Destiny ee-3 Read online

  Destiny

  ( Elven Exiles - 3 )

  Paul B. Thompson

  Tonya C. Cook

  GILTHAS Pathfinder has led his people to a new haven--the fabled valley of Inath-Wakenti. But others are drawn to the forbidden vale as well. Adventurers and scholars, clerics and crackpots, and evil enemies, all have come there. And some have come from the uninhabited valley itself.

  Meanwhile, Kerianseray is finally reunited with her husband, bringing her band of soldiers and their griffons to the aid of the refugees. Gilthas insists the fate of the elves lies among the damp mists and wandering ghosts of the lost valley, but no one knows if he is right, or if he and the Lioness are gambling -- with the lives of their people as the stakes.

  Paul B. Thompson Tonya C. Cook

  Destiny

  Inath-Wakenti is no sanctuary for the united Qualinesti and Silvanesti elves who followed Gilthas Pathfinder out of Khur. Forced to abide there or face their enemies, the elves find themselves choosing between dying of starvation and dying in combat. Some choose combat, and Porthios takes his army to Qualinesti to fight for the liberation of that benighted land. Kerian and Gilthas do what they can to hold their remaining people together and discover the secret to freeing the valley from its mysterious will-o’-the-wisps and its ghosts, but even their efforts are not enough.

  Faeterus’s plans are nearly complete, as he makes his way to the Stair of Distant Vision, there to take the power granted by the Father Who Made Not His Children before he abandoned the valley to its sterile fate. No one is left to oppose the evil sorceror, save one frightened archivist, all too aware of Faeterus’s power - and willingness to kill those who try to stop him.

  Help for the elves finally arrives from an unexpected source, dragged forcibly to the valley by the Lioness, but there is no guarantee of victory even then. No one knows if there is a reward for their patience or merely a faster death, and there are no battle lines to draw, for there is no enemy to fight. The will-o’-the-wisps cannot be killed, the ghosts cannot be banished, Inath-Wakenti cannot be made to bloom.

  Hope does not flourish in the valley, not even as the Weya-Lu leave off their attacks and Sa’ida brings them hope. All is staked on the vision of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, the elf who united the tribes and brought them on their journey to this place, Gilthas Pathfinder - and he is dying.

  Prologue

  Shadows were thick in the windowless corridor deep inside the Khuri yl Nor. Open oil lamps were set on corbels at intervals along the wall, but their flames scarcely penetrated the gloom. Here in the Nor-Khan, the central citadel of the khan’s palace, the corridors were not as confusing as those farther out. Even long-time courtiers had been known to wander for hours in the outer palace, seeking a particular chamber.

  Sahim Zacca-Khur, Khan of All the Khurs, was not troubled by the maze of passageways or the lack of light. He had traveled the path from his private quarters to the throne room so many times, he could do it in utter darkness. He entered a small, private side chamber and paused, taking time to gather his thoughts and smooth his elaborately curled beard. Although he was past middle age, his black hair and beard showed no gray at all.

  Lastly, he adjusted the crown on his head. The crown seemed heavier lately. True, he wore a mail coif beneath it to foil assassins, but the crown itself-a ten-inch-tall hat of stiff red leather, its lower edge decorated by strings of gold beads-felt weightier these days. The departure of the laddad ought to have lightened his burdens, but it had not. Even with the exiled elves now deep in the desert, Sahim’s troubles were no fewer.

  The laddad had fled their devastated homelands of Silvanesti and Qualinesti to fetch up against the walls of Khuri-Khan like debris driven by a sandstorm. For five years, Sahim had allowed them to remain in exchange for the treasure they contributed to his coffers. With them gone, he was back to squeezing coppers from the soukats, and the merchants of Khuri-Khan were notoriously tight-fisted. Of course, Sahim knew how to squeeze.

  He opened the door, and the guards within the throne room raised gilded swords in salute. Sahim waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the light. Braziers and brass candelabra were thick around the room’s perimeter, and all were lit, Considering the two guests awaiting him, he felt it desirable to banish as many shadows as possible. The usual menagerie of courtiers and councilors was long in bed. Only his bodyguards and the two visitors greeted Sahim. The visitors had arranged themselves as far apart as the space of the hall permitted.

