Sanctuary

Chapter 3

The Khuri yl Nor was a conglomeration of halls, corridors, and antechambers, all grouped around a central citadel, the great keep known as the Nor-Khan. As much a defensive position as the residence of the Khan, the Nor-Khan boasted thick walls of stone and brick, a massive roof, and absolutely no windows. The interior was always dark and cool, no matter the time of day.

The low light couldn’t hide the magnificence of the Sapphire Throne of Khur. Torchlight only seemed to enhance its beauty. The six-foot-tall chair rested on a wide dais at one end of the throne room. Constructed of wood and covered with hammered gold, the throne was one of the few treasures successfully hidden from Malys and her minions. Its fan-shaped backrest contained two perfect star sapphires, the so-called Eyes of Kargath, the Khurish god of war. The flames of torches, reflecting in the gems, imparted an eerie appearance of life to them.

The Khan of All the Khurs, Sahim Zacca-Khur, was sitting in his impressive throne. He was richly attired in a trailing robe of sea-green silk slashed at the cuffs and hem with stripes of darker jade. Although he was past middle age, his black beard carried no hint of gray in its thick curls. Both chin and nose were proudly outthrust, like the prow of a ship. Heavy gold rings hung from his earlobes. On his head he wore the crown of Khur—a ten-inch-tall conical hat of stiff, red leather, its lower edge decorated by a band of hammered gold.

The Khan was staring pensively at the eleven men arrayed before him. The men were his geel-khana. Khuri-Khan was divided into eleven precincts, known as geel. Each had a commander of the guard, a geel-khana. Despite the moderate temperature of the room, they were sweating heavily.

After allowing the silence to lengthen sufficiently, Sahim-Khan finally spoke. His tone was calmly conversational; the expression in his dark eyes was anything but.

“Each day you report the streets of my city are calm. Yet the laddad queen was attacked by assassins at the doorway of one of our holiest temples. Who were the attackers?”

The eldest guard captain, like the Khan a member of the Khur tribe, replied, “Mighty One, they were followers of Torghan’

“From here in the city?” Sahim’s voice rose. “No, Great Khan. The two who were slain were nomads.”

The Khan grunted. At least the assassins who’d dared test his sovereignty were not locals. Nomads were another matter. None could say what desert wanderers might do.

“The laddad have my permission to be here, and they have the privilege of my protection. Why were they attacked?”

“Mighty One, we have been told”—the captain laid heavy emphasis on the last word, so his lord would know this opinion was not his own—“that the Sons of the Crimson Vulture were driven to madness by the sight of so many foreigners in our city.”

“It is I who decides who is welcome in Khuri-Khan. Only I!” Sahim declared coldly.

He stood and began pacing slowly across the dais. Even through the thick carpet and with his heavy scarlet slippers, he could feel the ruts in the stone, claw marks left by the great dragon. Rather than upsetting, Sahim found the sensation comforting. The formidable beast Malys was gone, and he, Sahim Zacca-Khur, stood in the monster’s place.

Torchlight sent his distorted shadow rippling across the tapestries decorating the thick walls of the keep. The light also glittered on the design embroidered on his robe: two rampant golden dragons, the emblem of his line, faced each other across Sahim-Khan’s broad chest. The design rose and fell as he halted, breathing deeply, pondering in silence. This worried his underlings. A shouting Khan was expending his bile. A silent Khan was hoarding it for a future explosion.

At last he spoke, his voice so low they could barely hear it, even though they were straining to catch every nuance.

“I shall have to apologize to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Can any of you imagine how likely I am to enjoy that?” Faces blanched, but no one spoke, and he bellowed, “Can you—”

“I see no need for you to apologize to anyone.”

All eyes, including the Khan’s, turned to the man who had spoken. Below the dais, on Sahim’s left, was a tall, powerfully built man in foreign dress. He sat in a high-backed, western-style chair, the only person in the room, other than Sahim himself, allowed to sit. His face was clean shaven, his skin dark. His voice resembled the bellow of a bull, even in calm discourse.

