“I don’t need you anymore,” he said, nose to nose with the tiny creature. It squeaked in response. He lifted his hand skyward. “Go home.”
The bat took wing. As it vanished in the bright sky, Sa’ida asked why he’d been carrying it. Had he nursed the injured animal back to health?
“No. It was part of my costume. To veil my activities, it was necessary for me to assume the appearance of a long-dead oracle.”
“The Oracle of the Tree!”
The god winked. “A useful diversion but one I no longer need.” Looking to the horizon, he asked where she was going.
“Where the horse takes me.”
“Ever been to Qualinesti? No? I think we’d find it a very interesting place.”
He pointed a stubby finger south-southwest, and the horse immediately adjusted its course accordingly. Sa’ida opened her mouth to protest but closed it without speaking. She’d told the Speaker she didn’t know what she would do. Now she did. She was bound for the elves’ old homeland, and had acquired a new patron. Just what he had in mind, for her and for Qualinesti, only time would tell.
Like the rest of Inath-Wakenti, the broad plateau known as the Stair of Distant Vision had undergone a profound change. The once-bare rock was completely covered by wild roses and honeysuckle. Eagle Eye circled it several times as Kerian tried to recognize landmarks submerged beneath the profusion of green leaves and yellow blossoms. When she finally directed the griffon to land, he remained balanced on his rear paws for several seconds before carefully lowering his front legs into the clinging growth. Champing his beak and growling, he made his displeasure known.
“There’s something I have to do,” she told him. “I won’t be long. Don’t be so finicky.”
Despite her testy words, she took time to slash a clear patch around him. He trilled softly. With a fond smile, she stroked his neck, and he settled down for a nap. Making use of her sword again, she cut a path to the broken pinnacle.
Faeterus’s remains were still there. Ants were busily stripping away the last bits of dry flesh, but it was the sorcerer’s bones that concerned Kerian. She’d seen for herself how the long-dead creatures of the valley had been reborn. From rabbits to aurochs, the animals of Inath-Wakenti had been remade from their ancient bones. Despite Hytanthas’s hopes, none of the elves taken by the will-o’-the-wisps had been so favored. No one knew why, but the elves, they remained lost.
Still Kerian could not rid herself of the nagging fear that a powerful sorcerer such as Faeterus would find some way back from death. Wise Sa’ida and well-read Favaronas had been unable to assure her that her suspicions were groundless, so she would make absolutely certain Faeterus could never again darken the world.
The joints had fallen apart, and the bones were scattered. She cut away greenery and raked through the dirt with her fingers, seeking even the tiniest bones. As she found each one, she laid it atop the sorcerer’s rotted robe. When she was satisfied she’d left none behind, she soaked the pile and the dirty fabric with lamp oil and set it alight.
The pyre blazed up, sending a stream of dirty yellow smoke skyward. She fed the fire with vine cuttings and windfall limbs, turning it into a genuine bonfire.
The morning passed. Kerian sat on the edge of the Stair and ate wild blueberries. The view was spectacular, and she allowed herself to be captured by it. Fluffy clouds floated high over Inath-Wakenti, dappling mighty trees and lush foliage with patterns of light and shade. Flocks of starlings wheeled overhead. Nearby, squirrels leaped from treetop to treetop, and birds trilled and sang.
She kept the bonfire hot, adding kindling and splashes of oil. Only when the sun hovered above the western peaks did she allow the flames to die out. Raking through the ashes with a tree branch, she crushed any remaining bits of bone to dust. The hot ashes and bone dust went into a clay pot that she carried back to Eagle Eye.
The last scraps of the creature that called itself Faeterus would not remain in Inath-Wakenti. Kerian and Eagle Eye winged down the valley toward the pass. They flew far out into the desert before the Lioness upended the clay pot. The cloud of ashes was taken by the wind and scattered across many miles of Khurish sand.
A line of nomads riding on the shady side of a dune spied a very odd thing: a lone figure walking toward them. No one but foolish
“Stand where you are!” the eldest nomad commanded. He drew his sword and pointed its curved blade at the sun-baked apparition. “Name yourself!”
“I am Shobbat, son of Sahim, Khan of All the Khurs!”
