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“Not this one,” he whispered. “Not as long as I rule.” Turning, he walked to one of the braziers by his throne. Giving the book one last, scornful glance, he tossed it into the fire.
The flames leapt, crackling hungrily as they devoured the Qoi Zehomu-first its pages, then its cover. As they charred the basilisk skin they changed color, turning bright green and leaping high above the golden vessel.
He felt no surprise at all when, as he was staring at the green flames, the ring began to burn his finger once more. As if pulled there, his gaze dropped to the emerald. It caught the fire’s eerie light and magnified it, the shadows dancing within. The twin slits of the demon’s eyes glared out at him, blazing with bloodlust.
It was wrong, he knew it. Sending the army after his foes was one thing, but what he meant to do went well beyond that. Still, he told himself, it had to be done. This Light-bringer was dangerous. He was as sure of it as he had ever been of anything in his life. He had to be stopped for the good of the empire.
Kurnos closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Forgive me, Paladine, he thought. This thing must be done.
“Sathira,” he whispered.
A horrible howling filled the hall as the shadows came billowing out of the ring. The air around him became wintry, losing the heat of the brazier’s flames. The ring seared his flesh, but he knew it would leave no mark, just as Fistandantilus’s killing spell had left the hippogriff un-scarred. Stefara of Mishakal had examined the poor creature’s corpse, and though the signs of starvation troubled her, she had determined it had died naturally. The servants would burn the body tonight.
Kurnos felt a presence near him, the malevolence that poured from it drawing him back from his thoughts of the hippogriff. All at once he couldn’t breathe, and he gasped, opening his eyes.
The demon was in front of him, her long, shadowy face barely a hand’s breadth from his. Their eyes locked, as a long, thin talon rose and stroked his cheek. It burned where it touched him. He held his breath, trying to keep his mind from fraying at the demon’s caress.
“Master,” she growled in her jackal-wasp voice. “I had hoped you would free me again. I longed for it. What is your will?”
Kurnos hesitated, fear overcoming him at the last moment, then swallowed, putting the terror out of his mind. He had loosed Sathira. She would not return to the ring until he had given her a task. If he was certain of one thing, it was that he wanted her far, far away as soon as possible. He lowered his eyes from her scorching gaze.
“There is a place to the west,” he said softly. “It is called Govi
Dawn was breaking over Istar when Loralon left the Great Temple to face his exile. He did not go by ship, however, nor did he ride out through the gates. His people had their own way of traveling.
Ages ago, when even ancient Silvanost was young, the elves had tamed griffins as mounts. The Chosen of E’li kept a small aerie in the hills outside the Lordcity, where a dozen of the proud beasts awaited their call. Loralon still rode from time to time, traveling to his homeland to report to King Lorac. Now, as he stepped out of his cloister into the Temple’s gardens, he closed his eyes, sending out a silent call.
Quarath, his aide, came out and stood beside him while he watched the sky. The younger elf s face was expressionless, his mien composed, but the sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable. He would be Emissary from this day forward, and it weighed on him to lose his master so suddenly.
It weighs on me too, Loralon thought, sighing.
“It will be a fine day,” he said.
Quarath looked up, nodding. The sky was cloudless, the hue of ripe plums. He coughed softly. “Shalafi, I have spoken with some of the others, and we have all agreed. We want to leave with you.”
“Leave?” Loralon echoed, taken aback. He shook his head, his beard wafting in the breeze. “No, Quarath! Our people need a presence here. These humans must be watched. You must make sure we keep our power in Istar.”
Quarath nodded, bowing his head. “As you wish.”
A distant sound-an eagle’s cry, with a rumbling roar beneath-sounded from above. The elves looked skyward. There, circling above the city, was a large, odd shape, a great bird of prey with a lion’s hindquarters. It wheeled slowly, riding the winds, and began to descend. Loralon eyed its features as it dove: the golden-feathered head, the sharp talons that could rend a man to pieces, the trailing, leonine tail. In some ways it resembled the hippogriff that had died mysteriously in Kurnos’s garden just yesterday, but griffins were proud beasts and wild-never docile, like the other had been. Majestically the griffin swooped down, flapping its great wings to slow itself, and lit on a wide lawn, its claws digging furrows in the earth.
Loralon met its bright, amber gaze, then turned and kissed Quarath on the forehead. “Farewell, Emissary,” he said.
Elves never wept in the presenc e of humans, but there were tears on Quarath’s cheeks when Loralon stepped back. “Farewell, shalafi” he replied, interlacing his fingers to sign the sacred pine tree. “May E’li grant you fair winds.”
The ancient elf nodded. “May he grant them to us all.”
Turning, Quarath strode back toward the cloister. Loralon watched him go, his lips pursed, then walked to the griffin, which tossed its head at his approach. He clucked at it, ru
With a mighty roar the griffin leapt, spreading its wings to catch the morning wind. They were airborne, rising above the Temple. Loralon looked down, watching the Lordcity drop away beneath him, the basilica sparkling diamond-bright at its heart The waters of Lake Istar glistened as the sun’s first rays washed over them. The other cities of the empire’s heartland dotted the wide, golden grasslands.
For a time, he looked to the west, considering. He longed to go to Govi
Another voice called him now, from the south. The virgin woods of Silvanesti lay beyond Istar’s southern deserts, cool and serene, swathed in mist and threaded with silver rivers. They were too far away to see, but he heard them just the same, beckoning with the voice of an old friend.
Come home, they called. You have been away too long.
With a sigh, Loralon patted the griffin’s neck, then bent forward to speak a word in its ear. The beast shrieked in reply, then wheeled and soared away through the morning air, bearing the ancient elf back toward the land of his birth.