Sanctuary

Chapter 15

The cavalry spent fruitless hours sweeping the dunes for Favaronas. Worried, but unable to delay further, Glanthon resumed the trek southwest.

The sun was touching the western dunes, painting the broad desert in shades of gold, when Glanthon rode to the top of a sand ridge overlooking the caravan trail to Kortal. It was always a busy trail, thick with long trains of plodding donkeys burdened by panniers of goods, or herds of goats and shaggy desert sheep. Hundreds of Khurish nomads plied the caravan route every day, carrying goods from south to north and back. Trade had never ceased, even during the most terrifying days of the late war.

The trail was empty today. As far as Glanthon could see in both directions, nothing stirred but the wind, carrying streams of sand across the packed roadbed.

Inath-Wakenti had seemed the most isolated spot in the world. After its emptiness, Glanthon would have welcomed the company even of scruffy humans. Instead, he found their isolation persisting.

He descended the ridge to the road. Years of traffic had left it sunken a foot deep. From horseback, he could tell that not only had no one passed by today, no one had passed by in several days. The desert wind, constant as breath, had erased all but a few prints. In another day there’d be no marks left at all.

Had some calamity overtaken Kortal? War, plague, sand-storms—many possibilities sprang to mind.

The rest of the expedition appeared on the ridge. Glanthon whistled and waved them down. Of the five hundred riders (and three scholars) who’d left Khurinost with Kerianseray, just under three hundred remained. To be honest, Glanthon found the most recent loss, of Favaronas, cut him the deepest, because the archivist had vanished while he himself was in charge.

His second-in-command, a Qualinesti named Arimathan, rode up. Glanthon hailed him. “We seem to be alone in the world. What do you make of this strange situation?”

“The nomads are gone,” said the laconic Arimathan.

“Yes, but where have they gone?” No sooner had Glanthon said this, than an awful answer entered his mind.

“Form up two lines!” he barked. “All who have bows, string them! Keep them braced and ready!”

The elves obeyed, but questioned him with puzzled looks.

“The nomads have left their territory! They’d only do that in the direst circumstances. And where would they go? Khuri-Khan! They must have gone to Khuri-Khan!”

He chivvied his elves until all were ready. The entire command set out at a trot, down the caravan road.

Anxiety knotted Glanthon’s chest. He could be wrong, but he didn’t think so. It all made terrible sense. The nomads, having decided to drive the foreigners from their land, were no longer satisfied to fight the Lioness’s small band of explorers. They had gathered their people together and ridden to Khuri-Khan, to strike at the source of the laddad contagion, to destroy Khurinost.

Shobbat sat in a heavy mahogany chair regarding an elegant goblet. The silver had been hammered paper-thin. The bowl was small as a child’s fist and, from certain angles, translucent, allowing the delicate amber nectar inside to shine through. The utmost care and concentration were required to handle and drink from such an ethereal cup. Each one was unique, made by an elf artisan enjoined by law to create only a single such vessel every ten years. Since the coming of the laddad to Khur, Shobbat had acquired sixteen of these precious vessels. He’d ruined four before learning how to hold them. These so-called cloud cups were among his most treasured possessions, relics of a vanishing culture that would not rise again if he had his way.

Not one of his hand-picked assassins had returned. He found this very unsettling. So much so, he’d had to set the cloud cup on the table at his elbow. In his current state of agitation, he would surely snap the slender stem and crush the airy fineness of the bowl. Since the laddad soon would be extinct, he must preserve those of their arts he found attractive.

Surely enough time had passed for his hirelings to carry out their mission. How hard was it to kill one female?

Even as he posed the question to himself, he knew the answer: In the case of the Lioness, very hard indeed.

The resources of the Knights of Neraka been devoted to capturing or killing her for many ineffective years. That’s why Shobbat had hired Silvanesti for the task. These particular elves had no attachment to Kerianseray. They didn’t revere her past deeds, as the Qualinesti did, and like most who had once lived in luxury, they had not adapted well to their current poverty. Shobbat merely added plenty of steel to their own sense of noble purpose. As elves, they had the stealth and senses to reach the Lioness. He thought it a neat solution to a thorny problem. Every hunter knows that the best way to trap a jackal is with a trained jackal.

Shobbat didn’t like elves. Even in exile they reeked of smug superiority and condescension. On the other hand, he didn’t hate them. Hate was a failing only the lowly could afford. A king must be above such petty sensations, lest they cloud his mind. No, the destruction of the elves was simply a necessary action if he was to circumvent the Oracle’s prophecy. They had to go, and that was that.

