Destiny

Chapter 7

There was nothing but dreamless void. He could sense nothing at all beyond himself. Then a voice spoke and nothingness became… something. The voice spoke again, and he felt himself slowly sinking in the boundless darkness. By the time he made out the words, he had fallen hard onto a cold, gritty surface.

“—Where are you?”

Hytanthas raised his head from the coldness beneath it. “Commander?”

“Can you hear me?”

Pain thudded inside his skull. The sound of the Lioness’s voice seemed to ebb and flow with the pain. Pushing himself up onto his hands, Hytanthas called to her again. The effort of speaking loudly sent paroxysms of agony lancing through his head, and he finally gave up shouting. It was clear that although lie could hear the Lioness as if she were only a few feet away, she couldn’t hear him. She seemed to be conversing with others, but hers was the only voice be could hear.

The blackness around him was absolute. Elves are gifted with the ability to see even in lightless conditions, yet Hytanthas could see nothing at all. He feared he had been blinded. Fighting back panic, he concentrated on his other senses. His questing hands encountered hard stone arching overhead and stone walls on either side, but open air in front and behind. He was in a tunnel. He recalled the Lioness describing the tunnels her expedition had explored beneath Inath-Wakenti. The return of that memory brought the rest flooding back.

He had been flying night patrol on Kanan. A group of will-o’-the-wisps appeared, trying to surround him. At his command the griffon dove. Down and down they plummeted, Kanan never wavering although it seemed they would smash into the blue soil. They leveled off only yards above it. The lights were left behind, and Hytanthas did a foolish thing. He relaxed, exulting in his triumph over the mysterious lights. A trilithon loomed out of the shadows, two tall, white stones supporting a third laid horizontally atop. With Hytanthas’s hands slack on the reins, Kanan chose to dive under the lintel. His rider didn’t react in time. Hytanthas’s forehead struck the stone, and he fell from the saddle, unconscious. Awakening a short time later, he saw no sign of Kanan, so he shucked his dented iron helmet and leather skullcap and prepared to walk back to camp. The instant he dropped the helmet, a will-o’-the-wisp appeared. It touched him, and next thing he knew he was here.

Was that what happened to all the others who vanished? Were they whisked away and deposited in the maze of tunnels underneath the valley floor?

Time enough later to worry about such things. He didn’t know how long he had been here, but his throat was parched and his belly protested its emptiness. He had only the gear attached to his person: a fighting dagger, a light grapnel with thirty feet of thin rope (commonly carried by griffon riders for retrieving messages from the ground), and a bit of hard biscuit rolled inside a bandanna. Sword, water bottle, and flint and steel had been lost with Kanan.

The hard biscuit eased his hunger pangs, and he explored his surroundings more carefully. The wall had a slight curve, which increased the higher he explored. The ceiling curved above him. The opposite wall, some seven feet away, was exactly the same, made of small, cleanly cut blocks fitted together without mortar. Which way should he go? There seemed little difference. He felt no breeze on his face, so he chose a direction and started off, feeling his way along the wall and shuffling his feet to avoid tripping over unseen hazards. The stone wall was smoothly dressed, but his sensitive fingertips noted tiny imperfections. Like some grades of marble.

Every now and then, he heard the Lioness; she was talking to Hamaramis and Taranath by the sound of it. Hytanthas called out periodically but never earned an answer. He had no idea why be was hearing his commander but was certain he owed his life to the sound. Her voice had brought him back from a place he suspected he might never have escaped otherwise.

In the perfect darkness, his sense of time became confused. He seemed to have been walking for ages. At times his booted feet crunched through loose gravel or sent larger fragments skittering aside. From the lack of strain on his leg muscles, he deduced the tunnel was continuing straight and level, neither climbing nor descending.

When a faint, purplish glimmer appeared far ahead, be feared it was no more than a mirage conjured by his light-starved brain. The glimmer persisted. Relieved beyond words at the return of light, be put aside the puzzle of his inability to see in the blackness and forced himself to hold to his slow but steady pace. He didn’t want to risk a fall.

The glimmer was not an exit. It was another will-o’-the-wisp. The fist-sized purple light appeared to be hovering in place. Despite his approach, it never moved. He poked at it with the tip of his dagger. His probing dislodged the globe and it began to fall. Without thinking, he reached out and caught it in midair. The globe was weighty for its size, smooth and hard, and slightly warm. By its amethyst light, he saw that the column on which it had sat was extremely slender, no thicker than his finger, about three feet high, and made of some sort of polished black stone. When he bent low to study its base, he got his first glimpse of the debris on which he’d been walking. The shock caused him to drop the smooth globe.

The tunnel floor was covered with bones. Most were the remains of large animals, but here and there he saw the tiny skeletons of birds and rodents.

When the globe hit the floor, its light had grown brighter, changing from purple to indigo. He picked it up and carefully dropped it again. The impact brightened its light considerably, to a sky-blue shade.

Whatever else its purpose, the light made the going easier. Resuming his trek, he ate the last of his dry bread and pondered the significance of the bones. Could they be the remains of Inath-Wakenti’s missing animals?

He’d not traveled far when the light illuminated something more substantial than dry bones. A body lay near the right wall. Its posture told Hytanthas the person was dead, although there was no smell at all, only the dry, dusty odor of the bones. He intended to pass the corpse quickly but pulled up short when he realized the body was that of an elf. Metal armor was easily discernible beneath the sun-bleached geb. Hytanthas crouched to see the warrior’s face.

The dead elf was known to him—a Qualinesti named Marmanth who had ridden out of Khurinost with the Lioness so long ago to search for Inath-Wakenti. He must have been taken by the will-o’-the-wisps and left in this tunnel, just as Hytanthas himself had been. But Marmanth had died, while Hytanthas lived. Why? Did the will-o’-the-wisps sometimes kill their victims outright, or had Marmanth never awakened from the strange sleep?

Elves dislike touching their dead, but Hytanthas steeled himself and searched the corpse. It showed no signs of violence. The debris around it had been disturbed by nothing but Hytanthas’s own footprints. It was as though Marmanth had appeared there from nowhere and never got up again.

Hytanthas stood and resumed walking. Hungry, his throat achingly dry, he knew that if he couldn’t find a way out, he’d end up like poor Marmanth, like all the creatures trapped down there: a corpse, slowly drying and turning to dusty bones.

Night came again. The elves camped near the huge circular platform amid the dense gathering of monoliths. A defensive perimeter was created by filling the gaps between standing stones with barricades of brushwood. Kerian and the professional warriors thought it futile to erect barriers to keep out ghosts and flying spirit lights, but the rest of the elves took the effort seriously. Barricades and bonfires had kept the phantoms at bay before. The civilians trusted they would do so again.

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 condition.

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, words struck like a knife, 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 tipples. 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 fl 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.