Destiny

by Paul B. Thompson

  The elves tried cutting sod to strengthen the barrier, but the sandy soil fell apart on their spades. Turning the dirt revealed the soil’s strange sterility. No worms wiggled in the cuts, no pill bugs turned armored carapaces to the intruding light. For its top three inches, the dirt was blue-green and very sandy. Below that was black loam of the finest sort. Elves who had been farmers in Silvanesti and Qualinesti grew quite excited when they saw that. Kerian crushed a handful of dirt in her fist.

  “How will you grow anything without insects to pollinate it?” she asked.

  “Some things do grow here,” Gilthas countered. Vines and bushes propagated through their roots, and trees could pollinate with the wind. Still, her point was a valid one. A lack of insects would make it difficult to grow fruitful crops.

  Before all light had left the valley, strange shapes could be seen flitting among the standing stones beyond the barricade. They were not at all like the somber, staring figures Gilthas had spoken to, but four-legged creatures that bounded between stones. They seemed so solid and real, hunters begged for permission to go outside the wall.

  “If you do, you’ll never be seen again,” Kerian warned.

  One elf insisted he’d seen a rabbit. With a few questions, Gilthas determined that for the creature to be visible at such a distance, it would have to be at least three feet tall. The animal was only another apparition. The disappointed hunters tightened their belts and departed, turning their backs on the “animals” still cavorting from one shadowed thicket to another. Some of the creatures were four legged; others bounded along on two.

  Alone with his wife, Gilthas watched the display.

  “Perhaps we should have a look around out there,” he murmured.

  Exasperated, she reminded him of what she’d just said to the would-be hunters. “They’re nothing but the same ghosts we’ve seen before,” she added.

  “Can we be certain? Your expedition didn’t penetrate this far, did it?”

  Kerian shook her head and looked away, toward the capering shadows. Her earlier visit and the subsequent loss of nearly her entire command was still a very sore subject for her. None of the eight elves who survived blamed her for the deaths of the others. She’d believed the Speaker to be in grave danger and had acted to protect him. No warrior would have expected any less. Kerian knew she could not have done other than she had—yet she felt guilty. The memory of those who’d perished in the desert would never leave her.

  “Come,” Gilthas said, holding out a hand. “Let us take a stroll in the twilight.”

  She tried to laugh, but there was more exasperation than amusement in the sound. “Do you have a death wish?”

  “Do you want to live forever?”

  Her breath caught as if a hand had squeezed her heart. The teasing tone sounded so like the Gilthas of old, utterly at odds with the emaciated figure before her, but the irony of his words struck like a knife.

  He recognized the direction of her thoughts. The pain on her face was reflected briefly in his eyes, but his hand didn’t waver. Kerian took it. Sword at her hip, bow and quiver of arrows slung across her back, she walked at his side with bemused pride. She could only marvel at the indomitable will that burned inside him.

  A gate in the barricade had been fashioned under a soaring trilithon. Casks filled the gap between the upright stones. Hamaramis was there with his lieutenants. When the old general heard the Speaker intended to leave camp with only the Lioness as his escort, he protested vigorously.

  Gilthas wasted no breath in discussion; he merely waited for the general’s exclamations to run down.

  “The Speaker will do as he will,” Kerian told Hamaramis. “I’ll try to bring him back alive.”

  Those nearby spread the word. While the casks were being rolled away, scores of elves crowded the rough wall, anxious to see their sovereign challenge the valley’s ghosts.

  As the royal pair passed through the trilithon, a fit of coughing staggered Gilthas. Kerian supported him with one arm. He tried to pull away, protesting she could hardly use bow or sword while holding him up.

  Her grip tightened. “Don’t worry. If it comes to that, I’ll drop you like a hot rock.”

  With a nearly soundless chuckle, he straightened. They started across the open ground between the camp and the stunted forest. Gilthas glanced back.

  “I’m evolving a theory about this place,” he said. “I think—”

  “Long live Gilthas Pathfinder!” cried a voice from the camp.

