Destiny

Even as he continued to glare at the old man, Porthios suddenly remembered who he’d been hunting: Gilthas. To save the elf race from his folly, Porthios would kill Gilthas. He would kill Lauralanthalasa’s son. It was not a simple dream at all.

“You stopped me. Why?” he asked.

The human’s eyes were sad. “Sometimes even dreams are forbidden.”

With breath-stealing suddenness, the dream world shifted again. Smooth skin shriveled, muscles knotted and drew in upon themselves, scars sliced across chest, arms, and legs. The remembered joy of Porthios’s run through the grassland vanished, swallowed up by the truth of never-ending torment. He stood naked and twisted beneath the open sky. The unaccustomed feel of air against his bare flesh made his head swim. He howled his agony to the staring sun.

With that cry still echoing around them, the old man lifted his staff in both hands and rapped its butt end against the ground. Night fell at once and brought with it Porthios’s familiar rags. They seemed to emerge from the ground beneath his feet, rising up to wrap themselves carefully around him, cloaking his shame from the world.

In the distance, thunder rolled. “This is a dangerous place. it affects me. I cannot stay:” the priest murmured, raking his staff through the turquoise turf. Thunder rolled again, closer and louder.

Speaking quickly he said, “Leave the Pathfinder to his own fate, lost one. Yours rests in the dark and bloody land of Kith-Kanan’s realm.”

Like water drying on a hot stone, he faded from view, becoming translucent then disappearing altogether. Where he’d stood, a slender ash sapling pushed through the ground.

Porthios woke. He lay on his lonely bedroll outside the exiles’ camp. Dawn was breaking. it was the day the people would decide: blue stone or white, stay or go.

Let Gilthas keep his cursed valley. Porthios had spoken with a god. Cryptic words and elliptical answers, true, but he had the guidance of the divine. Elves with the right spirit would follow him. Together, they would begin a new chapter in the history of the First Race.

The god was right about many things. A dark and bloody land, he had called it. When Porthios reached Qualinesti, he intended to make the god’s description perfectly apt.

The elf race, divided for so long into two nations and briefly united, was divided again. Stones had been gathered and choices made. Along the west bank of Lioness Creek stood the elves who had chosen to stay. Arrayed opposite them were those who meant to go. All but a few hundred of the Speaker’s warriors intended to depart. They were soldiers, and fighting was what they knew. Fathoming the puzzles of a mysterious valley was beyond them. Building houses and tilling the earth was not for them. Each felt he would be more useful in Porthios’s battle to free Qualinesti. If death was to be their fate, they preferred to meet it in the land of their ancestors, fighting the enemies of their race.

The decision was not an easy one, and theirs was not a happy leave-taking. Bidding good-bye to family or comrades was difficult but expected in a warrior’s life. Disappointing their Speaker was not.

Alhana, Samar, and the griffon riders mustered in the area between the two groups. Two griffons were staying behind: Eagle Eye and Hytanthas’s Kanan as there was not enough time to bond the latter with another rider.

At least one person was pleased by Kerian’s decision to remain. In her absence, command of the Army of Liberation fell to Samar. The proud Silvanesti warrior had never savored working with the hard-headed Lioness. Samar also was pleased that all the civilians had chosen to remain in the valley. Some had wavered, but eventually all realized another desert crossing would be the death of them.

By midafternoon, all preparations were complete and the groups were gathered near the creek.

“We will stay in communication,” Alhana promised. “Once we’re back in Qualinesti, we’ll send regular reports by griffon rider.”

“And we’ll send news of our progress the same way,” said Gilthas.

Porthios was not part of the group around the Speaker. He stood aloof a few dozen yards away, shaded by the low branches of a pine tree. He disliked appearing in full daylight, but Kerian doubted that was the only reason behind his rudeness. Since he was leaving, she made allowances. Skirting the group of griffon riders and their mounts, she crossed the open ground between the two groups of elves and called out to him.

“Scarecrow!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You’d better get used to it. The bandits will call you nothing better.”

His shadowed eyes narrowed. “Who will you insult once I am gone?”

“Gilthas,” she shot back. Halting a few yards away, she asked, “Which route do you take?”

He planned to depart through the pass after dark, he said, then head overland to the New Sea. There, the Army of Liberation would either hire ships or march along the shore until it reached Qualinesti.