Ilista tensed, waiting for the sound of ringing steel. Instead, all was silent for a long moment, then the flap flew aside again and Gareth emerged. He still had his sword, but in his hand was something else.
“There’s no one within,
He held it up, a roll of rough parchment, tied with plain hempen cord. It bore no seal. She stared at it, swallowing, then reached out and took it from his hand. Her fingers trembled as she untied the cord and unfurled it. It was two sheets, in fact, not one. The first, she saw, was a map of some sort. She gave it a quick, frowning glance, then turned to the second page, and her breath left her in a rush.
Chapter Seven
The orb caught the candlelight, gleaming as she opened the box’s golden lid. There was something else to it, though-a faint, blue-white shimmer that owed nothing to the tapers burning within the tent. Ilista held her breath, watching the ghost-light dance. like most Istarans, she found sorcery strange and a little frightening-even the magic of the elves, whose wizards wore the White Robes as a rule. Her apprehension had been enough, so far, to keep her from using the orb. Now, though, was different.
She looked at the scroll, resting in her lap, and the simple words on it. The Knights had searched and searched but found no trace of whoever had left the message. She practically had to beg Sir Gareth not to stand guard within her tent, and she knew he was just outside, even now, in case of trouble. She’d read the scroll fifty times, its words chilling and exciting her all at once. Loralon had to know, as soon as possible, so she reached into the box and lifted out the flickering orb.
It was lighter than it looked-perhaps hollow-and cold as snowmelt. The bluish light swelled as she cupped it in her hand, swallowing the candles’ dim glow and making her shadow huge upon the tent’s wall. She caught her breath, glancing toward the flap, but Sir Gareth didn’t burst through as she feared.
The Knights didn’t see the witchlight, which was good. Istarans mistrusted magic, hut the men of Solamnia loathed it. Dista swallowed, gazing into the orb. Its shimmer caught her gaze and held it She muttered a quick prayer, asking Paladine’s forgiveness for meddling in sorcerous ways, then drew a breath.
“Loralon,” she whispered.
For a time, nothing happened, and she began to wonder if she’d done it wrong, and the spell hadn’t worked. As she was looking up, though, the magic took hold, so quickly she nearly dropped the orb. The crystal warmed in her grasp, and the light began to spin and swirl, making a sound like a mad flautist’s song. She peered into its depths when she recovered, trying to make out shapes within the boiling glow-and slowly they emerged, resolving into a blurred image, like a fresco painted in bad plaster, then sharpening until it became Loralon’s bearded face. It was past midwatch now, morning closer than sunset, but the Emissary looked neither tired nor disheveled. Instead he smiled at her, a little sadly. Her skin rose into bumps at the sight of his disembodied visage, resting in her hand. She would have to say a long cleansing prayer, when this was done.
“First Daughter,” Loralon said. “I have been hoping you would contact me. I have grave tidings.”
He told her about Symeon’s illness, and though the King-priest had seldom been warm toward her, she found herself weeping all the same. The Kingpriest still could not speak, and his right arm and leg remained paralyzed. The people of the Lordcity, on hearing of his condition, had gathered in great numbers outside the Temple to pray for him, but no one in the church believed he would survive.
As for Kurnos, he was proving more assertive. Already he talked of sending the army into Taol after all, but Loralon had stayed him thus far, still counseling caution. The bandits had not struck in the highlands in some time, and the chance that they had stopped altogether was enough to curb the First Son. Loralon seemed to think it a hopeful sign that Kurnos listened to reason, but Ilista was less sure. The First Son’s temper was short, and she feared the slightest flare-up would give him the excuse to wage war on the Taoli.
In her mind, she saw an army advancing through craggy hills, and she shivered. Her dream on the night Paladine had appeared to her was coming true. She hoped she could complete her quest before the
“You did not use the orb because of His Holiness, though,” Loralon said, his eyes glittering. “What has happened? Have you found the one you seek at last?”
Her free hand strayed to her medallion. “Not exactly. I think he may have found me.”
She told him of the mysterious scroll, reading its message to him. His eyes widened.
“Whispering limbs and leaves,” he said when she was done, surprising her. She had never heard him swear before. “The message truly says
She shook her head. “Have you?”
“Not even the Kingpriest.” He stroked his beard, the shock smoothing out of his face like ripples from a still pond. “What of the map?”
She held it up, tracing along its lines with her finger. “These are the mountains near here,” she said. “Sir Gareth has traveled to Xak Tsaroth before, and he knows the roads. There is an old monastery this way-it belonged to monks of Majere once, he says, but it’s been abandoned for years.”
“Not any more, evidently.” A smile ghosted Loralon’s lips. “
Ilista nodded. It would mean turning from her planned path, true, but what good had that path done her so far? Who was to say that it led to anything but more failure? Looking again at the scroll, she could barely keep her hopes from spilling over.
She and Loralon spoke a while longer, of smaller matters, then bade each other farewell. Within the orb, the elf spoke a word, and his image flickered, then faded back into the maelstrom of the orb’s light. That dimmed as well, returning to the ghostly glimmer she’d first observed when she picked up the crystal. The orb turned cold again, and she signed the triangle over herself to ward off ill fortune as she put it away.
She lay awake in her bed after, staring at the pavilion’s silken roof. It was some time before she slept.
The day dawned gray, the mountains shrouded by fog, and a light drizzle fell as Ilista and the Knights rode south, away from Xak Khalan. The peaks loomed on either side of the road, jagged and steep, more barren with every mile. Their snowy summits disappeared into the cloudrack. Ashes and firs clung to the rocks, and creeping brambles Sir Gareth called Hangman’s Snare. Here and there, stones littered the path from where they had broken free of the slopes above, and once they even heard the crack and rumble of a not very distant slide, echoing amongst the crags.
Well after midday the road forked, a smaller path breaking off and running deeper into the wilds. An obelisk of white stone leaned among the bushes, overgrown with ivy. At its crown was a copper spider, now green with age- the holy symbol of Majere, the god of thought and wisdom. Ilista paused before the monolith to study the strange map, then bit her lip, looking from one fork to the other. In the end, though, she had little choice. They could rest the horses and themselves at the monastery and continue in the morning. So they turned from the main road to follow the spider. She prayed it wasn’t leading her to a web.
The going from there soon grew harder, the path rougher and steeper, cracked and littered with scree. Bracken covered it over in places, so they had to dismount and lead their horses through. Cave mouths yawned in the slopes above, like the eyes of skulls. The Knights eyed these warily, their hands on their swords. Kharolis was a wild country, and Gareth knew many tales of terrible creatures that lurked in the mountains, preying on goats and lizards… and now and then unwary travelers. Goblins, in particular, were rife in some places. Ilista had never seen a goblin outside a bestiary, but she still shuddered as she imagined the squat, twisted creatures shrieking down upon them from the caverns above.
Drizzle gave way to downpour. The horses grew skittish, tossing their heads and whinnying, and the Knights did too, several drawing their swords, Ilista hunched low in her saddle, her sodden robes weighing her down. The