“Lord Hengriff speaks truly,” the eldest guardsman said quickly. “The Mighty Khan need not stoop to apologize to the laddad.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Hengriff stood, letting his imposing bulk impress itself on the more numerous but shorter Khurs. His obsidian gaze briefly swept the assembly before fixing on Sahim. “Tell the elves their protection is an increasingly heavy drain on the royal coffers. Instead of apologizing, raise the fee you charge them for the right to remain here. Turn this misfortune into a fortune, Mighty One.”

For the first time that day, Sahim-Khan smiled, a slow grin of delight. “You’re a crafty rogue, my lord. Are you sure you aren’t some part Khurish?”

No answering smile came to Hengriff’s face. He merely sat down again, the heavy chair creaking under his weight.

Sahim ordered the high priest of the Temple of Torghan brought before him. Soldiers had already collected him, and soon he stood before his khan. A sharp-faced former nomad named Minok, the priest, like most Khurish clergy, was beardless and kept his hair cropped close to his scalp. Ritual tattoos were visible at the wrists and neck of his plain cotton geb. Alone among all the Khurs in the room, Minok showed no fear of Sahim-Khan. He made proper obeisance to his liege, but looked Sahim in the eye when he spoke and did not waver when the Khan denounced the devotees of the god for their attack on the elf queen.

“Men of the desert have noble souls, Great Khan,” Minok said proudly. “It is too much to expect them to look the other way while foreigners multiply and flourish in our land. Give the word, Great Khan, and the Sons of the Crimson Vulture will sweep the laddad contagion from all of Khur!”

Sahim-Khan appeared to weigh this proposal with due care. Intimates of the palace knew better. The priesthoods commanded the loyalty of thousands, but Minok’s followers had embarrassed the Khan. Whether or not he extorted a greater fee from the Speaker, Sahim did not take kindly to any challenge to his authority. Servants and guards in the throne room began quietly to wager on how long the priest of Torghan would live.

“Your patriotism and piety do you credit, holy one,” Sahim said at last. “I will consider what you have said. In the meantime, it is the will of your khan that the laddad not be molested. Restrain your devotees, priest, or I will. Is that clear?”

All Minok could do was agree to the order. He was surrounded by the Khan’s partisans. Sahim dismissed him, and the proud priest backed out of the room, bowing as he went. Once he disappeared through the double doors, Sahim nodded to soldiers waiting by the exit. They slipped out. Coins surreptitiously changed hands throughout the room. The priest of Torghan had even less time than most had thought.

Sahim sent the geel-khana on their way, too. As they departed, he realized the usual crowd at court was short by one—his eldest son, Shobbat, was not present. Curiously, this pleased Sahim. The heir to the throne of Khur was not known for offering sage counsel to his father (not that his father would have accepted any), so Sahim had placed him in charge of the repair work on the palace. He must be busy elsewhere in the sprawling, half-ruined complex. This new diligence was refreshing. Sahim would make a khan out of his wastrel son yet.

When most of the audience had gone, Sahim addressed Hengriff. “What do your people make of this new agitation, my lord?”

“You said it yourself, Mighty Khan. Patriotism and piety. The people of Khur tire of the elven pestilence.”

Sahim shrugged. “A few fanatics. They will obey my decrees, or suffer the consequences.

“Hatred of the elves will spread, Great One. Mark my words.”

Sahim had no doubt of that. He knew the Nerakan greased palms all over Khuri-Khan, buying goodwill for his Order and ill will for the elves. Slyly, he asked, “Should I loose Holy Minok and his followers then?”

Hengriff cleared his throat, the sound like a panther’s snarl. “The zealous, once unleashed, are difficult to rein in.”

His meaning was abundantly clear. If the Torghanists were allowed to rid Khur of the elves, they might not stop there. The Khan himself might not meet their standards of purity.

“Better you should expel them yourself, Great One,” the Knight added. “The land would resound with your name for having rid it of their haughty presence.”

Sahim thanked the Nerakan emissary for his insight.

