The Khurish tune was a simple one, a children’s song about an injured little girl having a wound dressed. To Kerian’s astonishment, Eagle Eye allowed the girl to anoint his injury. He even lowered his feathered head so she could better reach his eye.
“I’ve never seen him allow a human so close before,” Kerian said.
“All creatures know pain,” the girl replied. “And all creatures understand kindness.”
By the time the sun cleared the intervening buildings and set the temple’s blue dome ablaze, Sa’ida was ready. The entire college of Elir-Sana turned out to see her off. Kerian had worried she would try to take too much heavy baggage, but those fears proved unfounded. The holy mistress carried only two modest-sized cloth bags.
Kerian fixed the pillion pad to the rear of the saddle and buckled a spare strap to the harness. After securing the woman’s bags, she cupped her hands as a toehold for the priestess.
“I’m not so infirm,” Sa’ida said, frowning.
“Humor me, Holy Mistress. I’d rather you not sustain a broken leg even before we go.”
The priestess obliged, putting her foot in Kerian’s hands and letting the elf woman hoist her up. Eagle Eye turned his supple neck to regard the new passenger. Her face paled a bit at his close, steady regard, but she did not recoil, only bade him a polite good morning and thanked him for carrying her upon his back. Blinking, he turned to look at Kerian, and she was hard-pressed not to spoil Sa’ida’s dignified greeting by laughing.
Once Sa’ida was buckled securely in place, Kerian swung herself into the saddle and took hold of the reins. She addressed the throng of anxious women.
“I swear to you all, I will guard Holy Mistress Sa’ida with my life and return her to you safely.”
“Peace and good health!” Sa’ida said, and the women called their farewells.
Because of the added weight, Eagle Eye required an extra step to get them airborne. Sa’ida held Kerian tightly around the waist as they climbed skyward, but when the griffon leveled off, she relaxed.
“How long to the Valley of the Blue Sands?” she shouted into the wind.
“We should reach it a few hours before midnight,” Kerian shouted back.
Wary of another magical attack, Kerian did not have Eagle Eye circle for height as usual. She put him into a steepish climb, due north out of Khuri-Khan. Sa’ida was looking down, staring at the receding ground. Concerned, Kerian asked if she was all right. The priestess lifted a beaming face.
“This is wonderful!”
From the air the city appeared strangely flat, Sa’ida thought, like an image drawn by a skilled mapmaker. To the south, smoke still stained the Arembeg quarter, but she could see no flames. The fire must have been brought under control. She was still concerned for those injured or displaced by the fire, but the fault for that misery lay squarely with Lord Condortal. Her attention was drawn to the palace, glittering like topaz atop its hill. She wondered whether Sahim-Khan had slept well the previous night.
When he received the letter she’d dispatched to him that morning, she was sure his rest would be troubled for some time to come.
* * * * *
The frame was in place. A windlass turned by eight elves was set up on firmer ground a short distance away from the pit. The windlass controlled the rope that would lower the explorers into the hole and would raise them up again. A bronze hook dangled at the end of the rope. Hamaramis would descend first. He was adjusting the rope harness around himself. A company of dismounted warriors stood nearby in case of trouble.
Vixona was seated on the edge of the toppled monolith, keeping out of the way until she was summoned. Her attention strayed toward the far-off trees. The usual crowd of silent spirits had gathered to state at the intruders in their domain.
“I must be getting used to ghosts. They don’t seem so frightening today,” she commented.
“Then walk out there and greet them,” Hamaramis said, fastening the bronze hook onto his harness.
Vixona sniffed. Like the scribes, the general seemed to resent her. The scribes she could understand. They disliked revealing the secrets of their male-dominated craft to a female. General Hamaramis’s resentment she could not fathom. She wasn’t usurping any of his rights or privileges, only exercising her own hard-won skills.
“Are you ready?” asked Gilthas. Hamaramis nodded and walked to the hole, the heavy rope dragging behind.
