There was one vehicle drawn up at the edge of the White Strand. It was a closed coach, finely made but devoid of any decoration, talisman, or heraldry. The gleaming pearl-gray coach was pulled by four horses of the same hue, perfectly matched. No one sat on the driver’s box. As Balif rode out onto the broad avenue, he passed the coach. Taking the brim in his hand, he doffed his hat to the coach. Curtains drawn across the windows never stirred.
Seeing the exchange, Mathi urged her balky mount to go faster. Drawing abreast of Artyrith, she said, “What was that about? Who do you think was in that coach?”
Looking straight ahead, the cook replied, “What coach?”
Lofotan also ignored the vehicle. Treskan frankly stared at it until the marching ranks of Farolenu’s elves entered the street. Once Balif was far down the way, a liveried driver appeared from behind the conveyance. He climbed onto the box, cracked his whip, and drove the mysterious coach away.
Then it struck her: Amaranthe. She had come to say good-bye after all.
Nothing else of note happened along the way to the E’li Gate. The massive panels were standing open. Pennants of the House of Silvanos whipped from the towers above the gate. Balif rode through, stopped, and turned his horse around. Lofotan and Artyrith did the same, keeping the same positions behind their leader. With the pack animals between them, Treskan and Mathi couldn’t manage such a tidy maneuver. They settled for clearing out of the way, pushing the pack train to the ditch on the north side of the road.
Farolenu halted his troops inside the gate. Alone he walked through to the general. He gave his hand. “My lord, I want you to know I have written to the outposts at Free Winds, Greenfield, and Tanjanost, advising them of your coming. They will render any assistance you need.”
“This was not Silvanos’s order, was it?” Balif asked. He gripped his old comrade’s hand firmly.
Farolenu said nothing. When Balif released his hand, the one-time metalsmith saluted as old soldiers do, placing his palm over his heart. “The gods bless you, Balif of the Plains.”
“Thank you, my friend. Somehow I doubt they will.”
He left the puzzled Farolenu and rode away, spurring his horse to a canter. The others hurried after him. Ahead lay the ferry station and the broad Thon-Thalas. The ferry crew was standing by. Their craft was a broad, flat-bottomed barge with three steering boards and a pole mast supporting a white lateen sail. There was much talk in the city of training giant turtles to tow barges back and forth across the Thon-Thalas, but so far that had not been done.
Balif’s party boarded the empty ferry. Normally that time of day would find a sizable crowd filing aboard, but there was no one else in the station. Lofotan queried the crew about it. Nervously, they avowed no knowledge, but it was plain the Speaker wanted Balif’s departure made as quiet as possible.
The horses were secured, and the baggage stowed. Sitting on the rows of benches in the bluff bow, Mathi watched with interest as the sailors cast off. The sail went up, and the steering oars were turned by practiced hands. Mathi asked why there were three oars instead of just one.
“The Thalas is wide and deep,” Lofotan explained. “Though the surface is placid, there is a terrific undertow from the city all the way down to the sea. It takes more than one rudder to steady a craft on this river.”
Balif removed his hat and let the river wind tussle his pale hair. “In the Dream Days, the people who dwelt by the river called it ‘Thon-Flaxis,’ which means Drowning River in the old tongue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It was common for the river tribes to use the river as a way of solving disputes.”
Sensing a story, Treskan unlimbered his writing equipment. Artyrith, feet propped up on the bench in front of him, idly asked how it was done.
“Two elves with a conflict or an affair of honor could ask for a trial by water. Each would enter the Thon-Thalas from the opposite bank and swim to the other side. If one drowned, the survivor was judged to have won his case. If they both drowned, the subject of their dispute was taken away from both clans and given to a disinterested party.”
“And if both survived?” Mathi wondered.
“There is no record of that ever happening,” said Balif.
“Our ancestors must have been savages to employ such practices.” Artyrith sniffed.
Balif replaced his hat. With great dignity, he withdrew to the stern of the barge, where he gazed at the city slowly diminishing in the distance.
“Fool,” said Lofotan in a low voice. “Don’t you ever govern your tongue?”
