Chathendor organized the packing of supplies for the griffon riders. Kerian raided the Bianost cache for the best arms to take with them, including lightweight lances and plenty of white-shafted Qualinesti arrows. The departing warriors accepted the new weapons gladly. Kerian offered Porthios his choice, but he would take nothing, not even a helmet.
“My destiny does not lie on a battlefield,” he told her. “I may walk through one or, in this case, fly over one, but I will not wield sword or shield ever again.” His posture shifted. The change was subtle but noticeable. His shoulders sagged, his neck bent slightly, and he looked away from her, as though staring at a vista only he could see. “The warrior I was is dead. He perished in flames. All that remains is a mind and the means to move it about.”
Kerian didn’t press him further. If he wanted to drop unarmed into the middle of what might be the biggest battle on the continent, she couldn’t stop him.
Working with a will, the elves completed their preparations several hours before sunrise. Porthios ordered the riders to sleep. The guards were all veterans. Despite the momentous undertaking that would begin the next day, they knew they must try to rest.
Kerian headed for her tent. She expected to be asleep seconds after settling onto her bedroll. Years of living on the run, hiding out from enemies in the wildwood, had taught her that valuable skill. However, Alhana followed her, asking, “May I have a word? It is important.”
Kerian seated herself just outside the opening of her tent and gestured for Alhana to join her. Although small, the tent helped ease the bite of the cold south wind. Kerian was surprised when Alhana sat close and wrapped one side of her fox fur around Kerian’s shoulders. She leaned gratefully into its warmth.
“I approve of the morrow’s endeavor wholeheartedly,” Alhana said very softly, “but I feel you should be wary of certain possibilities.”
Royalty had a knack for calculated vagueness. “Aunt, your coat is warm, but I would like to get some sleep. What are you trying to say?”
“I do not believe he goes to Khur to save Gilthas.”
Kerian had no doubt who “he” was. “Then why?”
Alhana looked away. Kerian sighed for the delay, and Alhana blurted, “He would be Speaker again.”
Kerian almost laughed, but Alhana was in deadly earnest. “You know his condition,” Kerian said, trying to be gentle. “He can never be Speaker again.”
“If not Speaker himself, then the power behind another’s throne. You don’t know him as I do, Kerianseray. He was born to rule. He was always firm of purpose.” Kerian snorted at the diplomatic phrasing. “But now-” Alhana shook her head. “If power comes within his grasp, he will take it. He will allow
Kerian turned to face her more fully. She did not feel like laughing now. “Are you saying he would kill me, or the Speaker, if the opportunity presented itself?”
“No! I don’t know! If he thought our people would benefit from his leadership…“ Alhana collected herself. Even in the silvery pale starlight, the intensity of her regard was palpable. “It was said of him, years ago, that he intended to unite the elf kingdoms even if he had to kill every elf in Ansalon to do it. He has not grown gentler since.”
Was that Porthios’s true reason for going to Khur? Kerian wanted to gather Gilthas’s warriors for a great war of liberation in Qualinesti. What did Porthios want? If somehow both Gilthas and Kerian were removed, who would remain to lead the elf army? No one but Porthios.
Kerian thanked her for her counsel, adding, “You should try to sleep now.”
Alhana sighed deeply. Her worries would not be easily set aside. She bade Kerian good night and departed.
Lying in her bedroll, Kerian stared at the dirty canvas three feet above her nose. Despite her own parting advice, she was unable to sleep. She kept turning over in her mind what Alhana had said.
Thank you very much, she thought sourly. True or not, Alhana’s fears had utterly spoiled Kerian’s rest.
Less than a mile away, two gray-clad figures moved quietly along the stony trails atop the sandstone mountains, They proceeded in an odd fashion. One would dart across open ground, hide, then signal the trailing comrade to follow. The second would then dart forward, hide, and signal. Zigzagging over the plateau, Breetan Everride and Sergeant Jeralund came within a hundred yards of the elves’ camp then halted, concealing themselves beneath a pair of boulders that leaned together at their tops.
“There it is!” Breetan said, low voice further muffled by her gray suede mask.
Sergeant Jeralund grunted. He was cold and tired. They’d been bedded down for the night when Breetan shook him awake, pointing excitedly to a crimson glow over the higher peaks to the southeast. She was certain the elves were celebrating an important event. Why else draw attention to themselves with so great a fire?
With her leading, they traversed the mountains, drawn to the distant glow like moths to a candle. Breetan paused once to unsling her crossbow. She loaded it, then beckoned Jeralund onward.
Overlooking the elves’ camp, they tried to make sense of the scene they beheld.
“They’ve got griffons!” Jeralund exclaimed, no longer sleepy. “If they mount their entire force, they can strike anywhere at will.”
It was a very worrisome development, but Breetan was more concerned with the whereabouts of her target. He must be in the elves’ camp. How was she to get him? Infiltrating the camp would be suicide. The elves could hear, smell, and see humans coming from far away.
“Wait,” Jeralund advised, breathing on his gloved hands. “It’ll be daylight in a few hours. When the camp is awake, the Scarecrow will be out and about.”
“How far would you say it is to the center of those tents?”
“No more than a hundred ten yards.”
She adjusted the dial on the crossbow sight. It was a fiendishly complicated device, but after regular practice, Breetan was confident she could hit an elf at three hundred yards- four hundred if the wind was still, which it seldom was at this altitude.
She sat, stretching her legs in front of her, and laid the crossbow over her knees.
“We wait.”
False dawn flared. Like the bugle call blown to rouse human soldiers, it awakened every elf in the mountain camp. The
Under the lightening sky, Kerian pulled a quilted jerkin over her trail-worn buckskins. Weight was critical. The thick jerkin would not only keep her warm as she flew high, but would offer protection since her only armor would be a steel skullcap taken from the Bianost cache. Added to that would be her sword, lance, bow, provisions, and Alhana-Kerian began to feel sorry for her mount. The Golden griffons, smaller than their Royal counterparts, were being asked to fly several hundred miles, a much longer distance than they usually covered in one go. The journey should take ten to twelve hours. With good luck, and given the length of the summer day, they should reach Khur before sunset.
Kerian and Alhana, both experienced griffon riders, were to lead the way on Chisa. They had discussed the route and had decided to steer clear of inhabited lands as much as possible, to keep secret their acquisition of griffons. They would fly overland to New Bay, then northeast over the New Sea, avoiding both the mainland swamp and Schallsea Island. They’d thread the narrow straits of Qwermish, bisect the Inland Sea, and cross onto land again between Sanction and Thrusting Knife. From there, they would traverse the Khalkist Mountains by following valleys north and east and keeping to as low an altitude as possible. The mountains were replete with Nerakan hirelings, mercenaries, and talkative traders. Not all were hostile, but gossip would be deadly to the desire for secrecy.
Their ultimate goal was the mouth of the pass into Inath-Wakenti. Kerian reasoned that Gilthas had made a dash for the valley after being besieged on the Lion’s Teeth. Good, noble Planchet had stayed behind with a rearguard to protect the main body of elves. That was the scene they had witnessed in the sky. There was no point flying to the Lion’s Teeth. That fight was obviously over.
