Favaronas drew his geb close around him as if feeling a chill despite the desert heat. “Perhaps. One other possibility has occurred to me, but it’s really too frightful to contemplate.”
Glanthon had to prompt the scholar, reminding him of his duty to the Speaker, before he would continue. Even then, Favaronas looked around furtively, making certain no one was eavesdropping.
“Do you know much about the history of our race?” he asked.
Glanthon’s education didn’t extend much beyond reading, writing, and simple mathematics, He admitted his lack of scholarship.
Briefly, Favaronas described the founding of the first elven nation under Silvanos Goldeneye, first Speaker of the Stars. The land claimed by the elves, the land that would one day be Silvanesti, was then occupied by powerful dragons. Conflict ensued, the First Dragon War, in which Balif led his griffon riders to victory. The triumph was not Balif’s alone. The gods of magic sent a trio of mages to aid the elves. The mages were armed with five powerful dragonstones. Balif and the mages set a trap for the dragons, luring them into a final battle, then capturing their souls within the dragonstones. The dragons’ empty bodies were transformed to ridges of stone, and became part of the Khalkist range; they were part of that mountain range still.
Like all elves, Glanthon knew Silvanos had founded the nation that bore his name. But hearing the story, thrilling even in abbreviated form, left him open-mouthed.
“What happened to the dragonstones?” he asked.
“Let me quote the Chronicle of Silvanos.” This was the book all aspiring archivists were required to learn by heart. “‘Victorious, the Cloud-Legion of Lord Balif carried the captive dragon spirits away, north to the deepest range of the mountains. Here was the Pit of Nemith-Otham, the deepest cleft in the world, and into it Lord Balif cast the souls of one hundred dragons.’”
In case Glanthon didn’t follow him fully, Favaronas added, “The exact location of Nemith-Otham is not known today, but I suspect-I fear!-Inath-Wakenti was once the Pit of Nemith-Otham.”
Glanthon was amazed. If Favaronas was correct, beneath the surface of the valley lay the greatest concentration of magical force in the world, the captive souls of one hundred dragons, and the nomads’ fearful respect of the place was entirely justified.
One dragon, just one, the formidable green dragon Beryl, had destroyed an army comprising thousands of elves. Even in death she had murdered elves. Plummeting from the sky, she had crushed the city of Qualinost so badly that the land collapsed and the White-Rage River rushed in. Nearly all the survivors of the battle drowned. The Speaker’s own mother, Queen Mother Laurana, had been killed, and the site remained flooded to this day, as far as anyone knew. The dragon’s rotting corpse was still at the bottom of the lake, giving it the well-deserved name Nalis Aren, the Lake of Death.
Glanthon was a survivor of that battle. Hardly a month went by that he didn’t relive in dreams the horror and gallantry he’d witnessed. Knowing well the havoc one green dragon had wreaked, he could scarcely comprehend the destruction a hundred creatures could do.
Seeing his stricken face, Favaronas reminded him It was only a theory, and it didn’t explain the ruins, the disappearing antelope the Lioness had seen, or the strange ghost that had passed Glanthon and Favaronas in the tunnel. The only hard facts the archivist had wrung from the scrolls thus far was that Someone, in sizable numbers, had occupied the valley, and they had a connection to the valiant, doomed Balif. The titles of the other seven cylinders were as cryptic as that of the first. He had puzzled them out as “Counting of the Tribe.”
“Halfway Order of the Breeding,” “Raising of the Pillars,” and “Sleeping of the First One.”
He thought it odd the labels of two of the eight randomly chosen cylinders mentioned “halfway”. Judging from the way the word was used, he felt it referred to a group of people, not a location.
“Whatever it means,” he said, “I confess I am glad to be out of that peculiar valley for good.”
Glanthon shook his head. “It may not be for good. The Speaker hopes the valley will be our new homeland.” Ignoring Favaronas’s shocked expression, the warrior added that he thought the valley, with its hidden entrance, abundance of water, and tunnel system, would make a fine haven for them.
“We must simply solve its various mysteries,” he finished stoutly.