“What have I said?” asked the cook innocently.
“Did you not know our lord offered to swim the Thon-Thalas as proof of his innocence in the recent scandal? The Speaker forbade it, but our lord was sincere. He would have undergone the ordeal had the Speaker agreed.”
Shamed, Artyrith looked away and said nothing. Mathi made her way aft to where the general stood, one foot propped on the stern post.
“My lord, don’t be so troubled. I’m sure our mission will succeed,” she ventured.
“Perhaps it will. Stranger things have happened.”
He continued to watch the city shrink to the horizon. Mathi tried to say something encouraging. How dangerous could their mission be? They weren’t expected to fight off an invasion with just five elves, merely find out what was going on.
“Our mission means nothing,” Balif said. “Any subaltern with half a mind could do it. What troubles me is quite different.”
Grateful for the opening, Mathi asked what the general had on his mind.
“I cannot escape the feeling this is the last time I shall see Silvanost,” he replied somberly. “And all who dwell here.”
CHAPTER 6
Eyes
Once he set foot on the eastern shore, Balif was a different elf. All his melancholy contemplation vanished. He supervised the offloading of their horses and gear with crisp efficiency, tipped the ferry crew with gold for their labors, and bade them farewell. When the barge was out of earshot, Balif addressed his companions.
“From this point on, we are not the Speaker’s eyes and ears, seeking foreign invaders in our land. Do you understand? We are travelers, nothing more. Our outward goal is to find sites for new villages for settlers from the west. Silvanost and the heartland of the realm are overcrowded. Our people need space and land. Is that clear?” Everyone agreed it was.
“I am the party’s surveyor. I am not a general. Anyone who addresses me as such will know my displeasure.”
All eyes went to Artyrith. “What?” he demanded. “Am I so loose-lipped?”
Balif cleared his throat and went on. “Lofotan is our engineer. You’re chiefly interested in water sources, quarry sites, and places that need bridging. Artyrith will be what he is, our cook. Treskan is my secretary. As we travel, he will create a record of our exploration that will pass the closest inspection—a very long, very dull catalog of watersheds, fields, and forests. I want anyone who reads it to fall asleep after half a page, utterly convinced by your record’s tiresome authenticity.” Treskan assured him that he could compile a log guaranteed to numb an ogre.
“In this masquerade, what role do I play?” asked Mathi.
Balif gave her a strange, probing look. “You could be my wife,” he said. At the girl’s consternation, he smiled and added, “But it would be more believable if you were my daughter.”
“How shall we call you, if not ‘my lord Balif’?” Lofotan asked.
“I shall go by the name the foresters gave me, Camaxilas.”
Mathi thought it all made sense, though it seemed a little elaborate, considering that they were still deep within the Speaker’s realm. Farther east, in the uncharted forests and meadows beyond the Thon-Tanjan, Balif’s precautions would be wise, but why enact them so early?
Artyrith thought the same way and had the impertinence to ask why.
“I want our pose ingrained in all of us by the time we reach the Tanjan,” Balif said. “Tresk
an’s catalog must already be detailed when we get there. Also”—he gestured over his shoulder with a sweep of one hand—”do not be fooled by where we are or what we are close to. This land is not the Speaker’s palace garden. There are many who do not relish his rule and do not love the Silvanesti in any case.”
That being so, why pretend to be the advance guard of a wave of settlement? Surely that would cause much resentment where they were going, Artyrith objected.
Lofotan said, “Sometimes a wise commander gives his enemy what he expects, just so he is free to do what he truly wants—the unexpected.” Mathi understood. If they tried to appear totally harmless, that would incite more suspicion than if they were merely mercenary intruders.
Everyone mounted. Treskan took the reins of the pack-horses to relieve Mathi for a while. Balif took out a small, leather-covered case. He snapped open the lid and held it skyward, turning in his saddle to catch the sun.
“What’s that?” asked the city-bred Artyrith.
“A sunstone,” Lofotan answered. A naturally occurring jewel, sunstone was used to show direction. By aiming the largest flat facet at the sun, light was scattered through the prismatic interior of the stone. A bright blue line at right angles to the sunlight indicated north.
