He pondered how to convince Faeterus to release him from the spell. The sorcerer was accustomed to life in Khuri-Khan. His sojourn in the lifeless vale would likely make him all the more eager to have his position restored. Shobbat could offer him a place at court, an estate of his own, any amount of money—as soon as Shobbat had taken his rightful place as khan. If that didn’t sway him, Shobbat would dismember him, piece by piece, until he agreed.
His lips curled in a snarl. Maybe he should start with dismemberment and to the Abyss with trying to buy the sorcerer’s aid. Why waste treasure and privilege on an untrustworthy mage? Pain and terror were far better inducements. He would leave just enough of Faeterus alive to remove the curse then rend him to bits.
Another pair of eyes beheld the smoke rising from the side of Mount Rakaris. They were rimmed with tears. Breetan Everride had worked her way up the eastern slope, just south of the broad ledge where the smoke originated. After scaling the heights above the ledge, she carefully made her away across the higher range toward a boat-shaped rock prominence above the Stair. Fatigue, the persistent pain of her broken rib, and the constant presence of the valley ghosts at her heels had clouded her mind and hampered her pace, until finally she made a crucial misstep. She set her foot on a slab of fractured shale and swung her full weight onto it without first testing its stability. The narrow slab shifted abruptly, sending her plunging, feet first, a hundred yards down the mountainside.
Her fall ended only when her left boot wedged in a gap between an oak stump and a sharp-edged boulder. Her body hurtled past until its momentum was arrested with a jerk that snapped her ankle. The pain was horrendous. A sharp scream was torn from her throat, and she shoved her fist in her mouth. Certain she had given herself away, she waited for the inevitable cries of discovery and the hail of elven arrows that would pierce her battered body.
None came. Wracked with agony, her face torn and bleeding, she carefully freed her shattered ankle and lay back, gasping for air and staring at the sky. Through tears, she saw a thick column of smoke rising from the cut in the mountainside below. There was almost no wind. The smoke rose straight as an arrow. Good conditions for her crossbow, if she could still manage it. Her ankle throbbed mercilessly. It was swelling inside her boot. She’d never be able to walk on it, but if she wanted to complete her mission, she had to move. The nearest place that afforded a clear shot at the ledge below was the boat-shaped prominence to which she’d been heading. It was still three hundred feet upslope.
Breetan pushed herself over onto her belly. If she couldn’t walk, then she would crawl.
Twenty feet up the rocky slope, her injured foot snagged on a tree root, and she passed out from the pain. Reviving minutes later in the cool air, she drew a shaky breath, dug her fingers into the stony ground, and resumed her agonizing crawl. Lord Burnond Everride would have expended his last breath carrying out his mission. His daughter could do no less.
17
The preparations were lengthy and obscure. After bringing the Speaker back from the brink of death, Sa’ida sequestered herself in a tent on the edge of camp. There she remained for two days, seeing no one, speaking to no one, and ignoring the food and water left outside the tent. They had no victuals to waste, so morning and evening the untouched food and water was taken away and distributed elsewhere.
At dusk on the second day, the priestess finally broke her silence, asking for water. The warrior on guard outside her tent brought her a cup and brought the old general as well.
The tent flap parted a few inches. From within the dark interior, Sa’ida said, “I shall need more water than that. Much more.”
She conveyed her requirements to Hamaramis. His brows lifted, but he agreed without argument. The human priestess had brought the Speaker of the Sun and Stars back from death and promised to free him of the terrible illness. If water she needed, then water she would have.
A motley collection of buckets, jugs, and pots was filled from a nearby spring and gathered outside the priestess’s tent. Several hours after dark had fallen, Sa’ida asked Hamaramis to summon the Speaker. She still had not come out of the shelter.
The Speaker arrived in his palanquin. He had slept much of the day. Between the priestess’s ministrations and Gilthas’s own strength of will, he arrived sitting up in the woven chair rather than lying propped by pillows. Most of his remaining army and a great many ordinary elves were already there, waiting silently. Sa’ida stood just outside her tent, her back to the crowd, her head bowed. The bearers arrived, but they did not lower the palanquin to the chill ground. Hamaramis announced the Speaker’s presence.
