had felt very strongly the specters’ opposition to the elves’ presence. The sensation emanating from the ghostly assemblage was hatred, pure unvarnished loathing, he told the council. Gilthas’s reassurances had had no effect.
“You did stop their attack on me,” Kerian pointed out.
A puzzling development, but true, Gilthas admitted. When he commanded them to release his wife, the angry ghosts surprisingly obeyed, but their hatred had grown stronger. They had retreated only when the will-o’-the-wisps appeared, demonstrating the two presences were at odds.
Much as he regretted causing distress to so many unhappy souls, Gilthas was adamant. “They must give way. They will give way. We are here, and I intend we shall stay.”
“Could we lay the ghosts to rest somehow?” asked a Silvanesti, a minor member of House Cleric.
Gilthas was doubtful. No one among the elves had the knowledge and skill. And an ordinary cleric might banish one or two ghosts in his entire career. What could be done against hundreds of malevolent specters?
A pall descended on the group. Nothing was to be heard but the crackle of torches and the scratching of Varanas’s quill. The scribe was seated on the Speaker’s right, slightly behind the makeshift throne, dutifully taking notes on all that was said. In the shadows behind Varanas, the healer fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, obviously impatient for the council to end so his patient could be put to bed.
The discussion resumed, in an unfocused, halfhearted fashion. No one had any useful suggestions to offer. Gilthas listened, chin in hand, a frown of concentration on his face. Kerian wasn’t fooled. She knew he was nearing the end of his endurance. Exhaustion had sharpened the lines on his face even as it blurred his gaze. She was about to insist they adjourn for the evening when a thought struck her with blinding suddenness.
“I know someone wise enough to tell us if it is possible to put the ghosts to rest,” she exclaimed. “Lady Sa’ida!”
Sa’ida was the high priestess of the Khurish goddess Elir-Sana. During the elves’ exile in Khuri-Khan, the priestess had proven herself a valuable ally, albeit a covert one given her desire not to offend her people’s sensitivity to all things foreign. She had loaned the Speaker the temple documents that mentioned the valley. Gilthas had them carefully copied and continued to study them alongside the wise works of his own race.
“She might as well be on one of the moons,” observed Hamaramis.
No party of elves could hope to make it to the capital city and back. If the desert and the nomads didn’t kill them, Sahim-Khan might. Once, the khan had tolerated the elves because of their contribution to his coffers. But they no longer had enough money in their treasury to tempt him, especially given the troubles he faced from those who despised the elves, including the followers of the god Torghan.
“Eagle Eye can take me there,” said Kerian.
She could fly to Khuri-Khan and fetch Lady Sa’ida, she explained. It was an intriguing idea. Gilthas disliked the notion of sending her alone, but no one could ride Hytanthas’s Kanan. A griffon would accept only his or her bonded rider. The formation of such a bond usually required many months of patient attention. Alhana had been able to break wild Golden griffons to the saddle by means of a special ritual, but there was no one in the valley who knew how to do what she had done.
“Even if you reached the city safely, we can’t be certain Sa’ida would agree to help us,” Gilthas added.
That was true. Whether Sa’ida’s help in their time of exile stemmed from true generosity of spirit or a more pragmatic desire to aid the enemies of her enemies, Kerian couldn’t say. Even if the human priestess was sympathetic to their plight, she might refuse to leave her sanctuary and undertake a journey to a haunted valley. It was well known she rarely left the temple’s sacred precincts. Kerian was confident she could persuade the woman to come back with her to the valley, but Gilthas put an end to the discussion.
“A proposed mission to Khuri-Khan is not practical. I cannot allow it.”
His peremptory tone caused Kerian to stare. He sat, frowning at no one in particular, his face so bloodlessly pale, it might have been carved of pure white Silvanesti marble. Kerian allowed the matter to drop, but while the others took a moment to pass around waterskins, she continued to observe him. He didn’t return her gaze, only stared down at the cup of medicine he held.
