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  “Are you warm enough?”

  He nodded and used the water to wash his hands and face. “They’re voting now,” he added. “I wonder if I shall be alone by sundown.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Your people won’t abandon you.”

  Eagle Eye landed on the other side of the creek. Unlike the wild Golden griffons they’d captured in the Kharolis Mountains, he was of the Royal breed, larger and with white neck plumage. In Kerian’s biased view, he was also far smarter than any of the wild creatures they’d found.

  He gave an inquiring trill and flapped his wings. Kerian nodded, lifting an arm. Eagle Eye launched himself skyward and went off to hunt his breakfast.

  “Are you sure you can’t read that beast’s mind?”

  The querulous tone in Gilthas’s voice brought a faint smile. “I leave that to Alhana,” she replied, drinking a handful of water. “But griffons are uncomplicated creatures.”

  Unlike elves. The words seemed to hang unspoken between them. Kerian trailed her fingers in the creek. Gilthas used to joke about being jealous of the attention she paid to Eagle Eye, but she had begun to see it as more than mere humor. For a long time, all husband and wife had shared was hard work and confrontation, and lately, because of Gilthas’s illness, careful neutrality.

  Against her better judgment, Kerian had obeyed his order to lead a company to survey Inath-Wakenti’s fitness as a new home for their people. The passage of her expedition through the desert had precipitated violence from the Khurish nomads, and its brief time in the valley had led to wholesale disappearances and a battle with a rare and vicious sand beast. In the end, far more questions had been raised than answered. For Kerian one fact had been made plain: the valley was no fit home for the elf nation.

  Then had come her decision to depart the valley alone on Eagle Eye, after she received a vision of danger stalking Gilthas. He had survived, but their marriage nearly did not. He dismissed her as commander of his army for abandoning her warriors in Inath-Wakenti. Only eight were ever seen again. Gilthas’s archivist, Favaronas, was lost, as was Glanthon, brother of Planchet, the Speaker’s late bodyguard and close friend. According to the survivors, the company became lost in the desert, so Glanthon divided it into bands of ten and sent each in a different direction. Eight stumbled into the Khurish town of Kalin Ak-Phan; none of the others was ever seen again.

  “What of you? What choice will you make today?” Gilthas asked.

  “There is nothing to choose.”

  “But you want to go.”

  She didn’t answer, only shifted position on the rock and dipped her bare feet in the creek. That put her back to him. She wanted a bit of privacy, time to collect herself. The question of going or staying was one she had preferred not to address until absolutely necessary. The decision wasn’t a matter of head versus heart; that was a battle Kerianseray fought frequently. It was heart versus heart.

  For much of her adult life, she had battled for the freedom of Qualinesti. She’d plotted and planned, fought and maneuvered to return home with an army behind her. Only the most extreme events had forced her to leave. Her desire to free their homeland had been the cause of a longstanding disagreement with Gilthas. She wanted to take the army back to Qualinesti. He wouldn’t allow it, saying that while the elves lived in exile in Khuri-Khan, the army could not be spared.

  After many complex developments, it was going to happen. The army would march to Qualinesti, and the Lioness would not be with them. She must stay behind, in a place she loathed, carrying out a mission she felt in her heart to be utterly pointless. Yet no amount of railing against fate could change the single most important fact: she would not leave Gilthas while he was riddled with consumption and marooned in the lifeless cemetery of Inath-Wakenti. Strong as her ties to her warriors were, the tie to Gilthas was far more powerful.

  “Go if you want.”

  His attempt at a careless tone infuriated her, but still she didn’t reply, only looked beyond the wide, slow-flowing creek into the valley. The mist was evaporating, thinning to reveal stunted trees and the standing stones beyond them. Her keen ears detected no sounds at all. Even the noises made by the great mass of elves some distance behind them were swallowed up in the deathly stillness of Inath-Wakenti.

  “Keri-li.” Gilthas used the most intimate form of her name. “I won’t allow my sickness to keep you here. Go to Qualinesti. Win it back for us.”

