In short order the metal hook had been thoroughly cleaned. The griffon flared his wings, bobbing his head in appreciation. She gave his feathered neck an affectionate pat, and he allowed her to hood him again. She bid him good night.
Twilight had fallen. The great vault of sky over Khurinost and the Khurish capital was purple, streaked on the western horizon with scarlet and rose pink. Here in the army’s camp, there were few sunshades to block the view. Kerianseray lingered a moment, savoring the great expanse of sky and the cooling air that came with sunset.
Something flickered overhead. Birds were scarce in the desert, and she watched the movement curiously. Its shape and flight pattern seemed odd. After a moment, she recognized the darting flight of a bat. Strange. She hadn’t seen one of the creatures since leaving the woodlands of Qualinesti.
It fluttered by, maybe twenty feet above her head. The flapping of its soft wings was faint but distinct, as was the chittering sound it made, like the squeak of leather rubbing against glass. Then it was gone, darting away among the low canvas roofs and rising smoke plumes of the tent city.
Kerian looked down and discovered she was gripping the hilt of her sword. She didn’t know why, but the bat had alarmed her. Her heart was racing.
Lowering her gaze further, she saw something dark littering the sand beneath her feet. She knelt. The path was strewn with green leaves. Ash leaves. Yet, no such trees grew within three hundred miles of Khuri-Khan. More bizarre still, the leaves were green and supple.
* * * *
Dinner with the Speaker of the Sun and Stars was an austere affair, at least as far as the menu went. consigned to the magnificent past were banquets of twelve courses. Gone were dishes such as crystallized dew collected from the royal rose gardens airy pastries, and delicate seasonings. Not only were such things out of reach, but the monarch of the elven nations did not condone pretentious luxuries.
Seated at a low, round table were the Speaker, Kerianseray, the senior surviving archivist of Qualinost, Favaronas Millanandor, and a Silvanesti cartographer named Sithelbathan, formerly personal mapmaker to Queen Mother Alhana Starbreeze. Attending the diners was Planchet, an amphora of wine in his hand and a slender dagger tucked into his sash. Dinner consisted of fish, rice, roasted pine nuts, and an oily paste popular in Khur. Known as feza, it was a puree of seven vegetables, mixed with nut oil and garlic. On the table were clay pots containing Khurish stick bread, stiff rods of dough baked by sunlight until they were dark brown and nearly as hard as wood. Next to the Speaker’s plate rested a white pottery pot and a tiny, matching cup. The pot contained kefre, the strong black beverage so beloved by Khurs. Gilthas was one of the few elves who had acquired a taste for it, and the only one who drank the bitter brew without the addition of sugar, cinnamon, or other flavorings.
“Ah, for some decent fruit,” said Sithelbathan, eyeing his half-eaten fish. Khurish waters yielded many kinds of fish, all bony and strongly flavored.
Gilthas had finished his own small servings and was pouring himself a cup of kefre. “There are dates and figs for dessert,” he said. “I’ll have them brought in if you like.”
The cartographer politely declined. He’d eaten enough of both to last a lifetime.
Small talk persisted a while, until the Lioness broached the subject that had brought them all together.
“So, Master Cartographer, what of this valley?”
Sithelbathan pushed his plate away. “There is undoubtedly a valley at the location on the Speaker’s map, lady,” he said.
Gilthas asked Favaronas, “The temple annals brought back by Lady Kerianseray-do they offer useful information?”
The archivist leaned back, clasping his hands across his belly. It was a rather prominent belly, for an elf, testimony to his habit of drinking the local beer and to his lavish eating habits. Unlike his choosy colleague, Favaronas had cleaned his plate and now munched on stick bread dipped in feza.
“Perhaps, Great Speaker,” the archivist said, after swallowing. “They relate a tangled tale, full of allegory and legend. As a modern scholar, I hesitate to pass along such fables.”
Making his rounds, Planchet leaned in, refilling the archivist’s cup yet again. Favaronas thanked him, and lifted the cup to drink.
Tartly, Kerian said, “You’re not here for the hospitality. Tell us what, if anything, you’ve learned.”
