Destiny

Chapter 20

May the Door of Heaven open wide for Him Who Bears the Key.”

Faeterus lifted his left hand. He held the long parchment, tightly rolled, onto which had been burned the inscription revealed by the valley’s standing stones. Under the spell of the sorcerer’s oratory, the columns of light emanating from the monoliths angled inward, converging on the bottom of the swirling cloud at a point directly over the Tympanum.

The brilliant concentration of light, painful to behold, must be the Door, Favaronas decided. Faeterus had reached the climax of his conjuration. The next line of the houmrya was “Let the Light shine forth so all may See.” Favaronas had no doubt the sorcerer would change the final word to “die,” or “vanish,” or some other destructive command that fit the structure of the poem, and that would be the end. Favaronas’s exhausted brain could think of no way to stop him.

He reached up one trembling hand and clutched the hem of the sorcerer’s ragged robe.

Kerian and Taranath cautiously lifted their heads above the edge of the plateau. The Lioness drew her sword.

Magically restrained but still a horrified witness, Sa’ida screamed, begging her patron deity to intercede.

“Let the Light shine forth—”

The sorcerer’s demand ended with a gurgle. Favaronas looked up.

An arrow protruded from Faeterus’s neck. Blood, black in the muted light, coursed down the front of his robe. He swayed but remained upright. With his free hand he groped for the arrow. It was deeply embedded in the left side of his neck. His fingers brushed over it but failed to grasp it. A second black bolt struck him in the back, and down he went.

Unseen and unheard, Sa’ida shouted in triumph. The goddess had heeded her servant’s pleas. Or had she? Would the Divine Healer send black arrows in answer to a devoted prayer?

The spell pinning Sa’ida to the rock dissolved as its maker’s life ebbed, and her joy changed to frustration. She felt herself pulled back to her body, lying unconscious in the elf camp, and she fought against it. The power tapped by Faeterus must be dispersed or safely channeled. If it was not, it would run riot, endangering everyone in the valley. Whereas before, all she wanted was to escape, now she fought to keep her naes on the Stair of Distant Vision.

The spell that paralyzed Favaronas’s legs likewise faded. His limbs came alive again, kindling into pain as if ten thousand needles pricked his flesh. He pounded on his legs with clenched fists, trying to force them to work.

Faeterus lay on his side only a few feet away, the hood fallen partly back from his face. He gurgled in helpless fury, then his lips began to move. He might yet complete his terrible design! Favaronas dug in toes and fingers and propelled himself to the sorcerer’s side. He clamped a bloodied hand over Faeterus’s mouth, making certain he could say nothing. Faeterus struggled weakly. Favaronas put his other hand over the sorcerer’s face and leaned all his weight on them. The spasms subsided to twitches then to nothing. Faeterus’s body constricted in a monumental exhalation, and the last flicker of life finally departed his grotesque body.

His death did not end the titanic conjuration he’d set in motion. The brilliant “door” at the center of the cloud remained, and the cloud itself began to seethe and twist. It spat a narrow bolt of lightning that struck the Tympanum with a loud crash. A second bolt, larger than the first, cracked the granite disk in two.

“Finish…”

The unknown voice caused Favaronas to whirl. A human woman knelt only a few feet away. She was translucent, like a ghost, but Favaronas recognized her at once, although he was at a loss to know how the high priestess of Elir-Sana had come to be here.

“Scroll!” she said. Her image wavered, then disappeared altogether.

Seize the key before the door opens.

The words of the ghost and the priestess’s command came together. He snatched the thick scroll from the sorcerer’s rigid fingers. The scroll was the Key!

A lightning bolt sizzled across the width of the valley and struck the mountainside below the Stair. Favaronas assumed the Speaker’s warriors had shot Faeterus, but he didn’t dare wait for them to arrive. He must finish the conjuration before the wild discharge of power tore the valley apart. He drew a deep breath and spoke the last line.

“Let the Light shine forth so all may—”

He froze. “See” was the original ending of the houmrya, but he had no idea what the consequences of such a command might be. He needed something less vague, but positive, and it must be similar to the verb “to see” in Old Elvish so the line would still scan. Merciful E’li, what should he say? A list of ancient verbs raced through the scholar’s mind. His entire body shaking, Favaronas thrust the scroll aloft.

