Favaronas complained at the arbitrariness of his decision. “Why fifty? Why not twenty? Why not just turn around now? It isn’t logical. What’s the point?”
Glanthon ignored the mumbled commentary, deciding it was only Favaronas’s method of coping with his fear. Although he kept muttering, the archivist also kept moving forward, sword held up, albeit in a very shaky hand.
They’d gone no more than thirty paces before the tunnel brought them to a chamber. About three times as wide as the tunnel and twice as high, its walls were barren of the painted reliefs. Along one side were a multitude of stone cylinders, each about a yard long and four or five inches thick, stacked on their sides like cordwood. The opposite wall was covered with peeling white plaster.
The strange cylinders drew Favaronas like a magnet. He lifted one. It was heavy, made of a soft, slippery stone like talc or gypsum. A hole was bored through its long axis.
The object looked for all the world like—“A scroll?” asked Glanthon, holding his torch close.
“No one ever made books of stone,” countered the archivist. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.
At his suggestion, they decided to take some of the cylinders back with them. Favaronas discarded his torch and laid two scrolls in the crook of each arm. Glanthon also took four, but bore all in one strong arm so he could keep his torch.
The elves were walking back down the long tunnel to the entrance when they heard alarm trumpets on the surface. Struggling under the burden they carried, warrior and scholar hastened to the waiting rope lift. The warriors above shouted for them to hurry. They stepped onto the shield platform and were hoisted back up. More horns sounded as they neared the surface.
Glanthon dumped his four cylinders on the ground as soon as he cleared the opening. “Where’s the trouble?”
“We saw lights
She had left behind only enough elves to watch the hole and pull the two explorers out. The rest of her shrinking command had galloped off with her. Once Favaronas was safely out of the hole, Glanthon left a warrior behind with him and ordered the rest to horse.
Sitting on the ground, Favaronas watched them gallop away. The single elf with him also stared after his departing comrades, the look on his face eloquent of his desire.
“Go with them,” Favaronas said, waving a hand. “I’ll be fine.”
The warrior shook his head. “You’d be alone.”
The archivist sighed. “The trouble, whatever it is, is out there, not here.”
With only a little more prompting, the elf rode away. By the light of the torches that ringed the hole, Favaronas studied one of the cylinders. Glyphs were incised into the soft stone. In the uncertain light, his sensitive fingertips gave him a better idea of their shape than his eyes could. The writing was Elvish, or at least the characters were Elvish, the old writing used in Silvanost on monuments, palaces, temples, and public buildings. He sounded out the syllables his fingers detected.
It made no sense. Perhaps this was some ancient dialect. But it seemed to confirm the notion that Silvanesti elves had inhabited this valley long ago. What of the apparition in the tunnel below? What was it, and why had it appeared to him as a catlike, female creature, and to Glanthon as a faceless human?
Less than a mile away, the Lioness galloped through the tall monoliths and cedar trees. Ahead was her quarry—a pair of glimmering green lights, flying at saddle height above the ground. Some of her warriors were strung out behind her, trying to keep up. Others had split off in smaller bands to chase different lights.
She was convinced these lights were flesh and blood riders, carrying hooded lanterns to lure the elves into an ambush. That must have been what happened to her missing warriors. A local tribe of humans was playing a deadly game, and she intended to put a stop to it tonight.
The twin green lights slowed. She reined back, not wanting to rush into a prepared trap, and waited for the soldiers trailing her. Once they caught up, she directed them to ride out wide on either side, then sent her horse ambling forward.
The green glimmers retreated, keeping the distance between themselves and her always the same. As she emerged from a copse of juniper trees, she glimpsed dark shapes close to the two lights.
Triumph sang through the Lioness. She was right! There were people out there!
She secured the reins to the pommel of her saddle and braced her bow. In seconds, she’d sent an arrow speeding toward the right-hand light. The missile flew true. The light shook violently, then was still. The left-hand light moved off swiftly, leaving its comrade behind. Crowing with satisfaction, she loosed her reins and cantered forward.