Gilthas reproached her with a look, and she subsided, taking a stick of bread and biting into it with a snap. The speaker regarded the archivist expectantly.
Favaronas said, “According to the temple chronicles, Inath-Wakenti was the first place on Krynn where the gods set foot in corporeal form. it became a kind of neutral retreat, where they could stand on solid soil and enjoy the world they had created. To keep their haven free of internecine strife, they agreed none were allowed to speak within its confines. Hence, the Vale of Silence.
“Whether that is true…“ He finished the last bite of his bread, and shrugged. “But I can confirm that the area in question was part of the Silvanesti realm, prior to the First Cataclysm. Sithelbathan said the territory was part of a large grant of land given by Silvanos Goldeneye, first speaker of the Stars, to his general and comrade Balif. It was mostly desert in those days, too. The plain south of the desert was infested with fierce nomadic human tribes, who were gradually driven out by Balif’s legions. The furthest outpost of the elven kingdom was in or near the Vale of Silence, at a place called Teth-Balif-Balif’s Gate.”
“Fascinating,” the Lioness drawled.
“Yes indeed!” her husband agreed, overlooking her ironic tone. “It may be that we have a legal claim on the Inath-Wakenti. If we could find remnants of Balif’s stronghold, that would bolster our case!”
“This was all five thousand years ago,” she said. “If anything remains, it would be rubble. I doubt Sahim-Khan will cede us land on the basis of a few ancient stones.”
The diners debated the issue as the plates were cleared, and the dessert course was served. Favaronas helped himself to slices of fresh fig, licking the sticky juice from his fingers. Sithelbathan regarded his colleague with fastidious disapproval.
“There is one cautionary tale about the Vale,” Favaronas said, now taking a handful of dates. “According to the priestesses of Elir-Sana, a powerful wizard was exiled there early in Speaker Sithas’s reign. The temple records call him Wethdika.”
Sithelbathan shook his head. “Barbarous name. Doesn’t sound like any language I’ve ever heard.”
Favaronas spat a date seed into his hand. “I am certain it is a corruption of Vedvedsica.”
The Speaker, Planchet, and Sithelbathan looked at the archivist with new respect. Kerian, lacking their formal education, didn’t recognize the name. Favaronas explained its significance.
“Vedvedsica was one of the earliest great mages of Silvanesti. In the beginning, he was an ally of the Speaker, and a vassal of Balif, but he committed a crime and was banished from the realm.”
Balif was a name Kerian knew. He had been a great warrior, and a celebrated general. “What crime?” she asked.
Gilthas said, “No one knows. It was so awful, Speaker Sithas proscribed any mention of it in the annals of his reign. It fell to Balif to arrest the mage and consign him to a prison on the remote frontier.”
“And in return, the vile sorcerer contrived his lord’s ruin,” Sithelbathan said grimly. “Balif, a fine, brave elf, was transformed into a twisted, shrunken, hideous creature. He vanished soon after, unable to dwell in Silvanesti ever again.”
Silence fell. The long-ago fate of the elf general had a painful relevance for those around the table. Were they not also banished from their homelands? Perhaps they, too, might never be able to dwell there again.
The hour was late, the tent city quiet. The night wind set the roof of the Speaker’s tent to shivering, and the sound suddenly seemed an extra presence at the table. Unconsciously, Kerian edged closer to Gilthas. Ignoring protocol, he slipped an arm a
round her waist.
“‘Even the bones of wizards turn to dust,’ “Favaronas muttered.
The quote from the bard Sevastithanas broke the gloomy moment. Planchet moved to refill their cups, and Favaronas recounted the later history of the Inath-Wakenti.
A kingpriest of Istar had received a prophecy, warning of a coming disaster. The only place on the entire continent that would not be changed by the catastrophe was the Valley of the Blue Sands, since where the gods once walked, nature held no sway. The Kingpriest sent an expedition to the valley; it was never heard from again. Later, dwarf prospectors from Thoradin found the valley and set up a mining operation. The project yielded rich placer deposits of silver, but was so bedeviled by accidents and serious injuries that the miners abandoned it after less than a year. During the bakali breeding migration in the days of the old Ergoth Empire, a band of human tribesmen stumbled on the valley and escaped marauding lizard-men by hiding there. For a time the humans flourished, sending trading parties to Istar and Silvanesti, but after a few years the trade diminished, then died out altogether.
