Sanctuary

Chapter 12

When the sun rose on Khuri-Khan, the city gates opened as the Khan had promised. However, the soldiers on the western portal, having lifted the iron portcullises and swung the great wooden doors inward, gaped in consternation at what they faced on the other side.

The road, dusty and sand-scoured, sloped away from Malys’s Anvil to the outer ring of elf tents. Many of these had been torn down during the recent rioting, but beyond them was the vast elven encampment. Elves stirred like hornets around a disturbed nest. Gathered on the road facing Khuri-Khan were ten thousand elf lancers and archers in well-used armor.

The Khurish soldiers had fought a bloody skirmish with wild fanatics the evening before, and now they stared across forty yards of desert at ranks of elven cavalry, poised to strike.

For a long time neither side moved. The sun lifted itself above the Khurman Sea. Lofty bales of clouds, blown in from the sea, maneuvered silently overhead, covering the ground with strange, ever-moving shadows. Word of the massed elven cavalry reached the Khuri yl Nor, and Sahim-Khan dispatched General Hakkam to find out the laddad’s intentions. Lord Morillon’s warning about the elves storming the city was on everyone’s mind, and no one’s lips.

Hakkam, who as a boy had been shield-bearer to Sahim’s father, was a burly, impatient man. His armor was too tight, and it chafed him unmercifully at the neck and waist. He was constantly being given impossible or contradictory tasks by Sahim-Khan, then receiving his master’s ire when things did not turn out as he desired. Because of this, Hakkam was in a perpetually bad mood.

Facing the city wall with the morning sun in their eyes, the elves were hardly in better temper. Taranath commanded the ten thousand riders, sorted into squadrons of fifty, as in the old Silvanesti army. Under their battered helmets and sun-bleached mantles they were lean, spare, and ready to ride at any enemy they were commanded to destroy.

Word flashed back to the Speaker that the gates had opened. Throwing on an old robe of white silk (with most of the gold embroidery torn out, for it was too valuable to leave as mere decoration), Gilthas hurried to the eastern edge of Khurinost with Planchet at his heels.

“No word from Lord Morillon or Captain Ambrodel?” Gilthas asked.

Planchet shook his head. “No, sire. They may not have been able to reach us while the gates were closed.”

The unexplained disappearance of one of the Speaker’s councilors had only increased the tensions in the elven camp. Gilthas knew it would take very little for a confrontation to explode. The sight of numerous Khurish guards on the city gate was just the spark this volatile situation did not need.

They reached the closely packed ranks of riders, and Planchet bawled, “Make way for the Speaker! Make way!”

The riders chivvied their mounts to one side or the other to allow the Speaker to walk between them. Hair in disarray, sweat beading under his hollow eyes, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars made straight for the front line. When the last line of riders broke ranks for him, he found himself standing on the rubble-stone road before the city wall. Khurish pot helmets were thick on the battlements. As Gilthas looked on, their numbers increased.

“Has anyone come out, or spoken to you?” he asked the nearest rider.

“No one, Great Speaker.”

Worried by his councilor’s absence, Gilthas was nevertheless pleased to see the gate open. Perhaps Morillon had succeeded. Perhaps he would be coming out at any moment, unless the Khan had opened the portal for his own, possibly nefarious, reasons.

“What do you make of this?”

Planchet studied the city wall left and right before answering. “They look as surprised to see us as we are to see them.”

Gilthas agreed. If Sahim-Khan meant to attack, his troops would have rushed out immediately, not gathered on the walls and gawked for half an hour.

“Find me a herald,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t find out what’s happening, without bloodshed.”

Planchet offered to go himself, and Gilthas agreed. Planchet’s face was known to the Khurs and he carried the weight of the Speaker’s favor. He was wearing a native geb, perfect attire for the task. No sense appearing as a warrior when a diplomat was needed.

A scrap of cloth tied to a lance made a serviceable white banner. Once Planchet was mounted, Gilthas took hold of his horse’s halter.

“Find out their intentions, and stress that ours are peaceful,” he said. “Make certain our people still have access to the city’s wells.” Already the grip of thirst was on the tent city. “Don’t mention Morillon—not just yet.”

Planchet nodded and started up the sloping road at a slow trot. Wind hissed over the northern dunes. As he reached the place where the road leveled out, he halted his horse. The clouds parted and a beam of sunlight fell on him. Gilthas was cheered. It was a good omen.

The mounted elf waited, exposed and alone, until the Khurs sent out riders of their own. After five long minutes, a quintet of armored soldiers came out the gate. A scarlet and gold pennant flew from one rider’s stirrup-post.

The Khurs approached slowly, as though wary of treachery. At one point Planchet waved a biting fly away from his face, and the Khurs froze. He realized they were very frightened.

In the center of the quintet, flanked by imposing cavalry men rode a squat human with a thick neck and a beet-red face. As the Khurs drew nearer, Planchet recognized him.