The windlass creaked around. Hamaramis went up, his feet dangling over the black opening. He took a firmer grip on his torch and nodded.
“Lower away!”
Vixona had left her perch. One arm wrapped around the frame for support, she leaned over to watch the general’s descent. The rope was marked in ten-yard increments with dabs of white paint. He descended three marks, thirty yards, then the rope went slack.
“He’s at the bottom!” she called.
Hamaramis jerked on the rope to signal he was out of the harness. It was hauled up, and each of the three warriors made the descent. Vixona was the last to go.
“Good luck,” the Speaker said, smiling.
Shyly, she thanked him. It seemed odd to her that it was he who offered kindness. The Speaker was the patron of all scribes, but he didn’t seem to resent her a bit. Perhaps, having the Lioness as a wife, he was accustomed to competent females.
Since she needed her hands free for writing and drawing, she carried no torch. The blind drop through inky darkness was not pleasant. The creaking noises the rope made as it twisted her slowly around only added to the eerie feeling. She looked down between her feet. Moving lights meant the warriors already were exploring the tunnel with their torches. She hoped someone would be waiting for her when she reached bottom.
Her feet touched a hard surface, but before she had time to stiffen her knees, she lay sprawled on her back. Quickly she got out of the harness and tugged on the rope with both hands to let those above know she’d arrived.
A flaming brand approached. It lit the face of General Hamaramis. “Are you all right?”
She stood, wincing from her hard landing. “Fine, thank you.”
He pulled the harness aside and left it on the floor still attached to the hook. She studied her surroundings.
They were in a circular chamber with a single tunnel leading away. Vixona noted that the tunnel bore due west.
“How do you know its direction?” Hamaramis asked.
She explained that the hoist frame had been raised with its four supporting poles aligned with the cardinal directions. The distance marks had been daubed on the rope’s south side. During her descent, the rope had made six complete twists. From the position of the paint marks now, the tunnel must lead due west.
“You noticed all that?”
She blinked, surprised by his surprise. “It’s my calling to notice,” she said simply.
A shout from within the tunnel had Hamaramis drawing his sword and running for the mouth of the passage. “Stay behind me,” he warned. Vixona assured him she had no desire to be first.
They caught up with the three warriors thirty-five yards along. Vixona estimated the distance aloud, in part to distract herself from her pounding heart.
The warriors stood at a crossing tunnel (which ran northeast- southwest, according to Vixona). They had seen a single figure dart across the opening as they approached. Wanting to give chase, they’d thought better of it and had raised an alarm.
“Well done,” said Hamaramis. “Chasing an unknown is too risky. It could be a phantom.”
During this exchange Vixona had been scribbling rapidly. She pulled Hamaramis’s torch closer to her page so she could see what she was writing. The flame wavered and crackled. There was a draft, and it came not from the shaft where they’d entered, but from the crossing tunnel.
“What do you make of the pictures?” she asked breathlessly.
Before he could embarrass himself by saying “what pictures?” Hamaramis saw them. The walls were covered with murals painted
in delicate hues. The wall before them depicted a host of elf warriors on griffons and horses.
“It’s Balif,” Vixona said. The warriors, intent on searching the darkness for signs of trouble, didn’t heed her, but Hamaramis prompted her to continue. “This painting shows Balif leading the armies of Silvanos Goldeneye on the Field of Hyberya.”
She didn’t ask whether he knew the details of the story, but simply launched on an explanation. Some clans in the western provinces of Silvanesti had refused to acknowledge Silvanos as their overlord. Small companies of warriors were sent to enforce the Speaker’s will, but one by one they were ambushed and destroyed. Speaker Silvanos sent Lord Balif with the royal army to subdue the rebels. Balif swept the troublemakers away. In a forest clearing called Hyberya, the recalcitrant western elves pledged fealty to the Speaker of the Stars. The battle was one of Balif’s greatest triumphs.
Obviously later generations had forgotten it. Hamaramis was frankly astonished. “You mean elf fought elf?”