Balif pointed to his right. “That’s our line of march, north by east.” He tucked the sunstone away and spurred his mount. The others hastened to keep up with him.
Through the next day, they worked hard to overcome lifelong etiquette and not constantly refer to their leader as “my lord.” Lofotan had the hardest time. He’d been with Balif for a century of campaigns. Calling Balif “my lord” was as natural to the old soldier as breathing. Artyrith had a much easier time. Breezy manners came easily to him, as he regarded Balif more as an equal anyway. Treskan simplified his problems by saying as little as possible. Mathi practiced calling Balif “Father.” The title took hold in a curiously natural way.
The eastern shore of the Thalas was lightly forested. For centuries the local elves had cultivated hardwoods and nut-bearing trees. Since the end of the savannah campaign against the human nomads, fruit trees had been added to the mix. Mathi could not see any pattern to their growth, but Balif assured her the abundant apple, cherry, and plum trees they saw were deliberate additions to the landscape. Elves did not plant trees in orchards, as humans did. Orderly rows of the same kind of tree would have struck an elf as crude and unlovely. The sunny landscape looked as natural as any lowland grove. True, there was little underbrush to clog the roots and impede the growth of the favored trees, but the hand of elf farmers was very hard to distinguish.
“Who owns this land?” Lofotan consciously bit off the usual “my lord.”
“This is the ancestral holding of the lords of Hestanthalas,” said Balif. The family name meant Hest of the Thalas.
“From here to the bay in the south is all theirs, granted to the family by the second Sinthal-Elish.” Even Artyrith was impressed. Such a large holding meant great wealth, power, and influence. Hestanthalas was an important name in Silvanost. Twice a lord of Hest had stood by the Speaker as his high councilor.
Treskan made notes as he rode. It wasn’t easy, writing while on the back of a swaying pony, but he had to take advantage of Balif’s order to compile a gazetteer of the region. The general wanted it as a cover for their mission, but a detailed description of the region would be invaluable to the masters of Silvanost. Little was truly known of the territory in the elves’ heartland. Maps trying to depict the eastern provinces of Silvanesti had frequent blank spots. Only the largest features—rivers, forests, mountains—were well marked. Treskan had a perfect opportunity to supplement the nation’s meager knowledge and earn points with Balif as well.
They didn’t stop for many miles. Noon came and went, and Balif rode on. He passed a flask of water back and forth with Lofotan, talking quietly about the terrain, the weather, and their previous journeys through the region. Artyrith, Treskan, and Mathi had to make do. The cook broke out food and drink, a sweet nectar that he said was from the Thalas delta. They ate in the saddle. Artyrith grumbled the whole time. While he talked, Mathi half listened with a vacant but sympathetic smile. The cook scarcely noticed.
The longer they rode, the more the trees thinned and eventually disappeared. They topped a low knoll, and Balif reined up. Spread out below was a wide, rolling plain. Unlike the largely flat savannah of the distant west, the eastern plain was hilly, cut by small streams and dry ravines. Thick, dark green grass as high as the horses’ bellies waved in the wind. Ahead of them there wasn’t a tree in sight. Hawks wheeled overhead, screeching. Everyone looked skyward, attracted by the noise—everyone but Balif.
“This is no elf’s land,” he announced. “Whatever the Great Speaker thinks, his power ends with the forest. From here on we shall have to be on our guard.”
“What about the outpost at Free Winds?” Lofotan asked. It was about six hours’ ride farther east. Should they make for it?
Balif nodded. “Free Winds it shall be.” He steered his horse down the shallow slope.
Free Winds wasn’t a town. It was a military post, a Silvanesti island in an ocean of grass. Besides a garrison of elves, there were traders, tax collectors, and other trappings of civilization, but the rule of the Speaker’s law ended outside the outpost’s stone walls.
