A tide of longing rose in Gilthas. The need to hold his wife close was nearly overwhelming. But, mindful of his healer’s stricture against too-intimate contact with others, he had to content himself with reaching for her hand and saying, “I am sorry. Young Ambrodel was worthy of his name.”

She knelt by him, holding his hand carefully. It was little more than bones covered by skin, hot and dry as the sands of Khur.

The moment was all too brief. Her voice was grim as she said, “If the lights can catch griffons, we have no hope of penetrating the inner valley.”

“You must be confident, my heart.” He shifted position, vainly seeking a more comfortable pose for his emaciated frame, and she let go his hand. “The best minds of our race are in this camp. We shall yet find the answers to the mysteries of this place.”

Time was she would have called him a fool and a dreamer. Now she only watched him walk alone to his pallet (with the eyes of those in the tent on them, he would brook no support from her), made an excuse to leave, and bade him good night. Alhana and Porthios awaited her outside the great tent.

“Is the Speaker lucid?” Porthios asked.

Kerian snapped, “He retains both his mind and his grace, unlike you!”

“Captain Ambrodel’s griffon has returned,” Alhana put in quickly to halt the argument that simmered beneath every exchange between them.

“Injured?”

“There’s not a mark on him,” Porthios said. “Alhana has treated him for exhaustion.”

Alhana’s special skill with the griffons had been of inestimable value in the elves’ efforts to tame the wild creatures. The note of pride in Porthios’s voice amused Kerian. Only with his beautiful Silvanesti wife did the arrogant Porthios come close to being personable.

Lowering her voice, Alhana said, “We have a greater problem. The food supply is dwindling faster than we thought. At the current rate of consumption, it will be gone in a month.”