“And what of those left behind here?” Alhana asked. “Gathan Grayden’s army is still hunting us. How will the rebellion survive?”
Fists on hips, the Lioness declared, “Those who remain will disperse into smaller groups and return to the lowland forests, taking the weapons cache with them. They will hide the arsenal in a thousand places, and the bandits will never find it.” She looked toward the Bianost elves and raised her voice, the better to be heard. “No stumbling human knows this forest better than those born to it. Until we return with the army at our backs, you will use the old ways of surprise and ambush. The bandits won’t know where to turn or even who to fight!”
Her prowess in battle wasn’t limited to fighting. At the end of her speech, all the Bianost elves were on their feet, vowing to do just as she said. Even the royal guards were cheering.
When the noise died, Chathendor asked, “You aren’t remaining to lead them, lady?”
“With or without the rest of you, I’m going back to Khur.”
Hytanthas clasped her hand, elated. His promise to the Speaker would be kept after all.
Samar and Chathendor conceded defeat. They had no arguments left and no leader to oppose the formidable combination of Orexas, Alhana, and the Lioness.
Porthios decreed they would leave at first light, and the assembly broke up in a flurry of activity. The twenty-odd warriors already bonded to griffons gathered around Kerian. Samar bowed to the will of his lady and joined the departing band. To his credit, he said nothing more of his doubts. Now that their course was set, his duty was to support Alhana.
In addition to Kerian, Hytanthas, and the other griffon riders, Porthios would go. When Alhana claimed a spot, Porthios gruffly told her she should go back to Schallsea.
Chathendor was shocked. Although he himself had been all set to protest her going on such a dangerous trek, he took Orexas to task for exhibiting such presumption. Kerian spoke quickly, glossing over the indiscretion.
“Our leader is obviously old-fashioned,” she joked. Mockingly, she said to Porthios, “Women do fight, you know. Maybe you’ve heard of the Lioness?”
There was a ripple of laughter, and the elves went about their various tasks. Speaking for his ears only, Kerian muttered, “Watch your tongue, Orexas. Next time you can make up your own excuses.”
As the griffon riders prepared their gear, one last important matter remained. The continuing rebellion in Qualinesti needed a leader. Chathendor was too old and a Silvanesti. The revolt required a local face.
Kerian suggested Nalaryn and was prepared to defend her choice, but there was no need. All agreed the Kagonesti chief would make an excellent leader. Nalaryn had been standing nearby, awaiting any orders from his Great Lord. When told he was to lead the rebellion in Qualinesti, the stolid forester didn’t bat an eye.
“This is your wish, Great Lord?” he asked. Porthios said it was, and Nalaryn nodded. “Then I shall carry your sword into every corner of the land. The invader will know no rest, and his minions will run or die.”
That was too much for Kerian. Nalaryn was stronger, and faster than Porthios. Why did the Kagonesti give him such unconditional fealty? Alhana, Chathendor, and Samar went to complete their own preparations, and Kerian drew Nalaryn aside. She put her question to him in her typically blunt fashion.
“Why do you serve Orexas?” she demanded. “What hold does he have over you?”
“I have seen his face,” the Wilder elf said simply. “He told me his true name.”
It was a brilliant stroke on Porthios’s part, Kerian realized, revealing himself to Nalaryn. Nalaryn saw him as Speaker of the Sun, as Porthios had been when Nalaryn served as a scout to the royal army. The other Kagonesti were bound to Nalaryn by ties of clan kinship. Close-knit and close-mouthed, Porthios’s Kagonesti were admired by all. The Immortals would form the hard core of the rebellion. Where they led, volunteers like those from Bianost would follow. Kerian could almost feel sorry for the bandits. They were in for a very rough time.
Because of the number of elves going to Khur, two griffons would have to carry a double weight. Samar, bonded to the largest animal, Ironhead, offered a place to Orexas. Kerian regarded the granite-faced warrior elf with narrowed eyes. Despite the respect Orexas had earned as a crafty leader, he still looked like a vagabond. Samar’s generous offer told her he had deduced their leader’s identity. Samar returned her look with one of such bland innocence, she knew she was right.
Alhana and Kerian were to ride together on the female griffon they had captured first. Although the Lioness had bonded with the griffon, it was Alhana who named the creature Chisa, in honor of Chislev, goddess of nature.
Chathendor organized the packing of supplies for the griffon riders. Kerian raided the Bianost cache for the best arms to take with them, including lightweight lances and plenty of white-shafted Qualinesti arrows. The departing warriors accepted the new weapons gladly. Kerian offered Porthios his choice, but he would take nothing, not even a helmet.
“My destiny does not lie on a battlefield,” he told her. “I may walk through one or, in this case, fly over one, but I will not wield sword or shield ever again.” His posture shifted. The change was subtle but noticeable. His shoulders sagged, his neck bent slightly, and he looked away from her, as though staring at a vista only he could see. “The warrior I was is dead. He perished in flames. All that remains is a mind and the means to move it about.”
Kerian didn’t press him further. If he wanted to drop unarmed into the middle of what might be the biggest battle on the continent, she couldn’t stop him.
Working with a will, the elves completed their preparations several hours before sunrise. Porthios ordered the riders to sleep. The guards were all veterans. Despite the momentous undertaking that would begin the next day, they knew they must try to rest.
Kerian headed for her tent. She expected to be asleep seconds after settling onto her bedroll. Years of living on the run, hiding out from enemies in the wildwood, had taught her that valuable skill. However, Alhana followed her, asking, “May I have a word? It is important.”
Kerian seated herself just outside the opening of her tent and gestured for Alhana to join her. Although small, the tent helped ease the bite of the cold south wind. Kerian was surprised when Alhana sat close and wrapped one side of her fox fur around Kerian’s shoulders. She leaned gratefully into its warmth.
“I approve of the morrow’s endeavor wholeheartedly,” Alhana said very softly, “but I feel you should be wary of certain possibilities.”
Royalty had a knack for calculated vagueness. “Aunt, your coat is warm, but I would like to get some sleep. What are you trying to say?”
“I do not believe he goes to Khur to save Gilthas.”
Kerian had no doubt who “he” was. “Then why?”
Alhana looked away. Kerian sighed for the delay, and Alhana blurted, “He would be Speaker again.”
Kerian almost laughed, but Alhana was in deadly earnest. “You know his condition,” Kerian said, trying to be gentle. “He can never be Speaker again.”
“If not Speaker himself, then the power behind another’s throne. You don’t know him as I do, Kerianseray. He was born to rule. He was always firm of purpose.” Kerian snorted at the diplomatic phrasing. “But now—” Alhana shook her head. “If power comes within his grasp, he will take it. He will allow no one to stand in his way.”
Kerian turned to face her more fully. She did not feel like laughing now. “Are you saying he would kill me, or the Speaker, if the opportunity presented itself?”
“No! I don’t know! If he thought our people would benefit from his leadership…“ Alhana collected herself. Even in the silvery pale starlight, the intensity of her regard was palpable. “It was said of him, years ago, that he intended to unite the elf kingdoms even if he had to kill every elf in Ansalon to do it. He has not grown gentler since.”