She nodded. “Hundreds died. As a result, the western forest was divided into military districts, each with its own garrison. The society of Brown Hoods, believed by the Speaker to have been behind the rebellion, was ruthlessly suppressed.”
“Brown Hoods?”
“A league of rural clerics and wild magicians. The most famous Brown Hood was Vedvedsica.”
By now, all the warriors were listening. They regarded the young scribe with new respect.
“How do you know all this?” Hamaramis asked.
“I’m a scribe. I read.”
The draft grew stronger, forcing the warriors to shield their torches with their bodies. Hamaramis considered their next move. The southwest leg of the crossing tunnel would take them beneath the woodland and away from their camp. Northeast led directly to the circular stone platform. Hamaramis thought it likely that if the tunnel system had a hub, it would be found under the huge platform, the valley’s dominant feature.
They headed northeast, with the breeze at their backs, walking in single file. Hamaramis led, followed by two warriors, then Vixona, and finally the last warrior. Vixona kept count of her paces, measuring the length of the tunnel as they traveled. They’d gone about a mile when the wind abruptly grew stronger. One warrior, caught with too light a grip on his torch, found it snatched from his hand. The burning brand bounced ahead of them for quite a distance, sending out sparks with each impact. It finally came to rest against the wall. By its light they saw a figure struggling on the floor.
“Help!” The plea was in the Common tongue, flavored by a human accent. “Help me, please!” The man was clinging to the edge of a wide pit. Only his head and arms were visible. The elves ran to him, and two warriors dragged him to safety.
He was a human of middle years, dark haired, and dressed in brown leather. When the warriors saw his scabbard and knife, they drew their own weapons.
“Who are you?” Hamaramis demanded.
“My name is Jeralund. I’m a hunter-”
“How did you get here? There are no humans in Inath-Wakenti.”
“I chased a stag through a narrow ravine in the mountains and emerged in the valley. It wasn’t on my map. Last night, before I could get out, some sort of floating fireball touched me. Next thing I know, I’m in these caves.”
One of the warriors relieved Jeralund of his weapons.
Hamaramis eyed the human’s sword with suspicion. It was a war blade, “Are you a soldier?”
“I have been.” So had most of the able-bodied folk on the continent.
A further search produced a pouch of coins, new ones. Steel coins usually turned brown after a month or two in circulation. His were still bright and free of rust. They were also Nerakan.
“I’m afraid you must consider yourself our prisoner, at least for now,” Hamaramis said, The man protested, but Hamaramis cut him off. “It’s for the Speaker to decide what’s to become of you.”
Vixona, who had moved away from the interrogation for a peek into the pit, called for the general to take a look. The pit was extraordinarily deep. She doubted there was enough rope in the valley to plumb its depths. But that wasn’t what interested her.
“Take the torches away and look down,” she said. A warrior took their lit torches and moved a short distance away. In the ensuing darkness, a faint, bluish aura could be seen far, far down in the pit.
“And listen,” Vixona said.
From the deep shaft came a slow, regular thud. It sounded very much like the rhythm of a beating heart.
Chapter 13
Showers of rain trailed across Inath-Wakenti like filmy curtains. From the elves’ camp in the center of the valley, the entire panorama of clouds and clear sky, sunlight and rain, was laid out like a magnificent mural. Gray clouds advanced rapidly across the heavens, bursts of rain alternating with shafts of sunlight that reached down with golden fingers to caress the ancient white monoliths.
Gilthas stared at the beautiful vista and saw none of it. He was sitting alone in his palanquin at the edge of the great stone disk, recruiting his strength. The explorers he’d sent into the tunnel were overdue. Repeated shouts into the pit had evinced no response. There was no shortage of volunteers ready to go down after the explorers, but Gilthas forbade it. He wouldn’t risk more lives.
