Kerian caught up to the others as they headed out of camp. They were traveling on foot. Neither Kerian nor Hytanthas wanted to risk making their griffons targets for another thunderbolt, and every horse was needed by the cavalry. Tracking the elusive Faeterus would be more practical on foot anyway. Stealth was more important than speed. Their best hope of overcoming the sorcerer was to take him by surprise.
The trio headed toward the dawn sky. The Lioness had a general idea of where they should start looking, based on the origin of the lightning hurled at her, and she set a steady pace, one they could maintain all day. They put some distance between themselves and the sprawling camp, the exercise chasing away the morning chill. They shed their light cloaks.
As she tucked her cloak into her small pack, Kerian gave Hytanthas a considering look. “You have an admirer,” she said. He answered with a blank look. “The scribe. Vixona.”
“She’s not my type,” he said brusquely.
She snorted. “What is your type?”
Rather than responding with a jest, the young captain took a deep breath and blurted, “You saved my life in the tunnels, Commander.”
The seeming non sequitur confused her. She hadn’t been present when he’d told the Speaker the full story of his adventures in the tunnels. She knew only the bare outline. Hytanthas explained the sound of her voice had brought him back from certain death, waking him when so many others had never opened their eyes again.
She shrugged. “The Speaker has said my battlefield voice can cut down small trees. But no one’s ever likened me to a holy chorus.”
He insisted he hadn’t imagined it, that he would be lying dead in that tunnel if not for hearing her voice. She started to make another joke, but something in his expression stopped her. It wasn’t simple obstinacy she saw there. When his eyes slid away from her questioning look and a blush reddened his face, the quick-witted Lioness knew all she needed.
“Vixona is an intelligent girl. Don’t squander that. Be grateful for the gifts of chance.”
“Spoken like a general,” Hytanthas said sourly.
“Spoken as one who has more love than she ever deserved.”
Taranath, who’d been ranging ahead, doubled back and joined them. Hytanthas’s face was still flushed, and Taranath asked if something was wrong.
“It seems I have an admirer.”
With that cryptic declaration, Hytanthas shifted the conversation to his griffon’s well-being. Kerian watched him surreptitiously while he and Taranath talked, finally nodding to herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to deal with an infatuated junior officer, and she knew that in time Hytanthas would be fine.
The disk of the sun was lifting above the mountains ahead. The Lioness quickened their pace toward the shadowed peaks.
Favaronas once more was kicked awake. He’d been deep in a heavy, dreamless slumber, but arose without protest. It amazed how quickly one became accustomed to such battering, how pathetically grateful one could be to have the use of legs, eyes, and mouth.
“Get up the mountainside,” Faeterus told him. “Don’t come down until I say you can.”
Faeterus had created a fence of parchment, chest high and mounted on tree branches, that arced behind the central pedestal at the far end of the ledge. He had painted the parchment with the clear liquid he’d made from silver compounded with other ingredients. Favaronas’s assistance was not required. Faeterus had to do the work himself, and every inch of the scroll must be saturated. Now Favaronas must leave the dying fire and remove himself from the Stair. The slightest stray shadow might ruin the sorcerer’s efforts.
The spot to which Favaronas was banished was a narrow spire of rock a few yards above the Stair. It was still in deep shadow. He shivered, hugging his arms close. The western mountains were gilded by sunlight. Above, the sky changed from indigo to dark rose to pale blue, and was streaked with high, dry clouds. Faeterus stood atop the pedestal, arms raised high. The sleeves of his robe slid back, revealing narrow wrists and forearms tufted with red-brown hair. Favaronas looked away. Like all full-blooded elves, he had no body hair and found the sight repellant. Faeterus recited a brief conjuration then crossed his arms over his chest and bowed toward the valley.
The sun peered over the mountain behind them. When half its disk was showing, golden light struck the array of monoliths. They glowed steadily as the sun cleared the peak. Faeterus was shouting, flinging ancient Silvanesti words skyward in rapid succession. Favaronas had to avert his eyes from the brilliance of the monoliths, so he stared at the parchment. He couldn’t make out any changes to the long tail of paper, but Faeterus continued his exhortation until the monuments lost their fire completely. Then he climbed down off the pedestal and gestured curtly for Favaronas to descend as well.
