Qualinesti and Silvanesti alike had an ingrained horror of disfigurement, making Porthios’s return to prominence all the more discomforting. Bathed by dragonfire, Porthios should have died. Instead, he emerged from the forest of the land he’d once ruled to launch a rebellion against the occupying forces of the bandit lord Samuval. Anonymous behind his mask, Porthios freed a Qualinesti town with only a handful of followers and sparked revolts all over the country. Elves as disparate as the displaced Kerianseray, Alhana Starbreeze and her Silvanesti guards, and a loyal cadre of Kagonesti had rallied to his cause.
When Hytanthas Ambrodel arrived bearing news of the elves’ imminent destruction in Khur, Porthios left the revolt in the hands of a Kagonesti lieutenant. Then he, Alhana, and Kerian led a small band of newly-made griffon riders to Khur and saved the exiled elf nation from annihilation. In the final confrontation with the nomad leader Adala Fahim, Porthios had revealed his identity and the ruin of his face to the world. Word spread through the elf nation and Porthios’s name was secret no longer. He retained his concealing attire to hide his deformities, but Gilthas believed the odd clothing served another purpose. Mask, gloves, bandagelike wrappings, and tattered hooded robe all lent the former Speaker of the Sun an air of mystery and authority he cannily exploited. It was considered ill luck to be long in Porthios’s company or even to meet his eyes, but everyone in Inath-Wakenti was grateful for his miraculous arrival at the head of the griffon riders.
Gilthas lived and held court in a great sprawling tent. A forest of pine poles supported much-patched tarps, with only a few low screens as internal partitions. When Gilthas ducked under the low entrance, he could see the entire covered space. Everywhere there were soldiers-veterans of the ride across Khur still dressed in desert attire and sporting an assortment of Qualinesti and Silvanesti armor-as well as civilians of every
Gilthas headed for a camp chair near the scribes. Softened by pillows, the simple chair served as his throne. A few yards away was his sleeping pallet, a mound of blankets and rugs. He answered questions and dictated orders until Kerian arrived; then he called for the food and drink that had been held for his wife. When the meal was assembled and the servers departed, Porthios drew near. Kerian stepped in his way and stared him down, nose to nose, until he backed off. Others might be fearful of meeting his eyes but not the Lioness.
As Kerian ate her small meal, she studied her husband. Torchlight was not Gilthas’s friend. His cheekbones stood out like hatchets. The flesh between his throat and collarbone was so sunken, cold sweat collected in the hollow. His skin was pale and parchment-thin. The slightest knock would bruise him for days. All his inner strength seemed to be concentrated in his eyes. They were clear and calm, burning in the meager flesh of his face like twin torches.
She finished, and Gilthas lifted a hand. A scribe seated himself nearby, stylus poised. Gilthas bade his wife tell what she knew about the loss of Hytanthas.
“You look terrible,” she said instead. “You should be resting.”
“I am resting. And I’ve been feeling better today. The healers have been feeding me beef tea.”
She snorted. “Where in this lifeless valley would they find beef?”
“I thought it best not to inquire.” It probably came from boiling leather belts and shoes.
She made her report, outlining the stories of the other riders and telling of her own escape from the great mass of lights. The other riders had been pursued by only a few lights, and none of the elves had seen Hytanthas or his griffon, Kanan, after Kerian ordered them to scatter.
Despite her calm recitation of facts, Gilthas knew she was deeply angry. Any death among her warriors was painful to her, but Hytanthas was special, one in whom she’d seen great potential. Gilthas understood the loss of a valued friend. His long-time bodyguard and comrade, Planchet, had died in the desert fighting nomads. Planchet’s absence was a wound that had not healed. Each morning when he awoke, Gilthas expected the trusted valet to be there, protecting his back, chiding him for not eating enough, and offering sage, pithy comments on Gilthas’s dealings not only with councilors and common folk but with his hot-tempered wife as well.
