Torchlight flashed off the ruby pinned to the black silk on Drulethen’s chest. Kith-Kanan’s eyes flickered to it and back to the sorcerer’s face. What had the magician just said? Ah, yes. He remembered now. “So for fifty years’ service to me, you get a lifetime of power for yourself,” he said. “Assuming you even honor your oath to me. I don’t think the world would thank me, Drulethen.”
The sorcerer’s gray eyes were flinty. “Then your answer is no?”
“It is no.”
The ruby flashed fire again. This time Kith-Kanan’s attention strayed too long, and Drulethen suddenly wasn’t there. The Speaker crouched, ready for an attack, then cut through the air with his sword. From above came thin, eerie laughter.
“Father and son are so alike!” chortled Drulethen. “I shall leave you to a common fate. Farewell, son of Sithel! I only wish my wyvern were here. He did so enjoy eating the flesh of highborn Silvanesti!” The laughter took a long time to fade away.
Kith-Kanan knelt and found the hard lump that was Feldrin’s box inside Ulvian’s clothing. The prince never stirred.
Circling the room, the Speaker searched for a way out. No wind rushed in at him unless he got within a pace of an opening. Lying just inside the tunnels were daggers and helmets dropped by his lancers.
An idea came to him. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Kith-Kanan shouted, “Hello! Kemian Ambrodel, can you hear me?”
Nothing. He moved to the next tunnel, always standing back to avoid triggering the magic wind. “Hello, this is the Speaker! Can you hear me?” he cried. After trying six holes, he finally received a reply.
“Yes, we hear you,” came the faint answer. It was one of his warriors. Soon the Speaker heard Kemian’s shout.
“Get all the rope you have,” Kith-Kanan ordered. “Tie it together, then tie one end to a large rock. Roll it into the tunnel. It should follow the downslope to me, then I’ll be able to use the rope to climb out against the wind!”
“Understood!”
“It won’t work,” said Dru’s bland voice. “No rope in the world can withstand the Breath of Hiddukel.”
Kith-Kanan planted his fists on his hips and said sarcastically, “You don’t mind if we try, though, do you?”
He returned to his sleeping son and gathered him in his arms. He lay Ulvian’s slack form near the entrance to the tunnel where he’d heard his warriors. As he did so, Kith-Kanan recalled Drulethen’s reference to Hiddukel. That must be the evil sorcerer’s patron deity. Weeks ago, when Hiddukel had appeared to him in the Tower of the Sun, he’d given his name as Dru. Had the god been hinting at the part his infamous disciple would play in the lives of the Qualinesti?
“There’s no way out for you.” Dru’s voice was sharp. “Give me my amulet, and I’ll spare your life.”
“My life? A while ago you offered to be my slave for fifty years.”
The sorcerer said no more. Kith-Kanan drew a tattered piece of tapestry over his son and sat down to wait. His nerves were singing with tension, but he knew that if the warriors took too long, fatigue would surely set in.
And nothing would stand between Drulethen and his black amulet.
15 — The Fertile Seed
“Are you sure this is the way?”
Rufus Wrinklecap’s high voice split the cold night air. He, Verhanna, and Greenhands were following the steep, south-leading pathway up into the mountains. Verhanna had convinced Greenhands to let the kender take the lead to scout the narrow path for them. After some grumbling about having to walk instead of ride, Rufus complied. He quickly grew excited as he detected signs that others had passed along the trail very recently.
“Who were they?” asked Verhanna.
“Qualinesti, on shod horses,” the kender replied. He sniffed the scant hoofprints, barely indented in the stony soil. “Warriors. At least twenty of them.”
She scoffed, “How can you tell they were warriors?” Rufus stuck his small nose in the air. “I can smell their iron, my captain.”
Verhanna pondered the significance of the warriors’ presence. They surely weren’t hunting runaways from Pax Tharkas; Feldrin Feldspar had dwarven brigades to do such work. Intrigued, she moved on, following the kender.
Greenhands had barely spoken at all since they’d begun to climb. Not even the continued panorama of fiery comets overhead broke his profound silence.
At last they reached a small level patch on the upward slope, and Verhanna called a pause for rest.
Rufus dropped where he stood, worn out by his nose-to-the-ground scouting. Greenhands remained upright, his eyes fastened on the slope before them. Now he started off again. Verhanna, chewing on a piece of venison jerky, called him back.
“My father is near,” he replied, glancing back at her. “I must go.”
Wearily the warrior maiden dropped her half-eaten snack in her saddlebag. “Come on, Wart. His Majesty is going.”
“What’s the hurry?” complained the kender. Verhanna offered him a hand, and he swung onto the saddle pillion. “Where are we going? That’s all I want to know—and what’s the hurry?”
“Don’t ask me,” Verhanna said, clucking her tongue to urge the tired horse forward. “But I tell you this, Wart—If we don’t find something significant by sunrise, I’m turning back, and to Darkness with Greenhands!”
The trail made several sharp turns and climbed at an even greater rate, so that they lost sight of Greenhands, who was keeping some paces ahead of them. Verhanna and Rufus passed a deeply shadowed defile on their left, and the horse halted on its own. It danced and snorted, tossing its head and refusing to go on, no matter how Verhanna coaxed or used her spurs.
The sky went dark.
The sudden cessation of the darting stars was startling and left the landscape much blacker than before. No moons shone; only the glimmer of starlight illuminated their way.
Rufus tugged at Verhanna’s elbow. “The horse is calm now,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“No, wait. Don’t you feel it?”
Her voice was a whisper, and Verhanna sat stiff and still in the saddle.
“Feel what?” the kender asked impatiently.
“Like a storm is about to break….”
Rufus replied tartly that he felt nothing, and Verhanna touched her heels to the horse’s flanks. They went on. Around a turn, the sharp spire that was Black Stone Peak jutted into view, blotting out an area of stars.
“I feel cold,” said Rufus, wiggling closer to Verhanna’s back.
“I hear voices!” she hissed, and urged the horse to a brisker pace. Up the final stretch of trail, kender and warrior maiden rode hard. They burst onto a scene of frantic activity. A score of white faces turned to her, and she recognized them as fellow Guards of the Sun.
Kemian Ambrodel appeared out of the night. “Lady Verhanna!” he exclaimed. “This is amazing! How come you to be here?” He offered a gauntleted hand to her.
She shook his hand and said frankly, “My lord, I’m no less shocked to see you. My scout and I were led here by an extraordinary fellow, a tall, flaxen-haired elf we call Greenhands. He must’ve passed you only moments ago.”
“He is here. I put him aside, as we are too busy to deal with newcomers at present.” Kemian lifted his chin to indicate a boulder a few paces away. On it was seated the green-fingered elf. His attention was not directed at the warriors or Verhanna, but at Black Stone Peak.
Verhanna dismounted, and Rufus hopped to the ground behind her. “What’s going on here?” piped the kender.
The warriors were tying hank after hank of rope together. Most of it was in short lengths, used to tether horses on a picket line at night.
“Your father is in there,” Kemian said gravely, sweeping a hand toward the black spire of rock behind them. Quickly the young general sketched the situation.