Favaronas had formulated an answer, but he did not share it with the others, not wishing to be drawn into a long discussion. The ghostly lights in the ruins were attracted to horses, riders, and even the murderous sand beast. He believed that, over time, the will-o’-the-wisps had cleared the valley of animal life, right down to the flies. Where the creatures had been taken he could not say, but the Speaker must consider this danger before bringing the entire nation to dwell there.
Clouds appeared in the east, high and solid looking. The desert air usually was so dry no clouds could penetrate this far from the sea, so their appearance caused much comment as the elves settled into camp. When flickers of lightning flashed beneath the clouds, the elves knew they were seeing something extraordinary, but not even that could keep the weary warriors awake long.
Favaronas labored far into the night, trying to unlock the secret of the stone cylinders. He gathered dry desert grasses and built a small fire by a stand of saltbush, whose grayish-green leaves had served as his dinner. He laid one of the cylinders in the flames, but fire had no effect on it. He tried pouring water, then oil, on the cylinders, to soften them, but again met with failure. The ends of the cylinders bore tight spiral patterns. They looked like nothing so much as ordinary vellum scrolls turned to stone, perhaps by age or magic. If the former, it might be possible to separate the books using mechanical means, but if magic was involved, his efforts were pointless. The Speaker would have to find skilled mages to unravel the guarded cylinders.
Sometime past midnight Favaronas fell asleep, the cylinders arranged before him. His fire had died to a bed of shimmering coals.
The soft crunch of footfalls woke him. He had spent too many fearful days and nights in the valley to ignore such noises.
“Who’s there?” he hissed. Likely the noise was innocent, caused by one of Glanthon’s soldiers. Favaronas called out again, by turns nervous and angry. The fellow could have the courtesy to answer!
He tossed a handful of dry grass on the coals of his fire. Flames blossomed. To his heart-thudding shock, they illuminated a cloaked figure standing a
Favaronas shouted, getting quickly to his feet. Glanthon had given him a Weya-Lu mace because it required little skill to wield. He clutched it now. He was terrified, but certain his cry would rouse the warriors and they would protect him.
Strangely, none came. The warriors around him remained still. Despite his continued shouts, he heard snores and deep inhalations as they slept on, undisturbed.
The cloaked intruder joined several similarly clad figures at the foot of the hill. Favaronas could make out four distinct I forms, and in the night’s deep folds, he spied the movement of many more. Instead of fleeing, the four came closer and surrounded him.
He waved the mace, shouting at them to stay back. With an enemy at each point of the compass, he found himself whirling in a circle, trying desperately to keep them all in view.
“Stranger.”
The whisper brought him around to face one of the four.
“Give back what you have taken.”
He knew immediately what was meant: the stone cylinders. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Slender hands turned back the dark hood. A lovely face appeared, that of a young female elf with eyes and hair the color of sunlit gold.
The other three uncovered their heads, revealing themselves to be elf maidens, too. One had hair and eyes of darkest onyx; another was copper hued, and the fourth silvery white. All four were beautiful, with flawless, milky skin and crimson lips, but their expressions were somber.
“Give back what you have taken,” repeated the golden-haired maid.
Favaronas lowered the mace. “These relics are important to us,” he replied. “Can’t you spare them?”
In unison, the four advanced a step toward him. Golden Hair once more repeated her command, with the others echoing it.
These weren’t phantoms. Unlike the translucent ghost he’d encountered in the tunnel, these elves were flesh and blood. Even in the poor light he could see the tracks left in their hair by combs, hear the rustle of their robes, see how their thin sandals pressed into the gravelly sand.
“Please, we didn’t mean to steal anything,” he said, addressing Golden Hair. “I’m an archivist, an expert on documents. These cylinders are very old, and I’d like to read them. You’re elves; you must know how important these cylinders could be to our people. Do you know how to open them?”
She unclasped her cloak and let it fall, exposing bare flesh. The others followed suit. Before Favaronas could digest this development, one of the maidens sprang on him from behind. Another snatched the mace from his hand, and a third struck the backs of his knees, toppling him to the ground.
