“Will two extra pairs of hands help, my lord?” she asked.
Kemian grasped her shoulder. “More than help, lady.”
Verhanna and Rufus began tying what line they had to the end of the warriors’ supply. While thus engaged, they didn’t notice Greenhands slide off the boulder and walk straight up the ramp toward the caves in the spire. Rufus glimpsed him and shouted, “Hey!”
“Stop!” Kemian commanded. Greenhands was almost at the mouth of one of the cave openings. At any second, the awful wind would rise and sweep him back. It might also scatter their hard-won loops of rope. “Stop at once, I say!” bellowed Lord Ambrodel.
Greenhands spared a brief look at the elves and kender, then stepped into the opening. Kemian Ambrodel clenched his jaw, his body tensing in anticipation.
No wind boiled forth. The night was quiet and cold, and not a breath of breeze stirred.
Kemian gaped. “Who is this elf? A sorcerer?”
“A very strange fellow,” Rufus said. He struggled with the rope he was tying. It was thick and stiff. “He’s got all kinds of power, but he never works a spell.”
Lord Ambrodel looked to Verhanna. “Wart’s right,” she agreed. “If anybody can reach my father, this Greenhands can.”
“We can’t risk the Speaker’s life on some vagabond’s tricks. Get the rope ready!” barked Kemian.
The warriors gathered up the rope and hastened to the main tunnel mouth. Rufus had wrapped the tough rope around his small hands, the better to wrestle with a last knot, and he was dragged all the way to the base of the peak.
Kith-Kanan tapped the flat of his sword blade against the palm of his hand. Dru had made no sound or appearance in an hour or more, and the torches around the great circular room were burning out one by one. Half were gone when he heard the distant ring of shouting outside. He called up the tunnel in reply, but all was silence once more. The Speaker didn’t want to make too much noise for fear of encouraging Dru to think he despaired of his situation.
Ulvian lay completely immobile at Kith-Kanan’s feet. Father regarded son with mixed feelings. It was Ulvian’s willfulness and pride that had brought them here. He had not only dealt in slaves, but also had fled the Speaker’s justice and helped an evil sorcerer to escape. Yet Kith-Kanan’s expression softened as he watched him sleep, curled up on the floor like a harmless child. This was his son, the baby boy he and Suzine had rejoiced in. He might be fully grown, but his heart was as a child’s—a boy who adored his mother and seldom saw his father.
Tiredly Kith-Kanan rubbed his temples and tried not to dwell on what might have been.
“You are not alone.”
Kith-Kanan whirled. A quarter of the way around the room, a solitary elf stood. It wasn’t Dru. This elf was tall, fair-haired, young. He wore a rough horsehair poncho and leather trews. His gaze on Kith-Kanan was intense.
“Who are you?” demanded the Speaker, stepping over Ulvian. “Is this another of your guises, Drulethen?”
The stranger didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to regard Kith-Kanan with an unsettling stare. His face bore such a look of rapt joy that the Speaker was momentarily distracted from his own worry. With a shake, as if coming to himself suddenly, Kith-Kanan lifted his sword point a bit higher and demanded, “Answer me!”
“Who are you?”
“I am Greenhands. At least, that’s what my captain calls me.”
“Green—” Kith-Kanan’s eyes traveled downward, noticing the colored fingers for the first time. The room was growing dimmer as more of the torches flickered and died, but the grassy hue of the elf’s hands was plainly visible.
“How did you get in here? Why didn’t the wind blow you out?” asked the Speaker sharply.
“I simply walked in. I have been looking for you for a long time.” The stranger moved a few paces closer, and a smile lightened his face. “You are my father.”
Kith-Kanan was taken aback. His first reaction to this astonishing statement was puzzlement. If this was some trick of the sorcerer’s, what was its purpose? Perhaps this elf was some feeble-minded innocent, a dupe of Drulethen’s.
Again Greenhands moved nearer to the one for whom he had searched. Kith-Kanan’s shifting thoughts were stilled as he looked into the strange elf’s eyes. They were brilliantly, shiningly green, brighter than the clearest emeralds. His face seemed familiar somehow—the fulllipped mouth, the high forehead, the shape of his nose. It reminded the Speaker of…Kith-Kanan rocked back on his heels, stunned by the thought that had exploded across his mind. Anaya! The tall elf reminded him of Anaya. The features, the eyes, were identical, even his green-tinged skin. Anaya’s skin had changed just so when she had begun her transformation into a mighty oak. Lowering his sword, he moved forward to meet Greenhands halfway, near the now cold firepit. Their height was identical.
“Hello, Father,” Greenhands said happily.
Kith-Kanan couldn’t believe what he saw. It seemed impossible, yet he only had to look at this young elf to see his amazing resemblance to Anaya, to know that he spoke the truth. Somehow, by some miracle, his and Anaya’s son had come here, to Black Stone Peak.
The Speaker’s voice was uncertain, so strong were the emotions that gripped him. “Your coming was foretold to me centuries ago,” he whispered. “Only I did not understand then….” He lifted a shaking hand to touch Greenhands’ face. The elf smiled broadly, and Kith-Kanan enveloped him in a warm embrace. “My son!”
The happy moment was brief. Danger remained all around them. Kith-Kanan wiped away the tears that dampened his cheek and held Greenhands out at arm’s length.
There was a rush of air overhead, a beating of unseen wings. Alarmed, Kith-Kanan stood back and raised his sword. Only a quarter of the torches in the room still burned, and in the half-light he saw a winged thing circle and dip in and out of the fitful light.
“Son, do you carry a weapon?” he asked, swiftly donning his helmet.
Greenhands held out empty arms. “No, Father.”
The Speaker kicked among the debris on the floor. The winged creature swooped near him, and he slashed hard at it, missing. The beast soared away, and Kith-Kanan squatted long enough to pick up a stout piece of wood, a leg broken from a dining table.
“Take this,” he said, tossing it to Greenhands. “If anything comes at you, hit it!”
An eerie laugh floated through the chamber. Kith-Kanan glanced at Ulvian. The prince was still unconscious. Overhead, the laugh sounded again.
“A fine weapon for a fine-looking warrior,” said Drulethen. His voice caromed off the stone walls, making it difficult to determine where he was. “A worthy addition to the House of Silvanos!”
“Indeed he is,” Kith-Kanan retorted. “He got in past your spells, didn’t he?”
“How do you know I didn’t let him in intentionally? I’m collecting royal Qualinesti!” he snarled nastily.
With hand gestures, Kith-Kanan indicated that Greenhands should go around the other side of the chamber, away from him. The elf complied with commendable stealth. Kith-Kanan edged away from the unconscious Ulvian and talked to distract Drulethen.
“Well, great sorcerer, what do you intend to do with us?” he called out.
“My amulet. One of you is going to give me the other half of my amulet if I have to torture each of you in turn to convince you to do so.” The sorcerer’s voice had fixed in one place. Kith-Kanan peered at an upright, though broken, chair. A tall shadow had appeared there. He lowered his sword so the blade wouldn’t gleam in the remaining torchlight.
“You cannot win, Drulethen. Ulvian might have helped you, but I will see to it you never have the amulet,” he vowed. He stepped gingerly over some smashed crates, moving as silently as possible.
“Ulvian! That idle, untrustworthy wretch? He’ll be the first to go, mark my words. I shall enjoy his torment.”