Still peering through the gap between the timbers, Kerian muttered, “I wonder if the Scarecrow has a secret weapon.”
“Only my mind, and my vision.”
He was not two feet behind her, looking out over the notched parapet with customary nonchalance. One day he was going to stop an arrow. She said as much.
“But not today. Can you not see? Those are elves.”
Had he showered the assembled defenders with steel, he could not have astonished them more. Kerian rose partway from her crouch, looking over the top of the timber bulwark. The riders’ armor was commonplace half- plate; their helmets open-faced. Mercenaries from Beacon to Rymdar wore the same harness. Neither did their horses’ trapping reveal any distinctive elven style. What did Porthios see?
The contingent halted just within bowshot. A cloud slid across the sinking sun, and when its shadow covered the field, Kerian finally saw the riders’ insignia. Their bright breastplates bore a symbol inlaid in silver. In full light the contrast was too poor to see at a distance.
The symbol was a star, the eight-pointed star of Silvanesti.
At the forefront, the ranks parted, and three riders emerged, leaving the others behind. The riders on each end were male, one in a commander’s helmet and mantle, the other a well- dressed noble. Riding between them, mounted on a white mare, was a female elf of great beauty. Her riding clothes were jasperine, a fine white cloth woven with gold and red highlights. She put back her hood, revealing black hair.
Kerian stared. The rider looked like… but it couldn’t be. It was too unlikely.
The elderly noble accompanying her hailed them. Atop the log wall, no one breathed, much less answered.
“Great Lord, will you speak?” whispered Nalaryn. There was no reply. For the first time, the unfailingly confident, supremely smug Porthios was speechless. When Kerian saw his state, she knew her guess about the woman’s identity was correct. His eyes were wide. His bony shoulders trembled.
“I cannot!” Hoarse, agonized, the words fell from his lips like blood from a fresh wound. He made choking sounds. “I cannot!”
Everyone was staring, especially the local elves. What new threat could so unnerve the bold savior of Bianost?
Then, astonishingly, Porthios turned and scrambled down the ladder. He stumbled at the bottom, almost falling on his face, regained his balance, and whirled away, parting the amazed townsfolk like a plow turning fresh soil.
Outside the stockade, the noble called out again. Kerian sheathed her sword and headed for the ladder.
Nalaryn stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Are they friends?” he asked.
“They are gifts from the gods!”
She went to the sally port door cut into the stockade gate. Some of the Bianost elves, not understanding the situation, protested. She offered only brief reassurance before flinging open the door and stepping outside.
The white-clad elf woman guided her horse closer. Kerian gripped her sword hilt and stood stiffly at attention, aping the posture of a palace guard.
“Greetings,” the rider said. Her voice was warm and honest. “I am glad we arrived in time. The bandits were spread thin trying to surround the town. We were fortunate to rout them.”
Feeling very shabby and unkempt, Kerian passed a hand over her cropped hair and offered a bemused smile. Although the rider had spoken Qualinesti, Kerian answered in Silvanesti. She was not fluent, but more proficient than when last they’d met. “We are glad of it, too, Highness. I’d hardly expected to be rescued by family,” she said.
The lovely face went blank for a handful of seconds, then:
“Kerianseray?”
The name was a disbelieving whisper. Kerian’s smile broadened into a grin.
Nalaryn emerged with his foresters. The Kagonesti chief asked who the noble lady was.
The mounted elf smiled at him. “I am Alhana Starbreeze, at your service.”
Chapter 8
Smoke drifted across Bianost’s town square, fed by the still- smoldering ruins of houses all around it. Moving in and out of the swirling smoke, Kerian and Nalaryn led Alhana Star- breeze toward the mayor’s palace. Alhana was accompanied by Samar, Chathendor, and a small honor guard. The bulk of her warriors remained behind to patrol outside the stockade and make certain Gathan Grayden and his bandits did not recover their nerve and return.
At the foot of the steps to the mayor’s palace, Kerian turned to face the square and Alhana. The residents of Bianost looked on with great interest. The white-clad elf lady was certainly very beautiful, but few of them knew who she was or why their mysterious leader appeared so stricken by the sight of her.
And stricken Porthios was, more deeply affected than he had been in many a day. He had not expected to see his wife again this side of death. He stood at the top of the steps, staring. More than ever he resembled a scarecrow, and his silent immobility only enhanced the likeness. His robe hung around his emaciated frame in limp, loose folds. The rough sash that cinched its waist had loosened, and the garment’s hem dragged on the stones.
Alhana and her two lieutenants reined up, and she called, “Who commands here?”
The townsfolk turned to look at Porthios. It required no great leap for Alhana to realize the ragged figure was the leader she sought. She waited for him to speak.
He did not. In a swirl of ragged cloth, he turned and disappeared into the mayor’s mansion. Alhana blinked. She had expected at least a comradely greeting. The masked stranger’s sudden departure left her speechless. Her escort was deeply affronted, and a worried murmur went up from the crowd.
Kerian could understand Porthios’s shock. He had been saved from destruction by his own wife. He’d probably not seen her since his terrible disfigurement. Perhaps he’d allowed her to think him dead. But whether it was shame for his disfigurement or shame at having been saved by the wife he’d abandoned, Kerian was annoyed by his silent rudeness. Alhana and her soldiers deserved better.
Etiquette and diplomacy were not her strong points, but Kerian stepped into the breach. Her earlier reference to Alhana as family had been more in the nature of mild teasing. Gilthas was Porthios’s nephew, but Kerian and Alhana had never been particularly close.
Still, raising her voice and lifting her sword high, Kerian proclaimed, “Greetings, Alhana Starbreeze. Welcome to Bianost! Your timely intervention saved us all!”
Alhana made a gracious reply then introduced Samar and Chathendor.
Samar stared at Kerian as though he could not credit the evidence of his eyes.
“That is a long and tangled tale, which will keep.” Kerian introduced Nalaryn. Samar knew him by name and reputation. Nalaryn had been a famous scout before the war.
To Alhana, Kerian said, “You’d better come inside. There is much to discuss.”
Alhana glanced at the doorway through which the masked fellow had vanished. Much to discuss indeed, she thought.
She dismounted. In a body, the common folk of Bianost knelt. Although they were Qualinesti and she Silvanesti, they offered silent tribute. Lifting her hem, Alhana climbed the steps with solemn grace. Kerian followed.
At the top of the steps, Alhana paused. The moment of reverence had passed. Weary townsfolk resumed clearing away the broken and burned remains of the slave market.
The former queen sighed. “This used to be such a beautiful town,” she said. “I remember the day this palace was dedicated. It was spring, and the scent of hyacinths was intoxicating. Hundreds and hundreds of the living