It wasn’t murder, but an act of statesmanship. Monarchs—and monarchs-to-be—did not commit crimes. The elves represented an obstacle to his attaining the throne of Khur. He’d overcome so many others: the meddling Hengriff who was nearly as smug as the laddad, the high priest Minok (no one would ever find him), and the smooth laddad schemer, Morillon. Removing him had been a spur of the moment decision. Shobbat realized Morillon had too much of the Khan’s ear to be allowed to live. Too often his clever tongue unhinged Shobbat’s carefully arranged plans.

He’d made certain the laddad noble was found. His death sowed doubt about Sahim-Khan’s authority and confusion about his loyalties. Shobbat had failed to kill the laddad king, but even wounding him had been very helpful. The laddad blamed Torghanists for the crime, just as the Sons of the Crimson Vulture blamed Sahim-Khan for the disappearance of their high priest. Everyone was in a proper turmoil and, at the right moment, Shobbat would step forward to restore order and bring glory to Khur once again.

Only two more needed to die before Shobbat moved against his father. One was the laddad queen, and the other, the slippery sorcerer, Faeterus. Shobbat knew he would have the most trouble with the mage. Faeterus came and went like smoke through a chimney, making him difficult to poison or stab. Perhaps the best way to get rid of a mage was to use magic.

The night crept by like a craven cur, fearful of being noticed. Shobbat’s servants had long since retired, leaving their master alone in his sitting room on the east side of the royal citadel. He passed the time by considering how he would redecorate the private quarters of the khan, once he held that position. His father reveled in the acquisition of wealth, a trait Shobbat shared, but Sahim had no taste, no sense of style. His quarters were a jumble of possessions, thrown together without any regard for arrangement or aesthetics.

Why didn’t even one of his hired blades return with news of success or failure? Perhaps Kerianseray had managed to evade death. Shobbat considered the worst possible case, that she had discovered her masked assailants were elves and forced one to reveal who hired him. What would she do then? She would go to her husband—not for protection but to get her liege’s sanction for her vengeance. But Gilthas was still very ill. Kerianseray had forbidden Holy Sa’ida even to see him.

Shobbat was in the most secure place in Khur. He had already destroyed an important Knight of Neraka. He had little to fear from one laddad female, even one so fierce as the Lioness. Except for her barbaric ploy with the sand beast, Kerianseray hadn’t stirred from the elven camp since her husband was wounded.

He put out his hand and let the weight of the goblet rest on his fingertips. He brought it to his mouth. One never touched a cloud cup with one’s lips. Instead, he held it a hair’s breadth above his open mouth and allowed a slender stream of nectar to pour from the cup and down his throat.

Kerian did not return to the Speaker’s tent. Wounded, she continued on to her original destination, the one place she felt she belonged. The warriors’ enclave. Almost half the army was in the field, patrolling the desert outside Khurinost. The rest were astonished when she staggered in amongst them, wan and bleeding. They settled her on a stool and put a clay cup of raisin wine in her hand. An elf knelt by her and began to dress her sword cuts.

“The Khurs are plotting against us!” she declared, describing her narrow escape from assassins. She did not mention her attackers were Silvanesti; more important was the one who had hired them. “They killed Lord Morillon, tried to kill the Speaker, and they’ve tried to slay me twice!”

“What shall we do, Commander?” asked a Qualinesti veteran.

She opened her mouth to give orders, then closed it with a snap. She gulped sweet raisin wine then said, “I am no longer commander of the army. The Speaker has relieved me.”

Surprise did not rob them of their voices. Numerous warriors demanded to know why.

“I was told that my transgressions were these: I left my company in the field to fly to my husband’s side. I fought nomads who attacked me first.” She lifted her head and stared at the elves around her. “I who have fought with all my strength to save the elven race from destruction! I continue to fight! If you’ll follow me, we can save our people!”

Her appeal met with a mixed reaction. The warriors of long service, whether Silvanesti or Qualinesti, found the idea of flouting the Speaker’s authority deeply troubling. Others, younger fighters who’d known no other leader than the Lioness, were not so hesitant. Two stood, then six, then ten, vowing to follow the Lioness wherever she led. In moments, nearly half the warriors present had declared for her.

It was to the rest that she addressed herself. “I know you wish to keep faith with the Speaker. That is your choice. But know this: He is consumed by a dream to transplant the elven nation to a hidden valley in the Khalkist Mountains, the place from which I have just returned. I tell you now, that valley is no place for us. It is rife with strange magic, which cost our band a dozen warriors. And there is no game; no deer, no rabbits, not even insects or birds live in the valley.”

She paused to watch the elf work on her hand, then added, “There’s only one true home for us, the home in which we were born! I swear I will dedicate my life to freeing those homes from the foreign oppressors who hold them now. The Speaker”—she swallowed hard—“has given the homeland up. He thinks we can live happily in a tiny foreign valley, kept safe only by the good graces of the Khan of Khur and our neighbors beyond the mountains, the Knights of Neraka!”