Favaronas said, “The humans may be right about the place.
There may be mysteries there we should not disturb.”
“What about our people? Not only the thousands languishing in that filthy camp outside Khuri-Khan, but the hundreds of thousands who bear the yoke of foreign conquerors? Do we forget them and take the easy path to everlasting exile?”
Favaronas had no answer. Glanthon was a dedicated warrior. He found virtue in hardship and nobility in war. How could an archivist at least twice his age tell the proud soldier that his ideals were wrong?
He couldn’t. Instead, he silently vowed to continue his study of the cylinders. There had to be a way to get at the interior text, if any.
The westward ride progressed without incident. As dusk fell, the warriors camped just below the summit of a broad, gravelly hill. They’d come across no signs of nomads. The desert west of the mountains seemed as devoid of people as the Vale of Silence had been.
They had plenty of water from the valley, but rations were growing short. Only pine nuts and berries had been found during their foraging trips in the valley. Tis sterility caused much comment among the elves. Many were former herdsmen or farmers, and a few had been gardeners in the great city of Qualinost. In elven lands a gardener was no menial laborer, but an artist comparable to a sculptor, poet, or painter. They could come up with no obvious reason for the valley’s lack of game and edible plants. No two-legged hunters prowled its paths; it contained plenty of water; its climate was mild. The soil was sandy and poor in many places, not to mention having that odd color, but nearer the highlands there should be better minerals in the earth. Common sense dictated the valley should be teeming with life. Why, then, was it so silent and empty?
Favaronas had formulated an answer, but he did not share it with the others, not wishing to be drawn into a long discussion. The ghostly lights in the ruins were attracted to horses, riders, and even the murderous sand beast. He believed that, over time, the will-o’-the-wisps had cleared the valley of animal life, right down to the flies. Where the creatures had been taken he could not say, but the Speaker must consider this danger before bringing the entire nation to dwell there.
Clouds appeared in the east, high and solid looking. The desert air usually was so dry no clouds could penetrate this far from the sea, so their appearance caused much comment as the elves settled into camp. When flickers of lightning flashed beneath the clouds, the elves knew they were seeing something extraordinary, but not even that could keep the weary warriors awake long.
Favaronas labored far into the night, trying to unlock the secret of the stone cylinders. He gathered dry desert grasses and built a small fire by a stand of saltbush, whose grayish- green leaves had served as his dinner. He laid one of the cylinders in the flames, but fire had no effect on it. He tried pouring water, then oil, on the cylinders, to soften them, but again met with failure. The ends of the cylinders bore tight spiral patterns. They looked like nothing so much as ordinary vellum scrolls turned to stone, perhaps by age or magic. If the former, it might be possible to separate the books using mechanical means, but if magic was involved, his efforts were pointless. The Speaker would have to find skilled mages to unravel the guarded cylinders.
Sometime past midnight Favaronas fell asleep, the cylinders arranged before him. His fire had died to a bed of shimmering coals.
The soft crunch of footfalls woke him. He had spent too many fearful days and nights in the valley to ignore such noises.
“Who’s there?” he hissed. Likely the noise was innocent, caused by one of Glanthon’s soldiers. Favaronas called out again, by tur
ns nervous and angry. The fellow could have the courtesy to answer!
He tossed a handful of dry grass on the coals of his fire. Flames blossomed. To his heart-thudding shock, they illuminated a cloaked figure standing a few feet away. The figure moved back, seeking the darkness.
Favaronas shouted, getting quickly to his feet. Glanthon had given him a Weya-Lu mace because it required little skill to wield. He clutched it now. He was terrified, but certain his cry would rouse the warriors and they would protect him.
Strangely, none came. The warriors around him remained still. Despite his continued shouts, he heard snores and deep inhalations as they slept on, undisturbed.
The cloaked intruder joined several similarly clad figures at the foot of the hill. Favaronas could make out four distinct I forms, and in the night’s deep folds, he spied the movement of many more. Instead of fleeing, the four came closer and surrounded him.