  Sa’ida, high priestess of Elir-Sana, stood near the throne. Her white robe and long white hair gave her an ethereal quality at odds with her matronly build and the unhappy expression on her face. The most senior cleric of the Khurish god of healing, she seldom left the confines of the holy temple, where men were strictly forbidden. Spending any time with a reprobate and heretic such as Condortal could hardly please her.

  Lord Condortal, emissary to Khur for the Knights of Neraka, had come no farther into the room than absolutely necessary and stood close by the grand doors of the main entrance. Dedicated to increasing its power, and embracing sorcery and all manner of dark mysticism to obtain that end, Condortal’s Order had been working hard to extend its influence over Khur. Sahim always had walked a fine line with the Nerakan Knights, refusing a greater presence in his cities yet allowing a measure of freedom in the open deserts that surrounded them.

  The dome of Condortal’s hairless head glistened with sweat.

  Sahim knew it was not merely the heat of Khur’s climate that troubled him. The khan’s recently-enacted protocol required Condortal to leave his personal retainers outside, and the knight felt naked without them.

  An anxious visitor was an incautious visitor, so Sahim had kept them waiting, stewing in each other’s company in the overheated hall. Sahim himself had worn his lightest robe, of fine red silk. Embroidered in white and gold, two rampant dragons, the symbol of his own tribe, faced each other across its chest.

  He did not bother to acknowledge the salutes of his soldiers or the bows of his visitors but crossed the floor with a deliberate tread, enjoying the immensely satisfying sight of the throne that awaited him. It was his people’s greatest treasure, hidden from the dragon overlord Malys during her occupation of Khur. The tall, heavy chair was covered in sheets of hammered gold. Its fan-shaped backrest was set with two star sapphires, each twice the size of Sahim’s fist and known as the Eyes of Kargath, for the Khurish god of war. Raised panels on the gilding depicted glorious events from the reigns of Sahim’s predecessors.

  Once he was seated and his robe arranged to his satisfaction, Sahim acknowledged the holy lady first.

  “Great Khan,” she said immediately, “the followers of Torghan are again harassing my priestesses in the city. Today alone, three were accosted in the Grand Souks.”

  “Assaulted?”

  Sa’ida firmed her lips. “No, sire. Manhandled, but not molested. The goods they carried were struck from their hands and trampled underfoot.”

  “Deplorable. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Condortal?”

  “Deplorable,” repeated the distant Nerakan, “but hardly my affair, mighty Khan.”

  “No?” Sa’ida turned toward him abruptly, the tiny brass bells braided in her hair clashing to underscore her anger. “It is said the Sons of Torghan take money from Neraka.”

  “A vicious rumor, started by our enemies, the elves.” Condortal bowed to the outraged priestess, but there was no deference in his voice. As usual, he spoke much too loudly, and Sahim was glad he stood so far away. “Mighty Khan, is this why I was summoned? Crime in the city is not the concern of my Order. I will take my leave-”

  “I have not excused you.”

  Condortal, half turn
ed toward the doors, halted, and turned back. The khan’s mask of royal composure had not altered, but his voice was imperious.

  Shifting tone, Sahim assured Sa’ida her concerns had been noted. The City Guard was on watch for Torghanist activity. “These provocations are aimed at me, not your temple, holy lady, and I will deal with them. Several Torghanist leaders have been taken.”

  He did not have to add and quickly executed; that was understood by all. The followers of Torghan the Avenger, the Khurish aspect of the god Sargonnas, reviled Sahim as a tyrant and a nonbeliever more interested in accepting foreign treasure than in keeping Khur pure of outside taint. Once mainly confined to the nomads of the desert-renowned for their distrust of all foreigners, by which they sometimes meant city-dwelling Khurs too-veneration of Torghan was spreading in the cities. The god’s small shrine in Khuri-Khan was seeing a steady increase in activity. That this might be due to Nerakan influence was a worrisome notion-not surprising to Sahim, but certainly worrisome. A cynic, he believed Nerakan money a far greater spur to Torghanist boldness than religious fervor.

