Paul Thompson: Destiny

Taking his theory a step further, Hytanthas exclaimed, “Commander, our comrades! All those lost to the lights will be returned to us!”

The idea was a beguiling one, but Favaronas warned against hasty assumptions. “They might be returned, but it’s equally likely the ‘resurrection’ will affect only the original denizens of the valley.”

While the men debated the point, Kerian’s face acquired an odd expression. Taranath asked if something was wrong. She regarded him in wide-eyed silence for the space of two heartbeats then sprinted away, leaving them all behind. Over her shoulder floated one word.

“Gilthas!”

Comprehension quickly dawned for Taranath. Hytanthas and Robien shared his understanding. Favaronas did not, having been lost before the Speaker took ill.

“Must we run?” he complained, just before Hytanthas and Robien each took one of Favaronas’s arms and hurried him along.

Mind and body in an uncharacteristic whirl, Kerian outpaced them all by fifty yards. She forced her thoughts away from the hope she dared not voice and instead tried to calm her churning belly. It was requiring all her considerable concentration to keep from being sick, The idea it might be simple hunger lasted only until she remembered the revelation Sa’ida had delivered. She was sick because she was pregnant. She tightened her grip on her sword hilt. She would not be sick. Not now. Later she could be sick but not now.

She pushed through a wall of closely growing ash saplings and found the way ahead blocked by a new lake. She waited for her companions to catch up then struck out around the lake. Ever the archivist, Favaronas insisted they name the new body of water. Robien’s suggestion of “New Lake” was roundly rejected as too dull. Hytanthas offered “Lake Pathfinder,” and Kerian surfaced from her distraction long enough to veto that.

“He won’t thank you for it,” she said. “Besides, it smacks of favor-seeking.”

“Lake Planchet.”

Taranath’s quiet suggestion met with unanimous approval. Kerian thought it a fitting tribute to the valiant elf who had given his life in the desert to save the nation.

Lake Planchet was broad and kidney shaped, with its long axis running north-south. As they skirted its shore, a flock of geese wafted down. In moments half a hundred birds had settled, honking lustily.

Not even Qualinesti in its heyday was so rich, so bountiful. Although full night was still upon the valley, it teemed with animal life. The elves passed a cloud of bees swarming around an open fissure in the ground. Snakes glided across the path in front of them. Crickets whirred and thick clouds of fireflies glittered. Coming upon a small grove, they were overwhelmed by the sweet scent of apples. The trees were laden with fruit such as was grown in Hylo and Ergoth, apples fully ripe but green as leaves. Even Kerian could not help but follow her comrades’ example and pause long enough to fill each hand with a gleaming fruit.

Favaronas bit into an apple and laughed with delight at the flavor. Juice ran down his chin. Although he hadn’t tasted the fruit, Hytanthas began to laugh as well. Their shared amusement went on so long, Robien and Taranath stared at them. Hytanthas shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know,” he said, his face still wearing a broad grin. “It just feels as though we’ve gone back to the beginning of the world!”

Taranath offered a wary warrior’s smile. A surprisingly fresh, wry grin appeared on Robien’s face. Suddenly all four of them were laughing, the mirth of one inciting fresh hilarity in the rest.

“Get moving!”

The Lioness’s harsh voice recalled them to their senses. Embarrassed, Taranath hustled Favaronas forward, and Hytanthas and Robien sped their own lagging steps.

“It’s very strange. I feel almost drunk,” Robien confessed, and the others agreed.

“Perhaps it’s another effect of the valley’s transformation,” suggested Favaronas.

By the time dawn broke, the land had become less cluttered with undergrowth. Open ground was covered by a lush carpet of knee-high grass. They were close to the valley’s center, and Kerian began to run, shedding gear that slowed her down. She topped a low knoll and halted.

Below lay the circular stone platform at the valley’s heart. The huge disk was bisected by a broad crack. Off to the left, the south side, lay the elves’ camp. Most of the tents were down, Some had been consumed by fire, and thin spires of smoke still curled skyward.

Her four comrades arrived. Surveying the scene in dismay, Taranath said, “They must have survived!”

Kerian was already running down the hill. She covered the last mile without stopping. When she discovered the camp to be deserted, she headed for the open ground on the west side, where she and Gilthas had faced down the ghostly multitude. Her surmise proved thrillingly correct. The elf nation was there, sitting on the grass, looking quite dazed but alive and well.

The tall figure of Hamaramis on horseback drew Kerian. She dodged through the crowd, making straight for him. A troop of warriors was drawn up with the general. They parted ranks for her.

The palanquin sat on the ground. The bearers were seated around it, heads bowed to their knees. A dark red mantle was draped over the seat.

After all her blistering hurry, Kerian stopped so suddenly she nearly fell. She couldn’t move. Her feet felt rooted to the soil. Her belly churned. He could not be gone. Not when the whole world had come alive at last!

“The chair is empty.”

The familiar voice jolted through her like a bolt of lightning. She turned. Standing a short distance away was her husband. Face pale, white hair blowing in the breeze, Gilthas resembled nothing so much as one of the ghosts of Inath-Wakenti.

The Lioness covered the distance between them in three long strides and seized him by the arms. He was no ghost. He returned her bruising grip and pulled her close for a kiss so fierce, it left both of them shaken.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, and she laughed through tears, so perfectly had he echoed her own thoughts. She touched his face to reassure herself.

Standing straight and proud, all signs of suffering gone, for the first time in a long time, Gilthas was himself. The only lingering physical trace of his brush with death was his hair. Rather than returning to its natural blond shade, it was snowy white.

He took half a step back from her, the mantle of kingship descending on him again but his eyes remained warm and loving.

“Your mission was a success?”

“So it would seem,” she said wryly.

A frown touched his face. It lasted only a moment. There would be time enough later to learn exactly what had happened. He gestured at the multitude around them. “As you see, we endured.”

“You always do,” she said, and it was the elf nation she meant.

He held out a hand to her. “Well, someone has to look after you—you and the next Speaker within you.”

The camp was a shambles. But if their worldly goods had suffered, every elf felt reborn.

All had been restored to excellent health. Wounds from the war in the desert and injuries acquired from the harsh, daily battle for survival healed outright. Sicknesses endemic to the population since the fall of their homelands—afflictions such as pox, ague, and consumption—were banished. Even greater miracles were recorded. Lost faculties returned. Deafness and blindness were cured. So were madness and despair. Oddly, elves who had lost arms and legs fighting the nomads did not have these restored, but those who lost eyes to arrows or to the poisonous flies so common in the desert found those organs grown anew. The great healing followed a logic and law of its own. Many tried to fathom the Great Change (as it came to be called), but no one understood it.