The sound of voices drew him closer to the dais. The voices were coming from the glowing throne, speaking all at once, but not in unison. The sound was like the rolling of ocean waves, lifting and lowering him in a rhythmic, soothing motion. Soon he would be part of that sound, his own voice added to the chorus of the dead.
Pathfinder.
He stopped. That voice had not come from the throne. He glanced uncertainly at Balif. The Silvanesti was looking back toward the far end of the illusory hall. Nothing at all was visible there. The image of the audience hail simply faded into blackness.
Gilthas Pathfinder, come back!
The voice was not familiar, but it pulled powerfully at him.
His foot, lifted to step onto the throne dais, lowered back onto the floor.
“Come,” urged the shade of Balif. “Join us.”
He wanted to, to become one with great elves of the past like Kith-Kanan, Balif, Silvanos, Silveran, and with those who loomed large in his own heart—his father, and his mother who had died with Qualinost to save them all. The joyous reunion required him to take single step onto the dais and to sit down on his throne.
Gilthas Pathfinder, in the name of the goddess, I command you! Return!
With a knowing smile, Balif said, “Go with the gods, Great Speaker. You shall not see me again.”
The Silvanesti’s body paled to a translucent silhouette, then vanished. All around Gilthas the remembered beauty of Qualinost likewise dissolved, becoming a confusing welter of gray and brown before gradually resolving into the patchwork roof of his tent in Inath-Wakenti. Above him floated the face of a human woman. Tendrils of white hair curled around a face creased by concern.
The woman’s lips moved, but he couldn’t make out the words. Drawing a shuddering breath, he croaked, “What?”
The woman moved abruptly out of his line of sight, and her place was taken by someone Gilthas did know. Kerian, looking windblown and sunburned, knelt by his bed and took his face in her hands.
“Who told you you could die?” she said, voice breaking. Tears glistened in her eyes, and Gilthas was concerned. The Lioness never wept in public.
“Don’t cry, my love,” he rasped. “I met Balif. He told me his true tale.”
She called him a fool and he smiled, pleased he had cheered her.
The intimate moment was broken by the human woman’s return. She laid damp cloths on his brow. Kerian introduced her as Sa’ida, high priestess of the Temple of Elir-Sana.
“She saved your life,” Kerian added.
He felt strangely ambivalent about being rescued. The eternal glory of Qualinost had been within his grasp. Now he had only the sterile despair of the Silent Vale.
No, not only that. He took Kerian’s hand. His own was cold, but hers was warm as sunshine.
“Did you hear me call you?” he asked. “I used the stone platform.”
“Of course. I came as fast as I could,” she said, smiling.
His eyes closed, and Kerian looked to Sa’ida. The priestess was gripping the pendant she wore around her neck. Normally the gold-and-sapphire amulet was kept hidden within her robe, but she held it tightly in her right hand. The Eye of Elir-Sana, the symbol of the goddess of healing.
“He will rest. His soul had almost departed, but he is back.” Sa’ida regarded the Speaker’s wasted frame. Elves were a naturally slender, willowy race compared to humans, but the Speaker of the Sun and Stars appeared no more than a skeleton beneath the heavy blankets. In sleep he looked far worse than many corpses she had seen. She shook her head. “Consumption is dreadful among my people. It is an abomination in yours.”
Kerian looked away. Sa’ida’s reaction had caused her to see Gilthas through new eyes. Merciful E’li, they had only just arrived in time!
The Speaker’s tent was filled with people. Kerian nodded to Truthanar, and he returned the gesture with a look of dawning relief. Turning, he herded the rest back to a more respectful distance. The air of terrified suspense was replaced by one of cautious optimism.
Kerian touched her husband’s face. It was bathed in sweat but noticeably cooler than it had been when she’d arrived. Sa’ida gently but firmly pulled her away from her sleeping husband. They emerged from the close confines of the tent into cool morning air.
“Is he healed?” Kerian asked.
The high priestess rubbed her hands together, flexing her fingers stiffly as if they pained her. “That was no healing, lady. The Speaker was on the edge of a chasm; I guided him back home, that’s all.”
She explained the course of treatment the Speaker would require. Healing him would be a long and complicated process. Consumption was a deep-seated malady. It had to be destroyed root and branch, or it would recur.
“Have you told him?” Sa’ida asked.
Kerian, still digesting what the priestess had just said, was lost. “Told who? What?”
“Of the child you carry.”
Shock rocked the Lioness back on her heels, and Sa’ida immediately realized she had not known her own state. The priestess apologized for having delivered the news so bluntly.
“How can you know?” Kerian asked hoarsely.
Sa’ida shrugged. “I am the high priestess of Elir-Sana.”
Kerian walked on trembling legs to a nearby log and sat down. A child! Her head moved in a denial, but she knew Sa’ida wouldn’t mislead her about so important a fact.
The priestess’s hand rested on her shoulder. “Don’t look so frightened,” she said kindly. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”
Natural for some, but for the Lioness? The foundations of her world were shifting under her feet, and Kerian wondered how she would cope.
“Motherhood,” she said, and the word sounded as strange to her as anything she’d encountered in Inath-Wakenti.
Outside the ring of standing stones and bonfires, unfriendly eyes surveyed the camp. Black tongue lolling, the beast who was Prince Shobbat crouched by a small tree. His belly ached with hunger. Before he’d come into the valley, he’d hunted rabbits and squirrels. In the valley there was nothing. He was sure the laddad would have food. Sneaking in would not be easy. Laddad senses were far keener than a human’s, but so were his, and he was much stealthier than when he’d been human.
He did not debate the question long. His empty belly overruled any qualms. Rising from his crouch, he trotted through the widely spaced trees. It was very early in the morning, and the high mountains shadowed the valley, but he kept to the low places so as not to risk showing a silhouette to elf eyes. Unfortunately, he could find no easy access. The ramparts surrounding the laddad camp were uniformly patrolled.
At a barricade spanning the gap between two lofty monoliths, the pair of elves on watch leaned casually on their spears. Their attention was half-hearted at best. Since the Speaker’s encounter with the will-o’-the-wisps several nights back, the ghosts of Inath-Wakenti had not reappeared. Eerie silence still cloaked the valley, but the absence of specters went a long way toward lulling elf fears. For the civilian volunteers, guard duty became routine. The hardest part of the job was staying awake.
One sentinel stood straighter and pushed his helmet back from his forehead.
“Did you see that?” he asked.