Her stirring, heartfelt speech moved many of the holdouts to declare for her, but a number of warriors still remained silent. They stood and made to leave the warriors’ communal tent. A few younger elves moved to stop them, but Kerian waved them off.

“Let them go,” she said. “They’re honorable warriors. They must follow their own hearts.”

“They’ll go to the Speaker!” one of her supporters pro

“They should. He needs to know where we stand.”

The officers dispersed to rouse their sleeping troops. Even should some of the troops switch sides, Kerian reckoned she would have seven to eight thousand elves pledged to her. That would give Gilthas pause. It was one thing to consider arresting a few malcontents, quite another to restrain eight thousand seasoned warriors.

By the time Kerian’s loyalists assembled on the north side of Khurinost dawn was breaking. A column of riders appeared from the south, heading straight for them. This was the night patrol led by Taranath. He’d mistaken Kerian’s band for his morning relief.

As economically as she could, Kerian explained she had broken with Gilthas. She didn’t try to minimize her own failings, but laid out the whole tale.

Taranath listened in silence and when she was done said, “This is the wrong course, Commander. You’re splitting the army, and a divided host is a weakened host.”

The most ardent among her supporters began to shout challenges at Taranath, demanding to know whether he believed it was their destiny to regain their lost lands.

Before he could answer, a third column of riders emerged from Khurinost and rode steadily toward them. At their head was old Hamaramis, in full martial splendor. With him were the officers who had first declined to stand with Kerian.

When Hamaramis drew near he called, “Lady, give over your sword to me at once! Those are the Speaker’s orders!”

His use of her title rather than her rank caused her to flinch slightly. Some of the older elves tended to prefer her title as a matter of course, but the difference had taken on a new significance now that Gilthas had dismissed her.

Recovering, she smiled a dark and dangerous smile. “If the Speaker wants my sword, he’ll have to ask for it in person.”

“Please don’t provoke a fight, lady,” Taranath pleaded quietly.

“Then don’t fight me, Taran. Join me.”

The sky above was still cloudy, but a narrow band of clear air lay on the eastern horizon. The disk of the rising sun shone through that clear band, flooding the desert with roseate light. The brilliance only made the clouds appear even darker by contrast.

“What will it be?” she asked. “Our swords together, hilt to hilt, or opposed, point to point?”

An elf in Taranath’s company interrupted, drawing their attention to the city. The battlements of Khuri-Khan bristled with signal flags. Even as the elves turned to look, the deep blat of rams’ horns rang out from the city, sounding a general alarm.

“The Khurs think we’re going to attack!” growled Hamaramis.

“And so we should,” Kerian retorted. “Take the city. Make it the base from which our campaign begins!”

The old general, twice her age, stared at her from under his dented, gilded helmet. “You’ve gone mad, lady,” he said soberly. “Utterly mad.”

The conclave was interrupted again. A trio of elven scouts came galloping across the western desert, bent low over their racing steeds. Before they reached the mass of cavalry, one rider slid from his horse. His back bristled with arrows. The other two kept coming.

They rode straight into the center of the three forces gathered on the slight rise west of Khuri-Khan. Somewhat confused by the presence of three senior commanders, they saluted the Lioness.

“Commander! An army of nomads approaches!”

Hamaramis was all set to inform them that he, not the Lioness, was in command, but their news drove the words from his lips. Consternation was general and loud. Only the Lioness seemed unfazed.

“How many, and where?” she snapped.

Some ten thousand nomads were approaching from the west, one scout reported. They were no more than six miles away.

Recollecting himself, Hamaramis called for couriers. One he sent to carry the news to the Speaker. Three others were to ride through Khurinost, alerting the people in general.

“What are the people to do then?” Kerian demanded. Her horse began to prance, sensing her agitation. “Follow me, and we’ll stop the nomads before they reach the tents!”

“They may not be hostile,” said Hamaramis, though even he did not believe this. The last time so great a concentration of nomads had assembled in Khur was to aid Salah-Khan against the hordes of Malys. Khurish tribes didn’t congregate in such numbers for any purpose but war.

From the ranks of Hamaramis’s escort emerged Hytanthas Ambrodel. The captain was still bandaged from his encounters with the manticore and sand beast.

“Commander, shall I fetch Eagle Eye?” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the ceaseless bleating of the horns in Khuri-Khan.

“No time for that.” Kerian looked west, from whence ten thousands nomads approached. “Just cut his tether,” she added. “He’ll seek me out.”

He hurried away as she wrenched her horse around. “General Hamaramis, an enemy is near. You can arrest me later. Right now we have a battle to fight.”

She spurred forward, with her loyalists streaming after her. Without being ordered, the elves from the night patrol behind Taranath broke ranks and followed as well. Hamaramis’s two hundred warriors stirred, anxious to join their comrades. Some called for permission to ride after the Lioness.

