Once the tea was poured, Gilthas dismissed his attendants. “Your coming has been a blessing, not least to me, holy lady,” he said, sipping his tea. “What convinced you to leave your sacred temple?”
Sa’ida related her adventure with Kerian and the Torghanists. He’d heard the tale from Kerian but listened with interest to the priestess’s impressions. He expressed regret that the fanatics had chosen to attack the high priestess because of the presence of his consort. Sa’ida assured him she did not blame the Lioness.
“The Nerakans were behind it,” she said. “When I realized that, I knew the best way to strike back at them was to ensure the survival of their most persistent enemy.”
Gilthas ate a bit of kamenty, chewing with great deliberation. “I am no one’s enemy, merely everyone’s target.”
“You dissemble, Great Speaker.”
“Not at all. I would happily have lived my entire life in my own country and never fought a battle, but the world would not allow it.”
Sa’ida sipped her tea. It was strong stuff. The rose hips had been grown in Qualinost, dried until they were small and hard as pebbles, then packed in sawdust. The priestess found the scent ineffably sad, the essence of flowers nourished in the soil of a vanished city.
“This valley is a trap,” she said very quietly.
“I do not believe it.” Despite the warm glow of candlelight, the Speaker’s face was pale and hard as a marble bust. “Destiny brought us here. We overcame horrendous odds and survived, for what? To perish in this hidden waste? No. I believe we will make it bloom, as we did our own cities.”
Changing tack, Sa’ida said, “I know some things about the sorcerer Faeterus which might interest you.” She refilled both their cups. “He has been in Khur only since the overthrow of Silvanesti.”
“I thought his service to Kur of longer duration.”
“He came to Khuri-Khan by way of Port Balifor on a ship full of laddad refugees. Within a fortnight, all the refugees were dead, save Faeterus.”
“What happened to them?”
“One of the many misconceptions, half-truths, and lies Faeterus encouraged,” she said, nodding. “It was said they died of a plague. The Great Khan summoned my healers to tend them, lest they infect the entire city.” Her dark eyes lifted from their study of her tea and bored into his own. “The plague victims were delirious, but they were not sick, sire. They were enchanted.”
Her meaning was plain. Faeterus had caused the deaths of a shipload of Silvanesti merely to conceal the reason behind his departure from the elf homeland.
“He wormed his way into the khan’s confidence by performing various unsavory tasks. Sahim-Khan rewarded him with treasure and the freedom to work his sorcery, so long as it did not threaten the throne or the security of Khur.”
“I’ll wager Sahim came to regret his tolerance. Who exactly is Faeterus?”
The high priestess had tried to find out. His presence had caused a disruption in the city’s spiritual harmony, the worst since the great dragon. She had no success. “Seeking him out on the spiritual plane was like gazing into an open hole on a dark night. It was not only a cloak of secrecy, there was a genuine void around him I could not fathom. All I could discover was that he is very old, he came to Khur from Silvanesti, and he has no loyalty to anyone but himself.”
She pushed her teacup aside. The meal had restored some healthy color to her face. “I believe he was a prisoner in Silvanesti. His ship arrived from Kurinost, on the north coast, the location of a large prison. Many of the refugees on the ship were convicts. In the confusion caused by the minotaur conquest, I believe a contingent of prisoners escaped from the Speaker’s prison, seized a boat, and made it far as Khur.”
“With a viper in their midst.”
“Exactly.”
Gilthas knew the fortress at Kurinost. It was a large keep, erected on a solid granite pinnacle four hundred feet high. On three sides were sheer cliffs down to the sea. The fortress was connected to the mainland by a single causeway easily controlled by a standing patrol of griffon riders. There was virtually no petty crime in Silvanesti and those banished were not ordinary criminals, but dissidents, subversives, and it appeared, one rogue sorcerer. They were held without trial, often for decades.
“I pray to my goddess your hunting party finds him,” she said. “There is power here no mortal should possess. If Faeterus achieves it, we may all be lost—humans, laddad, everyone.”
With that, the repast was done. Both of them were too exhausted to maintain polite conversation. Sa’ida asked permission to retire, and Gilthas granted it.
The remains of the dinner were cleared away. Every scrap and crumb was carefully conserved for another meal.
Varanas arrived, he and his fellow scribes ready to take the Speaker’s dictation, but Gilthas waved them away, declaring himself too weary. When Hamaramis came to report that the enchanted water had been distributed around the camp, he found the Speaker in bed, but the news he brought was welcome. Although many will-o’-the-wisps drifted outside the invisible barrier, none had penetrated.
“And our friends, the ghosts?” Gilthas asked.
“They are there, Great Speaker, as always. They watch but they do not advance.”
“Good.” The word came out on an exhale as the Speaker’s eyelids closed.
Hamaramis departed with a noticeably lighter step. Dining with the human cleric, the Speaker had eaten his first meal of any size in two weeks.
Twenty mounted elves galloped through the night. They were patrolling several miles south of camp, keeping watch for threats as well as any possible provender. As midnight approached, they spotted glimmers of light in a particularly thick stand of monoliths. A host of will-o’-the-wisps emerged in a long line, flying with unusual swiftness toward the warriors.
The elves were carrying two small pots of water blessed by Sa’ida. The warriors formed a circle, facing outward. The two riders carrying the water pots positioned themselves on opposite sides of the circle. One was the commander of the patrol. He balanced the rough clay vessel on the pommel of his saddle. The lights swept in, and he held his warriors steady, counting the will-o’-the-wisps as they came: twenty. Exactly twenty lights and twenty elves. No two globes were the same color. Many were in some shade of white or gold, but greens, blues, and reds were sprinkled through the pack.
The lights formed a ring around the warriors. Horses and riders shifted nervously as the silent sentinels flashed by.
“Stand ready,” the commander said.
He dipped a makeshift brush in the water. His first attempt missed, but on the second try, he doused a brilliant green orb as it passed his horse’s nose. The effect was instantaneous. The ball of light emitted a shower of sparks. Its color changed to dark red, like a campfire ember about to go out. Falling slowly, the will-o’-the-wisp hit the ground, rolled a short way, and vanished.
The patrol cheered. At the commander’s back, his second-in-command showered their tormentors with Sa’ida’s special libation. A golden globe fell out of formation, sputtering and sparking, and disappeared.
Three more were dispatched, and their loss seemed to confuse the rest. They darted higher in the air and collided with each other in sudden flares of colored light. Commander and second stood in their stirrups and flourished their brushes at the wayward lights. Four more died, and the others gave up. They darted away like minnows fleeing a pebble dropped in their pool, retreating behind a line of standing stones where they remained, pulsating rapidly.
The elves were elated. For the first time, they had defeated the will-o’-the-wisps. Many of them had known elves who served in the Lioness’s first expedition and who died silent, lonely deaths in the tunnels because of the bobbing lights. They were finally getting their own back.