Hengriff bowed low and departed, taking with him the trio of drably dressed men at his back. No amount of broadcloth or linen could disguise the breadth of their shoulders or the watchfulness in their eyes: playing the game as he did, Hengriff never went anywhere without bodyguards.

Weary of the demands of court, the Khan withdrew to a small side chamber. The milling crowd of supplicants, lackeys, and sycophants bowed as he left.

The room he entered was lit by a single oil lamp; otherwise, it was dark as a crypt. Sahim shrugged off his heavy court robes, letting them fall to the floor, and scratched his sides. His ribs had been itching for an hour, but he could hardly sit on the throne of Khur and scratch like a mongrel dog. With more care he removed the crown of Khur and set it on a table, then applied his fingernails to his itching head.

As he poured himself a libation from an urn, something stirred in the room’s darkest corner. Sahim didn’t bother to look up. That distinctive, vaguely unpleasant odor could belong to only one person.

“Come forward. Don’t skulk in the corner like a rat,” he said, and drained his goblet.

A hunched figure limped toward the light. The figure was wrapped in a bulky brown robe whose deep hood hid its features completely. Long white fingers, the knuckles prominent showed briefly before they vanished into the copious sleeves. Sahim eyed the ragged robes and shook his head.

“Don’t you feel stifled in that garb, Faeterus?”

“On the contrary, Mighty One. I find it chilly here.” The voice was dry, hoarse, and whispery with extreme age. “I first came to Khur for its climate, you know.”

“And when was that, snow-for-blood?”

“Long before your time, Great Khan. Long before.”

Sahim snorted. Even he, born and bred to the climate, thought it oppressive. This shuffling mage had been his hireling for a year, and Sahim still found it absurd that anyone could bear to go about so heavily dressed.

He poured another draft of wine. “You heard the audience?” The ancient nodded, a rustling movement of the layered hood. “So, what say you to Lord Hengriff’s notion? Pretty justice, don’t you think?”

Faeterus shifted from side to side, as though his crippled legs pained him. “Justice and money cannot exist together, Great Khan. Better to let the Sons of the Crimson Vulture wash their hands in elven blood. When all the laddad are dead, you can claim their treasure without further ado.”

The golden goblet halted an inch from Sahim’s lips. His black brows lifted. “What? You propose I exterminate your own people, the most ancient race in the world?”

A rasping sound, either laugh or cough, issued from the depths of the hood. “They are not my people. I am a race of one.”

“Well, whatever you are, for now you’re mine, bought and paid for. And I have a task for you: find out who attacked the elf queen, and why. Whether it’s Minok and his Torghanists or Hengriff and Nerakan steel, I want to know.” He set down his empty cup. “Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, Mighty One.”

The wine had warmed Sahim’s blood. Even in his sleeveless shift, he found the chamber too hot, too close. The smell emanating from his hired sorcerer was stronger now, musty and sour like the odor of the city’s vast underground cistern where he lived. Sahim fought down a quick wave of nausea. A living body shouldn’t smell like that. Faeterus stank not of flesh, but of old bones slowly disintegrating.

There was a knock on the chamber door. The muffled voice of a court lackey called for permission to enter. Even as Sahim replied, Faeterus faded into the shadows again.

The lackey delivered his news and departed quickly, knowing the word he brought would not be welcome. Minok had managed to evade the guards.

Sahim stepped into the elaborate puddle of his court robes. As he began to dress, he realized Faeterus had gone.

The room had another door, opposite the one Sahim and the lackey had used, but it was always kept locked. Of course, such impediments meant nothing to Faeterus. Locked doors, thick walls, deep chasms—nothing hindered him. He went where he willed.

Perhaps he should give Faeterus the task of silencing Minok, Sahim reflected as he settled the crown upon his head again. They both seemed to possess a talent for disappearing into thin air.