He waved the mace, shouting at them to stay back. With an enemy at each point of the compass, he found himself whirling in a circle, trying desperately to keep them all in view.
“Stranger.”
The whisper brought him around to face one of the four.
“Give back what you have taken.”
He knew immediately what was meant: the stone cylinders. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Slender hands turned back the dark hood. A lovely face appeared, that of a young female elf with eyes and hair the color of sunlit gold.
The other three uncovered their heads, revealing themselves to be elf maidens, too. One had hair and eyes of darkest onyx; another was copper hued, and the fourth silvery white. All four were beautiful, with flawless, milky skin and crimson lips, but their expressions were somber.
“Give back what you have taken,” repeated the golden- haired maid.
Favaronas lowered the mace. “These relics are important to us,” he replied. “Can’t you spare them?”
In unison, the four advanced a step toward him. Golden Hair once more repeated her command, with the others echoing it.
These weren’t phantoms. Unlike the translucent ghost he’d encountered in the tunnel, these elves were flesh and blood. Even in the poor light he could see the tracks left in their hair by combs, hear the rustle of their robes, see how their thin sandals pressed into the gravelly sand.
“Please, we didn’t mean to steal anything,” he said, addressing Golden Hair. “I’m an archivist, an expert on documents. These cylinders are very old, and I’d like to read them. You’re elves; you must know how important these cylinders could be to our people. Do you know how to open them?”
She unclasped her cloak and let it fall, exposing bare flesh. The others followed suit. Before Favaronas could digest this development, one of the maidens sprang on him from behind. Another snatched the mace from his hand, and a third struck the backs of his knees, toppling him to the ground.
His head hit the ground with such force that the stars overhead vanished in a sunrise of pain. A terrible weight settled on his chest. When his head finally cleared, he saw the golden-haired elf sitting on his chest. Although she looked so slight a strong breeze would sway her, she was extremely heavy. He could hardly draw breath against the crushing weight of her body. He pleaded for air.
She leaned down, grasping his head between her hands. As she moved closer, her lovely face shattered. Instead of a radiantly fair elf maid, Favaronas found himself eye to eye with a wolf, one with golden eyes and matching pelt.
“Give back what you have stolen!” the wolf snarled.
He couldn’t understand why the creatures didn’t just take the stone cylinders and go. They had certainly defeated him. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.
“Take them!” he wheezed. “Why don’t you. -.just take them?”
“You shall have no rest until you return what you have taken!”
So saying, the wolf lifted one paw high. Favaronas couldn’t draw breath to scream before the claws slashed across his throat.
* * * * *
The uneasy calm continued at Khuri-Khan. Slate-colored clouds piled higher and higher over the city until they no longer flowed with the wind. For the first time in living memory, the desert sun vanished completely. Khurs and elves sweltered despite the unexpected shade. No breath of wind stirred, and the heat was stifling. Brief, unpredictable showers of rain fell, keeping everyone sodden, steamy, and uncomfortable.
The murder of Lord Morillon fanned the flames of fear and distrust already smoldering from the attempt on the Speaker’s life. There were no clues to his death. No evidence pointed to anyone in particular, but the view in Khurinost was that Morillon had been slain by fanatical Torghanists.
Sahim-Khan agreed. His fierce captain Vatan and one hundred elite palace guards cleared the Temple of Torghan. The entire college of priests was dragged away in chains, along with two dozen scruffy nomads hiding in the temple grounds, and a handful of terrified servants. High priest Minok could not be found.
The elves kept close to their tents. They saw conspiracies every time more than two Khurs appeared on the city street amp; Planchet and Taranath quickly organized water collection for the entire colony. Warriors, rather than ordinary citizens, were sent to purchase the life-giving liquid. Even without their chargers, and dressed in regular attire, the warriors cut an unmistakable profile as they stood watch over their comrades.
During one of these expeditions Hytanthas Ambrodel learned of the death of Lord Hengriff. He sought out Planchet on his return from the city. The Speaker’s guard commander, Harnaramis, was with the valet.
