The shaft of sunlight, so long shining on Planchet and Gilthas, at last faded. Gilthas looked up at the roiling clouds. He frowned. A slender object, dark against the sky, seemed to hang in the air over the city. No, not hang. It was moving, falling.
“Arrow!” Planchet shouted.
He threw himself in front of the Speaker, but the missile was plummeting from such a height its path was almost straight down. The broadhead cut Gilthas’s jaw and struck him in the hollow of the neck, on the right side.
Pandemonium erupted. Gilthas was saved from hitting the ground by Taranath, who caught him by the shoulders and bore him up. Hakkam’s guards drew swords, whirling their horses in tight circles to see who had loosed the arrow.
A shout went up from the front rank of elven warriors. They had seen the arrow’s fall and its awful termination. The shout was followed by a hedge of swords sprouting along the line. In ragged order, for the rear ranks did not yet know what had happened, the elves charged up the hill to their monarch’s defense.
The thunder of the oncoming elves sent Hakkam’s escort spurring for the city. The thick-necked general roared, “Come back, you wretches! Stand your ground!” One halted. The rest made straight for the city gate, now swinging shut.
“What treachery is this?” Planchet cried, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and leaping from his horse. The Speaker had collapsed over his horse’s neck.
“It is not by my order!” Hakkam retorted, also dismounting.
He and Planchet took the Speaker from his horse and j lowered him gently to the road. The arrow was still embedded in Gilthas’s neck.
“That did not come from my men,” said Hakkam. “It’s not a Khurish war arrow.”
“What is it, then?” Planchet demanded.
“A hunting arrow. My men aren’t issued such.”
It was fortunate for Gilthas the missile wasn’t a war arrow. Stoutly shafted, with a square or triangular iron head and leather fletching, a war arrow would have driven deep into the elf’s slender body. The hunting missile, lightly made, with a flat broadhead and white pigeon-feather fletching, had struck Gilthas’s collar bone and stopped. The wound was nasty, but with prompt care it would not be fatal.
A wave of shouting elf warriors galloped by the figures kneeling on the road. A handful halted, but most kept going, charging the city gate.
Their angry shouts reached the weakened Gilthas. From somewhere deep within himself, he tapped an unknown source of strength. Face white, he struggled to rise. Planchet holding him down, begged him to be still.
“Stop it,” Gilthas said through clenched teeth.
Thinking he was hurting the Speaker, Planchet felt tears come to his eyes. He whispered, “I’m sorry, sire, but you must be still. Please don’t move.”
“No, Planchet. Stop the warriors! Don’t let them fight! I command it!”
Taranath heard the Speaker’s order. He snatched a trumpet from his saddle and blew “Recall.” He had to repeat it four times before all the hard-riding warriors heard and heeded. The foremost ground to a halt only yards from the city wall.
In between trumpet blasts, Hakkam was shouting at his own soldiers. “Hold! If any man looses an arrow, I’ll have his head!” he roared. None of the Khurish soldiers loosed arrows or threw spears at the elves. Men and elves looked at each other in mutual confusion and alarm until the elves turned and galloped back to Taranath.
Healers from Khurinost hastened through the press of warriors. When they arrived, the Speaker was sitting up, head bowed, his white geb covered with a spreading crimson stain. The first healer to reach him was a Kagonesti with callused hands and dark tattoos on her face and arms.
“Arrow’s got to come out,” she said immediately. Planchet nodded once, face grim. “I’ll do it.”
“Someone must hold him still. If he moves too much, he could rupture an artery.”
Hakkam, nearest, knelt behind the Speaker and gripped his shoulders. “I’ve got him.”
The elves were nonplussed, but the Speaker murmured, “Thank you, General.” Eyes flickering to Planchet’s pale face, he whispered, “Proceed, my friend.”
The valet wrapped his fingers around the blood-slick arrow shaft and whispered, “Forgive me.”
With a single, mighty pull, he freed the arrow. The Kagonesti healer immediately sprinkled the wound with clotting powder and bound it tightly with linen. Too late, she realized she’d not offered the Speaker a leather pad to bite. She apologized, but he didn’t respond.
“He’s passed out,” she said.
Gilthas raised his head. “Not yet.” He smiled weakly at Planchet. “Wouldn’t she be proud of me? I didn’t faint.”
Planchet understood who “she” was. He managed to return the brave smile. “Yes, sire. Yes, she would.”
A litter was improvised, and the Speaker of the Sun and Stars carefully laid upon it. Four warriors hoisted the corners and headed back to Khurinost, leaving Planchet and Hakkam where they were.
“Taranath, disperse the warriors,” Planchet said. The general began to protest, but Planchet cut him off. “Maintain your patrols, but stand down the cavalry!” Taranath saluted and rode away.
As the elves’ cavalry began to disperse, Planchet handed Hakkam the bloody arrow. “This archer is Khur’s enemy as much as ours,” the elf said.
Hakkam gripped the arrow tightly. “Never fear. I’ll see this returned to its owner.” His meaning was abundantly clear; the arrow would likely be “returned” point first.
On a rooftop three miles away, Prince Shobbat lowered his bow. He could hardly believe his miraculous aim. No one could loft an arrow from so far, much less hit their intended target.
“Impossible,” he whispered.
“Magic is the art of the impossible,” replied the ragged, hooded figure behind him.
The Lioness withdrew her shrinking command across the creek Favaronas had given her name, and they camped for the night. Tomorrow they would depart Inath-Wakenti, forever, she hoped. There were too many unknowns here—no animals (except those that seemed to vanish in front of them), strangely powerful lights, and unaccountable disappearances. This valley was no sanctuary for their exiled people. Gilthas would have to understand that.
The ride back to the creek, under a milky canopy of stars and clouds, was an eerie one. No crickets whirred in the underbrush; no whippoorwills or nightjars called from the trees; no frogs galumphed from the creeks. There was only the soft clop-clop of their horses’ hooves. The more nervous among the warriors were for going on, not camping, but it was well past midnight and both horses and riders were tired. Better to start at dawn, especially if they might have to fight their way out through Khurish nomads.
Kerian felt it was safe enough to camp once they were beyond the stream. The massive stone ruins halted well short of the creek, and the weird phenomena had occurred only after they’d crossed the creek coming in.
They pitched a bivouac on the south bank, picketing the horses and dropping down to sleep on bedrolls, without putting up tents. Before turning in, Kerian toured the camp. She saw Favaronas had built a small fire (the only one in camp) and sat hunched before it. On his lap was one of the stone cylinders he and Glanthon had found in the tunnel.
Glanthon had told her of that strange expedition, but learning what Favaronas was doing with his prize could wait till morning. She was asleep on her feet. After a few words with the elves who’d drawn first watch, she unrolled her blanket beneath a juniper tree and lay down. In moments she was asleep.
Kerianseray did not dream much. At least, she didn’t usually remember any dreams she might have. Her nights usually were battles between uneasy alertness and total exhaustion, with exhaustion often the victor. She’d once told Gilthas that living on the run from the Order had taught her to sleep with one eye open. He thought she was joking, but her old comrades could attest that the Lioness slept with one eyelid cracked open, balanced on the dagger’s edge between sleep and wakefulness.