“You have brought me to the deepest graveyard in the world, Great Speaker,” Sa’ida murmured.
“It’s our home. Or will be. Can you help us?”
She turned to face him. Those closest in the crowd gasped at the alteration in her appearance. A robust human woman of fifty years with a typically dark Khurish complexion, Sa’ida seemed to have shrunk. Her face was sallow, and her lips were blue as with cold. In her white robe, she seemed a pallid ghost herself. She looked nearly as ill as Gilthas.
“In my service to the goddess, I have communed with many spirits: peaceful and restless, howling mad and serenely content. I have never encountered any like those who dwell in this valley. They have been crowded into this place as salted fish are packed into barrels in the souks. Row upon row of dead souls, very old and very angry.”
She swayed unsteadily. Gilthas called for a chair. Hamaramis supported her until the stool arrived. Sa’ida sank onto it gratefully. Despite his anxiety to hear what she had to say, Gilthas was concerned for her welfare. But she turned aside his offers of food and drink.
“There are at least four layers of captive spirits here.”
“Four?” Gilthas was surprised. “We thought two—the beast-people and the will-o’-the-wisps.”
She shook her head. “Deep in the primeval warp and weft of this land are imprisoned the souls of an ancient colony of your race.” Grimacing in pain, she pressed a hand to her forehead. “Deeper still are voices so old and so awesome I dared not try to speak to them.” She regarded Gilthas with burning eyes. “This is no place to live, Great Speaker.”
Murmurs arose from those nearest in the crowd. The mutterings spread as the priestess’s words were passed back to those farther away.
“We have no choice,” Gilthas told her, raising his voice. The crowd fell silent again. “All other realms have refused us. We must endure here or die.”
Sa’ida lifted both hands to knead her forehead. “Then in spite of my misgivings, I shall try to help you.”
Gilthas’s sigh of relief was nearly soundless. He smiled.
“Protect us from the floating lights, holy lady. Those they touch are transported deep into tunnels beneath the valley never to wake.”
“That can be done.”
“Our next urgent need is food. Animals must be allowed to live here, and edible plants allowed to thrive.”
“Ah, that requires doing battle with a great power. There is a mighty spell on this place. Life is severely constrained.”
“By whom?” Hamaramis asked.
She managed a weary smile. “Spells are not signed like poems. The magic here is so ancient, all telltale marks of its origin have worn off. I can tell you it was the work of laddad wizards, a great many of them, acting in concert.”
Exclamations came from the crowd. Their survival was being hampered by magic cast by their own race? The irony was very bitter.
Gilthas asked Sa’ida to bend her efforts first to controlling the will-o’-the-wisps. The elves could work on making the valley bloom if they were free of the fear of being snatched away.
He expected her to give him a list of items necessary to fulfill his demand or perhaps to say that she must rest and gather her strength before embarking on the task, but she did neither. She set to work immediately.
Rising, she removed her necklace and held the chain so the Eye
of Elir-Sana dangled free at its end. She went to the first of the water-filled vessels, murmured an incantation, then dipped the amulet into the water.
“Pour the consecrated water on the ground all around the camp, being careful to form a continuous line with no gaps. It will create a barrier the guardian lights cannot cross.” She moved to the next jug, adding, “Save some of it for your soldiers. When they are stalked, they should fling a few drops at the lights. Any light struck by a single droplet will vanish forever.”
The civilians raised a cheer, which the warriors took up. Gilthas praised Sa’ida for her efforts.
“Don’t thank me yet, Great Speaker. Without the lights to act as guardians, the spirits of the Lost Ones may be emboldened to act as they have not before.” He asked what she meant. “I don’t know,” she replied, sounding tired and cross. “Just be wary. Any good healer will tell you, sometimes the cure can be worse than the disease.”