A blare of brass comets heralded the arrival of the army of the elven nations. Although small advance parties had been in camp for a day, Lord Taranath and the main body now had been sighted. They were mustering at Khurinost’s western edge, where the Speaker waited to welcome them home. A mere shadow of the hosts that once defended Qualinost and guarded the glades of the Speaker of the Stars, the entire army comprised thirty thousand warriors, all mounted. They did not always fight on horseback, but the survival of this slender force depended on mobility; there was no place for slower infantry. The soldiers came from every branch of elven society, from lifelong warriors of Silvanesti’s House Protector to cunning Wilder elves from the forests of Qualinesti.

Dust-caked from their long, heartbreaking journey the column of mounted elves slowed to a halt when the lead riders spotted the delegation arrayed to greet them. The Speaker, flanked by the Lioness on his right and Lord Morillon Ambrodel on his left, stood at the head of a mixed band of Qualinesti and Silvanesti. Behind them were the eight buglers who contributed the fanfare. Everyone squinted against the terrific glare, despite the sunshade Planchet had erected over the group.

The army had adopted desert wear over armor; the rays of the sun could cook flesh inside metal in a few hours. Foremost of the warriors was an unusually tail elf wearing a Khurish sun hat. Reining up, he pulled off his gauntlets and hailed the Speaker.

“Greetings to you, Lord Taranath.” Gilthas extended a hand.

After clasping hands with his liege, the warrior looked beyond the Speaker to the Lioness. “General, I present the Army of the Elven Nations! You are once more in command,” he said.

“Well done, Taran,” she said warmly. “How was the journey up the coast?”

“Damned hot. And not only from the sun.”

“Casualties?”

“Twenty-nine killed. Forty-four wounded.”

“So many?” Gilthas asked. “To what cause?”

“The usual ones, sire: heat, thirst, dysentery, poisonous bites, and madness, all of which the desert provides in abundance. And one other travail.” Taranath looked grave. “From the Cape of Kenderseen we were dogged for two days by nomads, who sniped at us from the dunes. They were armed with crossbows.”

Desert tribesmen usually carried short recurved bows, lacking the materials and skill to make crossbows. Taranath’s news caused the Speaker’s entourage to shift and mutter among themselves.

“Where would nomads get crossbows?” asked Lord Morillon.

“You know where,” the Lioness hissed. “Neraka!”

“There’s no proof—”

“Give me three days and I’ll bring you the proof—nomads and their bows!” she snapped, interrupting the noble.

None doubted that any nomads the Lioness brought would be dead upon arrival. Although several councilors, including Morillon, were made uncomfortable by her martial fervor, others obviously were not.

Still, the blazing sands were no place to debate policy. Gilthas ended the discussion by saying, “General Taranath, your Speaker and your people welcome you home. Lady Kerianseray will see you later with new orders. Maintain your normal patrols. The rest of your warriors may stand down. Food and drink await all.”

Taranath saluted and signaled the column forward. With flankers and scouts on either side, the column extended a mile. It took some time for all the tired, discouraged warriors to file past him, but Gilthas remained where he was, welcoming every rider home. His gesture touched the warriors deeply. Though sweat began to stain his sky-blue robe, and the heavy circlet on his brow bore down hard on his matted hair, Gilthas never faltered, even when some around him swayed on their feet, dizzy from the heat. Each approaching warrior sat a little straighter and held his head a little higher when he saw the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, standing with great dignity to greet them.

His advisors chafed at the delay. Even the Lioness, proud though she was of her army, felt he was wasting precious time with this display. But not until the last blistered scout had entered the tent city did Gilthas depart. He turned and walked into the dust cloud raised by the passing riders. Kerian spoke again of the need to capture nomads, to obtain proof that their attacks were sponsored by Neraka. This rekindled the argument among Gilthas’s entourage.

“The situation is most delicate,” Morillon insisted. “We have the Khan’s permission to be here, but if we go about abusing his subjects, we could lose our last safe haven!”

“You’re the one who’s delicate!” The Lioness coughed against the spreading plume of grit. “Look what happened yesterday—my captain and I set upon in broad daylight! You call this place safe?”

“A few firebrands. Regrettable, certainly, but—”

Kerian whirled on him. “Regrettable! Zealots lust for our blood and you call it regrettable!”

