Destiny

Although he took pains to hide it, the climb was not an easy one for him. His hands trembled as they grasped the crudely shaped rungs of the ladder, and pain like hot needles stabbed through his ribs. He had taken a blow to the back from a nomad tribesman just before the elves entered the valley. His people put his continuing weakness down to that cowardly attack and he allowed the mistaken impression to stand. Only a handful of elves knew the truth. Consumption, true to its harsh human name, was eating him from the inside out. The sickness had only worsened in the damp, chill air of Inath-Wakenti. By the standards of his long-lived race, Gilthas was still young, but appeared decades older, cheeks sunken and eyes deeply shadowed. He slept little, ate less, and worked as steadily as his failing health would allow.

When Gilthas reached the bonfire in the center of camp, he knew immediately what the trouble was. Only five griffon riders stood by the blazing fire. Two were missing.

“Where is Lady Kerianseray?” he asked immediately.

“I’m here,” she answered, arriving at a jog. She stripped off her gauntlets and took the cup of water offered by a nearby elf. She drank it quickly, but before she could finish, the other riders were clamoring for permission to seek their missing comrade.

From the darkness another voice asked, “What has happened?”

Gilthas turned. The newcomer was Porthios. Covered as always by a shapeless, ragged robe and cloth mask, he halted at the edge of the firelight. Porthios was brother to Lauralanthalasa, Gilthas’s mother, who had perished in the fall of Qualinost. Each was very nearly the only family the other had left, yet there had never been much love between uncle and nephew. Proud Porthios had not approved of Lauralanthalasa’s choice of husband and felt Gilthas carried the taint of his half-human father, Tanis. Formerly Speaker of the Sun, Porthios had been horribly burned by dragonfire during a battle. The fire that had nearly killed him seemed to have hardened his emotions further, scarring him inside as well as out. Gilthas doubted Porthios cared for anyone, save perhaps Alhana, his wife.

Firelight glinted in Porthios’s eyes as he scanned the group. “Who didn’t return?” he asked. He knew the griffon riders well. They had flown from Qualinesti with him and Kerian only weeks before.

“Hytanthas,” was Kerian’s grim answer.

Hytanthas Ambrodel was one of her loyal followers. She and the young warrior had fought together in Qualinesti against bandit invaders. More recently, he had served in her army in Khur. When a vast nomad army threatened to attack the elves, believing Kerian had led a massacre of one of their settlements, Kerian had ridden into their midst, hoping to appease their wrath by her sacrifice. Instead, she’d been plucked from the desert seemingly by a divine hand and deposited on the other side of the continent, in occupied Qualinesti. Hytanthas Ambrodel had undertaken a daring mission to find her. He had succeeded, very nearly at the cost of his own life.

Porthios put his back to the bonfire and stared into the haunted land across the creek. “How was he lost?”

“The lights,” Kerian replied.

“They’ve never taken a flier before,” said Porthios. “This is a dangerous development.”

“We must take steps.”

Kerian stiffened. Porthios was among the handful of elves who knew the true state of Gilthas’s health, and she knew he was implying the Speaker could not handle the problem himself. She started to make a harsh reply, but Gilthas quelled her with a glance and she bit back angry words, wondering how her husband could be so blind to Porthios’s maneuvering.

Gilthas was not blind. He, too, had bristled at Porthios’s comment. But unlike his volatile wife, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars was accustomed to keeping his reactions private. He was quite aware of Porthios’s insolence. It was always present, like a thorn constantly pricking him, yet never obvious enough that Gilthas could confront him about it.

Gilthas ordered the griffon riders to stand down. Watch would be kept for Hytanthas, but they couldn’t risk losing more riders in a futile search. The will-o’-the-wisps had never yet given back a victim.

“Food and water are waiting for you in my tent,” Gilthas told his wife.

She nodded but excused herself to tend her griffon first. If Porthios’s tone tended toward insolence, Kerian’s held no emotion at all. Gilthas knew she would defend him against anything. But what she thought of him and still felt for him, he had been unable to divine.

Porthios followed him as he traversed the crowded camp on his way to his tent. Elves of all stations greeted their Speaker with warmth. Porthios trailed behind, as unheralded as a shadow. No one spoke to Porthios lightly.