The twenty-foot-tall block fell heavily onto its face. The base, pulling free of the ground, flung dirt skyward. Shouts of joy erupted all around. Still seated in his palanquin, Gilthas was leaning on the fallen slab, his shoulders and head liberally sprinkled with dirt, his face wearing a very bemused expression.
Where the monolith had stood, there was a deep hole. Hamaramis went to the edge and looked in. The pit was dark, deep, and cool. Fingers of mist coiled around the old general’s boots. He wondered aloud whether every standing stone concealed a tunnel opening. One of the Speaker’s bearers asked a different question: Why had the inhabitants of Inath-Wakenti used such weighty doors?
Hamaramis’s first concern was the defense of the camp. If all the stones could be moved easily with the Speaker’s help, they could be used to create a stronger perimeter. On the other hand, it wasn’t prudent to open so many holes into the tunnels. There could be dangers below as unfriendly as the ghosts and will-o’-the-wisps above.
“Don’t worry, General,” Gilthas said quite casually. “When we’ve finished exploring the tunnel, I’ll just put the stone back where it was.” The bearers and the general stared at him and he laughed.
Hamaramis summoned warriors to guard the opening. Gilthas told the general he wanted the tunnel explored immediately.
“At night, sire?”
“It’s always night down there.”
His logic was impeccable. Hamaramis quickly put elves to work erecting a frame so the explorers could be lowered into the hole. Workers skilled in woodworking and rope craft were summoned. Additional torches were lit.
While the work was underway, the Speaker sent for a scribe to map the tunnels. The warrior sent to fetch a volunteer returned alone. The scribes were notably lacking in enthusiasm for the quest.
Hamaramis berated the warrior for failing to carry out the Speaker’s command. “I’ll bring a scribe, sire—at the end of my sword, if necessary,” the old general growled.
Gilthas stopped him. He would not force anyone to face danger. He wished he could enter the tunnel himself. He once had been quite skilled with an ink brush. Of course, such adventures were beyond him at the moment.
He had decided to send only warriors down when a young elf emerged from the camp, running full out. Catching sight of them, the newcomer slowed abruptly. Despite ink-stained fingers and the short haircut of a scribe, the newcomer was very young and female. She bowed quickly to the Speaker, to Hamaramis, and even to Truthanar, just arriving with his helpers.
“Great Speaker, I am Vixona Delambro, apprentice scribe. I come in answer to your summons,” she panted.
“You’re a child!” Hamaramis exclaimed.
“I’ve taken the scribes’ oath.” That meant she was at least eighty, though she looked much younger.
Gilthas asked, “Why do you want to go?”
“To serve you, sire.” He regarded her steadily, and she blurted, “And to show those old cranks I’m as good as they!”
He understood. His senior scribes were from a generation that hadn’t allowed females into their profession. In Qualinesti the prohibition against females had been rescinded long ago, but few women were motivated to buck the formidable oldsters who guarded the scribal tradition so jealously. Scribes’ oaths of discretion, probity, and accuracy were not empty mouthings. The penalties for violating any part of the code were severe and the damage to one’s honor even more so. In all his life, Gilthas had known fewer than a dozen female scribes.
Something about Vixona touched Gilthas. Perhaps it was her faint resemblance to Kerian—she was blonde, but had the same heart-shaped face as his wife. More likely it was Kerian’s stubbornness Vixona brought to his mind.
“You’ve got fine mettle, young lady. Don’t fail me.”
“I won’t, Great Speaker. I won’t!”
Rather sourly, Hamaramis asked her if she could handle a weapon.
“I fought in the desert against the humans.”
So had every elfin the valley. “Do you have any proficiency with weapons?”
She was forced to admit she did not, but the general’s obvious disapproval could not quench her enthusiasm.
The exploration party would be led by Hamaramis, and he chose three warriors to accompany him. Each would take two torches, one burning and one in reserve. Lamps would have been better in a tunnel, but all the oil had been requisitioned as food. They would be armed with swords only, no bows. The general tried to press a borrowed blade on Vixona, but she demurred, being already burdened with parchment inkpot, and brushes. He looked to the Speaker for guidance. Gilthas waved the borrowed blade away. Let her take what she wanted, he said.
As he watched the preparations Gilthas ate the tiny meal Truthanar had brought. The Silvanesti healer had touched his king deeply. Arriving at the worksite with the usual dose of unpleasant-tasting medicine, he also brought a surprise: a small pot of