  “You both were called here to receive news,” he went on. “The laddad have reached the Valley of the Blue Sands. They prevailed against the nomads that dogged their journey from Khuri-Khan, and entered the valley ten days past.”

  The news likely came as no surprise to Condortal. His Order had spies and informers everywhere. The priestess’s face displayed a series of emotions-surprise, relief, and curiosity. She asked what the event meant.

  “It means the laddad are beyond the borders of my realm.”

  That surprised Condortal. “Surely, great Khan, this valley is Khurish land.”

  “It is no man’s land. If the laddad remain there, they are no matter for Khur.”

  Silence reigned as Sahim refreshed himself from the brass goblet placed into his hand by a waiting servant. His visitors pondered the news he had imparted. Although both had heard the same words, the interpretations each placed upon them were very different.

  Sa’ida understood the khan to be asking her, most subtly, to assist the laddad in their struggle for survival. He had no special fondness for them, but neither had he sought their destruction in the years they had dwelt in his realm. His relationship with their leader, Gilthas, might best be described as profitable. And there was profit in allowing the laddad to live in the Valley of the Blue Sands. The Knights of Neraka had long plotted the elves’ destruction and had once invaded and occupied both elf homelands. A laddad state in the valley would act as a distraction, keeping the Order’s attention focused away from Sahim’s capital. Having the laddad outside the boundaries of Khur also would help placate Torghanist fears of foreign influence. The Torghanists hated the laddad even more than they despised Sahim-Khan.

  For his part, Lord Condortal interpreted the khan’s words to mean he counted himself lucky to be rid of the elf pestilence and would no longer intervene on their behalf. While the elves had lived in the Khurish capital, Sahim was bound to honor his promise to protect them-a promise purchased by elf treasure. With the flow of treasure cut off, the elves’ welcome in Sahim’s realm had run out. They were naked, without a defender in the world. The Order’s efforts against them no longer would be hampered by a need for circumspection, the need not to offend the khan’s pride.

  The knight asked leave to depart. Sahim lifted one hand in an idle wave. “Yes, go. Tell your masters what has come to pass.”

  Before he departed, Condortal asked, “Great Khan, may I inquire after Prince Shobbat? I have not seen him in some weeks. I pray His Highness is well.”

  It required all of Sahim’s skill to keep his face calm and unconcerned. “The crown prince is very well. He is away. Hunting.”

  Sa’ida knew this for a lie. Weeks earlier Shobbat had come to the Temple of Elir-Sana seeking her help, but the affliction that had fallen upon him was not one Sa’ida could cure. She had no idea whether the khan was aware of his son’s condition. Perhaps Shobbat had fled to keep him from learning of it. Being the well-informed despot he was, Sahim probably knew all, but she felt it best to keep her own knowledge of the matter to herself. After bestowing Elir-Sana’s blessing upon the khan, she left the sweltering throne room.

  Freed of his audience, Sahim leaned back, feeling the coolness of the golden panels against his back. What a pair! Sa’ida was half again his own age, as patient and intent as an adder. She could speak to the gods as easily as she addressed Sahim and had the power to heal nearly any calamity fate could inflict on a living body. Yet she only watched and waited, complaining about Torghanists she could vanquish in a single night. Who could fathom such a mind?

  On the other hand, Condortal was like a weasel, a weak predator who struck from ambush and was not averse to carrion. His predecessor, Hengriff, had been a bold and dangerous man. Sahim had understood Hengriff. He could deal with men like him, but Condortal hadn’t even an assassin’s scruples. He dreamed of a Khur torn apart, fighting over the laddad, so his Order could step in and pick up the pieces. With rebellion smoldering in Qualinesti and the laddad fled to the Valley of the Blue Sands, what would Condortal’s masters do?

  Sahim lived in a dangerous time and place. He played friends and foes against each other and emerged enriched and unscathed. No one was better than he at balancing on the knife-edge of disaster, at turning situations and people to his own advantage. It was a risky game he enjoyed to the fullest.

  Except…

  Where in Kargath’s name was Shobbat? And what had become of that damned sorcerer Faeterus and the bounty hunter Sahim had sent to drag him back?

