“Certainly, we understand, Sir Gerard,” said Lord Tasgall. “What news do you have of the king and the royal family?”
“According to the survivors who managed to reach Solace, the Queen Mother was killed in the battle with the dragon,” said the messenger, eyeing Gerard distrustfully and keeping out of his reach. “She is being proclaimed a hero. The king is reported to have escaped safely and is said to be joining the rest of his people, who fled the dragon’s wrath.”
“At least with the dragon dead, the elves can now go back to Qualinesti,” said Gerard, his heart heavy.
“I am afraid that is not the case, my lord,” the messenger replied grimly. “For although the dragon is dead and her armies dispersed, a new commander arrived very shortly afterward to take control. He is a Knight of Neraka and claims he was present during the attack on Solanthus. He has rallied what was left of Beryl’s armies and overrun Qualinesti. Thousands flock to his standard for he has promised wealth and free land to all who join him.”
“What of Solace?” asked Lord Tasgall anxiously.
“For the moment, we are safe. Haven is free. Beryl’s forces who held control of that city abandoned their posts and traveled south to be in on the looting of the elven nation. But my lord believes that once this Lord Samuval, as he calls himself, has a firm grip on Qualinesti, he will next turn his gaze upon Abanasinia. Thus does my lord request reinforcements.....” The messenger paused, looked from one lord knight to another. None met the man’s pleading gaze. They looked at each other and then looked away. There were no reinforcements to send. Gerard was so shaken that he did not immediately recognize the name Samuval and call to mind the man who had escorted him through Mina’s camp. He would remember that only when he was on the road to Solanthus. For now, all he could think about was Laurana, dying in battle against the great dragon, and his friend and enemy, the Dark Knight commander, Marshal Medan. True, the Solamnics would never mention him or name Medan a hero, but Gerard guessed that if Laurana had died, the gallant Marshal had preceded her in death.
Gerard’s heart went out to the young king, who must now lead his people in exile. Gilthas was so young to have such terrible responsibility thrust upon him, young and untried. Would he be up to the task? Could anyone, no matter how old and experienced, be up to that task?
“Sir Gerard . . .”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You have leave to go. I suggest that you depart tonight. In all the turmoil, no one will think to question your disappearance. Do you have everything you need?”
“I need to make arrangements with the one who is to carry my messages, my lord.” Gerard had no more luxury for sorrow. Someday, he hoped to have the chance to avenge the dead. But, for now, he had to make certain that he did not join them. “Once that is accomplished, I am ready to depart on the instant.”
“My squire, Richard Kent, is young, but sensible, and an expert horseman,” said Lord Tasgall. “I will appoint him to be your messenger. Would that be satisfactory?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Gerard.
Richard was summoned. Gerard had seen the young man before and been impressed with him. The two soon settled where Richard was to wait to hear from Gerard and how they were going to communicate. Gerard saluted the Knights of the council, then departed.
Leaving the chapel of Kiri-Jolith, Gerard entered the sodden wet courtyard, ducked his head to keep the rain out of his eyes. •His first thought was to find Odila, to see how she was faring. His second and better thought convinced him to leave her alone. She would ask questions about where he was going and what he was planning, and he’d been ordered to tell no one. Rather than lie to her, he decided it would be easier to not speak to her at all.
Taking a circuitous route to avoid the possibility of bumping into her or anyone else, he went to gather up what he needed. He did not take his armor, nor even his sword. Going to the kitchen, he packed some food in a saddlebag, snagged some water, and a thick cape that had been hung in front of the fire to dry. The cape was still damp in places and smelled strongly of wet sheep that had been baked in an oven, but it was ideal for his purpose. Clad only in his shirt and breeches, he wrapped himself in the cape and headed for the stables.
He had a long ride ahead of him—long, wet, and lonely.
9
The Plains of Dust
The rain that drenched the northlands of Ansalon and was such a misery to the Solamnic Knights would have been welcome to the elves in the south, who were just starting their journey through the Plains of Dust. The Qualinesti elves had always gloried in the sun. Their Tower was the Tower of the Sun; their king, the Speaker of the Sun. The sun’s light banished the darkness and terrors of the night, brought life to the roses and warmth to their houses. The elves had loved even the new sun, that had appeared after the Chaos War, for though its light seemed feeble, pale, and sickly at times, it continued to bring life to their land.
In the Plains of Dust, the sun did not bring life. The sun brought death. Never before had any elf cursed the sun. Now, after only a few days’ travel through the empty, harsh land under the strange, glaring eye of this sun—an eye that was no longer pale and sickly but fierce and unforgiving as the eye of a vengeful goddess—the elves grew to hate the sun and cursed it bleakly as it rose with malevolent vindictiveness every morning.
The elves had done what they could to prepare for their journey, but none, except the runners, had ever traveled so far from their homeland, and they had no idea what to expect. Not even the runners, who maintained contact with Alhana Starbreeze of the Silvanesti, had ever crossed the Plains of Dust. Their routes took them north through the swamp land of the dragon overlord Onysablet. Gilthas had actually considered trying to travel these routes, but rejected the idea almost immediately. While one or two could creep through the swamps undetected by the dragon or the evil creatures who served her, an entire populace could not escape her notice. The runners reported that the swamp grew darker and more dangerous, as the dragon extended her control over the land, so that few who ventured into it these days came out alive. The rebel elves—most of them Wilder elves, who were accustomed to living out-of-doors—had a better idea of what the people would face. Although none of them had ever ventured out into the desert, they knew that their lives might well depend on being able to flee at a moment’s notice, and they knew better than to burden themselves with objects that are precious in life, but have no value to the dead.
The majority of the refugees had yet to learn this hard lesson. The Qualinesti elves had fled their homes, made a dangerous journey through dwarven tunnels or traveled by night under the shelter of the trees. Even so, many had managed to bring along bags and boxes filled with silken gowns, thick woolen robes, jewels and jewel boxes, books containing family histories, toys and dolls for the children, heirlooms of all types and varieties. Such objects held sweet remembrances of their past, represented their hope for the future.
Acting on the advice of his wife, Gilthas tried to convince the people that they should leave their heirlooms and jewels and family histories behind. He insisted that every person carry as much water as he or she could possibly manage, along with food enough for a week’s journey. If that meant an elf maiden could no longer carry her dancing shoes, so be it. Most thought this stricture harsh in the extreme and grumbled incessantly. Someone came up with the idea of building a litter that could be dragged along behind and soon many of the elves began lashing together tree limbs to haul their goods. Gilthas watched and shook his head.