grown up in the valley centuries after the dragonstones were buried, a colony devoted to harnessing their forbidden power. He imagined the ruins were all that remained of an enormous magical operation, intended to allow the colonists to tap the dragonstones as a water-wheel and mill and utilize the power of a flowing stream.
Was the design finished? History did not record the rise of a great city of magic in the Inath-Wakenti. The few lines Favaronas had read implied the colonists died off faster than their work could be completed. Who were they, and why did they die? The fact that their chronicles were written in truncated Silvanesti lent weight to the theory they were elves, but no Speaker of the Stars would have tolerated such an illicit enterprise. Maybe that was the final answer to the mystery of Inath-Wakenti. The builders of the ruins had been rounded up, and perhaps exterminated, by the Speaker of the Stars.
Oh, how he longed for access to the ancient archives of Silvanost. What mysteries they must contain!
He regretted saying as much as he had to Glanthon. Glanthon was a good soldier, but the scope of this revelation was beyond him. He might spread the word to the other warriors, and he would want to turn over anything they found to the Lioness. The Vale of Silence was no place for swords and soldiers. It ought to be quarantined, with access strictly controlled and only the wisest sages and mages allowed inside.
Of course, Favaronas himself did not qualify as either. But wasn’t this exactly the task of an archivist, to recover lost records while searching for evidence in the annals of two ancient kingdoms? Who better than he to unravel the secrets of Inath-Wakenti?
Favaronas had learned much from the hardships of this journey. No longer was he merely a beer-loving librarian. His time with the Lioness had taught him the necessity of decisive action. Thus inspired, he moved swiftly now. He wrapped the cylinders in his bedroll, added his notes and the few provisions he hid, and tied the resulting bundle with cords. He placed the precious bundle at the foot of the hill, on a large area of soft sand. He swept his footprints away, then dug a hole large enough to contain the bundle and himself if he drew his knees to his chin. Wrapping his belt sash around his face, to protect eyes, nose, and mouth, he lay in the hole and buried himself completely.
For a moment, the weight of the warm sand pressing down on him brought panic. With his head turned to the side, he discovered he could breathe well enough. The sash filtered the sand from the air. Concentrating on the marvelous knowledge contained in the cylinders he clutched to his chest, he forced himself to be calm. This was the right thing to do. He must have time to decode the knowledge contained in the cylinders. He waited.
“Favaronas! Fa-va-ro-nas!”
Glanthon and other soldiers could be heard calling him. He felt the vibration of hooves pounding nearby. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his neck, but he did not answer.
Eventually the calls died away, though it took longer than he had imagined. Guilt stabbed him. Glanthon sounded very worried. He kept his soldiers searching for what seemed like hours, but although the archivist’s legs twitched once or twice with the urge to put an end to his scheme, he did not. He stayed where he was.
The sand grew warmer as the day wore on, but the unusual layer of clouds kept it from becoming too hot to bear. Favaronas dozed, waking in terror several times, dreaming he’d been buried alive or was sharing his hole with those horrible leaping spiders.
At long last, the heat in the ground abated. He had heard nothing outside for hours and decided it was safe to emerge. When he tried to unbend his knees, he found them locked in place. His arms and hands worked, so he clawed his way to freedom.
The sun was still up, but sunset was only an hour or so away. Pain like knife-thrusts gripped both of his legs. It took an age but finally he was able to straighten them and to stand.
The walk back to Inath-Wakenti would be a long one, but night was the best time to cross the desert on foot, if any time was right. He took up the bundle of cylinders and supplies.
Abruptly, loneliness swamped him, a sense of his own insignificance in the vastness of the desert. He felt fear bubble up too. Very little would be required to cause his fear to bloom into panic, and panic would kill him. He must think clearly and carefully. He squeezed the bundle in his arms, reveling in the weight of the scrolls.
“I will know all!” he declared. “I will learn all that they can teach me!”
Courage bolstered, he put the lowering orb of the sun at his left hand and set out north across the rocky sand and windblown dunes.
Wind gusted through the sea of tents, flapping roofs, and shivering taut anchor lines. A hard rain had lashed Khurinost just after sunset, and the sodden tents steamed in the cool night air. No one slept. Elves clustered in the narrow lanes or sat in groups before fires in open squares. Talk was of the growing dangers around them-the attempt on the Speaker’s life, the murder of Lord Morillon, the attack on the city gates by Khurish fanatics. Morillon was respected by many, the Speaker loved by all, yet no one in Khurinost would survive if the water supply was cut off.
The gates had reopened, but talk turned inevitably to the fact that it could so easily happen again. Half the elves believed it would be necessary to storm Khuri-Khan and secure the wells. The other half felt it was time to leave. Exactly where they would go was a subject of great debate.
With Gilthas sleeping, Kerian took some time for herself. General Hamaramis, a fastidious fellow, owned one of the best bathtubs in Khurinost. His tent was currently unoccupied, as he was with his troops keeping watch on the Khurs, so she stole away for a much-needed bath. Long days in the desert had left her feeling dry, dirty, and wrung out like a washcloth. Worse, the stench of her encounter with the sand beast’s carcass could not be overcome by her usual quick ablutions in a basin of water. The odor of decay had permeated every part of her, right down to the roots of her hair. If she didn’t clean up soon, she thought it might never come off.
Hamaramis’s tub was a homemade contraption comprising tent stakes supporting heavy canvas sides, but just now it seemed more luxurious to Kerian than the gold, silver, and porcelain fixtures in the palace of Qualinost. She hauled her own water from a brass tank outside the general’s tent, and she didn’t bother heating it. It was nearly the warmth of blood anyway, thanks to the Khurish climate.
Long hunted by enemies, the Lioness was too wary to strip to the skin and chose to retain her underclothes. Before stepping into the tub, she carefully combed the thick, grit-encrusted mass of her hair. Sand and tiny gravel cascaded to the floor with every stroke.
The tub wasn’t long enough for her to stretch out full-length. Once in, she pulled up her knees and leaned back, submerging head and hair. The clear water turned gray.
The old general disdained soap as an effete affectation preferring to scrub himself with a sponge. Kerian eyed the creamy brown sponge, which hung on a peg inside the tent decided it looked rough enough to plane wood; and made do with a scrap of linen for a washcloth.
She straightened her legs, leaning against the back of the tub, and closed her eyes. The tent was quiet, save for intermittent gusts of wind outside and the tapping of some metal object, stirred by the breeze. With effort, she cleared her mind and let the quiet and blessed moisture work their soothing magic. She dozed.
“That looks wonderful.”
She didn’t start, since she’d heard him coming and recognized his halting gait, but she was surprised to see him.
Looking more than frail, Gilthas leaned against the wooden doorframe. He’d donned a geb, the sleeveless garment hanging loosely without benefit of belt. It bulged over the bandages on his right shoulder. A dressing gown was draped over his shoulders. The stump of a spade handle served him as a cane.
“I can’t believe you’re up and about,” she said.