“Live!” he shouted. “Live! Live!”

Someone called his name. Before he could see who it was, the world came apart.

The monoliths went dark, extinguished in their thousands all at once. The blazing Door they’d created in the cloud persisted for the space of four heartbeats; then it exploded. The sound was no louder than a heavy thunderclap, but the explosion blew away the glowing white corona to reveal a black core within, spinning madly. The core slowed, wobbled, then it, too, detonated.

The first explosion had sent a wave of hot wind through the valley. When the black core exploded, nothing could stand before it. Everyone in Inath-Wakenti was thrown to the ground. The monoliths burned fiercely white for an instant then dissolved into clouds of vapor. The granite Tympanum survived the blast but was cleft by a deep crack zigzagging from north to south. Trees were blown down, boulders shattered, and every source of water in the valley, from small springs to Lioness Creek shivered its contents into fine droplets and shot them into the air.

The blast occurred high above the valley, and its tremendous shock wave roared over the encircling mountains and out into the desert. Like a plow, it lifted a wall of sand and drove it across the empty wasteland. Wells were filled, oases submerged, and small towns buried in the blink of an eye. Unwary caravans caught in the open were swallowed whole, never to be found again. Enormous drifts of sand fetched up against the walls of Kortal, Delphon, and Khuri-Khan. The moving mountain of grit overtopped the low walls of Kortal, collapsing the side facing Inath-Wakenti. Upon reaching the sea, the wave dumped what remained of its sand—although ships as far out as Habbakuk’s Necklace reported showers of brown dirt peppering their sails—and lifted a swelling tide of water. The mighty wave swamped the Horn of Khur and swept ships ashore all around the Bay of Balifor. In occupied Silvanesti, trees were uprooted and waves smashed the port of Kurinost, wrecking forty minotaur ships. Flagstaffs at the Towers of Eli snapped, and the new overlord’s banner fluttered into the sea.

Because the Khalkist Mountains deflected the blast, Neraka, Thoradin, and Blöde suffered less. Roofs in every town and hamlet were stripped of tiles, Strange changes of pressure affected communities at high altitudes. Drains cracked and wells overflowed. Bells in the town of Neraka rang, though no hand touched their pull ropes. Towers swayed but none fell. Panes of glass shattered, and the streets filled with puzzled members of the Order, who speculated on the coming of another Cataclysm. In Thoradin the Two Hammers Bridge collapsed, dropping four thousand feet to the bottom of the gorge. Fortunately the span was empty, and no one was hurt. Landslides buried tunnel entrances and toppled mine derricks all through the dwarves’ realm.

Deflected by the mountains, a weaker shock wave rolled down the western slopes. Whirlwinds drove through Sanction, blowing away awnings, shutters, and roof tiles. Ships in the harbor rolled hard. Collisions sank half a dozen. A host of smaller vessels were swamped. Alarm bells sounded and rumors ran wild in the streets. Only the strenuous efforts of the city guard returned calm to Sanction.

The blast reached a narrow beach between the New Sea and the heights of the western Khalkist Mountains. The ground shook violently, and a deep boom of thunder echoed off the peaks. The sea went white with wind-tossed waves. A column of armored warriors riding slowly south along the beach fought to control their plunging horses. Griffon riders in the air overhead had to work equally hard to calm their I own beasts. Dust and dirt rained down on the soldiers.

At the head of the army, Porthios mastered his horse. Two griffons alighted on the beach nearby. Alhana and Samar dismounted and hurried to him.

“What has happened?” Alhana called.

Porthios pulled his hood farther forward to shade his eyes and looked up. The ground had ceased shaking, but a new wonder was unfolding overhead. A vast ring of clouds was racing across the sky, spreading out from some locus behind the mountains. In its wake was the clearest, cleanest blue sky they’d seen in many days.

“Volcano?” suggested Samar. There were no active mountains in central Ansalon, but he could think of nothing else that would cause such a powerful blast.

They searched the sky for smoke or other signs of catastrophe. Nothing was visible but the preternaturally clear vault of blue. In minutes the cloud ring had rolled over the horizon. The temperature dropped noticeably. The very air around them seemed to sparkle.

“No, something strange has happened. Strange and wonderful,” Alhana murmured. Ironhead and Chisa chortled and whistled at each other as if agreeing with her.

