The tunnel was covered, floor to ceiling, with the most beautiful painting either elf had ever seen. It depicted a landscape in such exquisite detail and realistic color they almost expected the trees to sway in the breeze, could almost smell the scent of the flowers, and hear the splash of the silvery river winding through the scene. The ceiling was a serene blue, with wispy white clouds. Who had painted this lovely vista? And why bury it under the ground?
Glanthon reached out to touch the wall, but Favaronas caught his arm…
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t touch anything!” Glanthon nodded in solemn agreement.
They walked slowly down the tunnel, the movement of their feet stirring the viscous fog. The hem of Favaronas’s robe grew dark with damp. Dew glistened on Glanthon’s boots.
As they marveled at the unfolding work of art, Glanthon noted an oddity. There were no living creatures depicted. The scenery was beautiful and varied, but contained no people, nor any animals.
“Like the valley above,” Favaronas said. He frowned, staring at the right-hand wall. “It seems familiar somehow.”
Not to Glanthon. Born and raised in Qualinesti, he knew its towns, forests, and farmlands well. This painted landscape resembled no place he’d ever seen.
“It looks older than Qualinesti somehow, and more.. Glanthon searched for the right word. “More formal. Like a lord’s garden.”
Favaronas stopped abruptly. “Are there any Silvanesti in our company?”
“Yes. Why?”
He pointed to the silver-blue river that serpentined through the landscape on the right-hand wall. “They should see this. I think that’s the Thon-Thalas.”
“Are you certain?”
“Not certain, no; I’ve never been to Silvanesti. But it matches descriptions I’ve read.”
“Could this place have been made by ancient Silvanesti?”
Favaronas wasn’t sure. The ruins above were without any identifying marks, yet they had none of the air of refinement associated with Silvanesti sites. The stonework was monumental but rather crude, much more reminiscent of human handiwork than elven. Yet if he was right, then whoever had painted this scene had at least visited the Silvanesti heartland.
Glanthon suddenly grabbed his companion’s arm in a painful grip. Startled, the archivist yelped loudly. “What? Is there danger? Where?” He tried to draw the Lioness’s sword with one hand.
The warrior’s grip tightened further. “Quiet!” he hissed. “Look!”
Far down the tunnel, in the darkness beyond the reach of the torchlight, something stirred. Vaguely upright, it was coming toward them.
Glanthon’s sword was already in his hand. Favaronas managed to free his borrowed blade from its scabbard, but Glanthon whispered, “Do nothing unless I say so.”
Nodding vigorously, Favaronas stepped closer to the warrior.
The approaching figure was small, under five feet in height, and of indistinct shape. It resembled a person draped in diaphanous gray. Carrying no light, it came on assuredly, at a steady pace. A very faint glow, more attenuated than foxfire, radiated from the figure and the pale aura was reflected by the mist, which remained undisturbed by its passage.
Sweat trickled down Favaronas’s neck. He was shaking so hard he couldn’t hold the sword steady. Never again, he vowed silently; never again would he leave his archive. Not even for the Speaker of the Sun and Stars would he abandon his beloved manuscripts again—if he lived to get back to them!
The apparition seemed heedless of the two elves. As it passed between them, head lowered, it brushed Glanthon’s leg. He felt nothing. There was no sign of feet or legs; the apparition merged with the fog lining the tunnel.
A sound like a sigh rasped down the stone-lined passage. Alarmed, Glanthon thrust his torch at the specter. The flaming pine knot passed through it without resistance, but the ghost appeared to lift its head and turn, it looked back at the elves.
Both cried out in shock. Favaronas dropped his torch, and it went out. With that, the ghost disappeared.
“Extraordinary!” Favaronas exclaimed, as Glanthon relit his torch. “A cat! Or an ocelot perhaps, or—”
“What are you babbling about?”
“That thing! A long neck, pricked ears, white whiskers—yet feminine somehow! Unbelievable!”
Glanthon stared at the archivist with mouth agape for a few seconds then said flatly, “You’re hallucinating. It looked nothing like that.”
The warrior had seen a slight figure in loose robes, cowl hanging down its back. The head was wide and round like a human’s, without the delicate bone structure of an elf. He had an impression of pale hair, a blank, unfinished face, and empty black eye sockets.
Despite his terror, Favaronas’s scholarly instincts were engaged, and he seemed disposed to stand in the cold, dim tunnel, comparing and discussing their very different impressions of the ghost. Glanthon put a stop to this by taking his arm and hauling him forward.
“Wait! We’re going on?” said Favaronas, wide-eyed.
“Not far. Fifty more steps, then we’ll go back and report what we’ve seen.”
