He looked at those gathered, his daughter, the Lords of House Protector and House Metalline, the Lady of House Cleric. Each cast secret glances at the white-shrouded object beside the throne. What is that? said the eyes of those who had not long before wondered at the ivory sculpture.
None of the other House Holders were present. This was no gathering of the Sinthal-Elish, no formal seeking of advice from the Houses and the priests of the seven temples. This was a secret council swiftly summoned, each member chosen at the king's will, for the king's purpose.
Lord Garan had come on his griffin, still wearing the grime and the filth of battle-blood, mud, tears, and sweat. The Lord of House Protector hadn't understood the message he'd received from the king last night, the sudden word to come home and to come swiftly. It showed on him, the puzzlement.
Near Garan stood Elaran and Keilar. One spent all her days in prayer, the other spent all his in the making of weapons and armor. 'Prayer and weapons, they will be all we need,' Elaran had said in the summer when news had come of the first forays of Phair Caron's armies. Keilar had agreed with all his heart and all his faith in the sword-smiths of his House. Now it did seem to each-Lorac saw it in their eyes, was sure he read it in their hearts- that both prayer and sword were failing.
Sunlight moved across the floor in increments so small that only an ancient eye could mark them. Lorac's eye marked each moving of the light, as he marked the changes, war-wrought and cruel, that had come to his people. His heart ached for them all. Garan, who had lost so many of his Wildrunners in this wretched summer, seemed to have aged years in only months. Garan loved his soldiers, every one as though they were his own sons and daughters. Upon scrolls in the libraries of House Protector, their names had been written, made immortal in the annals of the kingdom. If all those scrolls perished, burned by war, it would be Lord Garan who could speak those names still. They lived in his heart.
The world is lost. The land is lost!
As lives the land, so live the elves. Silvanos himself had spoken these words. A prayer, a chant, the sound of one's blood beating in the heart-those simple words were all that and more. They were how an elf understood the world and his place in it. In his heart, King Lorac repeated them reverently. Ah, but who would speak those words otherwise?
And the orb beneath his hand-Lorac started, withdrawing his hand from the thick white velvet shroud. When had he reached to touch the orb? With artful carelessness, he placed his hand on the arm of his throne.
Recalled to his purpose, Lorac said, 'My lords and ladies. Will you do me the kindness of paying your attention?'
A form of speaking. Of course they would. All eyes turned to him as he breathed the words of an imaging spell, ancient words, soft and silken, learned in Istar in the years before anyone imagined Takhisis would call dragons back to Krynn.
The Speaker of the Stars lifted his hand, gnarled and old. He gestured with one finger as though it were an artist's brush. He drew images upon the air, a map broad and tall. It showed the world of the Silvanesti, a world of beloved forests, of beauty and grace, of people whose lives moved in quiet, well-ordered rounds of peaceful watches, for long generations untroubled and untouched by the clamor of the folk who lived outside. Here was the Silvanesti Nation, shown from its northern border, now burning, to the southern tip where stood the port of Phalinost. Even now the broad bay was filling with a fleet of tall ships. White sails shining in the sun, filling with the wind, those swan-breasted ships tugged restlessly at their moorings, eager for the sea.
'Now, heed,' said the elf-king.
Alhana's hand tightened on his shoulder, then loosed. He felt it trembling, slightly. Lord Garan held still, but Elaran and Keilar looked up, their eyes narrowing.
'Lord Garan, tell me: How did you leave the border-land?'
Garan drew himself up tall, the Lord of the Wildrunners. He took a step forward. 'My lord king, Phair Caron has harried us all the summer long. She fights us now in autumn, but she hasn't claimed any land for herself. It all lies still in our hands.'
