“And until she makes her decision, this religious strife will continue,” Rhys said unhappily.
“That is sadly true, Brother. If Mina could be given an eternity of time to decide, eventually she would find her way.” Mishakal sighed softly. “But we don’t have eternity. As you fear, what has started as strife will devolve into all-out war.”
“I will take Mina to Godshome,” said Rhys. “I will help her find her way.”
“You are her guide and her guardian and her friend, Brother,” said Mishakal. “But you cannot take her to Godshome. Only one may do that. One with whom her fate is inextricably bound. If he chooses to do so. He has the power to refuse.”
“I don’t understand, White Lady.”
“The gods of light made this promise to man: mortals are free to choose their own destiny. All mortals.”
Rhys heard the gentle emphasis on the word “all” and thought it strange, as if she were including one mortal who might otherwise be singled out as exceptional. Wondering what she meant, he thought back on her words and suddenly he understood her.
“All mortals,” he repeated. “Even those who were once gods. You speak of Valthonis!”
“As Mina goes to Godshome seeking her mother, so she also seeks her father. Valthonis, who was once Paladine, is not bound by the edict of Gilean. Valthonis is the only one who can help her find her way.”
“And Mina has sworn to kill him-the one person who could save her.”
“Sargonnas is clever, far more clever than Chemosh. He plans to give Mina a choice-darkness or light. Gilean cannot very well interfere with that. And Sargonnas gives Valthonis a choice, as well. A bitter dilemma for Mina, for Valthonis, for you, Brother,” said Mishakal. “On the morrow, I can send you and Mina and those who choose to go with you to meet with Valthonis if you are still resolved upon this course. I will give you the night to consider, for I may well be sending you to your death.”
“I do not need the night to think about this, White Lady. I am resolved,” said Rhys. “I will do what I can to help both Mina and Valthonis. And do not fear for him. He does not walk alone. He has the Faithful, self-appointed guardians, who are sworn to protect him…”
“True,” Mishakal said with a radiant smile. “He is watched over by many who love him.”
And then she sighed and said softly, “But the choice is not theirs. The choice must be Valthonis’ choice and his alone…”
3
The Wilder elf named Elspeth had been with Valthonis since the beginning. She was one of the Faithful, though one who was often overlooked.
When Valthonis had elected to exile himself from the pantheon of gods, he had done so to maintain the balance, disrupted after the banishment of his dark counterpart, Takhisis. Choosing to be mortal, he had taken the form of an elf, joining these people in their own bitter exile from their ancestral homelands. He did not ask for followers. He meant to walk his hard road alone. Those who accompanied him did so of their own accord, and people called them the Faithful.
All the Faithful had vivid memories of their first meeting with the Walking God-recalling even the hour of the day and whether the sun was shining or the rain was falling, for his words had touched their hearts and changed their lives forever. But they had no memory of meeting Elspeth, though they knew she must have been with him then, simply because they could not recall a time she hadn’t been.
A woman of indeterminate age, Elspeth wore the simple, rough tunic and leather breeches favored by the Wilder elves, those elves who have never been comfortable in civilization and live in lonely and isolated regions of Ansalon. Her hair was long and white and hung down about her shoulders. Her eyes were blue crystal. Her face was lovely, but impassive, rarely showing emotion.
Elspeth maintained her isolation even in company with the other Faithful. The Faithful understood the reason why-or thought they did-and they were gentle with her. Elspeth was mute. Her tongue had been cut out. No one knew how she had come by this terrible injury, though rumors abounded. Some said she had been assaulted, and her attacker had cut out her tongue so that she could not name him. Some said the minotaur rulers of Silvanesti had mutilated her. They were known to cut out the tongues of any who spoke out against them.
The most terrible rumor, and one that was generally discounted, was that Elspeth had cut out her tongue herself. No one knew why she would do such a thing. What words did she so fear to speak that she would mutilate herself to prevent their utterance?
The members of the Faithful were always kind to her and tried to include her in their activities or discussions. She was painfully shy, however, and would shrink away if anyone spoke to her.
Valthonis treated Elspeth as he treated the other Faithful-with reserved, gentle courtesy, not aloof from them, yet set apart. A barrier existed between the Walking God and the Faithful that none could cross. He was mortal. Being an elf, he did not age as did humans, but his constant journeying took its toll. He always slept outdoors, refusing shelter in house or castle, and he walked the road every day, walked in wind and rain, sun and snow. His fair skin was weathered and tanned. He was lean and spare, his clothes-tunic and hose, boots and woolen cloak-were travel-worn.
The Faithful regarded him with awe, always mindful of the sacrifice he had made for mankind. In their eyes, he was still almost a god. What was he in his own eyes? None knew. He spoke of Paladine and the Gods of Light often, but always as a mortal speaks of the gods-worshipful and reverent. He never spoke as having been one of them.
The Faithful often speculated among themselves whether or not Valthonis even remembered that he had once been the most powerful god in the universe. Sometimes he would pause in a conversation and look far away, into the distance, and a frown would mar his forehead, as though he was concentrating hard, striving to recall something immensely important. These times, the Faithful believed, he had seen some glimmering of what he had once been, but when he tried to retrieve the memory it slipped away, ephemeral as morning mist. For his sake, they prayed he would never remember.
At such times, the Faithful noted that Elspeth always drew a little nearer to him. Any who chanced to look at her would see her sitting still, unmoving, her eyes fixed upon Valthonis, as if he was all she saw, all she ever wanted to see. His frown would ease, and he would slightly shake his head and smile and continue on.
The numbers of the Faithful changed from day to day, as some decided to join Valthonis on his endless walk and others departed. Valthonis never asked them to remain, nor did he ask them to leave. They swore no oath to him, for he would not accept it. They came from all races and all manner of life, rich and poor, wise and foolish, noble or wretched. No one questioned those who joined, for Valthonis would not permit it.
The Faithful all remembered the day the ogre emerged from the woods and fell into step beside Valthonis. Several clapped their hands to their swords, but a glance from Valthonis halted them. He went on speaking to those around him, who found it hard to listen, for they could not take their eyes from the ogre. The gigantic brute lumbered along, scowling balefully at all of them and snarling if any ventured too close.
Those who knew ogres said he was a chieftain, for he wore a heavy silver chain around his neck and his filthy leather vest was adorned with innumerable scalps and other gruesome trophies. He was huge, topping the tallest among them by chest, head, and shoulders, and he stank to high heaven. He remained with them a week and in all that time he spoke no word to any of them, not even to Valthonis.