The last mention of the valley in the temple archives was from a Knight of Solamnia who wandered through after the Cataclysm. He reported the valley untouched by the upheaval.
“And?” the Lioness prompted, when Favaronas paused to take a drink.
And nothing, lady,” he replied, shrugging one shoulder. “That’s the only information contained in that entry.”
Since that time, he told them, the rise of the desert nomads had choked off contact with the Vale of Silence. Nomads who lived in the region regarded it as a forbidden place, while the rest of the tribes gradually forgot about it or, like the city. dwelling Khurs, relegated it to the realm of fable.
The oil lamps on the low table sputtered as their fuel ran low. Favaronas had finished his story, but added a final warning: “The temple annals are couched in the most vague and circuitous terms, Great Speaker, and required much interpolation and extrapolation on my part.”
Gilthas was nodding thoughtfully. Kerian leaned close and nudged his cheek with her nose. “Well?” she said. “Do I go, or no?”
He smiled in his gentle, slightly sad way. “Of course. Master Favaronas, too. Our people must have a sanctuary. The Inath-Wakenti maybe the place.”
The archivist already had agreed to the journey, but when the Speaker asked Sithelbathan if he would like to go as well, the Silvanesti mapmaker quickly declined.
“Afraid of ghosts?” the Lioness teased.
The spare, neatly dressed elf drew his robe close around his neck. “Yes, lady,” he said. “I am.”
Chapter 4
Water in a stone jug stays cool, even in the heat of day. If the jug is carved properly, of fine-grained soapstone with thick walls at the top and thinner walls near the bottom, water inside will stay as cool as the moment it was drawn from the well. Cool water is the first requirement for good bread. Not an easy requirement to meet in a desert. The east wind which rolled in from the distant sea hit the Pillars of Heaven (known to foreigners as the Khalkist Mountains) and dumped its snow on the peaks and its rain on the lower slopes. Purged of moisture, the wind then spread across the western desert, taking its dry heat to every corner of the land. Between the heat, blown sand, and flies, finding cool water and making bread for the family was no chore for the faint of heart.
Adala Fahim lifted the heavy soapstone jug and poured its contents into a brass bowl. Quickly, she stirred the water into the dry mixture of flour, salt, and soda. She never measured, except by eye. Twelve circuits of the wide, flat bowl with a wooden paddle and the dough was done. A shallow groove had been worn into the metal where her spoon circled. For thirty-two years she’d made bread in exactly the same way. For thirty-two years it had come out right, despite wind, weather, or war.
She spat on the iron griddle to test its temperature. At the right heat, a water drop danced in circles, growing smaller with every circuit until it vanished. When the griddle was ready, she poured a dollop of oil onto it. The oil ran to the edges, sheening the black surface. In the bowl, the dough was puffed up and bubbling from the soda. She tore off a piece, rolled it into a ball between her smooth brown palms, and laid it on the griddle. Sizzling, it flattened into a small round loaf.
Black shadows fell over Adala, cutting off the distant view of the gray mountains, but she didn’t look up. The first loaf was the most important. How it baked told her whether the fire needed to be hotter or cooler.
The three men standing over her were nomads in the prime of life, men of the Weya-Lu tribe. Although none had gray eyes, they were of the Leaping Spider clan and Wapah’s cousins.
“Wapah is back,” said the one in the middle.
“I’ll make an extra portion,” Adala said, her attention still F on the cooking loaf. She gave it a quick flip with her fingers. F Other women used knives to turn their bread. Not Adala.
One wrong stab and the frying dough would deflate; the loaf would be flat and tough as sandal leather.
“He has important news, Weyadan.” Her title meant “Mother of the Weya-Lu.” “Do you know who he was hired to guide from the city to the desert and back?”