Hamaramis said, “The Speaker of the Sun and Stars earnestly wishes to avoid war. Those are his orders. I obey my Speaker.”

Turning his horse, Hamaramis started back down the low dune for Khurinost, now alive with alarm. The first two rows of his warriors followed him, but the rest remained rooted where they were, dividing desperate glances between the disappearing Lioness and their valiant old leader. Someone finally snapped reins with a loud crack and bolted after the Lioness. Most others joined in, leaving Taranath, Hamaramis, and a couple dozen or so riders behind.

Dawn’s light washed Taranath’s agonized expression. “I want to go, too,” he whispered.

“So do I.” Hamaramis unbuckled his helmet and pried it off. Barely sunup, and already he was sweating. “But being a soldier means more than lusting for battle. It means you obey the orders of your lawful superiors. If you don’t, you’re no more than a barbarian.”

He replaced his helmet. Proudly, the old warrior returned to his Speaker. With him went fourteen warriors. General Taranath fought his conscience for a few seconds more, then rode off with a handful of others to join the Lioness. For today, he was a barbarian.

From a ridge northwest of the city, Adala scrutinized Khuri-Khan. By the muted light of the cloudy new day, the place was little more than a brown smudge above the desert sands, but it was the first true city she’d ever seen. For days in advance of her arrival she’d sent spies into Khuri-Khan to learn what Sahim-Khan and the laddad were doing. The news they brought was very troubling. The laddad came and went as they pleased, while the Khan’s soldiers had violated the Temple of Torghan and arrested his holy priests. The holy ones were being blamed for an attack upon two laddad, an attack most likely done by thieves or beggars. To the chiefs and warmasters gathered with Adala it sounded as though the foreigners had Sahim-Khan doing their bidding.

“What shall we do, Weyadan?” asked Hagath, chief of the Mikku.

In the still air, the bearded men were sweating profusely. Even lifelong desert-dwellers needed a breeze. Adala gathered the long braid of her hair and pulled it forward over her shoulder. This helped cool her neck only a little.

“I will speak to the khan of the laddad,” she announced.

The men were shocked. What purpose could there be in talking to the foreign invaders?

“Their necks are on the block. If the laddad swear to leave our homeland, I would let them go.”

“What about the massacre of our parents, wives, and children?” cried Bindas.

With her eyebrows and eyelashes singed off, Adala’s face looked stark and fearless. “The guilty will not escape. Their lives are part of our price. If the laddad khan gives over the killers of our people, then his nation may depart in peace, but they must go out from Khur!”

Bindas asked who should go with her to meet the elves. Adala proposed they all go. She felt it would be best for the chiefs and warmasters of the tribes to hear what the foreigners said, and how she answered them.

The party rode out, flanked by riders carrying spears with inverted water jugs on their points, the traditional nomad symbol of truce. At Adala’s command the men kept their swords sheathed and bows unstrung. She herself went unarmed, as always.

During their discussions, thunder had rumbled. As they crested a long ridge, a fork of lightning flashed directly over Adala’s party, and thunder cracked immediately. The horses shied, but the anxious horde of nomads let out a cheer. Those on High were signifying their favor again! Anyone could see it. The fire from on high followed the Weyadan and did not harm her.

A small patrol of elven cavalry saw the party of nomads come trotting out of the desert. The patrol had not yet heard of the nomad horde’s approach, but they were wary of the small band in front of them. One of the elves recognized the truce sign and explained to his captain the meaning of the upside-down pots on the escorts’ spears.

“Send a message to Lord Planchet,” the captain said calmly. “Tell him some nomads are paying us a friendly visit.” He turned to the courier. “Emphasize friendly.”

The sun had risen beyond the clear air on the eastern horizon and was once more sheathed in clouds. The courier galloped in and out of uncharacteristic sprinkles of rain. By the time they entered Khurinost, horse and rider were trailing wisps of steam.

The Speaker and his closest advisors were assembled in the circular audience hail in his repaired tent. One by one various couriers relayed their news. Word of Kerianseray’s revolt set the councilors humming. When this was paired with notice of the arrival often thousand nomads, the conversation grew heated indeed. Gilthas had sent orders for Kerian to halt her advance on the nomads and return to Khurinost, but he had no confidence she would heed his command.

The sodden courier delivered his news, that nomad leaders wished to meet with the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, and that they carried the nomad symbol for a friendly parley.

With that, the room fell still. Gilthas said, “I will meet them.”

“Great Speaker, no!” Planchet burst out. “It’s not wise or safe. Let me go in your stead.” Healed of his fever and wound, the Speaker still was weak and found it difficult to walk or stand for extended periods. Seeing the leader of the elves in such a state might embolden the nomads.

Reluctantly, Gilthas was forced to agree with his old friend’s assessment.