  “Long live the Speaker of the Sun and Stars!” added another, and for a time the Silent Vale echoed with a chorus of elf voices.

  When the tumult died, Kerian asked Gilthas about his theory. He squeezed her arm and shook his head. His eyes, fixed on the camp, were bright with unshed tears. “Not just now,” he said, voice roughened by emotion.

  He lifted an arm, acknowledging his people’s cheers. He and Kerian continued their slow walk.

  The thickets ahead were touched by the failing light. When the two elves were halfway to the line of gnarled trees, a creature dashed between a pair of stunted oaks. The Speaker halted, and Kerian unslung her bow.

  “Not unless I say so,” he said quietly.

  A grimace twisted her lips but she nodded.

  Something stood by one of the trees. Speaker and consort continued their advance watched by dark eyes. The eyes were close-set and low to the ground.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Gilthas said. “We mean you no harm.”

  For her part, Kerian meant plenty of harm, but she kept the broadhead pointed at the ground. Abruptly Gilthas crossed in front of her. She made a sound of protest, but he gestured sharply for silence. She edged to her left, seeking a clear line of fire. He gave no sign of noticing her movement. All his attention was focused on the staring eyes and the shadowy shape behind them.

  “Can we help you?” he asked, keeping his voice low and calm.

  More eyes appeared around the first pair. They were of various sizes and heights. Each pair appeared suddenly and silently—first they weren’t there, then they were. Gilthas introduced himself simply, by name only, perhaps not wishing to frighten the evanescent creatures before him with his full title. He told them the elves had come to live peacefully in the valley and asked what the creatures wanted.

  While he talked, Kerian realized something odd was happening. Her legs began to feel heavy, as though dragged down by invisible weights. She was having trouble moving. Each step was more difficult than the last. Her fingers holding the arrow went numb. Breathing was becoming a chore. She could think of no reason for it but malign magic, and she tried to warn Gilthas, but he didn’t hear her gasped words. More and more figures were materializing in the misty twilight around them. The shadowy silhouettes were becoming more distinct, resolving themselves into elves dressed in white shifts. All were barefoot, with long, tangled hair, and all were a head shorter than she. Their faces were indistinct, blurred like reflections in water disturbed by ripples. She could get no clear impression of their appearance.

  “We were driven from our homelands by invaders,” Gilthas was saying. “This valley is our last refuge.”

  You cannot stay. This is no place for such as you.

  The whispery voice teased Kerian’s ears, and Gilthas’s startled reaction showed that he’d heard it too. Coolness played on Kerian’s arm. One of the translucent elves had touched her. She wanted to pull away, but her muscles seemed to have turned to wood. None of the creatures was near enough to touch Gilthas, and he droned on and on as though negotiating with Sahim-Khan’s unctuous minions. More ghosts touched Kerian, their small hands cold as mountain snow.

  Gilthas said, “Perhaps we can help you. Why do you haunt this valley? What makes your souls so restless?”

  We are forgotten. We are the lost. But we live. We live!

  With that, the ghosts changed abruptly. From pallid specters, they became more corporeal. White shifts and pale skin darkened. The ghosts were feral creatures,
covered by fur, no longer resembling elves at all. The chill, feather-light fingers were claws, and they raked over Kerian’s arms, drawing blood.

  Dragging in as large a breath as she could manage, Kerian expelled it in one great heave: “Trap!”

  He turned. Shock bloomed on his face. “Let her go! In the name of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, let her go!” he cried. Astonishingly, the creatures obeyed. They fell back. Gilthas went to his dazed wife, and this time it was he who offered support.

  Speaker? You are Speaker?

  “I am!”

  Blood of the Goldeneye!

  Regaining command of her limbs, Kerian grasped her husband’s arm. “They’re not elves, they’re monsters!” she said wildly. “We have to go back!”

  The specters went with them as they fled. The creatures didn’t follow, but vanished from one spot and reappeared again a few yards farther on.

  Kerian ran faster, her grip on Gilthas’s wrist painfully tight. The first stars were winking into view overhead. The will-o’-the-wisps could appear at any time, but they were most obvious just as the stars began to shine. Despite his best efforts, Gilthas was falling behind, and Kerian’s attempt to drag him along only threw him off balance.

