In going to the boy, Gilthas found himself cut off from his palanquin bearers by the rush of people. No matter; he would walk. Carrying the boy in one arm and leaning on his staff, he joined the throng streaming from camp. The frightened atmosphere infected Cyronathan, and Gilthas sought to distract the child. His first efforts failed, but mention of Eagle Eye captured the boy’s imagination thoroughly. Cyronathan peppered him with questions about the griffon and asked quite seriously what exactly he must do to secure one of the majestic creatures for himself.
They passed through the outer line of standing stones and had gone some ten yards farther when a joyous voice cried out the boy’s name. Cyronathan greeted his mother with relief and made plain his wish to escape.
Gilthas bent to set him on the ground and felt something give way inside. A rush of warmth flooded his chest, and a loud gasp was wrenched from his lips. The boy, not noticing his agony, dashed away to his parents, but Gilthas continued to fold, going down on his knees. Wide eyed and open mouthed, he stared at the elves rushing by on both sides. No breath would enter his lungs. He could make no sound. Slowly, he toppled to the ground. The vision in his right eye faded, submerged in a wash of red.
Screams pierced the air as fleeing elves realized who he was. In moments the Speaker’s faithful bearers, still carrying the empty palanquin, rushed up beside him. Truthanar arrived on their heels.
“He’s hemorrhaging!” the healer cried. He rolled Gilthas onto his back. “I need water for the Speaker!”
Pitchers, buckets, and brimming cups appeared in moments. Truthanar rinsed the still-flowing blood from his king’s mouth. None of the helpful civilians or warriors gathered round could tell him where Sa’ida was. Soldiers scouring the camp for her had met with no success. Truthanar commandeered help from the multitude, and two dozen elves who’d just raced out of camp ran back in even more rapidly to seek the human priestess.
Gilthas’s eyes were closed, and he no longer fought to breathe. Truthanar elevated his head and shoulders. With a ‘slim silver lancet, the healer slashed the Speaker’s
“Had to be done,” Truthanar explained. “Accumulated blood was compressing the lung.”
As the blood poured out, their Speaker’s breathing eased. Everyone could see his chest rise and fall and saw the terrible waxen pallor fade from his cheeks. A few minutes longer, and the Speaker of the Sun and Stars would have drowned in his own blood. Although Truthanar’s voice was calm and matter-of. fact as he said this, the hand that had just wielded the lancet so confidently shook as he worked to bind the wound he’d made.
Gilthas stirred. His eyes opened. “Ken-li,” he whispered.
Tears fell from the healer’s eyes. “May the gods help you, sire. May they help us all.”
Riding up with his lieutenants, Hamaramis saw the Speaker lying on the ground surrounded by a spreading stain and feared the worst. The old general, long past leaping from the back of a still-moving horse, did just that.
“Truthanar! Does he live?” he shouted, scattering elves from his path.
“He lives, Hamaramis, but not for long.” The aged Silvanesti held the hand of the ruler of the united elf nations and wept unashamedly.
Faeterus spoke the last line of the fourth canto. As he drew breath to begin the
Favaronas, edging toward the sorcerer, ducked, throwing his arms over his head. Faeterus turned away to shield his own face from flying stone.
Angrily, Faeterus intoned,
He embarked upon the final canto of his song of annihilation.
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.