“Hengriff’s corpse lies in the palace yard,” Hytanthas announced grimly. “Wearing a placard that says ‘Traitor.’”
“A suitable end for a Dark Knight,” Hamaramis opined.
“He saved my life that night at the ruined villa,” the captain insisted. “He may have had a nefarious purpose in mind, but the truth is, he saved me. He seemed an honorable man.” Hamaramis snorted, and Hytanthas added stubbornly, “He deserves better than to feed the flies!”
Planchet understood. He went to a chest standing against the wall of the Speaker’s tent and removed a small sack from one of its drawers. He tossed it to Hytanthas.
“Bribe the guards and secure the Knight’s remains. See to it he gets an honorable burial.”
Head held high under Hamaramis’s disapproval, Hytanthas departed to repay his debt to the Dark Knight of Neraka.
“That money could be better spent.”
The two elves turned to see the Lioness standing in the doorway leading to the Speaker’s bedchamber. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. She’d been up all night, nursing her injured husband.
“It could be used to find Morillon’s killer, or the spineless fiend who tried to kill the Speaker,” she said.
Planchet poured a cup of raw wine and handed it to the Lioness. “They might be the same person,” he said evenly. “Barring a new player, the roster of our foes is shrinking. Sahim-Khan, for all his grasping ways, has shown he’s not our true enemy, and Lord Hengriff is dead.”
“Who does that leave?” she asked.
“The mage Faeterus, for one. We don’t know much about him, but he tried to kill Captain Ambrodel, evaded the Nerakans, and is still at large.”
“What about the Torghanist high priest?”
Planchet shook his head. “A pawn in the game, not a player, I think. Sahim-Khan’s been hunting him for days. He dares not show his face anywhere in Khuri-Khan.”
“Prince Shobbat?” Hamaramis suggested.
Here, Planchet frowned without replying. The heir to the throne of Khur was a cipher to the elves. He had little to do with the running of the country and spent most of his time overseeing repairs to the palace or pursuing his personal pleasures. It was rumored he was involved in Hengriff’s fall, but the elves found this hard to credit. No one in Khuri-Khan took the spoiled, pleasure-loving prince seriously as a threat.
Kerian held out her empty cup and Planchet refill
ed it.
“How fares the Speaker, lady?” Hamaramis asked quietly.
“He sleeps. His fever waxes each night and wanes by day.”
Planchet said, “An entire corps of healers from Khuri-Khan waits to attend him.”
“Humans have done enough for the Speaker!” she snapped. Her furious expression lasted only seconds, then settled back into its usual stolid exhaustion. “Our people can take care of him.”
Although she had no grudge against Sa’ida or the Temple of Elir-Sana Kerian had been so shaken by the treacherous attack on Gilthas that she wouldn’t allow any humans near him. Elven sages, lacking the resources of their native lands, were having difficulty controlling his fever, but Kerian insisted only elves treat the Speaker.
She finished her drink, then returned to the dim room where Gilthas slept. The temperature was warm but bearable, the heat kept at bay by the palm fan that rotated slowly next to his bed. It was powered by the strong arms of boys who turned the crank located in an adjacent room. So great was their desire to aid their Speaker, most had to be forced to rest and allow another to take his place.
Around the room’s shadowed periphery, healers consulted each other in whispers. Irritated by their murmuring, Kerian ordered the room cleared.
She sat on her side of the rope-framed bed, careful not to block the breeze from the fan. In the low light she could see sweat on Gilthas’s forehead and along his jaw. His breath was slow and steady, but a little raspy. His eyes were closed. When she touched his cheek, she felt the fever burning inside him.
“I found the valley, Gil,” she said softly. “It’s just where your librarian said it would be, but I fear it’s no place for us. There’s something wrong with it, some kind of curse”- she grimaced at the ignorant word, but could think of no other-”on the place. A force snatches away living creatures, including our people. We never discovered where they went. The Inath-Wakenti holds no animal life at all, not so much as a lizard or a fly. I know the place fascinates you, and we can certainly send other explorers to study it, but that valley is no sanctuary for our beleaguered nation.”
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