Storing away that bit of knowledge, Favaronas knelt to study the scrolls. Faeterus had forbidden a fire-no sense attracting potentially unfriendly attention-but cast an illumination spell around Favaronas to brighten the air enough to permit reading.
As the archivist feared, the randomly collected cylinders belonged to different chronicles. None was a continuation of any of the others. In addition to the one he’d already sampled, the second contained a record of the original inhabitants’ attempts to foil the powers that confined them. It bore the cryptic title
The scroll began midsentence. The inhabitants of the valley had employed many methods to catch and destroy the lights that patrolled the valley. The lights were referred to variously as “night wardens,” “watchers,” and “vigilants.” Many were caught in nets and other traps, but it made no difference. However many will-o’-the- Wisps were caught, the next night saw no shortage. Two of the valley’s inhabitants, Stabo and Mexas, engaged in a long debate on their captors’ nature. Stabo claimed flew lights were created every night, so capturing any was pointless. Mexas countered that their number was fixed, although not all appeared at any one time. If enough could be captured, the total would lessen.
When Favaronas showed a tendency to dwell on the scroll’s long-winded recitation of the disagreement between Stabo and Mexas, Faeterus commanded, “Spare me these mediocrities,” and Favaronas skipped ahead.
Anyone who entered Inath-Wakenti eventually was taken by the lights, according to the scroll; the inhabitants were immune to them unless they tried to leave. Then it was noticed the animals were disappearing. The beasts were not trying to leave, yet their number steadily diminished. Facing starvation, the prisoners (as Favaronas had begun to think of them) tried tunneling out. They dug miles of passages beneath the blue- green soil, but the lights found them there too.
The scroll ended there. Still curious, Favaronas asked, “Is that how they died?”
“Eventually. They could not live off each other’s flesh forever.”
Favaronas turned away, aghast at the horror Faeterus revealed so casually. The archivist silently bemoaned his foolishness in returning to this place. He had been safely in the company of Glanthon and his warriors, outside the valley’s dreadful influence, and he’d thrown that safety away for the hope of power. If he managed to survive, he would confess his crimes to the Speaker and beg forgiveness. Whatever punishment was meted out, Favaronas would embrace it with joy.
The final scroll had the shortest text of the three-a stanza of verse. When Favaronas began a halting translation, the sorcerer surprised him by quoting the lines in full. Hooded head tilted up toward the starry sky, Faeterus recited.
In Elvish, each line had the same number of syllables which made it doggerel by the standards of Silvanesti poesy. Favaronas commented on its poor quality.
Faeterus chuckled deep in his throat. “Not good poetry perhaps but excellent prophecy elf spawn.”
With that, he rose and ordered Favaronas to do likewise. The archivist intended to roll the still-soften scrolls carefully for transport, but as soon as his fingers touched one, it disintegrated. Cracking and popping like sheets of softening ice, each scroll fell into shards that crumbled further and further until only a fine white dust remained. The archivist turned a stricken face to his captor, but Faeterus only shrugged.
I shouldn’t have spoken the words aloud. It matters little now. The play is nearly done.”
The illumination spell ended, and Faeterus reached toward Favaronas.
Shying from his touch, Favaronas hurried up the mountainside as quickly as he was able.
The pebbly soil crumbled under their feet, tampering their progress. In firmer patches of ground Favaronas caught sight of Faeterus’s unbroken footprints-broad but short, with only three thick toes. Wedge-shaped impressions at the front of each toe print were made by his clawlike nails. When he’d glimpsed the sorcerer’s foot during the trek across the valley, it had sported four toes. Now it had only three. The sorcerer seemed to be losing his elf appearance perhaps reverting to his natural form, a notion that only fueled his captive’s terror. There was no saying what sort of creature Faeterus might truly be.
They reached a level place and Faeterus halted. Favaronas immediately collapsed, determined to rest for however long he was allowed. Looking around, he realized this was no narrow ledge, but a large open space. Other features were difficult to discern. His eyes were so tired, he had trouble focusing in the dark. His silent speculations came to an end when Faeterus spoke.
“The Stair of Distant Vision,” the sorcerer declared. “Here begins the end of your race.”
Breetan and Jeralund had picked up a promising trail. Two people-elves, from the size and shape of their footprints- were heading east into the high mountains. Wondering why two elves would be out, alone and on foot, so far from their camp, Breetan decided to track them. After a day’s stalk, she and the sergeant glimpsed their quarry along an open ridge. One was a middle-aged elf so exhausted he staggered like a drunkard. The other was completely covered by the heavy layers of a hooded, ragged robe.
“The Scarecrow!”
Jeralund agreed with Breetan’s whispered evaluation. Who else in this lifeless place would need to burden themselves with such a supremely uncomfortable disguise?
Knight and sergeant stalked their prey with utmost care. The range was too great for her special crossbow, so Breetan forced herself to be patient. Her target would not get away. The Scarecrow must have a good reason for being up there, perhaps heading for a secret rendezvous with other elf rebels.
After nightfall, a pale greenish light brightened their quarry’s campsite. Breetan, climbing some ten yards from the sergeant, wondered if it was meant to be a signal, but she could discern no answering gleam from the surrounding peaks, so she resumed the climb.
Less than a minute later, she did notice light, a faint, diffuse glow on the rocks around her. She turned to look behind. A swarm of small, glowing globes was sweeping upslope at considerable speed. Since arriving in the valley, she and Jeralund had seen similar lights in the distance. Breetan thought them lamps carried by patrolling elves, but the lights closing on them belied that theory. Each was a floating fireball, colored green, red, blue, or yellow.
They whizzed overhead, emitting a sizzling sound as they passed. Breetan loaded her crossbow with a hardwood quarrel and raised the sight to her eye. The lights were small but so bright that they were easy to see.