  Chapter 1

  Wind cool and damp tore at the griffon rider’s face. Reins wrapped tightly around her left fist, Kerianseray bowed low over the neck of her steed, urging him onto greater effort. The will-o’-the-wisps were closing in, and their number had increased. She counted at least a dozen now. And Eagle Eye’s sides heaved with exertion as the lights darted and wove, spiraled up and corkscrewed down, all the while gaining on her. She hoped the others in her patrol were safe.

  Safe. The notion was ironic. How safe could any of them be so long as they remained in this blighted valley?

  Inath-Wakenti, the ancient elf chronicles called it, the Vale of Silence, and silent it surely was. It lay on the northern edge of the Khurish desert, and not so much as a fly or flea called it home. Kerian had led the first reconnaissance party inside. They discovered the valley contained many secrets and nearly as many curses. Its plant life comprised mainly stunted pines and inedible scrub. Huge standing stones littered the valley floor, rising up white and bare of decoration from the oddly tinted blue-green soil. The elves suspected the stones were the ruins of some long-forgotten city but could discern no logic to their arrangement, so the stones’ true purpose remained a mystery. Stranger still, Inath-Wakenti was utterly devoid of animal life large or small, and by night it was infested with floating balls of light, will-o’-the-wisps, whose touch caused elves to vanish without a trace.

  Eagle Eye veered upward suddenly, and Kerian leaned forward, gripping his sides more tightly with her knees. She made no other move, nor any sound. There was no need. Eagle Eye was a Royal griffon and more intelligent than many a two-legged creature Kerian had known. He seemed to understand the danger posed by the balls of light and knew they were in a race for their lives. Flying flat out wasn’t working; the will-o’-the-wisps continued to close. So Eagle Eye strained every sinew in a steep climb. The ground fell away with stomach-churning suddenness, and Kerian, attuned to the griffon’s every shift of weight and tensing of muscle, suddenly realized what he intended. She gave the leather belt around her waist a quick jerk to tighten it, and the horizon inverted.

  Wings stretched wide, Eagle Eye soared over the top of the loop. Upside down, Kerian spared a look at her pursuers. Her heart sank. No longer a dozen, at least three times that number of glowing orbs chased her across the sky. They fanned out in a wide cone from her original position. Already, the hal
f dozen in the lead were rising after her. They were pale, as if the effort of the chase was finally telling on them, leaching their color. Those farther back still pulsed in vibrant shades of green, blue, crimson, purple, and gold.

  Eagle Eye rolled left, bringing them upright again. They had gained some breathing room but were flying in the wrong direction, deeper into the valley instead of south to the elves’ camp near its entrance.

  As always, dusk had come early to Inath-Wakenti, the high, encircling mountains blotting out the sun’s light. In the course of the chase, the bright sky had darkened, but no stars had yet appeared. The will-o’ the-wisps stood out in brilliant relief against the indigo backdrop. Far below, Kerian could see more points of light glimmering among the twisted pines and featureless standing stones. A hundred?

  Five hundred? A great many, in any case.

  She urged Eagle Eye higher still. Insects could rise only to a certain height. Bats and small birds had a limit above which they could not fly. Perhaps the will-o’-the-wisps were likewise constrained.

  She and six other griffon riders had left camp two hours before sunset to patrol the inner valley. In all their previous flights they’d not been troubled by will-o’-the-wisps. The eerie lights appeared at dusk, but none ever rose higher than treetop level. Tonight was different. The orbs suddenly appeared in midair all around the griffon patrol. Kerian had ordered the patrol to scatter. The sheer number of lights chasing her was a sort of grim triumph; perhaps none had gone after the others. Perhaps they and their griffons had made it back to camp unmolested.

  Eagle Eye was panting deep in his chest as he climbed. Foamy sweat collected on his lion’s body, staining the white plumage of his neck and Kerian’s leather breeches. Her legs were achingly cold. But the desperate gamble was paying off. The lights had risen to maybe forty feet and swooped in flat circles, never rising any higher. By twos and threes, her erstwhile pursuers winked out like dying embers. Already the number of lights had fallen by half. They were giving up the chase.