“Keep your voice down.”
Kerian was ashamed at having spoken so intemperately, but her husband’s hoarse command rekindled her anger, and the apology she’d intended to make went unsaid. Their conversation ended only moments later. Gilthas was seized by a fit of coughing so intense that his chief healer, Truthanar, rushed to him from across the tent. The elderly Silvanesti pushed Kerian aside in his haste to minister to his patient. She made no demur, only watched helplessly as Truthanar worked to get an elixir between Gilthas’s blue lips. An age seemed to pass before the attack finally ended and Gilthas lay unconscious, but breathing more easily.
Despite his continuing weakness, Kerian had not wanted to delay the gathering any longer. As Alhana said, they simply could not go on as they had been.
Kerian looked out over the multitude of Silvanesti, Qualinesti, and Kagonesti assembled before her and felt a lump form in her throat. From every corner of the old realms they had come, driven out of the lands in which their race had dwelt for millennia. Many had perished during the long journey. Some had been born.
Clearing her throat, she began to speak.
“People of our ancient race! Many twists of fate and fortune have brought us to this place. Thousands have fought and died so we might live. As we honor those who sacrificed for us, we come together now to consider our future. Because so much depends on the choice we make, we speak before you all in a new Sinthal-Elish.”
That was the conclave that established the first elf realm, Silvanesti, and had made Silvanos Goldeneye the first Speaker of the Stars.
Someone in the crowd called, “Where is the Speaker? Where is the Pathfinder?”
Others took up the call. The cries angered Kerian. A furious retort hovered on her lips, but a touch on her wrist drew her attention. Alhana whispered, “They are afraid, niece, not angry. Reassure them.”
As usual her advice was sound, but Kerian’s ire was not easily dismissed. She had no wish to parade her husband’s condition, not before the nation that loved him and certainly not before Porthios’s knowing gaze.
She raised her hands and the cries ceased. “The Speaker knows of this meeting,” she said. Grudging every word, she added, “He is… unwell today. His healers have advised him to keep to his bed.” Truthanar would prefer the Speaker remain in bed permanently, but Kerian wasn’t about to reveal that.
Confused questions traveled round the crowd. Their Speaker was ill? How ill? He must be very sick indeed to miss so momentous a gathering. Seeing the Lioness’s very evident worry only exacerbated their concern and frightened exclamations erupted.
“Perhaps a litter should be sent for him,” Alhana murmured to Kerian as the noise level increased.
“Cease your chattering!”
Porthios’s command sliced through the crowd’s babble He walked up the slight incline to the higher end of the granite slab. Most of the elves quieted; the rest were shushed by their neighbors. If they were to hear his hoarse voice, all must be silent. Although they were willing to listen, a great many averted their eyes from Porthios’ damaged form.
“We are here,” he stated, “to decide matters far more important than the life of one elf.”
Kerian took an angry step toward him, but Alhana held back, hissing, “No! The people must not see us argue.”
“Then they’d better close their eyes,” Kerian growled but remained where she was, for the moment.
Porthios continued. “The only question we face is this: Shall we remain here and die of starvation or be carried off by the phantoms beyond the creek, or shall we take back what is rightfully ours?”
A large number of warriors thrust their swords and spear skyward, shouting lusty approval. The mob of civilians before Porthios did not echo their fervor.
“Did we endure the desert crossing only to straggle back again?” asked General Taranath, a highly regarded Qualinesti veteran and the Lioness’s second-in-command.
“Not straggle—strike!” Porthios rasped, straining his scarred throat to speak more loudly. “A burning brand has been thrown into the tinderbox of Qualinesti. With the army we have here, we can fan that blaze into a conflagration that will consume the invaders and give us back our country!”
“You speak of the army. What of the people? Are they to cross desert, mountains, and sea with nothing more than the rags on their backs? They would not survive such a march.”
Taranath’s statement was no more than simple truth. While some still hailed Porthios’s call to liberate Qualinesti, it was clear Taranath’s position had the greater support. Most of those gathered on the alien soil of Inath-Wakenti were not firebrands or warriors. They had fled their homelands to escape genocide, endured years of exile in a hostile land, fought off nomad warriors with rocks and bare hands at times, and followed their Speaker across the desert cauldron to reach the valley he had promised would be a new home. Now Porthios stood there telling them their sacrifices had been for naught, that they must turn around and go back into the desert, with diminished supplies of food and water, easy prey for nomad attacks and the murderous heat. Any who managed to survive the long journey to Qualinesti would face Samuval’s bandit horde, perhaps even the dreaded Knights of Neraka, or the army of minotaurs said to be spreading across the continent.
“What choice do they have? Should they stay here and starve?” Samar demanded of Taranath.
Hamaramis, commander of the Speaker’s private guard, shook his head. “None need starve. The valley may be devoid of life, but there’s game in the high hills. With griffon riders to spot for us, we can send hunting parties after game.”
Samar snorted. “For how long?”
“Until crops can be planted and harvested.”
“How do you know anything will grow in this dismal spot?”
And so it went. Porthios, Samar, and Alhana wanted to go. Taranath and most of the crowd believed remaining was the only choice. Hamaramis, unflaggingly loyal to his Speaker, was uncertain. While the argument raged, Kerian turned and stared toward the valley mouth and the torrid wasteland beyond. She hated the desert and everything about it. Her brief time in the green forests of home, drenched in blood though that time had been, had only heightened her loathing for all things Khurish. Taranath, finally noticing her silence, asked for her opinion of Porthios’s plan.
“No one wants to go home more than I,” she said, her gaze roaming slowly over the crowd. “I have been back to Qualinesti. I have seen what the bandits are doing. Slavery squalor, senseless death—that’s what our country lives with every day.
“Here, we are safe from nomads and bandits, but…“ Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “This is not a place to live. It’s a place to die.” She gestured toward the monoliths beyond the creek. “Our headstones are already in place.”
Porthios sensed the subtle shift in the crowd’s emotions. They were wavering, ready to be swayed. He spoke quickly, grasping the advantage.
“Come back with us, Lioness. The army of Qualinesti is yours to command. With you at its head, the army will liberate our rightful lands in no time!”
A cheer erupted from the warriors, and they began to chant, “Liberation! Liberation!”
Hamaramis shouted them into silence. The old general was shocked that the Speaker’s wife would side with Porthios and the Silvanesti. He did not realize how difficult it was for her to say what she had said. Her unflinching sense of honesty would not allow her to lie to their people, even if speaking the truth made it appear she was siding with Porthios.