Five hundred? A great many, in any case.
She urged Eagle Eye higher still. Insects could rise only to a certain height. Bats and small birds had a limit above which they could not fly. Perhaps the will-o’-the-wisps were likewise constrained.
She and six other griffon riders had left camp two hours before sunset to patrol the inner valley. In all their previous flights they’d not been troubled by will-o’-the-wisps. The eerie lights appeared at dusk, but none ever rose higher than treetop level. Tonight was different. The orbs suddenly appeared in midair all around the griffon patrol. Kerian had ordered the patrol to scatter. The sheer number of lights chasing her was a sort of grim triumph; perhaps none had gone after the others. Perhaps they and their griffons had made it back to camp unmolested.
Eagle Eye was panting deep in his chest as he climbed. Foamy sweat collected on his lion’s body, staining the white plumage of his neck and Kerian’s leather breeches. Her legs were achingly cold. But the desperate gamble was paying off. The lights had risen to maybe forty feet and swooped in flat circles, never rising any higher. By twos and threes, her erstwhile pursuers winked out like dying embers. Already the number of lights had fallen by half. They were giving up the chase.
Kerian was too exhausted to rejoice. She steered Eagle Eye in a wide turn for camp.
From that height she could see the silvery line of Lioness Creek, named in honor of Kerian herself. Beyond it burned the campfires of her people’s temporary home. The survivors of Qualinesti and Silvanesti were crammed into the narrow strip of land between the valley’s mouth and the creek, thousands packed into an area that represented the only safety from the nomads outside and the mysterious forces in the valley.
Eagle Eye had fallen into an easy lope. Once every four or five beats, he held his wings out and glided. He was very tired.
So was his rider. Kerian couldn’t remember the last good sleep she’d had. The challenges of life in the valley were partly to blame, but she was a fighter and accustomed to physical privation. Much harder to face were the unresolved difficulties of her relationship with her husband.
Gilthas of the House of Solostaran was Speaker of the Sun and Stars, king of the exiled elf nation. Just before the departure from Khuri-Khan, he had dismissed Kerian as head of his army. Their breach over whether to bring their people to Inath-Wakenti had seemed irreparable, calling up all the old enmity between royal Qualinesti and forest-dwelling Kagonesti. But with the deed done, with their people in the valley, those differences had been overshadowed by the day-to-day needs of the nation and by one other inescapable fact.
Gilthas was dying.
Against a background of purple sky, clouds drifted by, sending rain coursing down to darken the granite mountain slopes. ft was a common enough sight in Inath-Wakenti. Rain fell on the distant heights but seldom in the valley proper. As the light faded and the first stars appeared overhead, the clouds were submerged in the mountains’ dark bulk. The smell of rain lingered.
Gilthas stood atop a crude watchtower of logs and stared northwest, watching the far-off shower. The elves had constructed thirteen watchtowers, ten along Lioness Creek and three at the valley entrance. All were kept occupied day and night. But Gilthas wasn’t watching for enemies. His wife was on patrol, flying on her griffon over the silent valley. Gilthas could not be easy until she was with him again. The elf standing watch in the tower had positioned herself as far from the Speaker as possible in the close confines, motivated less by awe of her sovereign than by sympathy. His worry for his intrepid wife was obvious.
The view into the valley was unchanging: spindly trees and pale stone monoliths scattered in the distance like dice dropped by a giant. No fireflies lit the night; no frogs or crickets broke the silence.
When the elves had first reached Inath-Wakenti, they’d been overjoyed. Their constant tormenters, the Khurish nomads, would not enter the taboo confines of the place they called
Disenchantment with their sanctuary wasn’t long in coming. The valley that sheltered them from desert heat and nomad attacks provided very little else-absolutely no animal life and precious little edible flora. Warriors and civilians alike clamored for permission to search the inner valley for food, but the Speaker forbade anyone to cross Lioness Creek, reminding them of the deadly will-o’-the-wisps encountered by Kerian’s original expedition.