Even more bitter was Kerian’s absence. She had a habit of overcoming long odds, but a trip alone to Khuri-Khan to spirit away the Khurs’ most holy priestess might be more than even the Lioness could handle. He intended to use the platform’s power to call to his wife and the missing explorers, as he had spoken with Hytanthas before. None of them knew the scope of the valley’s strange influence. If Gilthas could shift a gigantic monolith with one hand, perhaps he could send his words beyond the valley’s confines to wherever his wife might be. It was the only thing he could think to do for her.
The shaft of sunlight that briefly illuminated the platform was swallowed up by a new squall. The golden light seemed to race across the white granite, trailing rain in its wake. The palanquin had a canvas shade to keep off sun and rain. Gilthas found the sound of the rain pattering on the canvas surprisingly soothing.
He had need of such small comforts. Other problems had worsened. Food supplies continued to dwindle. He authorized more foraging parties, but they returned with frustratingly little sustenance. A few bushels of herbs, some dandelion greens, and a smattering of wild mushrooms would not sustain a nation. For the first time, he questioned his decision to bring his people to Inath-Wakenti. He wondered whether he had made a disastrous choice. Perilous as their existence in Khurinost had been, there they faced enemies they could see and fight. In the valley the foe was a situation, exacerbated by an army of silent phantoms. The elves had paid a high price to get here. Many had died during the march across the desert, and those who survived heat and nomad attacks found death still stalking them, death by starvation.
Could he have chosen another path? Kerian had never wavered in championing her dream of retaking their homelands. Yet Gilthas knew without any doubt that that was beyond their power, at least for the moment. Her secondary plan, to seize Khuri-Khan and hold it as a citadel, was completely outlandish and would have resulted in slaughter and suffering on a terrifying scale. Their one and only advantage-the sanctuary they’d purchased from the khan-would have been lost. Every hand would have turned against them.
The rain fell harder. He shouldn’t delay any longer. He stood too quickly. His legs nearly betrayed him, but he bore down hard on his staff and did not fall. Droplets of rain fell on his face. He ignored them and approached the platform. The granite was more finely grained and purely white than any he’d seen before.
Fifteen inches showed above ground. More lay buried. Gilthas should’ve been able to leap onto the slab in one easy bound. Instead, he struggled as though scaling a mountain.
When he finally succeeded, he was gasping. The rain soaked his hair, streamed over his eyes, and ran off his chin. Rather than a hindrance, th
e rain was pleasant, almost warm, which was odd since it came from the lofty mountains. Its effect was unexpected. It acted like a tonic, giving his thoughts new clarity, his body new strength of purpose. He pushed forward, making for the center of the huge circular monument.
The tip of his staff slipped on the wet granite, and he went sprawling. He skinned the knuckles of his left hand and got a nasty knock on the jaw. Undeterred, he got himself back onto his feet. Rain rinsed the blood away.
When he reached the exact center of the platform, an odd thing happened. The rain continued to pour down on him and splash onto the stone, but it made no noise. It was weird to observe the fall of rain yet hear no sound of it at all. Curious, he clapped his hands together. They made no sound either. He drove the butt of his staff into the granite. Nothing.
The unnatural silence allowed other sounds to come forth. These grew louder as he concentrated. They were the voices of his people in camp. By facing slightly left or right he could make the voices louder or softer. He shifted an inch here, an inch there, until the voices were gone, then drew a breath and spoke the name closest to his heart.
“Kerian.”
His ravaged lungs permitted no loud cry. He spoke in a normal tone. In the noiseless void, his voice rang like a high, clear bell. “Kerian, this is Gil. I pray you can hear me. I’m waiting for you. Don’t give up!”
Water dripped from his face as he lowered his head to gather his composure. When he could trust his voice again, he called to the lost explorers. “Hamaramis, this is the Speaker. Come back if you can. We need you. Everyone is needed. Come back.”
A beam of sunlight swept across the stone disk. It passed over him like a seashore beacon.
“Come home, everyone. I need you. I need you all.”
With that his store of strength was done. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the rain-washed stone.
* * * * *
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