Samar inhaled deeply. He vowed that for the first time since their departure from Khur he felt free of the desert’s seared, desiccated air. It wasn’t only their nearness to the sea. The purity of the air had changed completely in the aftermath of the quake.

Only Porthios seemed unaffected. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s over. We ride on.”

Samar regarded him with surprise, but Alhana told her faithful second to get the column moving again. He returned to his griffon, shouting orders for the cavalry and dismounted griffon riders to resume the march.

Alhana understood her husband’s indifference. He didn’t trust feelings. Omens and portents were for those too weak to take destiny into their own hands. She didn’t waste time mourning what he had lost in the fire that had scarred him so grievously inside and out. He was alive. They were together. Nothing in the world mattered more to her.

Yet her silence seemed to unnerve him. He’d pushed his hood back a bit, and she could see his eyes. They darted toward her, away, then back again. She suppressed a smile. He had no idea how well she could read his emotions simply by watching his eyes.

“We’re not going to Sanction, you know,” he said roughly. “We’d find plenty of ships there but too many laws, bureaucrats, and foreign spies. Southward the towns are smaller, but working down the coast, we ought to be able to pick up enough ships to transport the army to Qualinesti.”

“I agree.”

He blinked. Dispute he would have met with forceful arguments, carefully marshaled. Her acquiescence left him nothing to say.

“Samar has the column ready,” she said and turned to go back to Chisa.

Porthios spoke her name. She turned back. He was holding a hand down to her and had kicked one foot free of the stirrup.

Once she was mounted behind him, the Army of Liberation set out again.

On and on the great shock wave flew. Kothas and Mithas experienced mysterious southeast winds, quite contrary to their usual patterns of weather. A dusting of brown sand fell on the islands, followed by showers of tiny yellow flowers. Traders identified the blossoms as dandelion flowers, which grew no closer than Kern. On Schallsea orchards bloomed for a second time in one season, something they had not done in recorded history.

Deep in occupied Qualinesti, Lord Liveskill was summoned from his desk in the Black Hall to witness a strange rain falling on his fortress. He emerged into the bailey amid a flurry of white flower petals. The large, waxy blossoms were from poplar trees, which were long past their blooming time. Pennants atop the battlements were whipping in a stiff northwest wind.

The rain of flowers ceased and nothing more occurred. Liveskill ordered his steward to note the anomalies in the castle’s daybook then returned to his plots and his papers.

Hands cleared away the rocks and dirt covering Favaronas, and he beheld Lady Kerianseray and General Taranath. Both exclaimed at finding him alive. When they helped him sit up, dirt and moss rained from his head and shoulders.

“Can you hear me?” the Lioness asked loudly.

“Perfectly well, lady.” Favaronas’s head rang like a temple bell, but his hearing was unimpaired.

He had been thrown onto a bed of jagged rocks yet had sustained no cuts or bruises. His rescuers were in the same strange condition. Not only were they unharmed by the great explosion, they were in better shape than before it had occurred. The knife wound Kerian had received in Khuri-Khan was completely healed. The arm bore a scar but felt as strong and healthy as ever. The many injuries Favaronas had sustained during his captivity were healed as thoroughly as the Lioness’s arm. Even the fingernails he’d lost dragging himself across the Stair had grown back.

“What was that blast?” Kerian asked.

“The end of a dangerous conjuration.” Favaronas explained that Faeterus had solved the riddle of Inath-Wakenti then attempted to use his knowledge to tap the power held captive within the valley. The power came not from long-gone dragonstones, but from the monoliths themselves. Faeterus had intended nothing less than the utter destruction of the elf race, but his grandiose plans had been thwarted at the last moment.

“Which of you shot him?” Favaronas asked, and they answered with blank looks. “He was hit from behind, with crossbow bolts…“ His voice trailed away as he realized neither of them carried such a weapon.

The Lioness stepped back and looked upslope. She saw no sign of anyone but sent Taranath to investigate the boulders where Robien had spotted an archer. The archer who shot Robien must also have killed Faeterus. Whoever he was, he’d had ample time to serve them the same, but no more black bolts had flown. Taranath returned and reported finding only a torn boot and bloodstained leggings. The cloth was heavyweight serge of northern origin, probably from eastern Solamnia. The boots were common Abanasinian leather. That the assassin had come from west of Khur was all Taranath could determine.

