“Theft. Hoarding,” Porthios said flatly, but Alhana disagreed. There was no evidence anyone had stolen the food, and hoarding was hard to imagine given the close confines of the camp. Too, the missing food was all meat: stocks of smoked goat and mutton, as well as dozens of live chickens.
Kerian wondered whether the disappearances could be connected to the valley’s antipathy to animal life. If so, the ramifications were frightening. They’d thought themselves safe here on the south side of the creek. If that were no longer true.
Porthios’s hoarse voice interrupted her dark thoughts. “The provisions that remain will go further once we depart for Qualinesti. It’s past time for the army to be gone.”
Since arriving, he had been agitating to lead the army back to Qualinesti to rejoin the battle against Samuval. Many elves, including Alhana, thought it a good plan. As long as they were safe from the nomads, Kerian agreed. At first reluctant to surrender command of the army to Porthios, she had changed her mind when she realized his departure might help prevent an open break between the interventionists, led by Porthios, and the valley colonizers, led by Gilthas. The only stumbling block was Gilthas himself. He adamantly refused to divide the nation in the face of the perils, known and unknown, that lay beyond Lioness Creek.
Kerian wondered whether that was his only concern or whether he also worried about placing an army at Porthios’s disposal. That had concerned her as well, but she still believed the advantages outweighed the risks. With thousands of trained warriors as its core, a great army of rebels could be raised to drive out the bandits once and for all. The liberation of their homeland had never been so close. Gilthas must be made to see that.
Alhana touched Kerian’s hand. “We cannot continue as we are.”
Porthios was less tactful. “Waste no more time, Lioness. You and I know war is the only way to free our homeland.”
For an instant, Kerian wondered whether Porthios might have stolen the food himself to force this very crisis. There was little he wouldn’t do if he thought it would advance a cause he believed just. In any case, it really didn’t matter. The army must go to Qualinesti to liberate their homeland-and to get Porthios away from Gilthas.
Evading both Alhana’s compassion and Porthios’s penetrating stare, she said, “I will put it to the Speaker.”
Chapter 2
Wind swept through the elves’ camp, snatching at desert
The leaders of the exiled elves stood on the granite slab: generals Hamaramis and Taranath, Kerian, Alhana, and Samar, commander of Alhana’s royal guard. Porthios stood apart from the rest, at one end of the improvised dais, idly tapping his leg with a stick.
An hour before noon, the last elves filed into place. The crowd quieted. As the silence lengthened, Alhana looked inquiringly at Kerian. The Lioness’s lips firmed with distaste. She would have ceded the task of addressing the crowd to Alhana, but the former queen was adamant. Kerianseray, as wife of the Speaker, had precedence over everyone else present. Kerian had acquiesced; if she refused, she had no doubt Porthios would leap at the chance to assert himself.
True to her word, she had spoken to Gilthas, urging him to allow the army to go to Qualinesti. The discussion had not gone well. Her husband stubbornly held fast to his idea that the nation was too vulnerable to be left without defenders. She reminded him she’d encountered nothing in the valley that could be defeated by massed troops and a small portion of the army would remain with them anyway. Such well-reasoned arguments did not sway him, so she spoke of the advantage of having Porthios
“He wants to be leader in your place, Gil! Are you blind to his intentions?”
They’d kept their voices low out of deference to the crowded conditions in the Speaker’s tent, but her words had fallen into an unlucky lull in the conversations. A few heads turned their way. A glare from the Lioness sent everyone back about his or her business.
“Keep your voice down.”
Kerian was ashamed at having spoken so intemperately, but her husband’s hoarse command rekindled her anger, and the apology she’d intended to make went unsaid. Their conversation ended only moments later. Gilthas was seized by a fit of coughing so intense that his chief healer, Truthanar, rushed to him from across the tent. The elderly Silvanesti pushed Kerian aside in his haste to minister to his patient. She made no demur, only watched helplessly as Truthanar worked to get an elixir between Gilthas’s blue lips. An age seemed to pass before the attack finally ended and Gilthas lay unconscious, but breathing more easily.
Despite his continuing weakness, Kerian had not wanted to delay the gathering any longer. As Alhana said, they simply could not go on as they had been.
Kerian looked out over the multitude of Silvanesti, Qualinesti, and Kagonesti assembled before her and felt a lump form in her throat. From every corner of the old realms they had come, driven out of the lands in which their race had dwelt for millennia. Many had perished during the long journey. Some had been born.
Clearing her throat, she began to speak.
“People of our ancient race! Many twists of fate and fortune have brought us to this place. Thousands have fought and died so we might live. As we honor those who sacrificed for us, we come together now to consider our future. Because so much depends on the choice we make, we speak before you all in a new Sinthal-Elish.”
That was the conclave that established the first elf realm, Silvanesti, and had made Silvanos Goldeneye the first Speaker of the Stars.
Someone in the crowd called, “Where is the Speaker? Where is the Pathfinder?”
Others took up the call. The cries angered Kerian. A furious retort hovered on her lips, but a touch on her wrist drew her attention. Alhana whispered, “They are afraid, niece, not angry. Reassure them.”
As usual her advice was sound, but Kerian’s ire was not easily dismissed. She had no wish to parade her husband’s condition, not before the nation that loved him and certainly not before Porthios’s knowing gaze.
She raised her hands and the cries ceased. “The Speaker knows of this meeting,” she said. Grudging every word, she added, “He is… unwell today. His healers have advised him to keep to his bed.” Truthanar would prefer the Speaker remain in bed permanently, but Kerian wasn’t about to reveal that.
Confused questions traveled round the crowd. Their Speaker was ill? How ill? He must be very sick indeed to miss so momentous a gathering. Seeing the Lioness’s very evident worry only exacerbated their concern and frightened exclamations erupted.
“Perhaps a litter should be sent for him,” Alhana murmured to Kerian as the noise level increased.
“Cease your chattering!”
Porthios’s command sliced through the crowd’s babble He walked up the slight incline to the higher end of the granite slab. Most of the elves quieted; the rest were shushed by their neighbors. If they were to hear his hoarse voice, all must be silent. Although they were willing to listen, a great many averted their eyes from Porthios’ damaged form.
“We are here,” he stated, “to decide matters far more important than the life of one elf.”
Kerian took an angry step toward him, but Alhana held back, hissing, “No! The people must not see us argue.”
“Then they’d better close their eyes,” Kerian growled but remained where she was, for the moment.
Porthios continued. “The only question we face is this: Shall we remain here and die of starvation or be
