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.