“Hail, General Hakkam!” he called. “Peace be with you!”

“And with you, Planchet of Qualinost,” rumbled the choleric general. “What in Kargath’s name goes on here?”

“I was about to ask you the same question. The city gates have been closed to us since yesterday afternoon. Our only supply of water is what we carry from Khuri-Khan’s wells.

We were beginning to get thirsty.”

“Is that why you called out your army?”

Why else? “Gangs have been assaulting us for the past two days, General. Tents have been burned and our people beaten, some quite badly. We didn’t know what might come forth next from the city.”

“The Sons of the Crimson Vulture have caused much trouble, for you and for the mighty Sahim-Khan. Consequently many of them have been sent to meet their ancestors.”

“Then the city is open to us?”

“I have no orders otherwise.”

A fresh gust, smelling of the sea, swept over the parley.

Planchet’s truce banner snapped in the wind. Twisting in the saddle, he raised the banner high, and waved it at the horde of elven warriors who watched in silent concern. When Planchet turned back, Hakkam and his escort had their hands on their sword hilts.

“I was merely alerting our soldiers that all was well,’ Planchet said mildly.

“Who’s that coming?”

Two elven riders emerged from the line of heavy cavalry and cantered to where Planchet and Hakkam waited. It didn’t take long to recognize the Speaker and a single escorting warrior, General Taranath. When they arrived, Planchet explained the situation.

“Thank you, General,” the Speaker said to Hakkam. He extended a lean hand. “Your duty has been well served.”

With little enthusiasm the general shook the Speaker’s hand. Gilthas assured him he would withdraw his warriors, then added, “One other matter. My councilor, Lord Morillon, did not return last night. Is he inside the city?”

“He had an audience with Sahim-Khan, then left the palace.”

“Is he well?”

Hakkam frowned. “How would I know? He left the palace. That’s all I know.”

With a curt nod, Hakkam turned his horse around. Planchet was aghast at the human’s rudeness, turning his back on a reigning Speaker without so much as a by-your-leave!

The shaft of sunlight, so long shining on Planchet and Gilthas, at last faded. Gilthas looked up at the roiling clouds. He frowned. A slender object, dark against the sky, seemed to hang in the air over the city. No, not hang. It was moving, falling.

“Arrow!” Planchet shouted.

He threw himself in front of the Speaker, but the missile was plummeting from such a height its path was almost straight down. The broadhead cut Gilthas’s jaw and struck him in the hollow of the neck, on the right side.

Pandemonium erupted. Gilthas was saved from hitting the ground by Taranath, who caught him by the shoulders and bore him up. Hakkam’s guards drew swords, whirling their horses in tight circles to see who had loosed the arrow.

A shout went up from the front rank of elven warriors. They had seen the arrow’s fall and its awful termination. The shout was followed by a hedge of swords sprouting along the line. In ragged order, for the rear ranks did not yet know what had happened, the elves charged up the hill to their monarch’s defense.

The thunder of the oncoming elves sent Hakkam’s escort spurring for the city. The thick-necked general roared, “Come back, you wretches! Stand your ground!” One halted. The rest made straight for the city gate, now swinging shut.

“What treachery is this?” Planchet cried, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and leaping from his horse. The Speaker had collapsed over his horse’s neck.

“It is not by my order!” Hakkam retorted, also dismounting.

He and Planchet took the Speaker from his horse and j lowered him gently to the road. The arrow was still embedded in Gilthas’s neck.

“That did not come from my men,” said Hakkam. “It’s not a Khurish war arrow.”

“What is it, then?” Planchet demanded.

“A hunting arrow. My men aren’t issued such.”

It was fortunate for Gilthas the missile wasn’t a war arrow. Stoutly shafted, with a square or triangular iron head and leather fletching, a war arrow would have driven deep into the elf’s slender body. The hunting missile, lightly made, with a flat broadhead and white pigeon-feather fletching, had struck Gilthas’s collar bone and stopped. The wound was nasty, but with prompt care it would not be fatal.

A wave of shouting elf warriors galloped by the figures kneeling on the road. A handful halted, but most kept going, charging the city gate.

Their angry shouts reached the weakened Gilthas. From somewhere deep within himself, he tapped an unknown source of strength. Face white, he struggled to rise. Planchet holding him down, begged him to be still.

“Stop it,” Gilthas said through clenched teeth.

Thinking he was hurting the Speaker, Planchet felt tears come to his eyes. He whispered, “I’m sorry, sire, but you must be still. Please don’t move.”

“No, Planchet. Stop the warriors! Don’t let them fight! I command it!”

Taranath heard the Speaker’s order. He snatched a trumpet from his saddle and blew “Recall.” He had to repeat it four times before all the hard-riding warriors heard and heeded. The foremost ground to a halt only yards from the city wall.