There was no time to organize an awe-inspiring procession of elven strength. From his days in masquerade, Hytanthas Ambrodel had learned enough about the nomads to tell the Speaker they would not respect Planchet if he showed up alone or in too ragged a fashion. So a fine white horse was secured for the Speaker’s valet. With a retinue that included a hundred mounted warriors and Captain Ambrodel, Planchet rode out of Khurinost. First, he must head off the Lioness. The parley would be pointless if she launched an attack.

He found her leading eighteen thousand warriors, over half the elven army, along the ridge northwest of Khuri-Khan. Her headlong charge had slowed to a walk as her well-honed tactical sense took over. She’d sent out numerous scouts, and was awaiting their return when Planchet’s delegation overtook her.

“Lady, in the name of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, I command you to return to Khurinost with all your riders!” Planchet said.

“I answer to a higher power than the Speaker now,” she replied, reining up. “The elven people.”

“The nomads have asked for a parley. Are you so bent on war you won’t let me talk to them?”

She shrugged. “Talk all you want, it won’t change a thing. The Khurs want our blood.”

Time was short. Amid echoing thunder, Planchet put his white horse next to Kerian’s bay.

“Stay your hand, lady,” he urged. “For one hour, I beg of you.”

Like the ardent young officers at her back, he held his breath. He could watch the thoughts progress across her face, like the play of sun and shadows on the desert sands. Despite the shared years that lay between them, he had no certainty she would give him the time he needed.

At last, she nodded. “For an old friend, one hour. Less, if the nomads move against Khurinost.”

Planchet nodded and dug in his spurs. His entourage bolted down the dune after him. Relief at the Lioness’s agreement quickly faded, swallowed by new worry. The valet felt like an impostor. For all his gifts, he did not have the regal bearing or poise that came naturally to his liege. His physique was long, but slightly stooped, his hair bleached dead white by the Khurish sun. He was no one’s idea of a king—or khan, for that matter.

The chiefs of the nomads heard the horn blasts and saw dust trails rising into the leaden sky.

Adala was bent forward on Little Thorn’s back, hands busily working. Wapah saw she had a small rattan basket. The binding on the rim had become frayed, and she was replacing it with a fresh strand of grass.

“The khan of the laddad,” Wapah whispered. She nodded.

“I will be done before he arrives.”

As the elves drew closer, the nomad chiefs and warmasters sat up straighter on their sturdy ponies. The elves were mounted on long-legged horses, making them seem taller. Seated as she was on her faithful donkey, Adala was the lowest person in the entire group. She was also, as always, the only woman present, She gave no sign of noticing any of this. Instead, she finished her repair of the basket, working the ends of the new rim into place, then hung the container from the short horn on her saddle.

The elf on the white horse leading the others stopped. Looking up and down the line of nomad chiefs, he announced, “I am Planchet, councilor to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, monarch of all the elves.”

Mild surprise rippled through the human assembly. He had spoken in Khur.

Adala seemed unimpressed. She replied in the Common tongue, “I am Adala Fahim, Saran di Kyre, Weyadan of the Weya-Lu, and keeper of the maita. I would speak to your khan.”

Now the elves were caught off guard. Planchet regarded the black-draped, motherly woman with surprise. Clearly, he had expected to be dealing with one of the fierce-looking men. “Our Speaker is engaged. I represent him,” he said.

“And I speak for the Weya-Lu, the Mikku, the Tondoon, and the Mayakhur.”

“You are the leader of all those tribes?”

“In this cause, by the will of Those on High, I am.”

“I am honored to meet you. How shall I address you?”

“She is Weyadan or Maita,” Wapah offered. Some of the chiefs glowered at him for speaking out of turn.

Planchet recognized the second word as meaning something like “destiny” or “luck.” He chose the other, less emotional, title. “I am honored to meet you, Weyadan. There are many swords here today. How can we keep them in their scabbards?”

“Many transgressions have been committed against our people by the laddad. I tell you only two: You are foreigners, and you are invaders.”

“We have the permission of Sahim-Khan to dwell in his country,” Planchet countered.

“Sahim-Khan will answer to Those on High for his venality.”

“So shall we all, Weyadan.”

Adala’s dark eyes hardened. “You send spies to measure our land. You have entered a valley sacred to Those on High. This is sacrilege.”

“Our Speaker meant no blasphemy,” Planchet replied evenly. “We need a place to live where the climate is not so harsh. He heard the Valley of the Blue Sands was such a place. We had never heard it was sacred. We thought only that there we would be out of your desert and away from your cities. Desecration was not our intention.”

A snort of disbelief came from one of the younger warmasters. The chiefs around him, although plainly just as skeptical, glowered at him for his breech of manners.

Adala never took her eyes from Planchet. “What’s done is done, and you must answer for it.”