The sun was gone from the sky—not because of Faeterus’s fell magic, but simply due to the natural passage of time. The blast had occurred just after midday. The elves had been unconscious half a day and dusk had come. The sky over Inath-Wakenti was cloudless as usual, but the air shimmered like cloth-of-gold, as though minute crystals had been cast into the heights to catch the failing daylight. None of them could explain the remarkable phenomenon.

A shout from below brought them to the edge of the Stair. Hytanthas was climbing up. Close on his heels was Robien.

“I thought you were wounded?” Kerian called.

“I thought he was dying!” Hytanthas retorted, grinning.

“I thought him long dead,” put in Favaronas.

He and Robien were pleased to find each other again. Favaronas exclaimed over Robien’s escape from Faeterus’s entombment spell. The bounty hunter, uncertain how he’d survived, credited his rescue to the timely intervention of Taranath’s patrol.

“And this?” Favaronas pointed at the bloody rent in the breast of Robien’s tunic.

“I understand that even less. Hytanthas had managed to draw the bolt”—Robien grimaced at the memory—“but got no further. Then we awoke a few minutes ago and I was completely healed!” He fingered the rent open, showing the smooth, unbroken skin beneath.

Kerian asked Favaronas what he made of the miraculous occurrences. The scholar was silent for some time. Perhaps the healing had come about because he himself had completed the poem with the injunction “live,” but the once-ambitious elf had no desire to claim credit. Besides, who could know what really had happened?

Choosing his words carefully, he answered with perfect honesty, “The healing power must have come from the valley itself.”

Robien had gone to inspect the fallen Faeterus. With one foot, he rolled the body over. As it moved, the layers of robe covering it fell away in decayed clumps. The others came in response to his shocked exclamation.

All that remained of Faeterus were bones and scraps of dry flesh. If they hadn’t known better, the elves would have sworn he’d been dead for months rather than hours. He had claimed great age, Favaronas mused. Perhaps the rapid decay was due to the cessation of the preservation spells that had kept him alive for so many centuries.

Robien was disgusted. “What do I tell Sahim-Khan? He hired me to bring the sorcerer to justice.”

“He’s met his justice.” Kerian leaned down and picked up Faeterus’s skull. “Give this to Sahim. Tell him your job is done.”

Disgust became curiosity as Robien studied the grisly memento. Frowning, he said, “It doesn’t look much like an elf’s skull.”

Favaronas took it from him and quickly bound it in a square of cloth from the sorcerer’s robe. “When you have the best of all possible outcomes, it isn’t wise to ask too many questions!”

Dusk was fading into darkness, and a handful of stars had appeared overhead. Kerian wanted to complete the steepest part of their descent before full night set in. She told them to make ready to depart.

Favaronas had one last task he wished to perform. The blast had knocked the Key from Faeterus’s hand. Scanning the Stair, he saw the parchment some yards away, unfurled and fluttering in the evening breeze. The librarian in Favaronas could not abandon so rare a text. But when he tried to pick it up, the parchment fell to pieces at his touch. Kneeling, he used the hem of his robe to cover his fingers and tried again. It crumbled further. He was staring helplessly at the remains of the Key when the Lioness came to tell him they were ready to go. He explained his predicament and the importance of the parchment.

Without a word, she walked around him and deliberately trampled the fragile parchment beneath her boots. Favaronas was aghast.

“Now no one can try to do what Faeterus did,” she said flatly.

He knew she was right. But watching the knowledge of eons ground into dust was painful. He closed his eyes against the sight.

Her calloused hand tugged gently at the neck of his geb. “Leave it, Favaronas. It’s time to go.”

They departed, descending carefully in the gathering darkness.

Nearly half an hour went by before Breetan emerged higher up the slope.

Blown into a crevice by the explosions, she had awakened to find her broken ankle entirely mended. Her foot wasn’t even swollen. From her hiding place, she could hear the small party of elves moving about and speaking but couldn’t make out what they said. They didn’t seem wroth over the death of their leader, the Scarecrow. That much she could tell.

She found her sword buried in the rocky soil. It was undamaged, but her crossbow had not been so fortunate. Hurled directly into a boulder, the stock was shattered. To keep its secrets from unfriendly hands, she completed its destruction.