In between trumpet blasts, Hakkam was shouting at his own soldiers. “Hold! If any man looses an arrow, I’ll have his head!” he roared. None of the Khurish soldiers loosed arrows or threw spears at the elves. Men and elves looked at each other in mutual confusion and alarm until the elves turned and galloped back to Taranath.

Healers from Khurinost hastened through the press of warriors. When they arrived, the Speaker was sitting up, head bowed, his white geb covered with a spreading crimson stain. The first healer to reach him was a Kagonesti with callused hands and dark tattoos on her face and arms.

“Arrow’s got to come out,” she said immediately. Planchet nodded once, face grim. “I’ll do it.”

“Someone must hold him still. If he moves too much, he could rupture an artery.”

Hakkam, nearest, knelt behind the Speaker and gripped his shoulders. “I’ve got him.”

The elves were nonplussed, but the Speaker murmured, “Thank you, General.” Eyes flickering to Planchet’s pale face, he whispered, “Proceed, my friend.”

The valet wrapped his fingers around the blood-slick arrow shaft and whispered, “Forgive me.”

With a single, mighty pull, he freed the arrow. The Kagonesti healer immediately sprinkled the wound with clotting powder and bound it tightly with linen. Too late, she realized she’d not offered the Speaker a leather pad to bite. She apologized, but he didn’t respond.

“He’s passed out,” she said.

Gilthas raised his head. “Not yet.” He smiled weakly at Planchet. “Wouldn’t she be proud of me? I didn’t faint.”

Planchet understood who “she” was. He managed to return the brave smile. “Yes, sire. Yes, she would.”

A litter was improvised, and the Speaker of the Sun and Stars carefully laid upon it. Four warriors hoisted the corners and headed back to Khurinost, leaving Planchet and Hakkam where they were.

“Taranath, disperse the warriors,” Planchet said. The general began to protest, but Planchet cut him off. “Maintain your patrols, but stand down the cavalry!” Taranath saluted and rode away.

As the elves’ cavalry began to disperse, Planchet handed Hakkam the bloody arrow. “This archer is Khur’s enemy as much as ours,” the elf said.

Hakkam gripped the arrow tightly. “Never fear. I’ll see this returned to its owner.” His meaning was abundantly clear; the arrow would likely be “returned” point first.

On a rooftop three miles away, Prince Shobbat lowered his bow. He could hardly believe his miraculous aim. No one could loft an arrow from so far, much less hit their intended target.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

“Magic is the art of the impossible,” replied the ragged, hooded figure behind him.

The Lioness withdrew her shrinking command across the creek Favaronas had given her name, and they camped for the night. Tomorrow they would depart Inath-Wakenti, forever, she hoped. There were too many unknowns here—no animals (except those that seemed to vanish in front of them), strangely powerful lights, and unaccountable disappearances. This valley was no sanctuary for their exiled people. Gilthas would have to understand that.

The ride back to the creek, under a milky canopy of stars and clouds, was an eerie one. No crickets whirred in the underbrush; no whippoorwills or nightjars called from the trees; no frogs galumphed from the creeks. There was only the soft clop-clop of their horses’ hooves. The more nervous among the warriors were for going on, not camping, but it was well past midnight and both horses and riders were tired. Better to start at dawn, especially if they might have to fight their way out through Khurish nomads.

Kerian felt it was safe enough to camp once they were beyond the stream. The massive stone ruins halted well short of the creek, and the weird phenomena had occurred only after they’d crossed the creek coming in.

They pitched a bivouac on the south bank, picketing the horses and dropping down to sleep on bedrolls, without putting up tents. Before turning in, Kerian toured the camp. She saw Favaronas had built a small fire (the only one in camp) and sat hunched before it. On his lap was one of the stone cylinders he and Glanthon had found in the tunnel.

Glanthon had told her of that strange expedition, but learning what Favaronas was doing with his prize could wait till morning. She was asleep on her feet. After a few words with the elves who’d drawn first watch, she unrolled her blanket beneath a juniper tree and lay down. In moments she was asleep.

Kerianseray did not dream much. At least, she didn’t usually remember any dreams she might have. Her nights usually were battles between uneasy alertness and total exhaustion, with exhaustion often the victor. She’d once told Gilthas that living on the run from the Order had taught her to sleep with one eye open. He thought she was joking, but her old comrades could attest that the Lioness slept with one eyelid cracked open, balanced on the dagger’s edge between sleep and wakefulness.

This was not the case tonight. Kerian fell deeply asleep. Then she began to dream. Vividly.

She was in a forest, a dense woodland, green and cool. Moss was thick underfoot, and gentle sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves. The air was wondrous, full of the scents of growing things. A faint breeze teased her face. Reaching out, she felt the suppleness of the leaves. They were ash leaves, slender and pointed. Kerian was in a forest of ash, like the wild land along the Silvanesti border.