  It was the final straw, his selfless offer of the one thing that could tempt her from his side. Shame washed over her, and pain clamped itself around her heart and would not be dislodged. For all their differences—and they were legion—she loved him still, and he might very well be dying.

  As was usually the case with the Lioness, strong emotions manifested as anger and action. She came swiftly to her feet and stalked to him. With shocking ease, she hauled his wasted frame upright, her hands knotted in the front of his Khurish geb. His eyes widened in surprise.

  “Hear me, Great Speaker! I am not going anywhere! Do you understand? You are cursed with me forever! We will cross this creek, battle ghosts and dancing lights and anything else that gets in our way, then plant every seed we’ve hoarded since leaving home. We will make this damned valley bloom, and then—” She kissed him with fervor. “Then I will go to Qualinesti and return it to its rightful king!”

  He smiled into her flushed, angry face. “What a curse,” he whispered.

  * * * * *

  He was running through tall grass. Exhilaration sang in his veins. Unlike most of his forest-dwelling kind, Porthios loved the savannah. The broad vistas, clear for miles in every direction, made it his favorite country in which to hunt. He could push his swift legs to their limits without impediment. The swish and sway of the grass was music for the chase. The air was cool, with the bite of early autumn, but the sun was pleasantly warm on his bare face. His legs moved smoothly, so fleet and nimble, his toes left barely any impression on the ground. His chest expanded easily with each deep breath. He was whole, unburned, and gloriously alive. The sheer joy of it brought laughter bubbling from his lips.

  Hunting the usual sorts of game required stealth and cleverness. The prey he chased now was different. Strength was needed, strength of mind and of determination. The future of his entire race was at stake. To preserve that future, Porthios would do anything. The chase pushed every sense to its limit, but his will was strong, his resolve unshakable. Eventually the usurper would be caught.

  He fell. The abruptness of it caught him by surprise, and he hit the ground hard. High grass had concealed a ditch, but that was no excuse. He was never caught off guard. He was never so clumsy. He moved to stand up again, but roots clutched at his booted feet. Each time he pulled a foot free, the grass whipped around his ankle again. In seconds he could no longer break free, no matter how hard he tried or how nimbly he twisted, and he lost his balance. He fell onto his back. Grass closed over him, blotting out the sky.

  What had been a thrilling chase had become a nightmare. More grass gripped his arms and legs, encircled his throat, and rose up to cover his face, burying him in a sea of green. The shoots snaked into his ears, pushed between his lips, and invaded his nostrils. He could not breathe!

  Get up!

  The command sounded clearly in his mind. The tendrils were remorseless. Although he clenched his eyelids tightly, the tendrils worked their way beneath his eyelids, crawling into his skull. The agony was awful. He wanted to scream but couldn’t draw breath for even that.

  Are you a coward? Free yourself!

  Slowly, Porthios closed his fingers around clumps of grass. Mustering every ounce of strength he possessed, he heaved his hands free of the clinging grass. Then his fingers went to work on the greenery encasing his face. The smothering darkness eased. He could see light, he could breathe!

  Don’t stop now. Stand up.

  Enraged by the anonymous patronizing voice, Porthios redoubled his efforts, twisting
first his head then his torso from side to side. The strangling growth crumbled and fell away. He looked around to see who dared speak to him in such a fashion.

  He was still on the savannah. The flat grassland stretched away in all directions beneath a sky decorated with puffy white clouds, and there was not a soul in sight.

  His legs were still encased. Marshalling his formidable resolve, he tore his right leg free then concentrated on the left. He must return to the chase. He could not allow his prey to escape.

  “No.”

  Porthios’s head snapped around. The grassland was no longer empty. A human was approaching. Although he was still a dozen yards away, the man’s voice carried easily. He was old, clean shaven, with unkempt white hair cut short. His homespun robe was of a clerical cut, and he gripped a blackthorn staff. Porthios recognized him immediately.

  “Is this your doing?” he demanded, gesturing at his trapped leg.

  The old priest shrugged. “I can’t visit you openly, so I borrowed a dream.”

