Finally the sun rose into the cloudless sky, and the heat of the direct rays on his back brought back awareness of this scorching summer. They coursed through dry air, and in the harsh light, he saw that many of the trees were withered, their leaves tinged with a brown that was utterly unnatural for the eternally lush forests of Qualinesti. They crossed over a small stream, and in the glimpses he got between the leaves, he saw that the water was still and muddy, more a series of stagnant pools around bone-dry rocks than any kind of fresh water flowage.
And then, at last, something broke the monotonous blanket of treetops. A bluff jutted before them, a conelike promontory formed by some ancient geological convulsion, or perhaps the work of some ultrapowerful wizard with a taste for altered landscapes. The sides of the elevation were thickly blanketed by trees, but the face was bare rock, a cliff worn ragged by weather, reduced to a series of tapered spires rising upward from the jagged summit. At the base of the cliff was a small lake, where the waters somehow remained clear and blue in the midst of the drought.
Here the griffons descended, gliding just above the lake’s surface. Gilthas was enthralled by the sight of huge trout darting away from their swift shadows.
Finally he looked up and saw that they were angling toward the shore. And there, in the shadows beneath the lofty oaks and vallenwoods, he saw a number of people gathered, arrayed in a semicircle, clearly awaiting their arrival.
The griffons swept closer, and Gilthas could see that these were elves. In the woods beyond them, more griffons were at rest, though some of the creatures lifted their heads or made sharp squawks to acknowledge the arrival of their two fellows.
With a suddenness that almost pitched him from the saddle, Gilthas’s steed swooped down and skidded to a halt on the dry ground at the edge of the lake. Immediately hard-faced elves raced forward, flanking him with swords drawn.
“Get down!” one of them barked. “Quickly!”
Gilthas did so, scrambling from the saddle, kicking out of the stirrups, and somehow coming to rest on his feet. He noticed that Kerianseray had dismounted smoothly and was welcoming the embrace of a tall, fierce Kagonesti. That warrior, whose face, chest, and limbs were covered with the whorls and leaves of black tattoos, stared over Kerian’s head at Gilthas, his expression cold and unreadable.
Trying to summon what he could of his dignity, Gilthas straightened up and looked stiffly over the assembled elves.
These were a mix of wild elves and crudely dressed Qualinesti, the latter wearing leather leggings and cloth tunics to set them apart from the Kagonesti, who wore loincloths. One of the Qualinesti, a golden-haired male with stern features, his mouth locked in a harsh frown, stepped forward from the throng.
Gilthas was certain this was Porthios.
“Greetings, Uncle,” began the young Speaker. “I am grateful that you have agreed to see me.”
“You should be,” Porthios snapped. “For by many accounts, you are the one who has stolen my medallion and my throne, who purports to lead my people but is really the tame lackey of the Thalas-Enthia!”
Gilthas felt the sting of the words, used all his willpower not to recoil. “I had no part in seeking this throne,” he retorted, his eyes searching through the elves beyond Porthios, seeking one particular face. “Instead, it was thrust upon me—after it had already been taken from you!—and I donned the medallion to avoid an even darker alternative.”
“What alternative is darker than betrayal? Than exile?” growled the former Speaker of the Sun.
“The murder of a princess... the loss of an unborn child’s life,” Gilthas said, his tone softening as he found the person he sought. “Hello, my queen. I am glad to see that you are well.”
“Hello, Gilthas,” Alhana replied with a smile. She stepped forward, taking her husband’s arm in a gesture that seemed incongruously tender in contrast to Porthios’s harsh words. “And I am glad to see you healthy as well.”
“Tell me why you wanted to see me,” Porthios demanded, clearly vexed by his wife’s friendliness with the young elf.
“Because I admire what you have done, and I despise what has happened in Qualinesti. You might be interested to know that your victory over a wing of the Dark Knights’ army resulted in a general’s execution. I have heard that Lord Ariakan himself found your attack embarrassing and disconcerting.”
“And who is Lord Ariakan? Is he your new master?” The outlaw captain seemed determined to be rude.
Gilthas stiffened. “My admiration was based on an account of your actions and a genuine interest in seeing if there was something, anything, I could do to help you. However, I have no interest in being insulted and ridiculed. I can leave right now!”
“No,” Porthios growled, “you can’t. Not unless you know how to persuade the griffons to obey you.”
Gilthas felt a nervous surge in his gut and knew that the other elf spoke the truth. Still, he tried to cover his anxiety with bluster. “Am I your prisoner, then? This journey was a ruse on your part to work my capture?”
“Why should we take risks like this? You wouldn’t be worth the trouble,” Porthios said with a sneer.
“Then why am I here?” Gilthas retorted, getting hotter by the second. “Why did you let me come?”
“Because you know things about the Dark Knights... things that I need to know. You were right, in a sense. You might be able to help me.”
“Come, Husband. This is not a matter to be discussed while we stand here and wait for the sun to reach its zenith,” Alhana said gently. She had not let go of his arm, and now she gently pulled him through a half circle while she turned to Gilthas. “Join us for a bite of food... and we can sit, as conferring elves should.” She looked chidingly back to Porthios. “Not stand around like human bulls getting ready to fight a duel.”
Gilthas followed, aware that Kerian was walking behind him, still arm in arm with the glowering Kagonesti warrior. Lining their route into the forest were many other elves, and it did not escape the young Speaker’s notice that there was not a friendly face in the lot.
All of which made Alhana’s graciousness an exceptional relief. She led them to a small clearing, merely a bare patch of forest floor surrounded by the trunks of many massive trees. It was almost as though a natural room had been formed here in the woods. Stern warriors stood at the gaps between the trees, giving some measure of privacy to the elves who entered the enclosed space.
They included Porthios and Alhana, Gilthas, several other elven warriors, and Kerian and the Kagonesti brave who had not left her side since their arrival. Gilthas was further pleased to recognize the warrior-mage Samar, who with Tanis had aided Alhana’s escape. So far as the Speaker had known, Samar had been killed during the queen’s first, ill-fated attempt at escape.
“No... I was saved by healer magic,” Samar explained easily. “And in our second attempt, we were more careful, though I regret that we were not able to get you away with us.”
“Sometimes I wish you had,” Gilthas admitted, allowing himself a moment of glum honesty.
“You tried to escape?” Porthios asked skeptically “Rashas was holding his prospective Speaker prisoner?”
“I told you, Husband,” Alhana interjected with a touch of exasperation. “It was only the threat against my life that forced Gilthas to take on the medallion and the throne of the Speaker.”