Into this idyllic setting came two figures. One was a goblin with along, beaky nose, pointed chin, and sallow, gray-green complexion. The other she glimpsed only briefly through the foliage, but he appeared to be a Silvanesti elf, dressed in a silky green robe more suited to a city street than the deep forest.

The goblin said, “They’s a nest in this one.”

“Are you sure?” asked his companion.

“Oh, aye. I seen it come out last ev’ning.”

With the illogical logic of dreams, Kerian was no longer standing in the forest, but was tucked into a hollow tree. She didn’t mind the tight confines. This was home. Its walls were smooth and smelled strongly of musk. An opening overhead led outside, as did the hole in front of her.

Home trembled. The goblin’s face appeared in the hole. He grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth.

“Careful,” said the elf, below him. “I don’t want it damaged.”

The goblin’s face went away from the hole and he reached one arm in, long, spidery fingers coming for Kerian’s throat.

She didn’t wait to be caught. Swift as a striking viper, she uncoiled and sprang at the intruder. She was slender, no more than two feet long, but her claws and teeth were sharp.

They tore into the goblin’s cheek and left eye. With a shriek, he fell backward, taking Kerian with him.

They crashed to the ground. He jerked her loose and flung her hard against the trunk of her pine tree home. She lay on her back, stunned, four paws in the air.

The goblin would have killed her then, while she was helpless to defend herself. He lifted his hatchet high, but a hand grabbed his wrist from behind.

“That’s not what I’m paying you for.”

It was the elf. He had a long face, a sharp chin, and hazel eyes. A robe of pale green silk hung in pleated folds from his narrow shoulders. His blond hair was cut in an antique bowl-shaped style. His hands were large for an elf, with long fingers and knobby knuckles.

“Look what it did to me!” screeched the goblin. Blood ran from his ruined eye and cheek.

The elf merely took a small bag from his waist and shook it. The jangle of coins was unmistakable. He counted thirty steel pieces into the goblin’s hand.

The goblin seized Kerian by the throat and thrust her into a dirty burlap bag. The effects of the blow were wearing off and she might have chewed her way out of the sack, but she didn’t. The elf and goblin were talking about her, and the elf gave her a name: marten. With the word came a rush of memories.

Covered in brown fur, with a white neck and chest, she was more agile than a squirrel, swifter than lightning. She leaped from branch to branch, climbed up and down rough-barked trees, lay in wait among green boughs for an unwary squirrel. A dash, a pounce, teeth sinking into the rodent’s throat. Blood. Delicious. Warm. She prowled the treetops, despoiling nests for eggs or hatchlings, and venturing to the ground to penetrate burrows in search of rabbits. She was mistress of the twilight woods. Not even the panther or the bear could compete with her in ferocity, in kills.

Kerianseray knew she was dreaming, but it was all so rich and real, her own memories seemed to melt into those of the marten.

In the strange way of dreams, time began to telescope, passing rapidly yet with no sensation of speed. The Silvanesti was a mage. He’d been slaving for decades on a procedure that would transform a wild marten into a semblance of himself. He took the marten bitch to his hut on the edge of the forest and began the lengthy, laborious process. It seemed to go well. The marten became a young girl, flawlessly elven in appearance, with hazel eyes and sable hair. He taught her civilized ways, but she never quite lost her predatory instincts or animal appetites. These he indulged. He learned much from her associations with naturally-born elves and humans.

In her twentieth year, she began to change. Her pure Silvanesti features softened and thickened, giving her the look of a half-elf. When fur reappeared on her legs, the mage knew the transformation had failed again. So many times he had performed the spell, trying to find the perfect conjuration, but every one had failed, sooner or later.

One night soldiers from House Protector came and arrested the mage. Kerian found herself chained in a deep dungeon in the heart of Silvanost. There she met others like herself, creatures whose elven veneer had decayed. But although the mage’s conjuration didn’t make them fully elven, it kept them from returning fully to their animal state.

Such creatures could not be allowed to remain in Silvanesti, so they were exiled. Closed wagons transported them far from the land of their birth to the Silent Vale, where the half-creatures were turned loose to fend for themselves.

The night sky above Kerian’s new home contained three moons—one white, one blood red, and a third, black moon she knew Two-Footers couldn’t see with their feeble eyes. But she could see it.

She also could see something falling from the dark moon. Just as she recognized it as an arrow, it struck the base of her neck. She was knocked to the ground. Blood welled from her throat.

What treachery is this? cried a far-off voice. Then a multitude shouted, The Speaker! The Speaker has been attacked!

She jerked awake. She was lying on her bedroll, and the night sky above her was the one she recognized. She was Kerianseray, Wilder elf, warrior, wife of Gilthas, not some half-animal abomination.