  A dream? Porthios put a hand to his face. The skin was smooth, untouched by fire, and damp with sweat. He’d never experienced a dream so real.

  The human was looking at him expectantly. Testy but curious too, Porthios asked what he wanted.

  The priest sighed. “You keep asking me that.”

  “And you always answer in riddles!”

  The human turned and walked away. The arrogant dismissal was just the spur Porthios needed. He tore his leg free of the last of the confining grass and stormed after the human.

  “Don’t walk away from me!” he commanded, reaching for the priest’s arm. As soon as he touched it, the ground heaved beneath his feet. The sun-drenched savannah shimmered and fell away.

  They were in Inath-Wakenti. The sun was high in the sky, but the air still held the clammy chill characteristic of the cursed valley. The two of them were alone, with only a scattering of the purposeless white monoliths for company.

  “I risked much by coming to you,” the priest said. A shower of meteors streaked across the sky, leaving trails of silent fire. Frowning at the display, he added, “This must be the last time.”

  “Why did you come? Why interrupt a simple dream so harshly?”

  “Simple?” was all the human said.

  Even as he continued to glare at the old man, Porthios suddenly remembered who he’d been hunting: Gilthas. To save the elf race from his folly, Porthios would kill Gilthas. He would kill Lauralanthalasa’s son. It was not a simple dream at all.

  “You stopped me. Why?” he asked.

  The human’s eyes were sad. “Sometimes even dreams are forbidden.”

  With breath-stealing suddenness, the dream world shifted again. Smooth skin shriveled, muscles knotted and drew in upon themselves, scars sliced across chest, arms, and legs. The remembered joy of Porthios’s run through the grassland vanished, swallowed up by the truth of never-ending torment. He stood naked and twisted beneath the open sky. The unaccustomed feel of air against his bare flesh made his head swim. He howled his agony to the staring sun.

  With that cry still echoing around them, the old man lifted his staff in both hands and rapped its butt end against the ground. Night fell at once and brought with it Porthios’s familiar rags. They seemed to emerge from the ground beneath his feet, rising up to wrap themselves carefully around him, cloaking his shame from the world.

  In the distance, thunder rolled. “This is a dangerous place. It affects me. I cannot stay,” the priest murmured, raking his staff through the turquoise turf. Thunder rolled again, closer and louder.

  Speaking quickly, he said, “Leave the Pathfinder to his own fate, lost one. Yours rests in the dark and bloody land of Kith-Kanan’s realm.”

  Like water drying on a hot stone, he faded from view, becoming translucent then disappearing altogether. Where he’d stood, a slender ash sapling pushed through the ground.

  Porthios woke. He lay on his lonely bedroll outside the exiles’ camp. Dawn was breaking. It was the day the people would decide: blue stone or white, stay or go.

  Let Gilthas keep his cursed valley. Porthios had spoken with a god. Cryptic words and elliptical answers, true, but he had the guidance of the divine. Elves with the right spirit would follow him. Together, they would begin a new chapter in the history of the First Race.

  The god was right about many things. A dark and bloody land, he had called it. When Porthios reached Qualinesti, he intended to make the god’s description perfectly apt.

  * * * * *

  The elf race, divided for so long into two nations and briefly united, was divided again. Stones had been gathered and choices made. Along the west bank of Lioness Creek stood the elves who had chosen to stay. Arrayed opposite them were those who meant to go. All but a few hundred of the Speaker’s warriors intended to depart. They were soldiers, and fighting was what they knew. Fathoming the puzzles of a mysterious valley was beyond them. Building houses and tilling the earth was not for them. Each felt he would be more useful in Porthios’s battle to free Qualinesti. If death was to be their fate, they preferred to meet it in the land of their ancestors, fighting the enemies of their race. The decision was not an easy one, and theirs was not a happy leave-taking. Bidding good-bye to family or comrades was difficult but expected in a warrior’s life. Disappointing their Speaker was not.

  Alhana, Samar, and the griffon riders mustered in the area between the two groups. Two griffons were staying behind: Eagle Eye and Hytanthas’s Kanan as there was not enough time to bond the latter with another rider.