  “Let me go,” he insisted. “I can run!”

  She released him but told him to run faster.

  They were only halfway to the camp when she jerked him to a halt. “Don’t move!” she hissed, pointing.

  High above, a score of lights bobbed and swooped. Crimson, gold, sapphire, vivid green—they descended swiftly and converged on the two elves.

  “What do we do?” Gilthas demanded.

  “Stand still.”

  “What of the ghosts?”

  Kerian dared move enough to look over one shoulder. The ghosts had halted. The expression on each twisted, beastly face was dreadful. Grimacing with hate, the ghosts bared long, gray teeth and made tearing gestures with their claws. They advanced no farther and, as the lights descended, shrank from them as thoroughly as the living elves did. The ghosts seemed terrified of the will-o’-the-wisps.

  The colored lights darted past, missing Kerian’s head by a few feet and flying straight at the retreating spirits. An amber light caught one slow-moving ghost, and both vanished in a silent flash.

  “They hunt the spirits as well as living creatures!” Gilthas whispered.

  Kerian, consumed by the need to remain still when every muscle screamed to run, clenched her teeth. Three will-o’-the-wisps passed within arm’s length. Their slow, meandering flight was deceptive. They could move as swiftly as an arrow when the situation required it.

  Two more ghosts were taken by the lights before the rest vanished into the silent forest. More will-o’-the-wisps appeared, drifting in from north and south. As she and Gilthas stood elbow to elbow in the deepening twilight, Kerian could see elves standing on the stones ringing their camp. All watched helplessly as half a hundred dancing lights filled the ground between the camp and the two trapped outside its safety. The Lioness was furious. She wasn’t angry at her husband for venturing outside the camp, but at herself for allowing it. He had always led by example; it was his nature. The responsibility for his safety was hers and hers alone. Even if it meant offending the dignity of the Speaker, she should not have permitted him to leave the camp.

  “Does it hurt when they take you?” Gilthas asked, interrupting her self-recriminations.

  Gruffly, she said it did not.

  “Keep close, then,” he said. “If we are to be lost, we will be lost together.”

  Their resolve to remain motionless met an abrupt end when his illness rose up to choke him. He tried to stifle the cough, but the spasm was too strong. As it bent him double, only Kerian’s strong arms kept him on his feet. The orbiting will-o’-the-wisps drifted closer.

  The spasm passed, and Gilthas straightened, striving to catch his breath.

  “Here they come,” she said.

  “I love you.”

  She swallowed hard. “And I love you, dreamer.”

  “That’s good. Perhaps you’ll forgive me as well.”

  Before she could ask what he meant, the lights closed in and he reneged on his pledge. Gilthas summoned his strength and shoved his wife away. Two will-o’-the-wisps met at his chest and exploded in a blaze of light.

  8

  Kerian hurled herself at Gilthas as the corona of light engulfed him, and they both went down. She tried to twist and fall beneath him, to cushion his landing, but she was only partially successful. For a moment she lay unmoving, not breathing, eyes closed. Who knew where the will-o’-the-wisps might have sent them.

  Nowhere, it seemed. She and Gilthas had done nothing more than strike the ground. They were still in Inath-Wakenti. The night sky still arched over them. And Gilthas was held fast in her arms.

  “So,” he grunted, opening his eyes. “Apparently I am not worth taking.”

  “Be still,” she hissed, listening intently. “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  A troop of cavalry galloped up, forestalling further discussion. Leading them was Hamaramis, pale with shock.

  “Great Speaker! Lady Kerianseray! Are you all right?”

  Kerian helped her husband stand, and they reassured the old general. The spectral monsters were gone. Will-o’-the-wisps were maneuvering in the mist, rising along the tree line a dozen yards away, and the elves did not hang about. Hamaramis offered his horse, but Gilthas climbed up behind him instead. The Speaker was swaying on his feet and even Hamaramis’s well-behaved bay might prove too vigorous for his unsteady hand. Never one to worry about protocol or appearances, Kerian simply vaulted up behind the closest soldier, a young Qualinesti much astonished to find himself sharing a horse with his queen.