Rolling to her feet, she caught sight of Favaronas. His back to her, he squatted at the water’s edge a few yards away, sipping from his cupped hands. She rose and called his name.

He almost fell head-first into the creek. She covered the distance between them in two long strides, snagged the back of his robe, and pulled him to his feet.

“Favaronas, I had a terrible dream!” she said. “More than that! A premonition.”

He was taken aback. The ever-sensible Lioness, talking of premonitions?

The earlier part of her dream, of being an animal made to look like an elf, was fading into a confusing jumble of sensations. Kerian skipped that part, describing only the end, the terrifyingly clear vision she’d had of Gilthas being hit with an arrow.

Favaronas, who had read much about historical presentiments of disaster, didn’t think such things occurred nowadays. Doubt was plain on his face.

“It happened!” she insisted. “Or will happen. I don’t know which. But I felt it!”

“So, what will you do?”

She raked her fingers through her matted, sweat-soaked hair. What could she do? Gilthas was her beloved husband. Even more than that, he was her Speaker, the king she had pledged to serve and defend. She wanted to fly to him, to make certain he was all right.

Fly!

“Eagle Eye! He can get me to Khurinost in half a day!”

The griffon was tethered twenty yards from the horses, further along on the path back to the mouth of the valley. Kerian turned to race off in that direction. Favaronas caught her arm.

“General, you can’t abandon your warriors in the middle of the night because of a dream!”

She jerked her arm free and glared at him, but she knew he was right. Equally right was her conviction that Gilthas was grievously wounded, perhaps even dying while they stood here debating. A difficult quandary, but the Lioness was not known for being indecisive.

“Rouse the camp,” she said. “Wake everyone!”

Favaronas hurried away, calling out to sleeping warriors, shaking their shoulders. Kerian did likewise. In minutes the entire band was awake, if not completely alert.

Glanthon, hair askew, rubbed his eyes and asked, “Has something happened?”

“Yes, I must return to Khurinost at once!”

“I’ll have the riders mount up—”

“There’s no time.” Struggling for calm, she said, “I go alone, on Eagle Eye. The rest of you will proceed to Khurinost without me.”

She explained her dream to them as she had to Favaronas. Her warriors knew her to be pragmatic, not given to flights of fancy. If the Lioness believed she’d been granted a premonition about the Speaker, they didn’t question her conviction. They were, however, plainly disconcerted by the content of her dream and that she was leaving them.

She gripped Glanthon’s shoulder. “I have no choice. You’ll be fine. Avoid the High Plateau. Take the easier route down the caravan trail from Kortal.” On the return journey, they had less to fear from spies. Still, she cautioned, “Tell no one where you’ve been.”

To Favaronas, she said, “If I could, I would take you with me, but Eagle Eye won’t tolerate anyone else on his back.”

He assured her he was not offended at being left behind.

It was vital that he get his manuscripts, notes, and the odd stone cylinders home intact. He certainly couldn’t have carried them all while hurtling across the sky on griffonback.

Kerian was not one to waste time. She filled two water-skins in the creek, took up a haversack with a bit of food, and said good-bye to all. The dazed warriors drew themselves up and saluted their leader.

Before jogging up the trail to Eagle Eye, she repeated her injunction to Glanthon that he and the rest were to get themselves home safely. If they were confronted by nomads, they were to try to slip away without fighting.

“And when you get back, I’ll buy nectar for everyone!” she called, and then she was gone.

Favaronas and Glanthon stood side by side, watching long after she was swallowed by the darkness. The warrior was muttering to himself, speculating about the possibility of a nomad trick or weird dreams generated by the forces at work in the valley.

“This feels wrong,” he said.

Favaronas was thinking the same thing, but they heard the cry of the airborne griffon and knew it was too late for misgivings.

Word raced through the streets of Khuri-Khan that the laddad king had been wounded, some said killed. The elves had withdrawn their soldiers, but for how long? Blood was sure to flow. Opinion was divided as to who should bear the blame. Many Khurs believed the Sons of the Crimson Vulture had tried to assassinate the Speaker. Others thought Sahim-Khan was involved.

Sahim had his own theory. The city gates, cleared by his soldiers, were kept open by entire companies of royal guards. The Khuri yl Nor was sealed tight as a tomb. Alarm flags were hoisted all over the city, recalling all soldiers to duty. General Hakkam brought the arrow, still stained with the Speaker’s blood, to the palace, and every bowyer and fletcher in the city was summoned. If the arrow’s maker could be found, its owner soon would be known.

In the Nor-Khan, behind the thickest walls in Khur, Sahim-Khan raged. How had this come about? Who was trying to foment war with the laddad? His favorite suspects were the Torghanists, whom he castigated as insolent, ignorant savages.

His captains kept close around him. His current wife sat in her place behind the Sapphire Throne. Huddled around her were the Khan’s seven youngest children, frightened but silent. Off to one side, Prince Shobbat leaned one hip on a sideboard, idly eating grapes from a silver bowl.