  At least one person was pleased by Kerian’s decision to remain. In her absence, command of the Army of Liberation fell to Samar. The proud Silvanesti warrior had never savored working with the hard-headed Lioness. Samar also was pleased that all the civilians had chosen to remain in the valley. Some had wavered, but eventually all realized another desert crossing would be the death of them.

  By midafternoon, all preparations were complete and the groups were gathered near the creek.

  “We will stay in communication,” Alhana promised. “Once we’re back in Qualinesti, we’ll send regular reports by griffon rider.”

  “And we’ll send news of our progress the same way,” said Gilthas.

  Porthios was not part of the group around the Speaker. He stood aloof a few dozen yards away, shaded by the low branches of a pine tree. He disliked appearing in full daylight, but Kerian doubted that was the only reason behind his rudeness. Since he was leaving, she made allowances. Skirting the group of griffon riders and their mounts, she crossed the open ground between the two groups of elves and called out to him.

  “Scarecrow!”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “You’d better get used to it. The bandits will call you nothing better.”

  His shadowed eyes narrowed. “Who will you insult once I am gone?”

  “Gilthas,” she shot back. Halting a few yards away, she asked, “Which route do you take?”

  He planned to depart through the pass after dark, he said, then head overland to the New Sea. There, the Army of Liberation would either hire ships or march along the shore until it reached Qualinesti.

  Samar’s mount, Ironhead, trumpeted impatiently, and Kerian glanced at the big Golden griffon. When she turned back, Porthios had left the shade of the pine branches and was standing only a few feet from her. “I expect you will join us, when the time comes.”

  When Gilthas was dead, he meant, and she was furious not because he was wrong, but because he’d so easily divined her reason for asking his route. He walked away without another word, and Kerian was left trying to decide whether the odd expression in his eyes might have been pity.

  Alhana approached, holding out a hand to her young successor. With characteristic grace, she made her good-byes, but even as they embraced, Kerian was trying to fathom why kind, cultured, civilized Alhana tolerated Porthios for an instant.

  “You did not know him before,” Alhana said. “He was a dif
ferent person.”

  Kerian realized she’d muttered her thoughts aloud. Shaking her head, she asked, “So the fire took his morals and manners too?”

  “His looks are the very least thing he lost. He does intend good.”

  Kerian doubted that but knew argument was pointless. Fortunately, Gilthas arrived and Alhana turned her attention to taking a fond leave of the Speaker. Then it was time for the army to depart.

  In close column of sixes the mounted warriors fell in behind Porthios, who traveled on foot for the time being. He would hold the army at the mouth of the pass until dusk then push through the few nomads known to be there. He could have waited till nightfall to leave the exiles’ camp, but he worried about losing warriors if he delayed. The bond between the Speaker and his faithful fighters must not be allowed to sway any wavering minds.

  Next to leave were Alhana’s griffon riders. All but the former queen were mounted and ready to take wing. Chisa, Alhana’s female Golden, stood quietly as Alhana embraced Gilthas one last time and clasped hands with Hamaramis and Taranath. When she embraced Kerian, the Lioness offered her a final blunt warning.

  “Watch out for him.” Kerian didn’t bother to lower her voice, and all within earshot knew who she meant. “We’re all pawns in the game he’s playing, even you.”

  Alhana smiled. “I know him, niece.” Violet eyes flickered toward Gilthas, standing a short distance away, and Alhana whispered, “You watch out for him.”

  Kerian’s hands tightened convulsively on Alhana’s arms. Alhana kissed her on both cheeks and stepped quickly away. With practiced ease, she climbed into Chisa’s saddle, wrapped the reins around her left hand, and gave the word. Chisa bounded forward. On the third leap, the griffon was airborne, wings beating hard. Samar and the other riders followed their lady into the sky.

  The flight of griffons was quickly lost from sight among the low peaks. No rising dust marked the departing column of horses. The damp soil of Inath-Wakenti did not fly up like desert sand. In a surprisingly short time, the elves remaining behind were watching an empty pass and vacant sky.