“We must dwell some place, Weyadan. It is the right of every living being to have a home.”

“You had homes and lost them. The gods have turned their backs on you, laddad.”

From his place behind Planchet, Hytanthas listened to the exchange with growing annoyance. He had expected the nomads’ leader to be a simple, uncouth fanatic. This woman was neither. There was strength in her, strength even the young Qualinesti recognized, but while Planchet was mindful of the diplomatic niceties, she persisted in hurling insults and epithets.

Planchet tried to reason around Adala, saying dark forces had conspired to deprive the elves of their homelands and they sought only to take their fate in their own hands and find a new sanctuary. If some customs of the desert folk had been transgressed, he regretted it, but the survival of the elven race required bold measures.

“What of the customs of war?” Adala asked, her entire demeanor suddenly eloquent of barely suppressed fury. “The custom that one does not murder wives and mothers, children and the aged, those who cannot fight!”

The tenor of the meeting changed instantly. Hatred emanated from the nomads, like the heat of the desert. Planchet was taken aback. After the Lioness’s ill-conceived but undeniably dramatic gesture with the dead sand beast, he’d put the rumored massacre out of his mind. Like the city-dwelling Khurs, the elves now believed that if the deaths had happened, they were the work of a wild beast.

Unfortunately, the nomads knew nothing about that or about the possible involvement of the rogue Faeterus. They still blamed the Lioness’s troops for the deaths of their families.

Hoping her answer would help him formulate a response, Planchet asked Adala to explain her accusations.

“Hundreds of Weya-Lu were murdered near the entrance to the Valley of the Blue Sands. No warriors were present, only children, women, old people; yet every one was cruelly slain. Not simply put to the sword, but ripped to pieces, then set afire!”

“Why do you think we are responsible?” he asked.

“We found tracks of laddad horses, of a laddad army, nearby. The Khan’s soldiers were in the city, and no foreign soldiers have come over the mountains since the red beast perished. The only killers in the area were the laddad army and its female warmaster!”

Hytanthas could remain silent no longer. Before Planchet could speak, the younger elf burst out, “General Kerianseray didn’t slaughter anyone! It was a sand beast controlled by the will of an evil sorcerer! It nearly killed me, too!”

His outburst provoked the nomads. The younger warmasters actually drew swords. Planchet, alarmed, raised a placating hand. At his back, he heard the concerted creak of a hundred elven bows being drawn, all because of this simple gesture. If his arm fell, the nomads would die.

“Stay your hands!” Planchet said sharply, realizing his error.

Adala spoke with equal harshness to her nomads. Swords were grudgingly sheathed. Bowstrings relaxed. Adala’s gaze skewered Hytanthas.

“The Speaker’s woman led the laddad in the desert,” she said. “That I know. Who is this sorcerer you speak of?”

At Planchet’s nod, Hytanthas told her what they had learned of Faeterus, that he was in the Khan’s pay, was perhaps an elf, but certainly a criminal, and had caused the massacre with one of his nefarious creatures.

The nomad delegation muttered among themselves. Adala appeared to weigh something in her mind, found an answer, then folded her hands across her donkey’s neck.

“Very well. Planchet of the laddad, tell your Speaker this: Those on High teach us mercy is the gift of the strong, so I grant you mercy. You may go in peace.”

The elven warriors were astonished, Planchet less so. “Go where, Weyadan?” he asked.

“Anywhere beyond the borders of Khur.”

“And if we refuse?”

Eye to eye, Adala stared at her opponent. In her black matron’s robes, the Weya-Lu woman did not look much like the loyal bodyguard of the elven Speaker, but inside, their hearts were made of the same stern stuff. Both knew it.

“Then there will be war. Terrible war, with no conclusion but annihilation.”

Adala’s words sent a chill through everyone present. An instant later, a cold breeze swept over the dunes, carrying heavy droplets of rain and more than a little sand.

Members of both delegations were shifting on their mounts, eyeing each other, muttering to their comrades. Planchet did not move. He kept his attention on the Weyadan. She had not moved either, and something told him she was not done yet. He was right.

“In exchange for this mercy,” she said, “you must give us the slayers of our families, both of them. We will do them justice.”

At that Hytanthas jostled forward. Planchet snagged his reins, stopping him well short of the nomads, but Bilath, Bindas, and Hagath of the Mikku interposed themselves between their leader and the furious young elf.

“Our commander is not a murderer!” Hytanthas shouted. “As for the mage, we want him too. You cannot charge his crimes to us! Savages! You’re the ones who murdered Lord Morillon, aren’t you? What mercy did you show him? He was left to rot in the desert with his throat slashed!”

“Be silent!” Planchet cried in as great a voice as anyone had ever heard him use. “Go back to camp! Now!”