Zunda, who in moments of stress could speak as succinctly as any man, said, “An emissary must go to the laddad. With assurances of the Mighty Khan’s goodwill.”

“I’ll show them goodwill! I’ll decorate the city battlements with the corpse of every man who bears a red tattoo!”

“Mighty Khan, the situation may not call for such measures.”

“You go to the laddad, Zunda! Take Sa’ida and all priestesses of Elir-Sana. If the Speaker can be saved, Holy Sa’ida can do it.”

The old vizier bowed and obeyed. Any other action just now likely would cost him his head.

Once the vizier had departed, Sahim summoned one of his captains, a lean and wolfish fellow named Vatan.

“Collect a hundred men and go to the Temple of Torghan,” Sahim said. “Arrest everyone—priests, acolytes, servants, all of them. If you find Minok, slay the wretch where he stands.”

He turned away, then paused, a better idea coming to him. “No, Vatan. Bring Minok to me. Alive. His people might behave better if I hold their leader. I’ll question him personally, and we’ll learn who else is part of this conspiracy.”

Vatan departed. For the first time since summoning this emergency assembly, Sahim sat, dropping heavily onto the throne. His sun-yellow robes billowed around him. He spied Hengriff on the periphery of the crowd and waved the knight forward.

Hengriff’s natural impassivity had been perfected by his time in Khur. When Sahim asked his opinion of the orders just given, Hengriff did not say, I think you a crude and brutal fool, but replied blandly, “The Mighty Khan thinks swiftly and acts even faster.”

Sahim smiled. “I had good teachers. What does your Order do with rebels?”

“Hang the unrepentant and subvert the rest is our custom.”

“The better policy would be to hang them all!”

Hengriff took Sahim’s bloodthirsty admonition with outward good grace. The time had come for him to put into action a bold plan. He lifted the leather dispatch case in his hand and announced he had a confidential message from his Order.

In a better mood for having set Zunda and Vatan to their respective tasks, Sahim dismissed his frightened family, his captains, and his fawning courtiers. Only a handful of his personal guard remained. Prince Shobbat was among the. last to leave, tossing aside an empty grape stem before going out the double doors.

“So, what does the Lord of the Night have to say?”

After weeks of hearing nothing from the Order, Hengriff had decided on a dangerous deception. He had forged a set of instructions, ostensibly from Rennold to himself. If he guessed right, all would be well. If he chose a faulty course, his head would certainly be forfeit. His masters might forgive failure, but not one committed in their own names.

He opened the leather flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He made a show of glancing over the papers before clearing his throat and booming,” ‘To his Mightiness, Sahim, Khan. of All the Khurs, greetings—’”

A loud noise halted Hengriff’s recitation. Shobbat suddenly reentered the hall at the head of twenty guards.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Sahim demanded. “Are the laddad—”

“I have news, Mighty Khan. I have learned the identity of the traitor in our city, the author of all our troubles, the one who conspired to slay the king of the laddad.”

Pleased, Sahim said, “Excellent, my son! Excellent! Who is it?”

Shobbat advanced until he was standing abreast of the Dark Knight. The soldiers halted two steps behind the prince. “The traitor, sire, is Lord Hengriff.”

For a moment no one moved. No one seemed even to breathe. Brief as a heartbeat, as long as forever. Then nearly everyone was in motion.

The papers fell from Hengriff’s hand. The Khan’s eight guards drew swords and rushed at him. So did Shobbat’s escort. Because he was at court, Hengriff was armed only with a dagger, but he drew it without hesitation and lunged at Shobbat. The prince backed away, groping for his own blade.

Only the Khan was still. He sat on his golden throne, watching.

Hengriff slashed overhand at Shobbat. The prince clumsily warded off the strike, his feet slipping on the polished floor. Much white showed around his eyes. The soldiers who would have intervened were waved off by Sahim. He wanted to see how his son would fare against the formidable Hengriff.

The answer was, he quickly realized, not well. Shobbat was no duelist. His father, a redoubtable warrior in his own right, had required him to serve eight years in the army of Khur. Shobbat spent the time learning archery and dice, not swordplay.

The Knight made a series of wide, circular cuts. Shobbat backed away until his heel caught the hem of his robe. He fell. The Knight stood over him, sneering.

“Even this you bungle!” he said.

A sword point, bright with blood, suddenly protruded from his chest. Hengriff’s sneer froze. He looked back at the guard who’d stabbed him.

“Now!” Shobbat cried. “Everyone, strike home!”

The guard withdrew his blade. In spite of his wound, Hengriff whirled, flinging his dispatch case at the man’s face, but nine more blades thrust home. The Knight thrust his dagger into the belly of another guard and wrenched the sword from his hand. At last Hengriff had a real weapon.