After sipping from the cup, he continued in a more measured tone. “I believe my experience tonight solves one of the valley’s mysteries. We face not a single malign force, but two distinct ones. The apparitions are ghosts of those who once inhabited Inath-Wakenti. Who they were, I don’t know, but they are at odds with the will-o’the- wisps. When the lights appeared, the ghosts fled.”
“But we don’t know who created the lights or how they are controlled,” Taranath put in.
“Guards?” mused Hamaramis. “The will-o’-the-wisps guard the valley from intruders like us, but they also keep the ghosts of the original inhabitants inside.”
Gilthas supported his intriguing theory, and the group fell to speculating about why the lights hadn’t carried off the Speaker.
“Blood of the Goldeneye.”
All eyes turned to Varanas, and Gilthas asked what he meant. The scribe looked up from his writing. Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he flushed to the roots of his pale blond hair and begged forgiveness for having interrupted.
Assured by the Speaker that he’d given no offense, the scribe answered, “That’s what the spirits called you, sire, Blood of the Goldeneye. They obeyed you once they knew your identity.” Varanas consulted his notes. “But their hatred of you only grew.”
“Maybe Silvanos Goldeneye was responsible for them being here,” Kerian said. “And maybe those of his line are immune to the guardian lights. I’m no scholar, but there is a certain warrior’s logic to it. The ghosts may have been elves once.” She hadn’t mentioned the spirits’ beastly metamorphosis. She would discuss that with Gilthas privately first. “Exile, imprisonment-however it was styled, suppose they were sent to this distant valley, guarded by powerful magic in the form of the floating lights. If Speaker Silvanos, or another of his line, had sentenced these wretches to eternal exile, it would make sense for his blood descendant to be immune to the spell that created the guardians.”
Again silence descended. The Lioness’s words hinted at a bleak tale rooted in the distant past. What crime could these malefactors have committed to earn such a terrible punishment? What sort of elves had the ghosts been?
Gilthas ended the silence. “An interesting thesis,” he said and turned the talk to other issues. A senator reminded him of the dwindling food supply. Meat continued to disappear even though the caches were heavily guarded. Grain, vegetables, and potable liquids were untouched, but animal flesh seemed utterly unwelcome there, even when cooked or preserved. Water supplies were adequate, but no new source had been found since they had left Lioness Creek. A former member of House Gardener claimed water abounded just below the surface. Divining rods wielded by sensitive elves detected plenty, and wells could be dug fairly easily.
With food the greatest priority, the Speaker decreed search parties would be dispatched the next day to comb the surrounding area for anything edible.
“What of the ghosts, sire?” Hamaramis wanted to know.
“If we don’t find food soon, we’ll all be ghosts,” grumbled Kerian.
The most distant searches, Gilthas said, would be carried out by mounted scouts, who might outrun any hostile spirits. All parties would return to camp an hour before sundown to avoid the marauding will-o’-the- wisps.
With that, the council broke up. As the last councilor was departing the Speaker’s tent, Truthanar stepped forward and conducted a brief examination of his king.
“Your fever is up. Too much exertion. Too much night air.”
“Too much being Gilthas,” said Kerian.
Smiling, the Speaker pled guilty to all charges then told Truthanar he could go. Plainly dissatisfied with his liege’s frivolous attitude, the healer took himself off to his own bedroll. The Speaker’s scribes approached, ready to take their places for the night’s reading and dictation, but Kerian dismissed them. Gilthas did not protest.
When the Speaker’s tent was empty but for the two of them, his brave posture collapsed. He leaned heavily on his wife’s arm for the short walk from camp chair to sleeping pallet.
Soon he was settled, sitting up beneath a pile of blankets and rugs that would have suffocated Kerian, and he asked her to refill his cup of medicine. As he sipped it, grimacing mightily (for it was exceedingly bitter), she broached a subject she knew he would not like.
