“These glyphs are First Kingate,” he said. “In fact, they are quite possibly Post Thaugloraneous.”
Vangerdahast had no idea what the sage was talking about. “First Kingate?” he echoed. “As in, from Faerlthann’s time?”
“That would be Faerlthannish, would it not?” Alaphondar peered over his spectacles, regarding Vangerdahast as though the royal magician were the under-educated scion of a minor family. “I mean First Kingate, as in Iliphar of the Elves.”
“The Lord of Scepters?” Vangerdahast gasped. “The first king of the elves?”
Alaphondar nodded wearily. “That would be First Kingate,” he said. “Approximately fourteen and a half centuries ago-a hundred years before Faerlthann was crowned. More than fifty years before the Obarskyrs settled in the wilderness, in fact.”
Vangerdahast glanced at the barren moors around them, trying to envision some unimaginably ancient time when they were covered with lush forest and home to a lost kingdom of elves.
“But the glyphs aren’t the interesting part,” said Alaphondar.
“They aren’t?”
The sage shook his head, then said, “This tree isn’t that old. In fact, it’s three hundred years too young.”
Vangerdahast knew better than to doubt the sage. “And you know this because…”
“Because of this.”
Alaphondar turned and ran his hand over the glyphs. Instantly, the raspy voice of an anguished elven maid filled the air, and the sound of nervous horses and astonished men rose behind Vangerdahast.
Alaphondar translated the song:
This childe of men, lette his bodie nourishe this tree. The tree of this bodie, lette it growe as it nourishe. The spirit of this tree, to them lette it return as it grewe. Thus the havoc bearers sleepe, the sleepe of no reste. Thus the sorrow bringers sow, the seeds of their ruine. Thus the deathe makers kille, the sons of their sons. Here come ye, Mad Kang Boldovar, and lie among these rootes.
When the song was finished, Vangerdahast gasped, “Boldovar?”
Alaphondar nodded excitedly. “You see?” The sage ran his finger along a set of curls that looked identical to every other set of curls. “He died three hundred years after these serpentine beaks passed out of vogue.”
“I’ll have to trust your judgment, old friend,” said Vangerdahast. He knew how to make the glyphs sing, but he could not read them-much less identify the era in which they had been inscribed. “What does it mean?’
“Mean?” Alaphondar looked confused. “Why, I couldn’t begin to tell you.”
“But we can conclude that the elf who inscribed these glyphs was over three hundred years old,” Vangerdahast prodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Royal Scouts returning from their search for Tanalasta’s trail. Their lionar was riding up the hill to report.
“Oh yes,” Alaphondar prodded, “and more importantly, that she had been living away from her people for at least that long. Do you have any idea what that kind of loneliness would do to an elf?”
Vangerdahast eyed the glyphs, recalling their bitter words and the anguished tone of the song. “Yes. I’m afraid I do.”
Alaphondar started down the hill toward the hole that led beneath the roots. “Perhaps I’ll learn more in the burial chamber.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be time for that.” Vangerdahast turned to face the scouts’ lionar, who was reining his horse to a stop in front of the wizard. “We’ll be leaving directly.”
Alaphondar stopped in his tracks. “Leave?” he gasped, spinning around. “We can’t leave yet. It will take at least a day to sketch the site properly, and another day just to start the preliminary excavations.”
“We don’t have a day.” Vangerdahast looked into the sky and found no sign of the ghazneth. “We may not have even an hour.”
“But-“
“This is a military expedition, Alaphondar,” Vangerdahast interrupted, motioning the scouts’ lionar forward. “Our goal is to find the princesses and return them to Arabel-quickly.”
The exhilaration vanished from Alaphondar’s eyes. “Of course-how could I forget?” He started toward his horse, then had another thought and turned back to Vangerdahast. “Maybe you could go ahead…”
“You’ve seen two ghazneths now,” Vangerdahast said. “Do you really want to face one of them alone-or even with a dozen dragoneers at your back?”
Alaphondar grimaced, then turned toward his horse. “Forget I asked.”
Vangerdahast faced the lionar. “Did you find their trail?” The scout nodded, then pointed into the valley between the Mule Ear peaks. “We found a few old hoof prints. They’re heading south into the mountains.”
“That’s welcome news indeed,” Vangerdahast said, sighing in relief. “Maybe Tanalasta has finally come to her senses and decided the time has come to return to Cormyr.”
15
The air reeked of rank meat and mildewed earth, and in the cramped staleness of the tomb, Tanalasta felt feverish and dizzy. She had a queasy stomach, fogged vision, and goosebumps rising along her spine, and on the floor ahead lay something she did not really want to see. It was armored in tarnished plate and sprawled on its back, a sullied sword and battered shield lying on the stones to either side of it. An opulent growth of white mold had sprouted from the troughs of several clawlike rents across the breastplate, and the crown of the thing’s great helm had been staved in. The face and limbs were lost beneath a thick blanket of the same white mold sprouting from the splits in the armor, and only the crumpled, striking-hawk crest over its heart identified the corpse as that of Emperel Ruousk, Guardian of the Sleeping Sword.
Holding the smoky torch before her, Tanalasta slipped out of the entrance passage into the tomb itself. Like the last one she had visited, this grave was surrounded by a fine-meshed net of black roots, many of which had been cut away during the battle that killed Emperel. Tangled among the roots, she could see the same web of gossamer filaments she had noticed in the first tomb. The floor was littered with tatters of rotted leather, buttons, buckles, and the mineralized soles of a large pair of boots.
Tanalasta pocketed a handful of the detritus to examine later, then removed the rope from her waist and stepped over to Emperel’s body. Her queasy stomach revolted at the horrid fetor of the decaying corpse, and she barely managed to spin away before her belly emptied itself. When the retching ended, her temples were throbbing and her knees were trembling. The princess chided herself for being so qualmish, decay was as much a part of the life circle as growth, and it was an affront to the All Mother to treat it with aversion.
Tanalasta took a deep breath and returned to the body. Despite her determination, she felt weak and lightheaded and feared she would pass out if she touched the moldy thing. She briefly considered retreating and leaving Emperel lie, but it would have been an insult to the memory of a brave knight to bury him in a place of such evil. The princess jammed the butt of her torch into a crevice between two floor stones and picked up the warrior’s sword. She slid the flat of the blade under his back and, with a weary grunt, rolled him up on his side, then held him there with one arm while she fed the rope under his back.
By the time the princess finished, her joints were aching and she was out of breath. She trudged around the body and slipped the sword under the opposite side and felt something block it. She noticed the dark line of a satchel strap hidden beneath the white mold. Tanalasta used the sword tip to scrape the mold away, then took hold of the slimy strap and pulled the satchel from under Emperel’s body.
It was a small courier’s pouch, with a waterproof wax finish and a weather flap. Though the satchel was not closed tight, the flap was at least folded over the opening, and Tanalasta could think of only one reason Emperel would have been carrying an open pouch when he died.