Hungry and desperate, some broke the Speaker’s stricture, convinced they could return with provisions to allay his wrath. Most did not come back. Those who did only confirmed the Lioness’s warnings. Floating lights emerged at night to drift between the standing stones. The orbs’ movements seemed aimless, until an elf drew too near, then escape routes were cut off and elves vanished as soon as the orbs touched them. The few who escaped did so by various methods. One stood still as a statue all night long as glowing balls hovered, seemingly confused, around him. Another pair survived by distracting the will-o’-the-wisps with thrown rocks. The orbs followed the stones arcing into the darkness, and the elves were able to elude them.
Gilthas ordered an end to the unauthorized excursions. Now, the only explorations sanctioned by the Speaker were carried out by air, on griffonback. The griffon patrols watched for any disturbances inside the valley, even as cavalry patrols watched the valley’s entrance for any sign the nomad tribes were regrouping. When the elves had entered the valley, the majority of the Khurs had turned their horses away and dispersed. But a small band remained, carrying out a plan devised by their leader, Adala Fahim. They were erecting a stone wall across the mouth of the pass to trap the elves within. It was a futile, crazy project, and only the most fanatical of Adala’s followers still worked on it.
Gilthas’s vigil was interrupted by a voice, hailing him from the ground. “The patrol has returned, Great Speaker! There was trouble.”
The messenger was a Qualinesti known to Gilthas. A former silversmith, he was meticulous and careful by trade and not one to spread false alarms. Gilthas climbed down at once.
Although he took pains to hide it, the climb was not an easy one for him. His hands trembled as they grasped the crudely shaped rungs of the ladder, and pain like hot needles stabbed through his ribs. He had taken a blow to the back from a nomad tribesman just before the elves entered the valley. His people put his continuing weakness down to that cowardly attack and he allowed the mistaken impression to stand. Only a handful of elves knew the truth. Consumption, true to its harsh human name, was eating him from the inside out. The sickness had only worsened in the damp, chill air of Inath-Wakenti. By the standards of his long-lived race, Gilthas was still young, but appeared decades older, cheeks sunken and eyes deeply shadowed. He slept little, ate less, and worked as steadily as his failing health would allow.
When Gilthas reached the bonfire in the center of camp, he knew immediately what the trouble was. Only five griffon riders stood by the blazing fire. Two were missing.
“Where is Lady Kerianseray?” he asked immediately.
“I’m here,” she answered, arriving at a jog. She stripped off her gauntlets and took the cup of water offered by a nearby elf. She drank it quickly, but before she could finish, the other riders were clamoring for permission to seek their missing comrade.
From the darkness another voice asked, “What has happened?”
Gilthas turned. The newcomer was Porthios. Covered as always by a shapeless, ragged robe and cloth mask, he halted at the edge of the firelight. Porthios was brother to Lauralanthalasa, Gilthas’s mother, who had perished in the fall of Qualinost. Each was very nearly the only family the other had left, yet there had never been much love between uncle and nephew. Proud Porthios had not approved of Lauralanthalasa’s choice of husband and felt Gilthas carried the taint of his half-human father, Tanis. Formerly Speaker of the Sun, Porthios had been horribly burned by dragonfire during a battle. The fire that had nearly killed him seemed to have hardened his emotions further, scarring him inside as well as out. Gilthas doubted Porthios cared for anyone, save perhaps Alhana, his wife.
Firelight glinted in Porthios’s eyes as he scanned the group. “Who didn’t return?” he asked. He knew the griffon riders well. They had flown from Qualinesti with him and Kerian only weeks before.
“Hytanthas,” was Kerian’s grim answer.
Hytanthas Ambrodel was one of her loyal followers. She and the young warrior had fought together in Qualinesti against bandit invaders. More recently, he had served in her army in Khur. When a vast nomad army threatened to attack the elves, believing Kerian had led a massacre of one of their settlements, Kerian had ridden into their midst, hoping to appease their wrath by her sacrifice. Instead, she’d been plucked from the desert