The Black Hall was such a long way away, she decided instead to go over the mountains and present herself in Neraka. Her mission was complete. The Scarecrow was dead. As more and more stars crowded the sky, Breetan headed for home.

Farther down the valley, another was awakening after the terrific blast. Wounded by the Lioness’s party when he attacked the bounty hunter, Shobbat had crept under a low thread-needle bush—to rest or die, he wasn’t sure which. He awoke in darkness.

He was human again.

Joyous relief changed quickly to alarm. The thread-needle bush was covered by sharp, inch-long spines, and he was completely naked. Little more than a nuisance to the tough, thickly furred hide of his beastly form, the spines would wreak havoc on his delicate human flesh. He inched his way very carefully out from under the bush and into the cold night air.

He couldn’t possibly cross the mountains in his current state, so he went back the way he had come, through the southern pass, into the valley. He needed clothes and would have to avoid the laddad patrols, but he was himself again. Even shivering and exposed, Shobbat grinned in triumph.

Kerian’s party crossed the valley in mounting excitement. Moonlight and starlight showed them the many changes wrought in the landscape. The monoliths were gone. Where the thousands of snowy quartz blocks had stood were only scorched patches of turf or shallow pits. The air was drier, with none of the clammy mists that usually clung to the ground at night.

And the valley was full of trees! Not the stubby, twisted plants they’d grown accustomed to in the benighted vale, but soaring giants such as they’d not seen since leaving their homelands. Oaks towered forty feet above their heads. Pines and cedars thrust skyward like enormous green spires. The ground was littered with palm-sized acorns and pine cones the size of melons. The air was drenched with the perfume of a riot of blossoms. The open landscape was gone. Although loathe to destroy such beauty, the elves were forced to hack a path through the newly grown foliage.

Periodically their way was blocked by water. Rivulets they’d crossed the day before in a stride or two were rushing streams. Creeks had matured into small rivers. The valley’s few small springs gushed like fountains.

Passing one of the larger pits left by a departed monolith, they saw a rabbit shoot out of the hole, dart around their legs in confused fashion, and vanish into the night. On its furry heels came more creatures: a pair of squirrels, half a dozen starlings, a cloud of flies.

“The same power that cured our personal hurts has restored the animals of Inath-Wakenti,” Hytanthas said.

“How so?” asked Favaronas.

Hytanthas told him about the layers of dry bones he’d found in the tunnels under the valley. Favaronas had entered the tunnels during the Lioness’s original expedition and hadn’t encountered any remains, but his stay had been very brief, and the captain’s theory seemed logical to him. The bones of the valley’s animals had been given flesh again.

Taking his theory a step further, Hytanthas exclaimed, “Commander, our comrades! All those lost to the lights will be returned to us!”

The idea was a beguiling one, but Favaronas warned against hasty assumptions. “They might be returned, but it’s equally likely the ‘resurrection’ will affect only the original denizens of the valley.”

While the men debated the point, Kerian’s face acquired an odd expression. Taranath asked if something was wrong. She regarded him in wide-eyed silence for the space of two heartbeats then sprinted away, leaving them all behind. Over her shoulder floated one word.

“Gilthas!”

Comprehension quickly dawned for Taranath. Hytanthas and Robien shared his understanding. Favaronas did not, having been lost before the Speaker took ill.

“Must we run?” he complained, just before Hytanthas and Robien each took one of Favaronas’s arms and hurried him along.

Mind and body in an uncharacteristic whirl, Kerian outpaced them all by fifty yards. She forced her thoughts away from the hope she dared not voice and instead tried to calm her churning belly. It was requiring all her considerable concentration to keep from being sick, The idea it might be simple hunger lasted only until she remembered the revelation Sa’ida had delivered. She was sick because she was pregnant. She tightened her grip on her sword hilt. She would not be sick. Not now. Later she could be sick but not now.

She pushed through a wall of closely growing ash saplings and found the way ahead blocked by a new lake. She waited for her companions to catch up then struck out around the lake. Ever the archivist, Favaronas insisted they name the new body of water. Robien’s suggestion of “New Lake” was roundly rejected as too dull. Hytanthas offered “Lake Pathfinder,” and Kerian surfaced from her distraction long enough to veto that.

“He won’t thank you for it,” she said. “Besides, it smacks of favor-seeking.”

“Lake Planchet.”