“Calm yourselves” the Speaker said. He did not raise his voice, but it was a command nonetheless. “The best path lies somewhere between the two extremes. We must take care to keep Sahim-Khan friendly, or at least neutral, toward us, but we cannot allow our people to be sniped at and murdered piecemeal.” He halted at the edge of the hodgepodge of tents, adding, “We need alternatives, to this place and to the Khan’s sufferance.”

His glance at his wife was significant, reminding her of her upcoming mission, to conduct the archivist Favaronas and a small party of scholars to the Valley of the Blue Sands. Kerian was not altogether unhappy with the task. She still felt it nothing more than a kender’s errand, pointless and time-wasting, but at least she would be out doing something. Court life wore on her nerves; added to this now were the convoluted intrigues Gilthas found necessary to deal with the human khan. Better to broil in the desert wastes than languish in Khurinost, strangled by protocol and hamstrung by tortuous diplomacy. The journey at least would provide an opportunity for information gathering.

As the royal party moved through the narrow lanes, they passed tents with their flaps pinned back to admit any slight breezes. The wire-grass ceiling that covered the passage kept the sun’s broiling light at bay, yet the very closeness of the area served to stifle breath. Despite this discomfort, Gilthas’s steps slowed, awed anew by the ingenuity of his people.

Tents here had been turned over to workshops, where artisans used age-old skills to fashion metal and stone into objects not only useful but beautiful. Lacking large furnaces and forges, the elves were forced to buy raw materials in the city’s souks. Ingots of crude brass were hammered thin as parchment, to be formed into everything from graceful urns to tiny, delicate earrings. In one shop, bales of silver wire were tightly wound into the bracelets and torques of which Khurs were so fond. One emaciated elf, seated with legs splayed wide on a coarse jute rug, polished a basket of semiprecious stones with a grinding wheel. It was the lapidary’s ingenuity that caught the Speaker’s attention. His tent’s dim interior was brightened by sunlight, brought in by angled mirrors, and his wheel was attached to a small palm frond fan; as the elf toiled, the wheel’s energy also served to cool his brow.

When the Speaker halted, he and his party interrupted the light that fell upon the lapidary’s busy hands. The thin elf looked up, and when he saw his visitor, his lined face went slack in shock. He would’ve hurried to his feet, but the Speaker’s raised hand and gentle voice kept him seated. Gilthas moved closer, reaching into the basket of stones and lifting a particularly beautiful amethyst. The deep purple gem was an inch square, and faceted with undeniable skill, despite the crude tools the lapidary was forced to use.

He made to return the stone to the basket. The lapidary begged him to keep it. Gilthas would’ve declined, not wishing to decrease the fellow’s income, but Kerian whispered, “Take it, Gil. You’ll disappoint him otherwise.”

The old elf’s eyes shone with pride as his Speaker thanked him most kindly for the gift. Gilthas’s own eyes were suspiciously bright as he took his leave. Whenever he despaired of the task he faced, he would think of this poor, kind lapidary. What king dared fail such a people as these?

From outside the lapidary’s rude shelter, Lord Morillon’s prosaic voice ended the poignant interlude. “Before we came, the Khurs did not know how to facet a gem. Now, square-cut stones are popular in all the souks,” he said.

“Well, that makes the journey here worthwhile,” was Kerian’s acid reply.

Gilthas said nothing. Fingers clenched around the amethyst gem, he moved on.

The winding route took him past scores of tents. Some were scarcely larger than the bedroll of their single occupant; others encompassed corridors, and antechambers laid out in considerable complexity. Everyone was hard at work. There was no place for sloth in Khurinost. Every scrap of food and clothing, every mouthful of water, must be purchased from wily traders.

Again, where one elf—Gilthas this time—saw triumph over adversity and courage in the face of privation, another saw only heartbreak. The Lioness could hardly bear this slow progression through the tent city. The pain that welled within her heart as she looked upon her people’s plight was almost unendurable. Increasingly, she had been dealing with these strong emotions by growing angry. And of late, much of her anger was directed not only at her husband for not doing enough or at the invaders that had driven her people to these straits, but at herself at her failure to best the bull-men and to convince her husband to support another foray against them.