Snatching his reins free, Hytanthas galloped back through the lines of the escort. He did not return to the city as ordered, but galloped directly over the intervening sand hills to where the Lioness was poised with her army. Only his wound had kept him from joining her in the first place; not even that would stop him now.

Adala looked to the dark sky. Would her maita come forth again? Would the fire from on high strike down the laddad? Or would the sun break free of its shroud and shine on her, highlighting her righteous cause?

Neither happened. Instead, a squall of tepid rain lashed the motionless parties. Adala drew her veil close around her face and pointed an accusing finger at Planchet.

“It is on your head!” she intoned. “The choice of life or death, war or peace, is yours. Give over the Speaker’s woman and the laddad sorcerer. You have until the next sunrise. Ever after, we are enemies!”

He made no reply, only sat stiffly in the saddle as the rain poured down. Adala turned Little Thorn’s head and trotted away. Her warmasters and chiefs filed behind her, watching the elves warily for signs of treachery.

Rain fell harder. Finally, Planchet tilted his head back, to let the rain wash down his sorrowful face.

“Save us all from true believers,” he muttered.

Sahim-Khan strode briskly through the corridors of his citadel while horns blasted outside. Every living soul in the Khuri yl Nor was in motion, running hither and yon, carrying arms or foodstuffs or valuables deeper into the fortress. Sahim parted the chaos as he went. Even in their terror of a nomad attack, servants moved nimbly out of his way. In the citadel courtyard, he found General Hakkam and Prince Shobbat.

“Why are the nomads here?” Sahim demanded.

Hakkam said, “We don’t know, Mighty Khan. The city gates have been shut, and the garrison mustered on the walls.”

Shobbat put a soft fist to his lips and coughed discreetly. His father roughly bade him speak up.

“Mighty Khan, the nomads obviously have come to make war on the laddad. Perhaps the Torghanists stirred them up.” Shobbat paused, assuming a thoughtful air. “The laddad Speaker sent an armed company to the Khalkist Mountains on a mysterious errand. They violated Weya-Lu territory, and it’s said they massacred two thousand women and children in their beds.”

The Khan snorted. “A lie. Only two hundred were killed, and it appears a sand beast committed that crime.” He turned to his general. “Hakkam, how many riders can you field?”

“Five thousand on short notice, Mighty Khan. More, given time.”

“Gather your troops. You are to drive the nomads back into the desert. How dare they bear arms before my city! When I’m done with them, they’ll think the sand beast a gentle pet!”

Hakkam bowed and was about to go when Shobbat laid a hand on his father’s arm, saying, “Wait, Mighty Khan!” Hakkam paused, and Sahim looked at his son as if he’d lost his mind. Shobbat released him, adding quickly, “Sire, don’t be too hasty! Perhaps this dire situation can yield a great harvest for Khur! Let the fight go forward. Whoever wins, Khur will be a better place for the loser’s absence.”

Sahim made a fist and knocked his son to the ground with a single blow.

“Idiot! Dolt! Fool! What are you thinking? I have given the laddad my protection! How strong will our neighbors think me if I allow the elves to be destroyed beneath the very walls of my capital, by those I am supposed to rule?”

When Shobbat was felled, activity in the courtyard and in the gatehouse ceased. Everyone halted to stare at the prince, sitting on the ground, his lips bleeding, his scarlet-clad father standing Over him like an avenging demon. The powerful voice of Sahim-Khan filled the courtyard.

“And Consider this, wastrel! If the nomads lose, more will come to avenge them. If the laddad lose, there will be no one left to pay for our repairs and your pleasures!”

Goaded beyond reason, the Khan drove the toe of his slippered foot into Shobbat’s ribs. “Don’t presume to offer guidance to me again! Get out of my sight!”

Doubled over in real pain, Shobbat got to his feet and slunk away. No one, not Sahim or Hakkam or those in the Courtyard, saw the strange look of triumph that passed quickly over his face.

“Go, General! Take your soldiers and drive the nomads back into the wastes!”

“At once, Mighty Khan!”

Sahim was still shaking with fury when he stalked into his private rooms. His son’s foolish words had given him an outlet for his fears but hadn’t erased them from his mind. His worry over the sudden appearance of the desert tribes so disturbed him that he didn’t notice the figure standing by the wall in the seam of two great hanging tapestries. Only when it spoke did he whirl drawing the short sword concealed in his flowing robes. When he saw who accosted him, he uttered several choice curses.

“Such language!” said his visitor. “And from a king!”

“I’m in no mood for your tricks, Keth,” Sahim said testily. He tossed his sword onto a tiled tabletop and ran fingers through his beard.