If her warning provoked any qualms among the elves, they weren’t apparent. As soon as a vessel was treated, eager hands snatched it away. Hamaramis laid claim to a few dozen small pots that his riders could carry while patrolling outside camp. The crowd dispersed, leaving the wrung-out priestess alone with the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Gilthas pressed her once again to eat, saying they would gladly give her the very best they had.
Knowing how short was their supply of food, she assured him she would be well content with whatever was the usual fare.
“In that case, you shall dine like royalty,” he said, his shadowed eyes twinkling briefly.
She gave him a sagacious nod. She understood this king well enough to know he would not feast while his subjects starved. The bearers carried his palanquin away. Sa’ida followed. Several of the Speaker’s attendants accompanied her, kindly matching her slow pace.
By the time the party reached the Speaker’s tent, the repast was laid: rose hip tea, roasted peas, goat cheese, and kamenty. This last was a Khurish staple of olives and nut meats pressed into a loaf. Comprising two elven items and two Khurish foods, the menu was diplomatic if austere. The small table was lit by two candles, the delicate lines of the silver and gold candlesticks only emphasizing their humble surroundings.
Once the tea was poured, Gilthas dismissed his attendants. “Your coming has been a blessing, not least to me, holy lady,” he said, sipping his tea. “What convinced you to leave your sacred temple?”
Sa’ida related her adventure with Kerian and the Torghanists. He’d heard the tale from Kerian but listened with interest to the priestess’s impressions. He expressed regret that the fanatics had chosen to attack the high priestess because of the presence of his consort. Sa’ida assured him she did not blame the Lioness.
“The Nerakans were behind it,” she said. “When I realized that, I knew the best way to strike back at them was to ensure the survival of their most persistent enemy.”
Gilthas ate a bit of kamenty, chewing with great deliberation. “I am no one’s enemy, merely everyone’s target.”
“You dissemble, Great Speaker.”
“Not at all. I would happily have lived my entire life in my own country and never fought a battle, but the world would not allow it.”
Sa’ida sipped her tea. It was strong stuff. The rose hips had been grown in Qualinost, dried until they were small and hard as pebbles, then packed in sawdust. The priestess found the scent ineffably sad, the essence of flowers nourished in the soil of a vanished city.
“This valley is a trap,” she said very quietly.
“I do not believe it.” Despite the warm glow of candlelight, the Speaker’s face was pale and hard as a marble bust. “Destiny brought us here. We overcame horrendous odds and survived, for what? To perish in this hidden waste? No. I believe we will make it bloom, as we did our own cities.”
Changing tack, Sa’ida said, “I know some things about the sorcerer Faeterus which might interest you.” She refilled both their cups. “He has been in Khur only since the overthrow of Silvanesti.”
“I thought his service to Kur of longer duration.”
“He came to Khuri-Khan by way of Port Bali for on a ship full of laddad refugees. Within a fortnight, all the refugees were dead, save Faeterus.”
“What happened to them?”
“One of the many misconceptions, half-truths, and lies Faeterus encouraged,” she said, nodding. “It was said they died of a plague. The Great Khan summoned my healers to tend them, lest they infect the entire city.” Her dark eyes lifted from their study of her tea and bored into his own. “The plague victims were delirious, but they were not sick, sire. They were enchanted.”
Her meaning was plain. Faeterus had caused the deaths of a shipload of Silvanesti merely to conceal the reason behind his departure from the elf homeland.
“He wormed his way into the khan’s confidence by performing various unsavory tasks. Sahim-Khan rewarded him with treasure and the freedom to work his sorcery, so long as it did not threaten the throne or the security of Khur.”
“I’ll wager Sahim came to regret his tolerance. Who exactly is Faeterus?”
The high priestess had tried to find out. His presence had caused a disruption in the city’s spiritual harmony, the worst since the great dragon. She had no success. “Seeking him out on the spiritual plane was like gazing into an open hole on a dark night. It was not only a cloak of secrecy, there was a genuine void around him I could not fathom. All I could discover was that he is very old, he came to Khur from Silvanesti, and he has no loyalty to anyone but himself.”