“What about the documents I brought back from the city?” she asked.

Her whisper was harsh, louder than Gilthas would’ve liked. With a lowering of his eyes, he directed her to speak more discreetly.

“Favaronas has had them all day. We dine with him tonight to hear what he has made of them.”

Gilthas saw that Lord Morillon, who did not know the reason behind the Lioness’s visit to the Temple of Elir-Sana, was watching them closely. The noble had tried to pry the truth of that errand from Gilthas earlier, but without success. It wasn’t that Gilthas didn’t trust Morillon. He simply knew that in matters such as this, where lives hung in the balance, the fewer who knew his plans, the better.

The sun was low, nearly touching the western dunes, by the time the group arrived at the royal tent complex in the center of camp. The fiery sphere had changed from white-hot to blood-red, tinting the sky the color of polished copper. A rare breeze rolled in from the sea. It swept away the cloud of sand that had been raised by the returning army, as well as the perpetual fog of smoke which hung over Khurinost. Gilthas paused to inhale the refreshing sea air.

“If that wind would blow this time every day, I could happily stay here.” Alarm showed on every face, and Gilthas couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t worry: we all know how rarely that wind rises.”

The councilors chuckled at their Speaker’s humor. The Lioness did not. politely, she asked leave to depart, citing her need to go to her warriors. Gilthas assented, telling her he looked forward to their dinner together this evening.

Soon, the Lioness was back among her exhausted soldiers. They lived communally in large tents, clustered around the big stonewalled corrals that dotted the elven camp. Kerian busied herself choosing the five hundred who would make the journey north with her. She took hardy scouts and skillful riders rather than the best fighters. She told them little about the mission, the need for circumspection as strongly ingrained in her as in her husband. It wasn’t only fear of Khurish treachery that prompted the Lioness’s caution. Word of what Gilthas hoped to find could easily cause a stampede of desperate elves determined to escape Khurinost for the supposed haven of the fabled valley of mist and fog.

Taranath and her other officers were naturally curious. They speculated that the Lioness planned to cause trouble for the Knights of Neraka, whose homeland lay just on the other side of the mountains to which they were headed.

She only wished that were the case. Much as she hated the minotaurs, Kerian reserved a special dark place in her heart for the Knights and their hirelings. They were the enemies of her blood, and she knew how to fight them.

The attempt to invade Silvanesti had been a grave mistake: she knew that now. Each day that passed with elven lands in the foul grip of their oppressors was pure torment to her, and her impatience had caused the debacle in the south. Wars, she was learning, were not won by dash and fury. The Lioness was practicing patience.

Even so, Gilthas’s fantasies about Inath-Wakenti were futile. Even if the valley existed and was habitable, it wasn’t their home, she thought. The sacred lands of Silvanos and Kith-Kanan were where the elven race belonged, and nowhere else. The Lioness felt that a better use of her fighting strength would be to mount small raids into the elven homeland, ambushing minotaur patrols, burning their depots, demolishing their bridges, and assassinating their leaders. By such methods she had all but retaken the Qualinesti countryside from the Knights of Neraka, although she was never strong enough to challenge their control of Qualinost, nor to attempt conclusions with the dragon Beryl.

To her curious officers she said, “The Speaker has a special purpose in sending us north. Fighting is not part of the plan. We’ll be escorting”—she groped for the proper word—“librarians from the royal archives.”

The warriors were uniformly startled. “Why send you, General? Any competent troop leader could handle such a simple mission,” asked Taranath.

“I go because my Speaker commands it.”

They nodded, acknowledging their obedience to their king. Kerian asked Taranath to tell her of the nomad attacks he’d suffered on the way back to Khuri-Khan.

He and the rest of the army had reached the coast without any problems, he said, thanks to the delaying action staged by the Lioness and her archers. The Qualinesti warrior had hoped his commander would explain how she survived, but she did not. He was too loyal and well-trained to question her about what had happened.

