“Don’t you feel that?” he said, voice rising.
Despite the situation, shame twisted his stomach. In all their long lives together, he’d never lifted his hand to her. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat, but he struck her again. There was no response.
His eyes burned. Since his injury, he had been unable to weep proper tears. Grief sweated from his eyes.
The sound of footsteps brought his head up. Chathendor still slept, and he first thought Kerian was intruding, but the footfalls were coming from the road, not the woods. He did not bother to rise. Blinking moisture from his eyes, he merely waited.
Night at the Lake of Death was not much different from day. It was darker, though not much, and perhaps the stink was less. The mist clung to the lake’s edges, creating the illusion the black cauldron was rimmed with snow.
A figure emerged into feeble starlight. He was human, a stout old man with short white hair standing out from his head in all directions. He leaned on a blackthorn staff and wore threadbare priestly robes. Porthios immediately recognized his mentor from the forest.
The old priest called, “Greetings, my faceless friend.”
Porthios did not answer. The old man shuffled closer. “You grieve. I felt your sorrow far down the road.”
“What do you want?” Porthios’s voice was choked and dry.
“What I’ve always wanted, to lend my support.”
Alhana’s breathing faltered for an instant, and Porthios felt his heart skip a beat. “Support? If you really wanted to support my people, you would right the wrongs done to them.”
The priest came forward. He halted a few steps from Alhana’s feet. “This one I’ve known a long time. So many great mortals she knew, without ever quite achieving greatness herself.” Porthios glared at him, but the old man went on, oblivious. “Direct intervention seldom works out well. Trust what I tell you, my wounded friend. It has been tried before, and the consequences inevitably are worse than the original problem.”
“Damn your consequences! Help her!”
“You love her, yet you let her believe you were dead all these years.” The old priest shook his head. “Strange pride you have.”
“I’ve done what you asked,” Porthios rasped. “I started a rebellion with a handful of followers against an enemy who commands thousands. We’ve achieved remarkable things. Must Alhana now die for the revolt to continue?”
The eyes in the friendly, jowly face sparkled with a strange inner light. “If I say yes?”
“Then I will die with her.”
“You must save your people.”
“Kerianseray can lead the rebellion, or Samar, or Nalaryn.”
“No one but you can do it.”
“Then heal her!” Porthios hissed, standing quickly. “You’re a god, aren’t you? It is within your power. Heal her, or I swear to you I will die with her this night!”
The priest’s body wavered and evaporated like smoke. One instant he was there; the next, he was not. Porthios stalked to where the old man had been. He opened his mouth, ready to shout denunciations and accusations to the sky, but the priest’s voice stopped him.
“Mind what you say, my proud friend.” He was back, standing near Alhana’s head, exactly where Porthios had been. “More ears than ours are listening, and some disapprove of my meddling.” Porthios managed a sharp, sarcastic laugh, and the old fellow added, “Yes, as you deduce, no one approves. Hence the guises and trappings I’m forced to hide behind.”
“I meant what I said. The choice is yours.”
“You would sacrifice your entire race for this one female?” Porthios folded his arms across his thin chest. The old human sighed. “Very well. But after tonight, you’ll not see me again for a time. I have too many irons in the fire.” The priest shifted his blackthorn staff from one hand to the other.
“Try to appreciate my subtlety, will you?” he said rather plaintively. “Even when you can’t understand it.”
He turned and walked back to the road.
“Is that all?” Porthios cried, incredulous.
The old priest looked back, the odd light glimmering again in his eyes. “What more did you wish?”
He vanished.
Alhana moaned. Porthios dropped to his knees. “Alhana! Alhana, can you hear me?” he shouted.
“They can hear you in Schallsea,” she muttered, both hands coming up to cover her ears.
Porthios smiled. None could see it, and the unaccustomed movement hurt the ravaged skin of his face, but he smiled nonetheless. He had no idea what price the god might exact for Alhana’s life. At that moment he did not care.
The Lioness and a dozen guards crashed through the underbrush. A limping Samar followed close behind.
“What is it?” Kerian cried, brandishing a sword. “We heard you shouting!”
Porthios regarded her blandly. “I was merely speaking to the Great Lady.”
They looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Alhana sat up. Voices exclaimed in amazement and Kerian cried, “Alhana, can you hear me?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” she replied crossly. “My head feels as though it may split down the center, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.”
“Do you remember what happened?” Kerian asked.
“An arrow hit my horse. I fell?”
“You were dying, aunt!”
“Evidently her head is harder than we realized,” said Porthios.
Kerian knelt and gently probed the back of Alhana’s head. She found no blood, but Alhana winced sharply as Kerian touched the site of the wound. No longer life-threatening, it was still extremely tender. From the way Alhana held her left arm, it was obvious she had a variety of other bruises from her fall.
Everyone stared at Porthios, wondering what to make of the amazing development. Alhana opened her mouth to question him but realized it wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she allowed Samar to help her stand, and the two injured elves leaned on each other.
“We’ve lingered long enough here,” Porthios said. “The bandits will be back, and with reliable troops this time. We must get everything up to Birch Trail before morning.”
Kerian scratched through her cropped hair. She was exhausted, having lain awake waiting for word that Alhana had succumbed to her injury. Instead, Alhana was alert and standing, albeit shakily. How had Porthios accomplished such a miracle? Certainly he was clever and fearless. Did he have magical skill as well?
“What are you waiting for?” Porthios asked testily.
“Inspiration,” was her equally grumpy reply.
She left to rouse the Bianost volunteers and the Kagonesti. Samar and Alhana, still leaning on each other, went to marshal the guards. The mounted Silvanesti were withdrawn to the stalled caravan, leaving only a half dozen riders behind to keep watch on the climbing elves. Far down the road was a faint, ruddy glow, as of massed campfires.
The two human captives were a burden the elves could ill afford during the coming climb. Wycul and his injured comrade were bound and gagged, taken to a point several hundred yards away, and tied securely to two different trees.
In accordance with Kerian’s earlier command, the wagons remaining on the road had been unloaded. Their wood was cannibalized for makeshift litters and the remaining detritus hurled down the hillside to conceal it as much as possible. Their loads were divided into lots and bundled onto the backs of elves. Everyone carried a portion, even the elderly Chathendor. Only Porthios and the wounded in their litters went unburdened. Torches were forbidden. The elves had to rely on their fabled night vision to complete their tasks and make the ascent. In the murky night of Nalis Aren, more than a few wished their eyesight were as preternatural as other races believed.
Worse was the lot of Alhana’s mounted guards. Their horses simply could not make the ascent. After several
