Personal concerns would never carry the most weight with Gilthas, so Kerian said only, “Even if she cannot defeat the army of ghosts and floating lights, her counsel will be invaluable.”
“Khur is dangerous. Khuri-Khan doubly so,” he said stubbornly.
He’d been shivering during their exchange. Shuddering more violently, he abruptly fell back onto his pallet as if his body simply refused to support him any longer. He tried to sit up again, but his trembling arms weren’t strong enough to lift him.
She dropped to her knees by his side. “Gil!”
“I’m so tired.” Closing his eyes, he whispered, “And I’m afraid, Ken-li. If you go away, I fear I will not be here when you get back.”
He had never before admitted fear, nor the severity of his illness. She felt tears come to her eyes. She took him in her arms with heartbreaking care; one hand guided his head to rest on her shoulder, and the other smoothed the hair from his face.
“You put up such a front,” she murmured, her tears falling unchecked. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so gravely ill?”
“I can’t admit it too often. It’s bad for my morale.” He chuckled weakly.
“You need to rest—”
He turned his face to the warm hollow of her throat. The inane words of comfort died on her lips.
“I will do what I must for my people—even die, if I must,” he said. “But I can’t do it without you. I lost Planchet. I can’t—”
The agonized confession choked off abruptly. He pushed a little away from her. She watched him gather his strength, drawing it around himself like a threadbare robe.
She regarded his shivering form for a few seconds then asked, “Do you trust me, Gil?” A wordless nod was his answer. “We cannot live in this valley unless its enmity to animal life is overcome. We don’t have the resources to overcome it. Lady Sa’ida is our best hope. I can go to Khuri-Khan and return in a day and a half. Give me your permission to go.”
“You’re always storming off somewhere. The missions are always vital. You don’t value your life enough, Ken-li. When you rode out of Khurinost to face the nomads, I thought you were going to die.”
That had been her goal at the time, although he didn’t know it. She’d overcome that bit of madness.
“Now you want to go away again.” He sighed, eyelids drooping. “I’m in no condition to stop you.”
She rested a hand on his cheek. “You are my sovereign. You can stop me with a single word.”
Light sparkled briefly in his eyes. “If only I could find that word.” The eyelids came down, and the spark was gone. “You may go.”
Sleep stole him away. Kerian remained beside his pallet a long time. Several times his breathing went so shallow that she thought it had ceased, but her hand on his chest still felt the slow beat of his heart.
“I am your wife,” she said, although she knew he couldn’t hear. “And I will return.”
Two riders picked their way through the debris of the nomad camp. The man wore brown trews and boots, and his leather jerkin concealed a mail shirt. His sword he wore openly. His dark hair had grown long and was grizzled at the sides. The woman was fifteen years younger. She wore her hair in a single black braid that reached the middle of her back. Her outfit was much like his but black instead of brown. A crossbow of unusual design rested across the pommel of her saddle.
Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily, and sergeant Jeralund had traveled a very long way to reach this point. They had come from Qualinesti by foot, by ship, and by horse, pursuing a legend in the making. Their quarry was the stranger who had emerged from the depths of the forest in the former elf kingdom. He had incited a rebellion against the bandit lord Samuval with startling success. Although he was covered from head to toe by a rough robe, gloves, and a mask that bared only his eyes, they had reason to believe him to be an elf of good birth.
When the efforts of that troublemaker came to the attention of the Knights of Neraka, Breetan was sent to collar him. Her command was wiped out but for a handful of men, including the sergeant, who had dubbed the rebel leader “Scarecrow” for his ragged appearance. Breetan’s superiors had given her one chance to redeem her failure: find the Scarecrow and kill him before the revolt he had inspired consumed all of Qualinesti.
She thought she had him cornered in the Skywall Peaks south of Qualinesti, but he managed to flee on a griffon before she could put a crossbow bolt through his heart. From one of the elves he’d left behind, Breetan learned the Scarecrow’s destination. The answer was puzzling. The griffon riders were making for a spot in far northern Khur near the mountain range that separated the desert kingdom from Neraka.
Puzzled or not, Breetan had maintained the chase. Her burning haste cost them a fine saddle horse apiece just getting to the west shore of the New Sea. A fast ship carried them to the far end of the sea. On land again, skirting the western edge of the Khurish desert, Breetan found nomads who loved Nerakan money more than they hated Nerakan Knights. They told her the exiled elves had left behind their sanctuary at Khuri-Khan, crossed the desert, and taken refuge in a valley known variously as Alya-Alash, Valley of the Blue Sands, and the Silent Vale. Whatever its name, it was located in the northernmost reaches of Khur—the very place the Scarecrow and his griffon riders were reputedly going. So there she and the sergeant were, many days and many miles later.
Nothing usable remained in the wreckage of the camp. What hadn’t burned had been scavenged. Dead horses lay where they had fallen. Broken arrows and shattered swords littered the stony ground. A rubble stone wall ran straight as an arrow across the pass, yet it could not have been intended as a defensive work. It was incomplete. The ruined nomad camp lay between one unfinished end and the west side of the pass. No wonder the Khurs had been routed. Well-trained elf cavalry sweeping around the head-high wall would put any barbarians to flight.
Jeralund dismounted and picked through the debris for clues. Breetan rode slowly along the wall. The dead had been removed, but the amount of blood spilled on the stones gave ample evidence of the fight that had raged. Near the end of the wall, she reined up. The desert stretched out ahead, shimmering in the pitiless sun. It was only midmorning, and already she felt as though she’d been hung over a fire to roast. She pulled her wide-brimmed Khurish grass hat lower on her head and pulled away the loosely woven linen strip that protected her eyes from the sun’s glare. The sand around her was churned with the prints of horses and human feet, but the trail leading away was obvious. Defeated at the valley mouth, the nomads had fled into the realm they knew, the great wasteland.
Her appraisal was interrupted by an odd sound: the clatter of stone on stone. It came from somewhere to her right. She rode toward the sound, gripping the wrist of the crossbow with her free hand.
In a hollow behind a sandy knoll, she found a lone man. He knelt amid scattered stones, piling rocks onto a new cairn. By its size and length, Breetan knew it for a grave. Alert for ambush, she gave in to her curiosity and urged her horse down the sand drift. She circled around so when she halted, the sun was behind her.
“Greetings,” she said. “What happened here?”
He glanced up from under his wide-brimmed hat then resumed stacking stones. “One of many pointless battles,” he replied. “This is the grave of the last to fall.”
“A kinsman?”
“My clan, my tribe. The Weyadan.”