As the column moved up the coast, they encountered groups of nomads gathering dates and pine nuts from coastal groves. The nomads were driving their rangy cattle and goats to watering holes along the ancient seaside trail used by such herders for centuries. They gave the armed elves a wide berth, and there were no confrontations.

On the elves’ second day riding up the coast, they noticed mounted humans observing them. Taranath hadn’t paid them much attention at first because they were only a few and they were in front of the column, not behind. He logically assumed any pursuit from the Silvanesti border would appear from behind.

The first attack came when night fell. Heavy crossbow bolts flickered out of the high dunes on the elves’ right. A few riders and horses were hit. Taranath sent out a patrol. They found no one, but there were plain signs in the sand that half a dozen men with horses had hidden in the dunes.

This pattern continued through the night and into the following days. Angered by the sniping, Taranath sent more and more flankers to rout out the crossbowmen. All to no avail. It was like chasing smoke. The snipers repeatedly fell back, loosing quarrels at the flankers.

“If their aim had been better, they could have emptied many saddles,” Taranath said grimly. “As it is, their aim was too high.”

The Lioness nodded. It was common for novice crossbowmen to overshoot a target. A crossbow lofted its missiles in an arc, unlike the flat flight of an arrow loosed from a bow. Obviously, the nomads weren’t accustomed to the weapon.

The attacks ended only when the elves came in sight of Khuri-Khan. The elves never got close to the snipers, and their own archers never sighted a target long enough to draw a bead.

“One last thing, General,” Taranath said. “Our foes seemed to be nomads by the way they knew and used the desert, but I believe they came from Khuri-Khan. The tracks from the ambush sites led north, always north; the last sets came directly to the city.”

That made sense to Kerian. The men who had jumped her and Hytanthas on the Temple Walk were nomads, too, perhaps of the same band who’d harassed Taranath’s column. They obviously were operating out of Khuri-Khan, but why? Nomads regarded cities and their diverse inhabitants with the same suspicion they felt for foreigners like the elves; and Khuri-Khan, as the largest Khurish city, was considered particularly vice-ridden.

The dinner hour was approaching. Kerian left her loyal officers to return to the Speaker’s tent, and to attend her dinner with Gilthas and his archivist. Departing the officers’ tent, she made a slight detour to visit Eagle Eye in his pen. The griffon had to be confined away from the horses; his presence unnerved them.

Eagle Eye stood like a statue by his feeding post. His head was hooded like a hunting falcon’s, covered by green felt. This was the best way to keep him peaceful. When agitated, Eagle Eye uttered his shrill, gargling cry, and animals for miles around went into a panic.

Speaking softly to the creature, Kerian loosened the drawstrings and removed his hood. The griffon’s golden eyes, each as big as a king’s goblet, studied her intently.

“How are you, my friend?” she said. “Hungry? Of course you are.”

She went to the far side of the pen, to a darkly stained wooden cask. It smelled strongly of old blood. She pulled out a sheep haunch, none too fresh, just the way the griffon liked it. The scent of blood reached Eagle Eye and he parted his beak, allowing his rod-like tongue to taste the air. His leonine tail twitched back and forth. He chuckled impatiently.

“Coming, coming,” she said, amused.

She skewered the haunch on the hook hanging from the top of the feeding post. Eagle Eye waited until she’d stepped clear, then shuffled forward a few steps. He sank his hooked beak into the meat, ripping out a fist-sized bite, which he bolted down without swallowing. Many of her comrades couldn’t bear to watch the griffon eat. Kerian found the process edifying.

In short order the metal hook had been thoroughly cleaned. The griffon flared his wings, bobbing his head in appreciation. She gave his feathered neck an affectionate pat, and he allowed her to hood him again. She bid him good night.

Twilight had fallen. The great vault of sky over Khurinost and the Khurish capital was purple, streaked on the western horizon with scarlet and rose pink. Here in the army’s camp, there were few sunshades to block the view. Kerianseray lingered a moment, savoring the great expanse of sky and the cooling air that came with sunset.