He caught two blades in a bind and whipped them aside. Thrusting, he took the closest Khur in the throat; the man went down. A blade passed under Hengriff’s outthrust arm, cutting deeply into his armpit. Cursing the pain, he recovered and slashed at the guard who’d cut him, severing the man’s jaw from the rest of his face.

The Knight avoided cuts and stabs from three sides as the Khurs tried to hem him in. He dispatched a fourth attacker when the man lunged too far and Hengriff caught him by the wrist. Bringing his blade down, he all but severed the man’s arm at the elbow. The guard dropped to the floor, screaming and clutching his savaged arm. He rolled away.

The doors of the throne room burst open. More soldiers appeared. They didn’t charge in, but stood transfixed by the appalling scene that met their eyes. Teeth bared in a hiss of pain, drenched in his own blood and that of his attackers, the towering Hengriff was the very picture of an assassin.

Shobbat shouted at the newcomers to surround the Nerakan and kill him. The prince’s voice broke through their shock. They attacked.

Hengriff was a master warrior, but there was no escape for him. Still, he put his back to one wall and fought on. Two more Khurs fell to his sword. The tiled floor around him grew slick with blood, His wounds burned, and his right arm was weak from loss of blood. With one particularly effective counterthrust, he drove half a dozen soldiers back against that many more. In this temporary lull, Hengriff sagged against the wall. He turned his burning obsidian gaze on Shobbat. The prince stood next to his father’s throne, both of them protected by a wall of outraged soldiers.

“You think you’ve won?” Hengriff panted, his voice still deep and carrying. “You forget who you’re dealing with. You’ll not outlive me long, traitor!”

Shobbat sneered. “I don’t fear your Order. Loyal Khurs will protect the throne.”

“Not my Order, fool! Fear the laddad!”

Paling, Shobbat shouted, “Finish him!” Like a bear bayed by a pack of wolves, Hengriff fought with the desperate ferocity of the doomed. He maimed three more attackers before two Khurs with pole arms speared him from opposite sides. Their surviving comrades joined in, pushing the halberd shafts, and Hengriff was driven back against the wall and pinned there.

His life drained away. He slumped forward, still held upright by the spearpoints piercing his body. His eyes glazed. The sword dropped from his lifeless fingers.

The guards gave a victory cry. They sorted themselves into proper formation before their monarch. “Shall we take his head, Great Khan?” asked one.

Throughout the bloody battle, Sahim-Khan had sat on his throne with apparent calm, taking in every aspect of the fight. He was not convinced Hengriff was a traitor, but this was not the place to question his son’s accusation. The Khan rose, straightened his yellow robes, and stepped forward to examine the dead Knight.

“No,” he said. “Drag his body to the square before the palace. Placard it, so all will know of his treachery.”

The soldiers dragged Hengriff out by the heels and dumped him in the courtyard before the palace gate. One scrounged materials to make the sign Sahim required. The others stared up at the sky, crowded with slow-moving, billowing clouds. They’d never seen such a display before.

“What does it mean?” asked one.

Another, secretly a worshiper of Torghan, said, “Those on High are angry! They would see this land purged of evil.”

A loud gargling screech gave emphasis to the soldier’s prediction. It sounded like no bird known in Khur. Deep and powerful, the cry was halfway between a lion’s roar and an eagle’s scream. A second screech was followed by a freshening of the wind. The gust traveled through the streets of the city. The soldiers at the palace could follow its progress by the dust clouds it raised. They turned away and covered their faces as it whirled through the square from west to east, scouring the pavement and rocking the spindly scaffolding still attached to the palace walls. Uprights gave way, and planks tumbled. Then as quickly as it had come, the wind was gone.

In Khurinost, the odd screeching noise drew the elves out from under the woven grass mats that shaded the encampment’s narrow lane. Unlike the Khurs, many elves recognized that cry. It had come from a Silvanesti griffon.

Planchet emerged from the Speaker’s tent. He certainly knew the cry, although he could hardly credit hearing it now. Its author was so high, silhouetted against roiling white clouds, that Planchet’s keen eyes could not discern whether or not the griffon bore a rider.

Across the square, an elf woman tried to comfort her crying child, both of them frightened by the commotion overhead. Planchet went and spoke kindly to her.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It’s only a griffon.”

“I thought the Khurs were coming to kill us,” whispered the elf woman.

“They aren’t our enemies,” Planchet assured her. He squeezed her hand and chucked the chin of the crying child. “Our Speaker will not allow us to come to harm.”

The elf woman obviously had not seen Gilthas carried into his tent earlier, barely conscious. His wound had festered and a fever had erupted in his slender frame. Just now he had little ability to guarantee anything, but the Throne of the Sun and Stars had a power that went far beyond the mortal elf who held it. Like a potent talisman against evil, Planchet’s invocation of the Speaker’s name calmed mother and child, and he was able to leave them in much better spirits.