She pushed her teacup aside. The meal had restored some healthy color to her face. “I believe he was a prisoner in Silvanesti. His ship arrived from Kurinost, on the north coast, the location of a large prison. Many of the refugees on the ship were convicts. In the confusion caused by the minotaur conquest, I believe a contingent of prisoners escaped from the Speaker’s prison, seized a boat, and made it far as Khur.”
“With a viper in their midst.”
“Exactly.”
Gilthas knew the fortress at Kurinost. It was a large keep, erected on a solid granite pinnacle four hundred feet high. On three sides were sheer cliffs down to the sea. The fortress was connected to the mainland by a single causeway easily controlled by a standing patrol of griffon riders. There was virtually no petty crime in Silvanesti and those banished were not ordinary criminals, but dissidents, subversives, and it appeared, one rogue sorcerer. They were held without trial, often for decades.
“I pray to my goddess your hunting party finds him,” she said. “There is power here no mortal should possess. If Faeterus achieves it, we may all be lost—humans, laddad, everyone.”
With that, the repast was done. Both of them were too exhausted to maintain polite conversation. Sa’ida asked permission to retire, and Gilthas granted it.
The remains of the dinner were cleared away. Every scrap and crumb was carefully conserved for another meal.
Varanas arrived, he and his fellow scribes ready to take the Speaker’s dictation, but Gilthas waved them away, declaring himself too weary. When Hamaramis came to report that the enchanted water had been distributed around the camp, he found the Speaker in bed, but the news he brought was welcome. Although many will-o’-the-wisps drifted outside the invisible barrier, none had penetrated.
“And our friends, the ghosts?” Gilthas asked.
“They are there, Great Speaker, as always. They watch but they do not advance.”
“Good.” The word came out on an exhale as the Speaker’s eyelids closed.
Hamaramis departed with a noticeably lighter step. Dining with the human cleric, the Speaker had eaten his first meal of any size in two weeks.
* * * * *
Twenty mounted elves galloped through the night. They were patrolling several miles south of camp, keeping watch for threats as well as any possible provender. As midnight approached, they spotted glimmers of light in a particularly thick stand of monoliths. A host of will-o’-the-wisps emerged i
n a long line, flying with unusual swiftness toward the warriors.
The elves were carrying two small pots of water blessed by Sa’ida. The warriors formed a circle, facing outward. The two riders carrying the water pots positioned themselves on opposite sides of the circle. One was the commander of the patrol. He balanced the rough clay vessel on the pommel of his saddle. The lights swept in, and he held his warriors steady, counting the will-o’-the-wisps as they came: twenty. Exactly twenty lights and twenty elves. No two globes were the same color. Many were in some shade of white or gold, but greens, blues, and reds were sprinkled through the pack.
The lights formed a ring around the warriors. Horses and riders shifted nervously as the silent sentinels flashed by.
“Stand ready,” the commander said.
He dipped a makeshift brush in the water. His first attempt missed, but on the second try, he doused a brilliant green orb as it passed his horse’s nose. The effect was instantaneous. The ball of light emitted a shower of sparks. Its color changed to dark red, like a campfire ember about to go out. Falling slowly, the will-o’-the-wisp hit the ground, rolled a short way, and vanished.
The patrol cheered. At the commander’s back, his second-in-command showered their tormentors with Sa’ida’s special libation. A golden globe fell out of formation, sputtering and sparking, and disappeared.
Three more were dispatched, and their loss seemed to confuse the rest. They darted higher in the air and collided with each other in sudden flares of colored light. Commander and second stood in their stirrups and flourished their brushes at the wayward lights. Four more died, and the others gave up. They darted away like minnows fleeing a pebble dropped in their pool, retreating behind a line of standing stones where they remained, pulsating rapidly.
The elves were elated. For the first time, they had defeated the will-o’-the-wisps. Many of them had known elves who served in the Lioness’s first expedition and who died silent, lonely deaths in the tunnels because of the bobbing lights. They were finally getting their own back.
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