Keth-Amesh was a distant cousin, a member of the same tribe as Sahim, and his private woman-of-all-work. While he dropped heavily into a chair, Keth poured herself a cup of his best wine. She lowered the dust veil from her face to drink. Long ago she’d lost an eye, and wore a tan leather patch over the empty socket. Her skin was tawny brown, like that of many nomads, but she had fair hair, wisps of which escaped from her headdress. She was a so-called ‘Yellow Khur,’ from the coastal lands of the extreme eastern part of Sahim’s realm.

“I found the mage, but not the priest,” she reported. She drained her cup then refilled it.

Sahim had set her to find Faeterus and Minok when his legion of soldiers, informers, and spies failed in that task.

“Where is he?”

“Below,” she answered, tapping a foot on the stone floor. She meant the system of caverns, natural and man-made, under the city. They had been enlarged by Sahim’s grandfather for use as cisterns, but the water proved brackish and undrinkable. The empty, noisome caverns were a perfect retreat for the hunted Faeterus.

“If you know where he is, go get him.”

Keth shook her head. “There’s not enough money in the world to get me down there.” When he said he would order her to go, she did something no one else in Khuri-Khan would dare do: She laughed at him. “I’m not one of your soldiers. You can’t order me anywhere.”

Sahim changed tack. “What of Minok?”

“No trace at all. He must be dead.”

“You haven’t earned your pay,” Sahim told her sourly. “I hired you to find both and bring them to me!”

She tossed a heavy purse on the rug at his feet. “Your money. Farewell, cousin. Call me again if you need anything—if you’re still khan, that is.”

Replacing her veil, she went back to the secret door behind the tapestry. Sahim called for her to wait, and she paused, one sinewy hand on the fringed tapestry.

“How can I get to the mage? I can’t leave him down there, hatching plots unhindered,” he said.

“You know assassins. Send some.”

Sahim’s laugh was bitter. “Cutthroats will never take Faeterus’s measure. I need someone better.”

Keth lowered her dust veil again. “There is a man, or rather, not a man. A laddad bounty hunter called Robien. I worked with him once.”

“Well, bring him to me, right away!”

“You’ll find him hard to work with.”

“Why? Is he a drunkard?”

“Worse.” She grinned. “He’s honest and true. Not like you at all.”

Tired of her insolence, he snapped, “Just get him! I’ll overlook his honesty if he can bring Faeterus before me.”

She bowed and went out the hidden door.

Sahim listened to the horns still blowing outside. The whole palace was quivering with marching soldiers and scurrying servants.

Damn all the foreigners! he fumed. They’re as bad as those desert savages.

While the Khan was surrounded by boiling excitement, the Speaker sat alone in his silent tent. Planchet and Hamaramis were out tending to his business. The servants had been given leave to be with their families.

Gilthas had never felt so alone. In all the years of separation from Kerianseray, while she lived and fought in the greenwood and he played the Puppet King in Qualinost, he always had felt close to her. They shared a connection that went beyond love, beyond proximity. During the terrible march into exile, they were apart for weeks at a time, each knowing the other might be killed at any moment, but still they had been connected. Now she was gone, in every sense of the word. Gone from his house, gone from his city, gone from his life.

He knew he had done his duty by removing her. She had no vision, no understanding of the delicate, dangerous path they must tread if their race was to survive. Her way would lead to total destruction. Yet duty was small comfort to him.

It was a good thing to be alone. No one should see the Speaker of the Sun and Stars weep.

Hytanthas brought the Lioness the news from the parley. The nomads were demanding her and the sorcerer Faeterus as their price for peace. The assembled warriors greeted this broadside with shouts of derision.

“Sounds like a good bargain,” Kerian remarked.

“Commander!” Hytanthas cried.

She stared out over the rolling dunes and at the dust raised by the nomad host on the move. A great deal of dust, from a great many horses. “It would be a fair bargain,” she said, “if they meant it.”

Unfortunately, she was certain they did not mean it. Nomads wouldn’t have come all this way just to avenge the camp massacre. That was nothing more than a convenient excuse, a wedge to pry apart the elves and Sahim-Khan. The nomads had no intention of giving up everything for the heads of two elves. They were on a mission to destroy every elf in Khur.

Still, it sparked an idea. She was confident her warriors could defeat the nomad host, but the war thus started wouldn’t end with this single battle. More and more tribesmen would join the fight, until the elves found themselves swamped by fanatics. Her dreams of retaking the elven homelands would founder beneath a horde of unshod hooves.

She studied the officers clustered around her horse. The longest serving among them was a Qualinesti named Ramacanalas. “Take command, Ramac,” she said. “I’m going to the nomads.”

Shouts erupted, and Hytanthas seized her horse’s bridle to keep her from riding away. She broke his grip and silenced them all with a hard-eyed glare.

“I’m going. Remain here. If the nomads move toward Khurinost, hit them as hard as you can with everything we’ve got.”

“They’ll kill you!” Hytanthas exclaimed.

The Lioness favored him with an ironic smile. “Not today.”