Destiny

many holes into the tunnels. There could be dangers below as unfriendly as the ghosts and will-o’-the-Wisps above.

“Don’t worry, General,” Gilthas said quite casually. “When we’ve finished exploring the tunnel, I’ll just put the stone back where it was.” The bearers and the general stared at him and he laughed.

Hamaramis summoned warriors to guard the opening. Gilthas told the general he wanted the tunnel explored immediately.

“At night, sire?”

“It’s always night down there.”

His logic was impeccable. Hamaramis quickly put elves to work erecting a frame so the explorers could be lowered into the hole. Workers skilled in woodworking and rope craft were summoned. Additional torches were lit.

While the work was underway, the Speaker sent for a scribe to map the tunnels. The warrior sent to fetch a volunteer returned alone. The scribes were notably lacking in enthusiasm for the quest.

Hamaramis berated the warrior for failing to carry out the Speaker’s command. “I’ll bring a scribe, sire-at the end of my sword, if necessary,” the old general growled.

Gilthas stopped him. He would not force anyone to face danger. He wished he could enter the tunnel himself. He once had been quite skilled with an ink brush. Of course, such adventures were beyond him at the moment.

He had decided to send only warriors down when a young elf emerged from the camp, running full out. Catching sight of them, the newcomer slowed abruptly. Despite ink-stained fingers and the short haircut of a scribe, the newcomer was very young and female. She bowed quickly to the Speaker, to Hamaramis, and even to Truthanar, just arriving with his helpers.

“Great Speaker, I am Vixona Delambro, apprentice scribe. I come in answer to your summons,” she panted.

“You’re a child!” Hamaramis exclaimed.

“I’ve taken the scribes’ oath.” That meant she was at least eighty, though she looked much younger.

Gilthas asked, “Why do you want to go?”

“To serve you, sire.” He regarded her steadily, and she blurted, “And to show those old cranks I’m as good as they!”

He understood. His senior scribes were from a generation that hadn’t allowed females into their profession. In Qualinesti the prohibition against females had been rescinded long ago, but few women were motivated to buck the formidable oldsters who guarded the scribal tradition so jealously. Scribes’ oaths of discretion, probity, and accuracy were not empty mouthings. The penalties for violating any part of the code were severe and the damage to one’s honor even more so. In all his life, Gilthas had known fewer than a dozen female scribes.

Something about Vixona touched Gilthas. Perhaps it was her faint resemblance to Kerian-she was blonde, but had the same heart-shaped face as his wife. More likely it was Kerian’s stubbornness Vixona brought to his mind.

“You’ve got fine mettle, young lady. Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t, Great Speaker. I won’t!”

Rather sourly, Hamaramis asked her if she could handle a weapon.

“I fought in the desert against the humans.”

So had every elfin the valley. “Do you have any proficiency with weapons?”

She was forced to admit she did not, but the general’s obvious disapproval could not quench her enthusiasm.

The exploration party would be led by Hamaramis, and he chose three warriors to accompany him. Each would take two torches, one burning and one in reserve. Lamps would have been better in a tunnel, but all the oil had been requisitioned as food. They would be armed with swords only, no bows. The general tried to press a borrowed blade on Vixona, but she demurred, being already burdened with parchment inkpot, and brushes. He looked to the Speaker for guidance. Gilthas waved the borrowed blade away. Let her take what she wanted, he said.

As he watched the preparations Gilthas ate the tiny meal Truthanar had brought. The Silvanesti healer had touched his king deeply. Arriving at the worksite with the usual dose of unpleasant-tasting medicine, he also brought a surprise: a small pot of kefre.

Gilthas had developed a liking for the Khurish beverage during the exile outside the desert capital. The healer had found the kefre, as well as the white clay pot and tiny matching cup in which it was traditionally drunk, among the Speaker’s baggage where they had been carefully packed away by Planchet before the desert crossing. Truthanar had hoped the drink would help awaken his king’s vanished appetite.

Cradling the cup in his thin hands, Gilthas inhaled deeply. The pungent aroma of kefre enveloped him, even as thoughts of his lost friend and absent wife filled his mind.

The frame slowly rose over the pit.

Chapter 12

When Kerian regained her senses, she was being dragged down a murky lane, her toes bumping over uneven cobblestones. She had wit enough not to struggle, instead using the opportunity to size up her situation.

Two men had her by the arms. Her empty scabbard flopped against her leg, but she felt her concealed knife still in place, hidden in the small of her back. Her upper arm throbbed where the Torghanist dagger had sliced it. A crude bandage had been tied around the wound, and the bleeding had stopped. Her captors smelled of wood smoke, goats, and sour milk, aromas associated more normally with nomads than city-dwelling Khurs.

The tiniest lift of her head gave her a glimpse forward. A pair of Khurs carried the unconscious Sa’ida. Several other men accompanied them. The Khurs’ faces were hidden by scarves and broad-brimmed hats pulled low. The progress of the silent procession could be judged by the sound of slamming shutters and doors that preceded them. The locals had learned to make themselves scarce when the Sons of Torghan were abroad.

She first thought they were bound for the Temple of Torghan, but her surroundings told another tale. This was not Temple Walk, where Khuri-Khan’s important sanctuaries were found. Temple Walk was a broad paved avenue. This was a shadowed, mean-looking lane fronted by tall mud-brick houses. The buildings suggested Arembeg, the city’s southern district, a maze of tight lanes and alleys unrelieved by squares or souks. Arembeg was a good place for cutthroats to hide from the khan’s soldiers and his legion of informers.

Her captors halted at a nondescript door in a dead-end alley. One Torghanist lifted his cudgel and rapped a sequence of knocks on the door. The narrow portal opened inward a few inches.

“We have them,” the Torghanist said, and a voice from within ordered them to enter.

The room was wide. Furniture was scant. Common Khurish chairs were short and three-legged, with a single pole sticking up as backrest. Sa’ida was set onto one, her hands tied behind her back. One of the Torghanists holding Kerian’s arms muttered about ill luck befalling those who mistreated a holy woman.

No such worry affected their handling of Kerian. They did not bother with a chair, but dropped her facedown on the dirt floor. When she hit, she contrived to have her left arm fall limply across her lower back.

“What of the beast?” The voice asked. His accent was foreign to Khur, and his voice was loud in the low- ceilinged room.

“It was too fierce. We didn’t have the proper weapons. It killed two of my men and tore up four more. We threw a net over it and left it there.”

Kerian silently rejoiced. Eagle Eye was alive.

“Are the implements ready?” asked the leader.

Kerian heard the clink of metal, and a grunted remark that the irons would be hot enough soon. She had no doubt who the “implements” were for and what their purpose would be. From beneath slit eyelids, she watched the