Kerian fixed the pillion pad to the rear of the saddle and buckled a spare strap to the harness. After securing the woman’s bags, she cupped her hands as a toehold for the priestess.
“I’m not so infirm,” Sa’ida said, frowning.
“Humor me, Holy Mistress. I’d rather you not sustain a broken leg even before we go.”
The priestess obliged, putting her foot in Kerian’s hands and letting the elf woman hoist her up. Eagle Eye turned his supple neck to regard the new passenger. Her face paled a bit at his close, steady regard, but she did not recoil, only bade him a polite good morning and thanked him for carrying her upon his back. Blinking, he turned to look at Kerian, and she was hard-pressed not to spoil Sa’ida’s dignified greeting by laughing.
Once Sa’ida was buckled securely in place, Kerian swung herself into the saddle and took hold of the reins. She addressed the throng of anxious women.
“I swear to you all, I will guard Holy Mistress Sa’ida with my life and return her to you safely.”
“Peace and good health!” Sa’ida said, and the women called their farewells.
Because of the added weight, Eagle Eye required an extra step to get them airborne. Sa’ida held Kerian tightly around the waist as they climbed skyward, but when the griffon leveled off, she relaxed.
“How long to the Valley of the Blue Sands?” she shouted into the wind.
“We should reach it a few hours before midnight,” Kerian shouted back.
Wary of another magical attack, Kerian did not have Eagle Eye circle for height as usual. She put him into a steepish climb, due north out of Khuri-Khan. Sa’ida was looking down, staring at the receding ground. Concerned, Kerian asked if she was all right. The priestess lifted a beaming face.
“This is wonderful!”
From the air the city appeared strangely flat, Sa’ida thought, like an image drawn by a skilled mapmaker. To the south, smoke still stained the Arembeg quarter, but she could see no flames. The fire must have been brought under control. She was still concerned for those injured or displaced by the fire, but the fault for that misery lay squarely with Lord Condortal. Her attention was drawn to the palace, glittering like topaz atop its hill. She wondered whether Sahim-Khan had slept well the previous night.
When he received the letter she’d dispatched to him that morning, she was sure his rest would be troubled for some time to come.
The frame was in place. A windlass turned by eight elves was set up on firmer ground a short distance away from the pit. The windlass controlled the rope that would lower the explorers into the hole and would raise them up again. A bronze hook dangled at the end of the rope. Hamaramis would descend first. He was adjusting the rope harness around himself. A company of dismounted warriors stood nearby in case of trouble.
Vixona was seated on the edge of the toppled monolith, keeping out of the way until she was summoned. Her attention strayed toward the far-off trees. The usual crowd of silent spirits had gathered to state at the intruders in their domain.
“I must be getting used to ghosts. They don’t seem so frightening today,” she commented.
“Then walk out there and greet them,” Hamaramis said, fastening the bronze hook onto his harness.
Vixona sniffed. Like the scribes, the general seemed to resent her. The scribes she could understand. They disliked revealing the secrets of their male-dominated craft to a female. General Hamaramis’s resentment she could not fathom. She wasn’t usurping any of his rights or privileges, only exercising her own hard-won skills.
“Are you ready?” asked Gilthas. Hamaramis nodded and walked to the hole, the heavy rope dragging behind.
The windlass creaked around. Hamaramis went up, his feet dangling over the black opening. He took a firmer grip on his torch and nodded.
“Lower away!”
Vixona had left her perch. One arm wrapped around the frame for support, she leaned over to watch the general’s descent. The rope was marked in ten-yard increments with dabs of white paint. He descended three marks, thirty yards, then the rope went slack.
“He’s at the bottom!” she called.
Hamaramis jerked on the rope to signal he was out of the harness. It was hauled up, and each of the three warriors made the descent. Vixona was the last to go.
“Good luck,” the Speaker said, smiling.
Shyly, she thanked him. It seemed odd to her that it was he who offered kindness. The Speaker was the patron of all scribes, but he didn’t seem to resent her a bit. Perhaps, having the Lioness as a wife, he was accustomed to competent females.
Since she needed her hands free for writing and drawing, she carried no torch. The blind drop through inky darkness was not pleasant. The creaking noises the rope made as it twisted her slowly around only added to the eerie feeling. She looked down between her feet. Moving lights meant the warriors already were exploring the tunnel with their torches. She hoped someone would be waiting for her when she reached bottom.
Her feet touched a hard surface, but before she had time to stiffen her knees, she lay sprawled on her back. Quickly she got out of the harness and tugged on the rope with both hands to let those above know she’d arrived.
A flaming brand approached. It lit the face of General Hamaramis. “Are you all right?”
She stood, wincing from her hard landing. “Fine, thank you.”
He pulled the harness aside and left it on the floor still attached to the hook. She studied her surroundings.
They were in a circular chamber with a single tunnel leading away. Vixona noted that the tunnel bore due west.
“How do you know its direction?” Hamaramis asked.
She explained that the hoist frame had been raised with its four supporting poles aligned with the cardinal directions. The distance marks had been daubed on the rope’s south side. During her descent, the rope had made six complete twists. From the position of the paint marks now, the tunnel must lead due west.
“You noticed all that?”
She blinked, surprised by his surprise. “It’s my calling to notice,” she said simply.
A shout from within the tunnel had Hamaramis drawing his sword and running for the mouth of the passage. “Stay behind me,” he warned. Vixona assured him she had no desire to be first.
They caught up with the three warriors thirty-five yards along. Vixona estimated the distance aloud, in part to distract herself from her pounding heart.
The warriors stood at a crossing tunnel (which ran northeast- southwest, according to Vixona). They had seen a single figure dart across the opening as they approached. Wanting to give chase, they’d thought better of it and had raised an alarm.
“Well done,” said Hamaramis. “Chasing an unknown is too risky. It could be a phantom.”
During this exchange Vixona had been scribbling rapidly. She pulled Hamaramis’s torch closer to her page so she could see what she was writing. The flame wavered and crackled. There was a draft, and it came not from the shaft where they’d entered, but from the crossing tunnel.
“What do you make of the pictures?” she asked breathlessly.
Before he could embarrass himself by saying “what pictures?” Hamaramis saw them. The walls were covered with murals painted in delicate hues. The wall before them depicted a host of elf warriors on griffons and horses.
“It’s Balif,” Vixona said. The warriors, intent on searching the darkness for signs of trouble, didn’t heed her, but Hamaramis prompted her to continue. “This painting shows Balif leading the armies of Silvanos Goldeneye on the Field of Hyberya.”
She didn’t ask whether he knew the details of the story, but simply launched on an explanation. Some clans in the western provinces of Silvanesti had refused to acknowledge Silvanos as their overlord. Small companies of warriors were sent to enforce the Speaker’s will, but one by one they were ambushed and destroyed. Speaker Silvanos sent Lord Balif with the royal army to subdue the rebels. Balif swept the troublemakers away. In a forest clearing called Hyberya, the recalcitrant western elves pledged fealty to the Speaker of the Stars. The battle was