She shrugged one shoulder, busy rolling a new ball of dough.
“Shobbat, son of Sahim Zacca-Khur!”
In quick succession, four new balls of dough hit the griddle, replacing the first, now done. “So the prince of Khur finally left the shaded halls of the city to visit the land of his ancestors. What is that to us?” she said.
“He went to the Oracle. The Hidden One.”
The men were certain this news would bring Adala to her feet, dusting the flour from her hands. It did not. She removed the four freshly baked loaves from the griddle and put down four more.
“Weyadan, please,” entreated the nomad. “You should hear what Wapah has to say!”
“And so I will. When the bread is done.”
It took some time to cook forty loaves. Although the men shifted their feet impatiently once or twice, none complained.
When at last the baking was done, Adala left her fifth daughter, Chisi, to clean the bowl and griddle. Hitching U her black robes, the leader of the Weya-LU left the shade of her tent and made for Wapah’s dwelling across the stony ravine. it was just past noon, the hottest part of the day, and few nomads were moving about. Even the desert hounds the Weya-Lu were so adept at breeding were still, sleeping in whatever spots of shade they could find.
Adala entered Wapah’s family tent and gave the customary greeting: “Those on High stand by us.”
Wapah returned it. “And by you, Mother of the Weya-Lu.”
He was seated facing the door. Other men of the clan formed a ring, their backs against the walls of the tent. Several of them had the gray eyes that stood out so boldly against swarthy faces and dark or tawny beards. Adala was the only woman present.
“I rejoice to see you,” she said. “I hear you have a tale to tell.”
“As grave as a plague, as loud as thunder. Take your ease.”
She sat in the center of the male circle. As wife of the clan chief, Adala could not be touched by any man save her husband. Since Kasamir di Kyre had perished years before while fighting in the pay of the Knights of Neraka, she had become Weyadan, literally mother to everyone in the Weya L tribe. She was just past her fortieth year, younger than some of her ostensible children.
Wapah began his tale. With the same patience she’d learned listening to her sons when they were toddlers, Adala let the colorful torrent of words wash over her and focused on the important bits of information scattered throughout.
Prince Shobbat’s men had come to the Grand Souks, looking for someone to guide their master on a journey through the desert. Wapah was selected because the gods knew him to be a humble man, a generous man, a man in whom the blood of endless generations of Weya-Lu flowed in a mighty, endless circle-
Adala frowned, closing her eyes to concentrate harder.
With no es
cort at all, Wapah and the Prince of Khur rode out of Khuri-Khan before dawn. They reached the Tear of Elir-Sana without incident. Although of no more use in the desert than a mewling babe, Shobbat insisted they press on without rest to reach his goal, the oracle of the high desert.
Wapah paused to sip buttered tea, and Bilath, Adala’s brother by marriage and war chief of the Weya-Lu, asked, “The Hidden One? The keeper of bats?”
Wapah nodded solemnly. On his left, his cousin Etosh poured more tea into his crater.
They reached the oracle at night. No one in Wapah’s memory had gone there, and he didn’t know if the diviner still lived, but the ancient stone spires still stood, and the legendary bats flooded out when disturbed. Wapah, a righteous man, warned the prince he would not enter the sanctuary, so Shobbat went alone and stayed inside until nearly dawn.
Wapah was asleep between the horses when he heard a terrible scream. Rising valiantly, sword in hand, he braced himself to do battle against evil spirits. None appeared. Instead, Prince Shobbat stumbled out of the sanctuary, raving like a madman.
“Tell about his face!” Etosh urged him.
“The breath of the gods had fallen upon the prince,” Wapah declaimed, spreading his arms wide, “stealing the manly color from his beard, brow, and hair! The stain was white as the scarves of the Khan’s dancers!”
Adala looked down her long nose at him. “White is the color of light, of Eldin the Judge.” This was the remote high god of the nomads, seldom spoken of and rarely invoked. “What evil can come from Eldin?”
A murmur went through the group, and Bilath said, “Then you believe it was a judgment, not a curse?”
Wapah did not wish to lose his audience in a theological discussion, so he continued quickly.
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