They rode on. Over the course of the long, summer day the riders strung out according to their ability and the strength of their mounts. Balif forged ahead with Lofotan close at hand. Artyrith, though an accomplished rider about town, wasn’t used to so much time in the saddle. He labored to stay within sight of the leaders, but it was poor Treskan and Mathi who really struggled to keep pace. The pack train didn’t hamper them as much as did their lack of riding skill. By late afternoon Balif and Lofotan were over the horizon, and Artyrith was just a dot in the landscape far ahead.
Treskan tried to get his balky pony go to faster. He was afraid of being left behind, and said so repeatedly. Mathi feared he would start weeping if they didn’t catch up with the others. Thumping the pony’s ribs with her heels and shaking the reins to urge the beast forward, Mathi gradually became aware of the profound silence around them. Stretching high in the simple padded saddle, she saw Artyrith meandering through the grass more than a mile away. They were crossing the bottom of a large, bowl-shaped valley, ringed by low hills. The wind had ceased, and the ever-present hawks were no longer circling overhead. Mathi’s hand went slack on the reins. Her pony slowed then stopped. He fell to cropping the lush grass surrounding them. So did the packhorses. Feeling the drag on their reins brought Treskan to a stop too.
A dull red disk hung close to the horizon. Mathi had the sun at her back, but she shaded his eyes to better see the unexpected object. It was Lunitari, the red moon, uncharacteristically rising before sunset.
She felt a chill pass over her, as if the sun had been suddenly cut off by a passing cloud. The horses sensed it too. One by one they raised their heads and looked at the red moon.
A low rumble rolled over the valley. The sky was dotted with a few fluffy, white clouds, but no thunderheads were present. The packhorses began to whinny and shake their heads. Mathi didn’t pay much attention to their distress until it infected her mount. Treskan’s pony pranced in a tight circle, snorting loudly.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said soothingly. What had them spooked?
Mathi sensed it first. Something was lancing through the high grass about a hundred yards behind them. On all fours, it was moving fast. It wasn’t visible above the grass. She called out to Treskan, alerting him to the danger.
He yelped in alarm. The eastern lands were home to many beasts seldom seen in the well-hunted west: wolves, panthers, great plains bears. Treskan groped for his sword. He didn’t know how to use it, but having it in hand was better than nothing. Mathi had her sword too, thrust upon her by Lofotan, though she had never used such a weapon in her life.
Her pony reared, despite its blinders.
Apparently the horses had gotten wind of the intruder. Mathi was not prepared to keep her seat. She fell off, hitting the thick mat of grass not too hard. Freed of its clumsy rider, the pony trotted away, whinnying and shaking its blunt head.
Mathi got up, throwing off her long riding cloak. Her sword was conveniently sticking point-first in the sod nearby. She tugged it free. Where was the menace?
“Over there!” Treskan called, pointing with his blade. Behind her!
The packhorses, tied together, were nearly mad with fear. They pulled and snatched at the rawhide lines binding them to each other. Curiously, the unseen creature had circled around the easy prey and was creeping through the grass toward Mathi. Then it stopped moving and growled. Low and throaty, its malign intent was unmistakable. Had it said, “I am going to kill you,” in well-inflected Elvish, Mathi could have not felt more threatened.
Sweat stung her eyes. Lashing out with the sword, she slashed out a circle in the grass to give herself a little better view. It was a desperate gesture. She was not a warrior. Neither was Treskan, who had lost his sword trying to keep his seat on his pony. Where were Balif and the others?
She heard the guttural growl again, much closer. By chance she’d been facing Lunitari floating above the horizon. Hearing the beast, Mathi whirled back to front and saw the sanguinary light of the red moon in the thing’s eyes. They were large, dark eyes, set in a face covered with dappled brown and gray fur. Hands shaking, Mathi lowered her blade.
“Stay,” she said as calmly as she could. “I am not an enemy!”
In answer the thing leaped headlong from a low crouch. Mathi backed away, shut her eyes, and held out both hands to ward off the creature’s lunge. She backed away until she tripped in the grass and fell backward. The beast let out a full-fledged roar. Even through tightly clenched eyelids, Mathi sensed a dark mass passing over her. She tensed for the tear of fangs and the rake of talons—
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