His peremptory tone caused Kerian to stare. He sat, frowning at no one in particular, his face so bloodlessly pale, it might have been carved of pure white Silvanesti marble. Kerian allowed the matter to drop, but while the others took a moment to pass around waterskins, she continued to observe him. He didn’t return her gaze, only stared down at the cup of medicine he held.
After sipping from the cup, he continued in a more measured tone. “I believe my experience tonight solves one of the valley’s mysteries. We face not a single malign force, but two distinct ones. The apparitions are ghosts of those who once inhabited Inath-Wakenti. Who they were, I don’t know, but they are at odds with the will-o’the-wisps. When the lights appeared, the ghosts fled.”
“But we don’t know who created the lights or how they are controlled,” Taranath put in.
“Guards?” mused Hamaramis. “The will-o’-the-wisps guard the valley from intruders like us, but they also keep the ghosts of the original inhabitants inside.”
Gilthas supported his intriguing theory, and the group fell to speculating about why the lights hadn’t carried off the Speaker.
“Blood of the Goldeneye.”
All eyes turned to Varanas, and Gilthas asked what he meant. The scribe looked up from his writing. Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he flushed to the roots of his pale blond hair and begged forgiveness for having interrupted.
Assured by the Speaker that he’d given no offense, the scribe answered, “That’s what the spirits called you, sire, Blood of the Goldeneye. They obeyed you once they knew your identity.” Varanas consulted his notes. “But their hatred of you only grew.”
“Maybe Silvanos Goldeneye was responsible for them being here,” Kerian said. “And maybe those of his line are immune to the guardian lights. I’m no scholar, but there is a certain warrior’s logic to it. The ghosts may have been elves once.” She hadn’t mentioned the spirits’ beastly metamorphosis. She would discuss that with Gilthas privately first. “Exile, imprisonment-however it was styled, suppose they were sent to this distant valley, guarded by powerful magic in the form of the floating lights. If Speaker Silvanos, or another of his line, had sentenced these wretches to eternal exile, it would make sense for his blood descendant to be immune to the spell that created the guardians.”
Again silence descended. The Lioness’s words hinted at a bleak tale rooted in the distant past. What crime could these malefactors have committed to earn such a terrible punishment? What sort of elves had the ghosts been?
Gilthas ended the silence. “An interesting thesis,” he said and turned the talk to other issues. A senator reminded him of the dwindling food supply. Meat continued to disappear even though the caches were heavily guarded. Grain, vegetables, and potable liquids were untouched, but animal flesh seemed utterly unwelcome there, even when cooked or preserved. Water supplies were adequate, but no new source had been found since they had left Lioness Creek. A former member of House Gardener claimed water abounded just below the surface. Divining rods wielded by sensitive elves detected plenty, and wells could be dug fairly easily.
With food the greatest priority, the Speaker decreed search parties would be dispatched the next day to comb the surrounding area for anything edible.
“What of the ghosts, sire?” Hamaramis wanted to know.
“If we don’t find food soon, we’ll all be ghosts,” grumbled Kerian.
The most distant searches, Gilthas said, would be carried out by mounted scouts, who might outrun any hostile spirits. All parties would return to camp an hour before sundown to avoid the marauding will-o’-the-wisps.
With that, the council broke up. As the last councilor was departing the Speaker’s tent, Truthanar stepped forward and conducted a brief examination of his king.
“Your fever is up. Too much exertion. Too much night air.”
“Too much being Gilthas,” said Kerian.
Smiling, the Speaker pled guilty to all charges then told Truthanar he could go. Plainly dissatisfied with his liege’s frivolous attitude, the healer took himself off to his own bedroll. The Speaker’s scribes approached, ready to take their places for the night’s reading and dictation, but Kerian dismissed them. Gilthas did not protest.
When the Speaker’s tent was empty but for the two of them, his brave posture collapsed. He leaned heavily on his wife’s arm for the short walk from camp chair to sleeping pallet.
Soon he was settled, sitting up beneath a pile of blankets and rugs that would have suffocated Kerian, and he asked her to refill his cup of medicine. As he sipped it, grimacing mightily (for it was exceedingly bitter), she broached a subject she knew he would not like.
“I can fetch the holy lady. I can convince her to come.”
“I can’t spare you.”
