“What is burned can be restored. What is destroyed can be rebuilt. The Silvanesti went back to their homes to fight the dream,” said the Lioness. “They took back their homeland. We can do the same.”
“I’m not so sure,” Planchet returned, his eyes fixed on his king. “The Silvanesti fought the dream, but look where it led them—to even greater fear of the outside world and an attempt to isolate themselves inside the shield. That proved disastrous.”
“The Qualinesti have more sense,” insisted the Lioness.
Planchet shook his head. Not wanting to argue with her, he let the subject drop. They rode several miles in silence, then Planchet said quietly, “You know what is truly wrong with Gilthas, don’t you?”
The Lioness said nothing for long moments, then replied softly, “I think I do, yes.”
“He blames himself for not being among the dead,” said Planchet. Her eyes filling with tears, the Lioness nodded.
Much as he now loathed this life, Gilthas was forced to live it. Not for his sake, for the sake of his people. Lately he began to wonder if that was reason enough to go on enduring this pain. He saw no hope for anyone, anywhere in this world. Only one thin strand tethered him to this life: the promise he had made to his mother. He had promised Laurana that he would lead the refugees, those who had managed to escape Qualinesti and who were waiting for him on the edges of the Plains of Dust. A promise made to the dead is a promise that must be fulfilled. Still, they never rode past a river but he looked into it and imagined the peace he would find as the waters closed over his head.
Gilthas knew his wife grieved for him and worried about him. He knew or suspected that she was hurt that he had withdrawn from her, retreated to the stone-walled fortress in which he hid from the world. He would have liked to open the gates and let her come inside, but that required effort. He would have to leave the sheltered corner in which he’d taken refuge, advance into the sunlight, cross the courtyard of memory, unlock the gate to admit her sympathy, a sympathy he did not deserve. He couldn’t bear it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Gilthas blamed himself. His plan had proven disastrous. His plan had brought destruction to Qualinesti and its defenders. His plan had caused his mother’s death. He shrank from facing the refugees. They would think him a murderer—and rightly so. They would think him a coward—and rightly so. He had run away and left his people to die. Perhaps they would accuse him of having deliberately plotted the Qualinesti’s downfall. He was part human, after all. In his depression, nothing was too outrageous or fantastic for him to believe.
He toyed with the idea of sending an intermediary, of avoiding facing the refugees directly.
“How very like the coward you are,” Gilthas said to himself with a sneer. “Shirk that responsibility, as you’ve shirked others.”
He would face them. He would suffer their anger and pain in silence as his due. He would relinquish the throne, would hand over everything to the Senate. They could choose another ruler. He would return to the Lake of Death, where lay the bodies of his mother and his people, and the pain would end.
Thus were the dark thoughts of the young elven king as he rode, day after day, by himself. He looked straight ahead toward a single destination—the gathering place for the refugees of Qualinost, those who had, through the gallant efforts of the dwarves of Thorbardin, escaped through tunnels that the dwarves had dug deep beneath the elven lands. There to do what he had to do. He would fulfill his promise, then he would be free to leave . . . forever. Sunk in these musings, he heard his wife’s voice speak his name.
The Lioness had two voices—one her wifely voice, as Gilthas termed it, and the other her military commander voice. She made the shift unconsciously, not aware of the difference until Gilthas had pointed it out to her long ago. The wife’s voice was gentle and loving. The commander’s voice could have cut down small trees, or so he teasingly claimed.
He closed his ears to the gentle and loving wife’s voice, for he did not feel he deserved love, anyone’s love. But he was king, and he could not shut out the voice of the military commander. He knew by the sound she brought bad news.
“Yes, what is it?” he said, turning to face her, steeling himself.
“I have received a report . . . several reports.” The Lioness paused, drew in a deep breath. She dreaded telling him this, tout she had no choice. He was king. “The armies of Beryl that we thought were scattered and destroyed have regrouped and reformed. We did not think this was possible, but it seems they have a new leader, a man named Samuval. He is a Dark Knight, and he follows a new Lord of the Night, a human girl called Mina.”
Gilthas gazed at his wife in silence. Some part of him heard and understood and absorbed the information. Another part crawled farther into the dark corner of his prison cell.
“This Samuval claims he serves a god known as the One God. The message he brings his soldiers is this: The One God has wrenched Qualinesti from the elves and means to give it back to the humans, to whom this land rightly belongs. Now, all who want free land have only to sign on to serve with this Captain Samuval. His army is immense, as you can imagine. Every derelict and ne’er-do-well in the human race is eager to claim his share of our beautiful land. They are on the march, Gilthas,” the Lioness said in conclusion. “They are well armed and well supplied and moving swiftly to seize and secure Qualinesti. We don’t have much time. We have to warn our people.”
“And then do what?” he asked.
The Lioness didn’t recognize his voice. It sounded muffled, as if he were speaking from behind a closed door.
“We follow our original plan,” she said. “We march through Plains of Dust to Silvanesti. Only, we must move faster than we had anticipated. I will send riders on ahead to alert the refugees—”
“No,” said Gilthas. “I must be the one to tell them. I will ride day and night if need be.”
“My husband . . .” The Lioness shifted to the wife voice, gentle, loving. “Your health—” He cast her a look that silenced the words on her lips, then turned and spurred his horse. His sudden departure took his bodyguard by surprise. They were forced to race their horses to catch up with him.
Sighing deeply, the Lioness followed.
The place Gilthas had chosen for the gathering of the elven refugees was located on the coast of New Sea, close enough to Thorbardin so that the dwarves could assist in the defense of the refugees, if they were attacked, but not near enough to make the dwarves nervous. The dwarves knew in their heads that the forest-loving elves would never think of living in the mighty underground fortress of Thorbardin, but in their hearts the dwarves were certain that everyone on Ansalon must secretly envy them their stronghold and would claim Thorbardin for themselves, if they could.
The elves had also to be careful not to draw the ire of the great dragon Onysablet, who had taken over what had once been New Coast. The land was now known as New Swamp, for she had used her foul magicks to alter the landscape into a treacherous bog. To avoid traveling through her territory, Gilthas was going to attempt to cross the Plains of Dust. A vast no-man’s land, the plains were inhabited by tribes of barbarians, who lived in the desert and kept to themselves, taking no interest in the world outside their borders, a world that took very little interest in them. Slowly, over several weeks, the refugees straggled into the meeting place. Some traveled in groups, streaming through the tunnels built by the dwarves and their giant dirt-devouring worms. Others came singly or by twos, escaping through the forests with the help of the Lioness’s rebel forces. They left behind their homes, their possessions, their farmland, their crops, their lush forests and fragrant gardens, their beautiful city of Qualinost with its gleaming Tower of the Sun. The elves were confident they would be able to return to their beloved homeland. The Qualinesti had always owned this land, or so it seemed to them. Looking back throughout history, they could not find a time when they had not claimed this land. Even after the elven kingdoms had split in twain following the bitter Kinslayer Wars, creating the two great elven nations, Qualinesti and Silvanesti, the Qualinesti continued to rule and inhabit land that had already been theirs.