Taranath’s quiet suggestion met with unanimous approval. Kerian thought it a fitting tribute to the valiant elf who had given his life in the desert to save the nation.

Lake Planchet was broad and kidney shaped, with its long axis running north-south. As they skirted its shore, a flock of geese wafted down. In moments half a hundred birds had settled, honking lustily.

Not even Qualinesti in its heyday was so rich, so bountiful. Although full night was still upon the valley, it teemed with animal life. The elves passed a cloud of bees swarming around an open fissure in the ground. Snakes glided across the path in front of them. Crickets whirred and thick clouds of fireflies glittered. Coming upon a small grove, they were overwhelmed by the sweet scent of apples. The trees were laden with fruit such as was grown in Hylo and Ergoth, apples fully ripe but green as leaves. Even Kerian could not help but follow her comrades’ example and pause long enough to fill each hand with a gleaming fruit.

Favaronas bit into an apple and laughed with delight at the flavor. Juice ran down his chin. Although he hadn’t tasted the fruit, Hytanthas began to laugh as well. Their shared amusement went on so long, Robien and Taranath stared at them. Hytanthas shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know,” he said, his face still wearing a broad grin. “It just feels as though we’ve gone back to the beginning of the world!”

Taranath offered a wary warrior’s smile. A surprisingly fresh, wry grin appeared on Robien’s face. Suddenly all four of them were laughing, the mirth of one inciting fresh hilarity in the rest.

“Get moving!”

The Lioness’s harsh voice recalled them to their senses. Embarrassed, Taranath hustled Favaronas forward, and Hytanthas and Robien sped their own lagging steps.

“It’s very strange. I feel almost drunk,” Robien confessed, and the others agreed.

“Perhaps it’s another effect of the valley’s transformation,” suggested Favaronas.

By the time dawn broke, the land had become less cluttered with undergrowth. Open ground was covered by a lush carpet of knee-high grass. They were close to the valley’s center, and Kerian began to run, shedding gear that slowed her down. She topped a low knoll and halted.

Below lay the circular stone platform at the valley’s heart. The huge disk was bisected by a broad crack. Off to the left, the south side, lay the elves’ camp. Most of the tents were down, Some had been consumed by fire, and thin spires of smoke still curled skyward.

Her four comrades arrived. Surveying the scene in dismay, Taranath said, “They must have survived!”

Kerian was already running down the hill. She covered the last mile without stopping. When she discovered the camp to be deserted, she headed for the open ground on the west side, where she and Gilthas had faced down the ghostly multitude. Her surmise proved thrillingly correct. The elf nation was there, sitting on the grass, looking quite dazed but alive and well.

The tall figure of Hamaramis on horseback drew Kerian. She dodged through the crowd, making straight for him. A troop of warriors was drawn up with the general. They parted ranks for her.

The palanquin sat on the ground. The bearers were seated around it, heads bowed to their knees. A dark red mantle was draped over the seat.

After all her blistering hurry, Kerian stopped so suddenly she nearly fell. She couldn’t move. Her feet felt rooted to the soil. Her belly churned. He could not be gone. Not when the whole world had come alive at last!

“The chair is empty.”

The familiar voice jolted through her like a bolt of lightning. She turned. Standing a short distance away was her husband. Face pale, white hair blowing in the breeze, Gilthas resembled nothing so much as one of the ghosts of Inath-Wakenti.

The Lioness covered the distance between them in three long strides and seized him by the arms. He was no ghost. He returned her bruising grip and pulled her close for a kiss so fierce, it left both of them shaken.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, and she laughed through tears, so perfectly had he echoed her own thoughts. She touched his face to reassure herself.

Standing straight and proud, all signs of suffering gone, for the first time in a long time, Gilthas was himself. The only lingering physical trace of his brush with death was his hair. Rather than returning to its natural blond shade, it was snowy white.

He took half a step back from her, the mantle of kingship descending on him again but his eyes remained warm and loving.

“Your mission was a success?”

“So it would seem,” she said wryly.

A frown touched his face. It lasted only a moment. There would be time enough later to learn exactly what had happened. He gestured at the multitude around them. “As you see, we endured.”

“You always do,” she said, and it was the elf nation she meant.

He held out a hand to her. “Well, someone has to look after you—you and the next Speaker within you.”