  Shouts greeted the Speaker and the Lioness on their return. Everyone marveled at the Speaker’s miraculous survival. Elves crowded his horse, eager to confirm Gilthas was truly unharmed.

  After reassuring his people, Gilthas headed for his tent, ordering a council be convened immediately. Soon enough, Hamaramis, Taranath, and the chosen leaders of the people—members of the Thalas-Enthia, the Qualinesti senate—had joined the Lioness in the Speaker’s tent. Gilthas was seated in his camp chair, legs covered by Kerian’s crimson mantle. Despite Truthanar’s worry for his health, the healer had to be content with serving his king a draft of soothing elixir then retiring into the background.

  Gilthas and Kerian related their experiences. Unlike his wife, at no time had Gilthas been paralyzed, but he had felt very strongly the specters’ opposition to the elves’ presence. The sensation emanating from the ghostly assemblage was hatred, pure unvarnished loathing, he told the council. Gilthas’s reassurances had had no effect.

  “You did stop their attack on me,” Kerian pointed out.

  A puzzling development, but true, Gilthas admitted. When he commanded them to release his wife, the angry ghosts surprisingly obeyed, but their hatred had grown stronger. They had retreated only when the will-o’-the-wisps appeared, demonstrating the two presences were at odds.

  Much as he regretted causing distress to so many unhappy souls, Gilthas was adamant. “They must give way. They will give way. We are here, and I intend we shall stay.”

  “Could we lay the ghosts to rest somehow?” asked a Silvanesti, a minor member of House Cleric.

  Gilthas was doubtful. No one among the elves had the knowledge and skill. And an ordinary cleric might banish one or two ghosts in his entire career. What could be done against hundreds of malevolent specters?

  A pall descended on the group. Nothing was to be heard but the crackle of torches and the scratching of Varanas’s quill. The scribe was seated on the Speaker’s right, slightly behind the makeshift throne, dutifully taking notes on all that was said. In the shadows behind Varanas, the healer fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, obviously impatient for the council to end so his patient could be put to bed.

  The discussion resumed, in an unfocused
, halfhearted fashion. No one had any useful suggestions to offer. Gilthas listened, chin in hand, a frown of concentration on his face. Kerian wasn’t fooled. She knew he was nearing the end of his endurance. Exhaustion had sharpened the lines on his face even as it blurred his gaze. She was about to insist they adjourn for the evening when a thought struck her with blinding suddenness.

  “I know someone wise enough to tell us if it is possible to put the ghosts to rest,” she exclaimed. “Lady Sa’ida!”

  Sa’ida was the high priestess of the Khurish goddess Elir-Sana. During the elves’ exile in Khuri-Khan, the priestess had proven herself a valuable ally, albeit a covert one given her desire not to offend her people’s sensitivity to all things foreign. She had loaned the Speaker the temple documents that mentioned the valley. Gilthas had them carefully copied and continued to study them alongside the wise works of his own race.

  “She might as well be on one of the moons,” observed Hamaramis.

  No party of elves could hope to make it to the capital city and back. If the desert and the nomads didn’t kill them, Sahim-Khan might. Once, the khan had tolerated the elves because of their contribution to his coffers. But they no longer had enough money in their treasury to tempt him, especially given the troubles he faced from those who despised the elves, including the followers of the god Torghan.

  “Eagle Eye can take me there,” said Kerian.

  She could fly to Khuri-Khan and fetch Lady Sa’ida, she explained. It was an intriguing idea. Gilthas disliked the notion of sending her alone, but no one could ride Hytanthas’s Kanan. A griffon would accept only his or her bonded rider. The formation of such a bond usually required many months of patient attention. Alhana had been able to break wild Golden griffons to the saddle by means of a special ritual, but there was no one in the valley who knew how to do what she had done.

  “Even if you reached the city safely, we can’t be certain Sa’ida would agree to help us,” Gilthas added.