The god was right about many things. A dark and bloody land, he had called it. When Porthios reached Qualinesti, he intended to make the god’s description perfectly apt.
The elf race, divided for so long into two nations and briefly united, was divided again. Stones had been gathered and choices made. Along the west bank of Lioness Creek stood the elves who had chosen to stay. Arrayed opposite them were those who meant to go. All but a few hundred of the Speaker’s warriors intended to depart. They were soldiers, and fighting was what they knew. Fathoming the puzzles of a mysterious valley was beyond them. Building houses and tilling the earth was not for them. Each felt he would be more useful in Porthios’s battle to free Qualinesti. If death was to be their fate, they preferred to meet it in the land of their ancestors, fighting the enemies of their race.
The decision was not an easy one, and theirs was not a happy leave-taking. Bidding good-bye to family or comrades was difficult but expected in a warrior’s life. Disappointing their Speaker was not.
Alhana, Samar, and the griffon riders mustered in the area between the two groups. Two griffons were staying behind: Eagle Eye and Hytanthas’s Kanan as there was not enough time to bond the latter with another rider.
At least one person was pleased by Kerian’s decision to remain. In her absence, command of the Army of Liberation fell to Samar. The proud Silvanesti warrior had never savored working with the hard-headed Lioness. Samar also was pleased that all the civilians had chosen to remain in the valley. Some had wavered, but eventually all realized another desert crossing would be the death of them.
By midafternoon, all preparations were complete and the groups were gathered near the creek.
“We will stay in communication,” Alhana promised. “Once we’re back in Qualinesti, we’ll send regular reports by griffon rider.”
“And we’ll send news of our progress the same way,” said Gilthas.
Porthios was not part of the group around the Speaker. He stood aloof a few dozen yards away, shaded by the low branches of a pine tree. He disliked appearing in full daylight, but Kerian doubted that was the only reason behind his rudeness. Since he was leaving, she made allowances. Skirting the group of griffon riders and their mounts, she crossed the open ground between the two groups of elves and called out to him.
“Scarecrow!”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You’d better get used to it. The bandits will call you nothing better.”
His shadowed eyes narrowed. “Who will you insult once I am gone?”
“Gilthas,” she shot back. Halting a few yards away, she asked, “Which route do you take?”
He planned to depart through the pass after dark, he said, then head overland to the New Sea. There, the Army of Liberation would either hire ships or march along the shore until it reached Qualinesti.
Samar’s mount, Ironhead, trumpeted impatiently and Kerian glanced at the big Golden griffon. When she turned back, Porthios had left the shade of the pine branches and was standing only a few feet from her. “I expect you will join us, when the time comes.”
When Gilthas was dead, he meant, and she was furious not because he was wrong, but because he’d so easily divined her reason for asking his route. He walked away without another word, and Kerian was left trying to decide whether the odd expression in his eyes might have been pity.
Alhana approach holding out a hand to her young successor. With characteristic grace, she made her good-byes but even as they embraced, Kerian was trying to fathom why kind, cultured, civilized Alhana tolerated Porthios for an instant.
“You did not know him before,” Alhana said. “He was a different person.”
Kerian realized she’d muttered her thoughts aloud. Shaking her head, she asked, “So the fire took his morals and manners too?”
“His looks are the very least thing he lost. He does intend good.”
Kerian doubted that but knew argument was pointless. Fortunately, Gilthas arrived and Alhana turned her attention to taking a fond leave of the Speaker. Then it was time for the army to depart.
In close column of sixes the mounted warriors fell in behind Porthios, who traveled on foot for the time being. He would hold the army at the mouth of the pass until dusk then push through the few nomads known to be there. He could have waited till nightfall to leave the exiles’ camp, but he worried about losing warriors if he delayed. The bond between the Speaker and his faithful fighters must not be allowed to sway any wavering minds.
Next to leave were Alhana’s griffon riders. All but the former queen were mounted and ready to take wing. Chisa, Alhana’s female Golden, stood quietly as Alhana embraced Gilthas one last time and clasped hands with Hamaramis and Taranath. When she embraced Kerian, the Lioness offered her a final blunt warning.
“Watch out for him.” Kerian didn’t bother to lower her voice, and all within earshot knew who she meant. “We’re all pawns in the game he’s playing, even you.”
Alhana smiled. “I know him, niece.” Violet eyes flickered toward Gilthas, standing a short distance away, and Alhana whispered, “You watch out for him.”
Kerian’s hands tightened convulsively on Alhana’s arms. Alhana kissed her on both cheeks and stepped quickly away. With practiced ease, she climbed into Chisa’s saddle, wrapped the reins around her left hand, and gave the word. Chisa bounded forward, on the third leap, the griffon was airborne, wings beating hard. Samar and the other riders followed their lady into the sky.
The flight of griffons was quickly lost from sight among the low peaks. No rising dust marked the departing column of horses. The damp soil of Inath-Wakenti did not fly up like desert sand. In a surprisingly short time, the elves remaining behind were watching an empty pass and vacant sky.
The Speaker’s cough broke the stillness. All eyes went to him, then away, giving him a sort of privacy as he fought the spasm. Truthanar offered a draft. Gilthas sipped it and ignored the healer’s worried questions. The past had just ridden away. There was no reason to delay any longer.
Pointing to the center of the valley, Gilthas raised his voice, saying, “My people, our future lies that way.”
The Speaker did not have to make the journey on foot. A band of eight elf women came forward bearing a high-backed chair cunningly crafted from mats woven of local grass. They had made the palanquin for the Speaker, to spare him having to walk. Gilthas was deeply touched. So was Kerian, although she covered it with gruffness. The chair was unfolded, and a stout pole run through woven straps on either side. Two male and two female elves stood by the poles, waiting to hoist the Speaker onto their shoulders. Gilthas would have protested the Speaker of the Sun and Stars ought not be borne on his people’s backs like some cruel despot—but one look at Kerian silenced him. If he were honest with himself, he knew he had no choice. He simply wasn’t up to making so long a journey on foot.
However, he intended to make one small portion of it under his Own power. Taking Kerian’s hand, he stepped into Lioness Creek. The stream was slow flowing and not above knee deep there, so the crossing was simple enough. On gaining the far side, Gilthas halted then realized he was holding his breath. Such a simple thing, the fording of a creek, but fraught with great import. From here on, they would be subject to the strange forces at work in the valley. Yet Gilthas was aware of a great exhilaration flooding through him. The last part of their journey had finally begun.
The bearers brought the palanquin across, and Gilthas seated himself in it. The bearers lifted the poles. A flush of embarrassment gave Gilthas’s face more color than it had had in a long time.