He had lost sight of the griffon. He hurried back to the Speaker’s tent to tell him of the sighting.

In Gilthas’s bedchamber, healers, courtiers, and captains stood by, poised to do whatever was required of them.

“Great Speaker!” Planchet said, kneeling by the bed. “Did you hear the call of the griffon?”

Blue eyes hazed by fever turned slowly to the valet’s face. “You heard it? I thought I was delirious,” Gilthas whispered.

“No, sire. It was real.”

“Is she here?”

“I don’t know. I lost sight of the creature, but we will find out soon.”

Gilthas licked dry lips, and Planchet held a small cup of water to his mouth. Once Gilthas had swallowed a few drops, he asked about Lord Morillon.

Unfortunately the Silvanesti had not been found. Planchet was forced to report they feared the worst.

An elven healer bent and whispered in his ear. The valet nodded. “Sire, Vizier Zunda has come, with priestesses from the Temple of Elir-Sana.”

“Holy Lady Sa’ida? She is said to be wise in her craft. Admit them.”

Planchet turned to relay the order but a bizarre interruption occurred. The air suddenly rushed out of the tent, drawing the roof down violently. The tired canvas split, opening a great rent to the sky. The attendants cried out in alarm.

Directly over the Speaker’s tent, a neat round hole had been bored through the towering clouds. It looked as though a giant finger had poked through the overcast sky and into the center of Khurinost. A whirlwind spun down from the hole, drawing streams of cloud vapor with it as it descended on the Speaker’s tent.

As the wind screamed, Planchet shouted orders. Healers knelt around the Speaker’s bed, covering him with their bodies. Warriors formed a square, facing outward with swords drawn.

Only seconds after it was first sighted, the vortex touched down on the Speaker’s tent, tearing it apart. Walls and ceilings collapsed. Elves were buried under masses of fabric. Hands over their heads, the Speaker’s loyal guards kept the roof off him and the healers covering him.

Suffocating in the thick canvas, Planchet could not see but only hear the chaos. Elves were shouting, footsteps pounding. Carefully, he thrust the tip of his sword through the canvas and made a small opening. No one protested, so he widened the hole.

“My ancestors!” Planchet breathed.

“What is it?” demanded Gilthas, pushing away the healers covering him.

“Not what, Great Speaker—who!”

The Lioness was bounding over the wreckage of the tent. Eagle Eye hadn’t even touched ground before she was off his—back and running toward her husband. She wore only the tattered remains of her smallclothes, and was soaked from head to toe. She cleaved through the astonished guards and healers, dropped to her knees, and took her husband in her arms.

Gilthas said her name, over and over, as Planchet propped him up from behind. Despite the fresh blood that seeped from his cheek and neck, his voice was joyous with relief.

“Kerianseray, how? How in the names of all the ancient gods did you get here?”

“I flew. You sent Eagle Eye, so I returned him.” Her voice quavered nearly as much as his. “All the way from the Valley of the Blue Sands, I came.”

She eased him back against the strong shoulder of Planchet. “An arrow!” she said, studying his wound with a practiced eye. “I knew it!”

“How did you know, lady?”

Kerian shook her head at Planchet’s question. “Never mind. Who did it. Was it Khurs? Nerakans?”

The valet admitted they didn’t know yet.

With Kerian’s help, Planchet settled the Speaker on his bed, then went to round up food and drink for her. And clothes, though he did not say as much to her.

While they were moderately private, Gilthas took her hand. “You look wonderful,” he whispered, his tear-filled eyes looking her up and down.

She grimaced, suddenly self-conscious. “We ran into a storm aloft, a tornado. I’m lucky it left me any clothing at all!”

“Only the Lioness could ride home on the back of a whirlwind,” he teased. “Are your warriors near?”

She shook her head, embarrassment hardening into grim lines. “No, they were just leaving Inath-Wakenti when I had to leave them.”

Briefly, for her throat was truly parched, she described their experiences in the valley—the phantom lights, the stone ruins, the disappearance of the sand beast and many of her warriors, and the utter lack of any animal life.

“Not so much as a fly lives there, Gil. Leave it to the ghosts and will-o’-the-wisps.”

During her recitation, however succinct, Gilthas began to succumb to the effects of his wound and fever, as well as the shock of her arrival. He was barely conscious.

“Can’t be done,” he murmured, and she had to bend close to hear what he said next. “We must leave this place.”

His eyelids closed, and he slept.

Planchet returned with a jug of palm wine in each hand. The guards and servants began working to rig new supports for the tent roof. Kerian took a jug of wine and put it to her lips.

Planchet informed her of the disappearance of Lord Morillon. She replied with a flippant comment, but his careworn face was very somber. “He’s been found, lady,” he continued. “In the desert outside the north city gate. His throat was cut from ear to ear”