A sigh whispered around the chamber, echoing hollowly. What Lord Garan said was truth, and yet it was not. Towns and cities in the north stood empty now, their towers the halls of ghosts. The dragonarmy had done nothing but drive out the people, whipping them down to the south, down to Silvanost, the capital of the Silvanesti. The first of a sea of them had entered the city only this morning, ragged, weeping, some-it must be said-half-mad with grief and rage. These were the first. It was said by Wildrunners who had seen them that more would follow. Silvanost would choke on the ever-swelling river of refugees, for the Highlord would not abandon the tactics that had served her well till now. Phair Caron would move swiftly and strongly, in hatred sweeping down through the emptied land to camp outside the walls of the city until towered Silvanost starved in winter and begged for surrender terms before spring.
'Tell me this, Lord Garan: Can you beat her back?'
The old warrior lifted his head proudly, standing eye to eye with his king. 'We will die to the last man and woman trying.'
Lorac nodded. It was the reply he had expected. 'If you don't die to the last man and woman, if you spend the rest of the season till winter fighting Phair Caron and her dark goddess, can you win?'
Lord Garan did not drop his gaze, and he did not stand any less proudly. 'My lord king, we will not know until we try.'
Robes rustled. From outside the hall came the quiet murmurings of servants in their goings and comings, a voice lifted in question, another laughing to answer. In the hall, silence sat upon all. Elaran glanced at Keilar. The weapon-smith kept still, his hands quiet. Only his eyes moved, darting from one to another, then to the king.
'Tell me this, Lord Garan, and speak truly: If you spend the rest of the season till winter and through to spring righting Phair Caron, can you win?'
Lord Garan's face flushed. His long eyes glittered. 'My lord king-'
'Can you win, my old friend? Or will you stand beside me all winter long, each time I must turn away another refugee driven down from the northlands, from the midlands, from outside our very city? Will you stand and say, 'Forgive us, but we are choking on refugees now and we cannot feed ourselves. You may not enter here, but you may go out into the forest and die knowing how sorry we all feel about that.' Will you stand with me and say that?'
A silence settled in the great audience hall. Only breathing was heard.
The world is lost! Unless you heed!
The elf-king almost shouted those very words, the dictum of the orb. They beat in him like the rhythm of his own heart. He'd heard them over and again, waking and sleeping, and he found in them, curiously, not despair but hope. Unless you heed… The orb spoke of hope, and it spoke of power. It spoke of promise, and it spoke of a way to defeat the Highlord Phair Caron.
Not only her defeat did it promise. It promised the defeat of the Dark Queen herself, the ruin of Takhisis. O you sweet gods of Goodness and Light! How to measure that boon if it were granted?
The world is lost, unless you heed me! Come and take what I have for you. If you do otherwise, the world is lost!
Lorac rose from the Emerald Throne. Though the orb remained hidden beneath the white velvet shroud, in his heart, in his veins, in his very blood, he felt its light pulsing, a drumbeat calling him to action. He looked at his daughter, Alhana, white as marble, her eyes glittering as with fever. What he would say would not surprise her. He had formed his plan alone, but he had spoken of it to her, for Alhana would play a heavy part in it. A burden unasked for would fall upon her slender shoulders. She did not smile to encourage; she had been all the night protesting. No matter, no matter, he knew what must be done.
'Now hear me,' he said to Lord Garan. 'Listen,' he said to Elaran and Keilar. 'I will not play at gambling with the lives of my people. Plans have been laid against this day, and this is what will happen: You, my Lord Garan, will sent out your scouts and you will bid them go to every village and town and city where people yet live, and into the woods where the refugees wander. They will proclaim this message: 'Gamer up your families and go down to the sea. Go to Phalinost where every person will find a place made and waiting for him. Prepare for a sea journey, and know that you will return.' '
'Exile,' Garan whispered, the terrible word like sentence of death. 'Speaker, will you do that? Will you lead us all out of the land into exile while the foul armies of Takhisis flow into the kingdom and hold it forever against us?' In his eyes Lorac saw such pain as war-gotten wounds had never given him. 'Tell me, Lorac Caladon: Have I
