carried off by the phantoms beyond the creek, or shall we take back what is rightfully ours?”
A large number of warriors thrust their swords and spear skyward, shouting lusty approval. The mob of civilians before Porthios did not echo their fervor.
“Did we endure the desert crossing only to straggle back again?” asked General Taranath, a highly regarded Qualinesti veteran and the Lioness’s second-in-command.
“Not straggle-strike!” Porthios rasped, straining his scarred throat to speak more loudly. “A burning brand has been thrown into the tinderbox of Qualinesti. With the army we have here, we can fan that blaze into a conflagration that will consume the invaders and give us back our country!”
“You speak of the army. What of the people? Are they to cross desert, mountains, and sea with nothing more than the rags on their backs? They would not survive such a march.”
Taranath’s statement was no more than simple truth. While some still hailed Porthios’s call to liberate Qualinesti, it was clear Taranath’s position had the greater support. Most of those gathered on the alien soil of Inath-Wakenti were not firebrands or warriors. They had fled their homelands to escape genocide, endured years of exile in a hostile land, fought off nomad warriors with rocks and bare hands at times, and followed their Speaker across the desert cauldron to reach the valley he had promised would be a new home. Now Porthios stood there telling them their sacrifices had been for naught, that they must turn around and go back into the desert, with diminished supplies of food and water, easy prey for nomad attacks and the murderous heat. Any who managed to survive the long journey to Qualinesti would face Samval’s bandit horde, perhaps even the dreaded Knights of Neraka, or the army of minotaurs said to be spreading across the continent.
“What choice do they have? Should they stay here and starve?” Samar demanded of Taranath.
Hamaramis, commander of the Speaker’s private guard, shook his head. “None need starve. The valley may be devoid of life, but there’s game in the high hills. With griffon riders to spot for us, we can send hunting parties after game.”
Samar snorted. “For how long?”
“Until crops can be planted and harvested.”
“How do you know anything will grow in this dismal spot?”
And so it went. Porthios, Samar, and Alhana wanted to go. Taranath and most of the crowd believed remaining was the only choice. Hamaramis, unflaggingly loyal to his Speaker, was uncertain. While the argument raged, Kerian turned and stared toward the valley mouth and the torrid wasteland beyond. She hated the desert and everything about it. Her brief time in the green forests of home, drenched in blood though that time had been, had only heightened her loathing for all things Khurish. Taranath, finally noticing her silence, asked for her opinion of Porthios’s plan.
“No One wants to go home more than I,” she said, her gaze roaming slowly over the crowd. “I have been back to Qualinesti. I have seen what the bandits are doing. Slavery squalor, senseless death-that’s what our country lives with every day.
“Here, we are safe from nomads and bandits, but…“ Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “This is not a place to live. It’s a place to die.” She gestured toward the monoliths beyond the creek. “Our headstones are already in place.”
Porthios sensed the subtle shift in the crowd’s emotions. They were wavering, ready to be swayed. He spoke quickly, grasping the advantage.
“Come back with us, Lioness. The army of Qualinesti is yours to command. With you at its head, the army will liberate our rightful lands in no time!”
A cheer erupted from the warriors, and they began to chant, “Liberation! Liberation!”
Hamaramis shouted them into silence. The old general was shocked that the Speaker’s wife would side with Porthios and the Silvanesti. He did not realize how difficult it was for her to say what she had said. Her unflinching sense of honesty would not allow her to lie to their people, even if speaking the truth made it appear she was siding with Porthios.
A new disturbance erupted far from the granite platform. Elves in the back of the crowd got to their feet. Like a wave, the motion spread from the rear of the crowd to the front. All valley eyes turned toward the disturbance.
“The Speaker! The Speaker is coming!”
Gilthas approached, leaning on a short wooden staff. Truthanar followed at his heels, watching with grave concern. The crowd parted for the Speaker, every elf bowing as he passed. Twenty paces from the granite slab, he halted. “A grand assembly,” he said, smiling. “I seem to have misplaced my invitation. How can there be a Sinthal- Elish without the Speaker of the Sun and Stars?” Kerian leaped down from the stone slab. The eight-foot drop bent her knees and scattered the elves nearest her. She hurried to Gilthas’s side. He took her hand, forestalling the attempt to slip a supporting arm around his waist. As though leading a royal procession, the two of them walked to the base of the granite slab. Porthios descended. Gilthas greeted him genially.
“I understand you want to borrow my army. Why?”
“To free our homeland from the filth that occupies it!”
“A worthy goal. But what of the rest of our people?”
“Any who wish to join us are welcome.”
Gilthas released Kerian’s hand and gestured to the assemblage around them. “No one doubts our people’s courage, but they are unarmed and untrained,” Gilthas said. “And they would encounter enemies every step of the way, and once home, an army of foes united in their hatred of us.”
Porthios reminded them of Bianost, the Qualinesti town he had wrested from Samuval’s grip. Inspired by the example of Porthios’s tiny band of rebels, the townsfolk had risen up and overthrown their bandit overlords.
“Their valor shall be recorded in the annals of our people,” Gilthas agreed. “But they were there, in the town, under the enemy’s heel. No one asked them to march hundreds of miles, turn around, march back, and then fight. What you suggest is madness.”
“Do you offer a better choice, Great Speaker? This is dead. If our people stay here, they’ll die and accomplish nothing!”
Healer Gilthas shook slightly, and Kerian realized he was striving to suppress a cough. Raising his voice as much as he was able, he addressed the gathering.
“My people, we have been driven from our ancestral lands and persecuted by barbarians of every stripe. This valley is our destiny. Where we now stand is the only place on this continent that is ours for the taking. No one else wants it. I don’t deny its disadvantages. It harbors secrets so dark, our wisest sages have not yet fathomed them, but I believe they will. As I see it, in this sheltered spot, we will heal our many wounds and grow strong. As surely as day follows night, so the fortunes of races change. Today our nation is at low ebb. Tomorrow we will be better, and in a thousand tomorrows, we will have regained what we have lost. But only if we have a haven from which to start!”
A roar went up from the assembly. Alhana applauded the Speaker’s vision, but Porthios made a scornful, dismissive gesture.
When the tumult died, Samar asked, “What about those to who wish to go, Speaker? Will you keep them here?”
“I will bind no one to my will. But even if every soul departs, I shall remain in Inath-Wakenti.”
The assembly fell into loud debate once more. Atop the slab, Samar and Taranath exchanged words. Hamaramis climbed down to stand by his Speaker. Porthios, like Kerian, watched Gilthas. Alhana listened to the crowd for a time, gauging emotions, studying expressions; then she hopped off the rear of the slab. A minute later, she came and spoke privately to Gilthas, then remounted the slab.
When Samar realized she was trying to address the throng he put a ram’s horn to his lips and blew. The high, ululating note echoed down the pass. The crowd grew still.
“Elves of Krynn,” Alhana said, “whether we go or stay, nothing will be served if we wreck our unity. Our nations fell because they were divided. We must not be divided again. But there is a way to let all choose.”
She held up her hands. In each was a stone. One was a smooth pebble of common white quartz; the other, a rough piece of blue-gray granite. “Let every elf find a stone. Blue granite for those who wish to stay in Inath- Wakenti, white quartz for those who join our crusade in Qualinesti. No blame will attach to either choice. Each chooses his or her own fate, and that choice is final.”
Gilthas praised her idea, but Kerian saw no reason for waiting. Why not have the assembly divide into two
