A wave of shouting elf warriors galloped by the figures kneeling on the road. A handful halted, but most kept going, charging the city gate.
Their angry shouts reached the weakened Gilthas. From somewhere deep within himself, he tapped an unknown source of strength. Face white, he struggled to rise. Planchet holding him down, begged him to be still.
“Stop it,” Gilthas said through clenched teeth.
Thinking he was hurting the Speaker, Planchet felt tears come to his eyes. He whispered, “I’m sorry, sire, but you must be still. Please don’t move.”
“No, Planchet. Stop the warriors! Don’t let them fight! I command it!”
Taranath heard the Speaker’s order. He snatched a trumpet from his saddle and blew “Recall.” He had to repeat it four times before all the hard-riding warriors heard and heeded. The foremost ground to a halt only yards from the city wall.
In between trumpet blasts, Hakkam was shouting at his own soldiers. “Hold! If any man looses an arrow, I’ll have his head!” he roared. None of the Khurish soldiers loosed arrows or threw spears at the elves. Men and elves looked at each other in mutual confusion and alarm until the elves turned and galloped back to Taranath.
Healers from Khurinost hastened through the press of warriors. When they arrived, the Speaker was sitting up, head bowed, his white geb covered with a spreading crimson stain. The first healer to reach him was a Kagonesti with callused hands and dark tattoos on her face and arms.
“Arrow’s got to come out,” she said immediately. Planchet nodded once, face grim. “I’ll do it.”
“Someone must hold him still. If he moves too much, he could rupture an artery.”
Hakkam, nearest, knelt behind the Speaker and gripped his shoulders. “I’ve got him.”
The elves were nonplussed, but the Speaker murmured, “Thank you, General.” Eyes flickering to Planchet’s pale face, he whispered, “Proceed, my friend.”
The valet wrapped his fingers around the blood-slick arrow shaft and whispered, “Forgive me.”
With a single, mighty pull, he freed the arrow. The Kagonesti healer immediately sprinkled the wound with clotting powder and bound it tightly with linen. Too late, she realized she’d not offered the Speaker a leather pad to bite. She apologized, but he didn’t respond.
“He’s passed out,” she said.
Gilthas raised his head. “Not yet.” He smiled weakly at Planchet. “Wouldn’t she be proud of me? I didn’t faint.”
Planchet understood who “she” was. He managed to return the brave smile. “Yes, sire. Yes, she would.”
A litter was improvised, and the Speaker of the Sun and Stars carefully laid upon it. Four warriors hoisted the corners and headed back to Khurinost, leaving Planchet and Hakkam where they were.
“Taranath, disperse the warriors,” Planchet said. The general began to protest, but Planchet cut him off. “Maintain your patrols, but stand down the cavalry!” Taranath saluted and rode away.
As the elves’ cavalry began to disperse, Planchet handed Hakkam the bloody arrow. “This archer is Khur’s enemy as much as ours,” the elf said.
Hakkam gripped the arrow tightly. “Never fear. I’ll see this returned to its owner.” His meaning was abundantly clear; the arrow would likely be “returned” point first.
On a rooftop three miles away, Prince Shobbat lowered his bow. He could hardly believe his miraculous aim. No one could loft an arrow from so far, much less hit their intended target.
“Impossible,” he whispered.
“Magic is the art of the impossible,” replied the ragged, hooded figure behind him.
The Lioness withdrew her shrinking command across the creek Favaronas had given her name, and they camped for the night. Tomorrow they would depart Inath-Wakenti, forever, she hoped. There were too many unknowns here—no animals (except those that seemed to vanish in front of them), strangely powerful lights, and unaccountable disappearances. This valley was no sanctuary for their exiled people. Gilthas would have to understand that.
The ride back to the creek, under a milky canopy of stars and clouds, was an eerie one. No crickets whirred in the underbrush; no whippoorwills or nightjars called from the trees; no frogs galumphed from the creeks. There was only the soft clop-clop of their horses’ hooves. The more nervous among the warriors were for going on, not camping, but it was well past midnight and both horses and riders were tired. Better to start at dawn, especially if they might have to fight their way out through Khurish nomads.
Kerian felt it was safe enough to camp once they were beyond the stream. The massive stone ruins halted well short of the creek, and the weird phenomena had occurred only after they’d crossed the creek coming in.
They pitched a bivouac on the south bank, picketing the horses and dropping down to sleep on bedrolls, without putting up tents. Before turning in, Kerian toured the camp. She saw Favaronas had built a small fire (the only one in camp) and sat hunched before it. On his lap was one of the stone cylinders he and Glanthon had found in the tunnel.
