Paul Thompson: Destiny

A new disturbance erupted far from the granite platform. Elves in the back of the crowd got to their feet. Like a wave, the motion spread from the rear of the crowd to the front. All valley eyes turned toward the disturbance.

“The Speaker! The Speaker is coming!”

Gilthas approached, leaning on a short wooden staff. Truthanar followed at his heels, watching with grave concern. The crowd parted for the Speaker, every elf bowing as he passed. Twenty paces from the granite slab, he halted. “A grand assembly,” he said, smiling. “I seem to have misplaced my invitation. How can there be a Sinthal-Elish without the Speaker of the Sun and Stars?” Kerian leaped down from the stone slab. The eight-foot drop bent her knees and scattered the elves nearest her. She hurried to Gilthas’s side. He took her hand, forestalling the attempt to slip a supporting arm around his waist. As though leading a royal procession, the two of them walked to the base of the granite slab. Porthios descended. Gilthas greeted him genially.

“I understand you want to borrow my army. Why?”

“To free our homeland from the filth that occupies it!”

“A worthy goal. But what of the rest of our people?”

“Any who wish to join us are welcome.”

Gilthas released Kerian’s hand and gestured to the assemblage around them. “No one doubts our people’s courage, but they are unarmed and untrained,” Gilthas said. “And they would encounter enemies every step of the way, and once home, an army of foes united in their hatred of us.”

Porthios reminded them of Bianost, the Qualinesti town he had wrested from Samuval’s grip. Inspired by the example of Porthios’s tiny band of rebels, the townsfolk had risen up and overthrown their bandit overlords.

“Their valor shall be recorded in the annals of our people,” Gilthas agreed. “But they were there, in the town, under the enemy’s heel. No one asked them to march hundreds of miles, turn around, march back, and then fight. What you suggest is madness.”

“Do you offer a better choice, Great Speaker? This is dead. If our people stay here, they’ll die and accomplish nothing!”

Healer Gilthas shook slightly, and Kerian realized he was striving to suppress a cough. Raising his voice as much as he was able, he addressed the gathering.

“My people, we have been driven from our ancestral lands and persecuted by barbarians of every stripe. This valley is our destiny. Where we now stand is the only place on this continent that is ours for the taking. No one else wants it. I don’t deny its disadvantages. It harbors secrets so dark, our wisest sages have not yet fathomed them, but I believe they will. As I see it, in this sheltered spot, we will heal our many wounds and grow strong. As surely as day follows night, so the fortunes of races change. Today our nation is at low ebb. Tomorrow we will be better, and in a thousand tomorrows, we will have regained what we have lost. But only if we have a haven from which to start!”

A roar went up from the assembly. Alhana applauded the Speaker’s vision, but Porthios made a scornful, dismissive gesture.

When the tumult died, Samar asked, “What about those to who wish to go, Speaker? Will you keep them here?”

“I will bind no one to my will. But even if every soul departs, I shall remain in Inath-Wakenti.”

The assembly fell into loud debate once more. Atop the slab, Samar and Taranath exchanged words. Hamaramis climbed down to stand by his Speaker. Porthios, like Kerian, watched Gilthas. Alhana listened to the crowd for a time, gauging emotions, studying expressions; then she hopped off the rear of the slab. A minute later, she came and spoke privately to Gilthas, then remounted the slab.

When Samar realized she was trying to address the throng he put a ram’s horn to his lips and blew. The high, ululating note echoed down the pass. The crowd grew still.

“Elves of Krynn,” Alhana said, “whether we go or stay, nothing will be served if we wreck our unity. Our nations fell because they were divided. We must not be divided again. But there is a way to let all choose.”

She held up her hands. In each was a stone. One was a smooth pebble of common white quartz; the other, a rough piece of blue-gray granite. “Let every elf find a stone. Blue granite for those who wish to stay in Inath-Wakenti, white quartz for those who join our crusade in Qualinesti. No blame will attach to either choice. Each chooses his or her own fate, and that choice is final.”

Gilthas praised her idea, but Kerian saw no reason for waiting. Why not have the assembly divide into two groups immediately?

“Such a decision should not be made in haste, in the heat of excitement,” Alhana explained. “The search for a stone will give each elf time to reflect”

Gilthas decreed the voting would take place the day after tomorrow, at daybreak. All would return to this spot and make his or her decision. Those voting to depart would do so immediately.

The Sinthal-Elish was at an end. Truthanar handed a cup to the Speaker. It contained more of the white medicine.

“I thought you were resting,” Kerian said. “What were you thinking of, coming here like this?”

“I was thinking of the future.”

“Don’t you get tired of talking like that?” she muttered.

“Like what?”

“Like a prophet… Or a player in some low drama.”

He smiled. “Being Speaker requires a sense of drama.”

Their walk back to camp was accomplished amid a happy mob of the Speaker’s loyal and confident subjects. They knew firsthand their king had spared himself none of the hardships of their exile. When the danger from the nomads was greatest, Gilthas Pathfinder led his people onward with no thought of his own safety. Although he wore the mantle of legendary rulers such as Silvanos and Kith-Kanan, Gilthas had proven himself their equal in valor and majesty.

Their faith was so heartbreakingly profound, Kerian couldn’t bear it. “Do you have any plan for those who remain, Gil? What are you going to do?”

He squeezed her hand. “The day after tomorrow, I will cross Lioness Creek and lead our nation into Inath-Wakenti.”

Hamaramis, walking next to them, exclaimed, “Great Speaker, is that wise?”

“Yes. We’ve lingered on the doorstep long enough. It’s time to take possession of our new home.”

“If it doesn’t take possession of us,” Kerian said darkly.

Wind blew out of Alya-Alash like a great exhalation. Breath of the Gods indeed! The gusty wind rattled the threadbare tents pitched in the center of the pass. Fifteen cone-shaped shelters woven from dark wool were arranged in a semicircle. They were the last remnants of the once-mighty force that had dogged the elves’ every step from Khuri-Khan. The nomads had fought with great courage and ferocity, but the laddad outlasted them. Griffons had soared down from the sky, one of them ridden by a hideous demon. When he ordered depart, most of them did. It was easy to justify the retreat. So many had died battling the laddad, some of the tribes would require years to recover.

Adala Fahim dipped her hands in a dented copper basin. The tepid water stung her scratched fingers as she washed away a thick layer of grime. Known as the Weyadan, the Weya-Lu “Mother of the Weya-Lu” tribe, she later had come to be called!” Maita for the divine, inescapable fate that guided her in the war against the laddad. Little of the divine remained; their was only endless, back-breaking labor. The day the laddad entered Alya-Alash, Adala had begun the wall across the pass. Some of her former followers returned to help. A few were warriors, but most were older folk who still believed in her godly mission. From sunrise to sundown, they dragged were stones from the surrounding slopes. Lacking mortar or tools they piled the stones in a long cairn, its base wider than its top. Thus far, the wall was head high and about a hundred yards long. The pass was a mile wide. A great deal of work remained.