Something flickered overhead. Birds were scarce in the desert, and she watched the movement curiously. Its shape and flight pattern seemed odd. After a moment, she recognized the darting flight of a bat. Strange. She hadn’t seen one of the creatures since leaving the woodlands of Qualinesti.

It fluttered by, maybe twenty feet above her head. The flapping of its soft wings was faint but distinct, as was the chittering sound it made, like the squeak of leather rubbing against glass. Then it was gone, darting away among the low canvas roofs and rising smoke plumes of the tent city.

Kerian looked down and discovered she was gripping the hilt of her sword. She didn’t know why, but the bat had alarmed her. Her heart was racing.

Lowering her gaze further, she saw something dark littering the sand beneath her feet. She knelt. The path was strewn with green leaves. Ash leaves. Yet, no such trees grew within three hundred miles of Khuri-Khan. More bizarre still, the leaves were green and supple.

Dinner with the Speaker of the Sun and Stars was an austere affair, at least as far as the menu went. Consigned to the magnificent past were banquets of twelve courses. Gone were dishes such as crystallized dew collected from the royal rose gardens airy pastries, and delicate seasonings. Not only were such things out of reach, but the monarch of the elven nations did not condone pretentious luxuries.

Seated at a low, round table were the Speaker, Kerianseray, the senior surviving archivist of Qualinost, Favaronas Millanandor, and a Silvanesti cartographer named Sithelbathan, formerly personal mapmaker to Queen Mother Alhana Starbreeze. Attending the diners was Planchet, an amphora of wine in his hand and a slender dagger tucked into his sash. Dinner consisted of fish, rice, roasted pine nuts, and an oily paste popular in Khur. Known as feza, it was a puree of seven vegetables, mixed with nut oil and garlic. On the table were clay pots containing Khurish stick bread, stiff rods of dough baked by sunlight until they were dark brown and nearly as hard as wood. Next to the Speaker’s plate rested a white pottery pot and a tiny, matching cup. The pot contained kefre, the strong black beverage so beloved by Khurs. Gilthas was one of the few elves who had acquired a taste for it, and the only one who drank the bitter brew without the addition of sugar, cinnamon, or other flavorings.

“Ah, for some decent fruit,” said Sithelbathan, eyeing his half-eaten fish. Khurish waters yielded many kinds of fish, all bony and strongly flavored.

Gilthas had finished his own small servings and was pouring himself a cup of kefre. “There are dates and figs for dessert,” he said. “I’ll have them brought in if you like.”

The cartographer politely declined. He’d eaten enough of both to last a lifetime.

Small talk persisted a while, until the Lioness broached the subject that had brought them all together.

“So, Master Cartographer, what of this valley?”

Sithelbathan pushed his plate away. “There is undoubtedly a valley at the location on the Speaker’s map, lady,” he said.

Gilthas asked Favaronas, “The temple annals brought back by Lady Kerianseray—do they offer useful information?”

The archivist leaned back, clasping his hands across his belly. It was a rather prominent belly, for an elf, testimony to his habit of drinking the local beer and to his lavish eating habits. Unlike his choosy colleague, Favaronas had cleaned his plate and now munched on stick bread dipped in feza.

“Perhaps, Great Speaker,” the archivist said, after swallowing. “They relate a tangled tale, full of allegory and legend. As a modern scholar, I hesitate to pass along such fables.”

Making his rounds, Planchet leaned in, refilling the archivist’s cup yet again. Favaronas thanked him, and lifted the cup to drink.

Tartly, Kerian said, “You’re not here for the hospitality. Tell us what, if anything, you’ve learned.”

Gilthas reproached her with a look, and she subsided, taking a stick of bread and biting into it with a snap. The speaker regarded the archivist expectantly.

Favaronas said, “According to the temple chronicles, Inath-Wakenti was the first place on Krynn where the gods set foot in corporeal form. it became a kind of neutral retreat, where they could stand on solid soil and enjoy the world they had created. To keep their haven free of internecine strife, they agreed none were allowed to speak within its confines. Hence, the Vale of Silence.

“Whether that is true…“ He finished the last bite of his bread, and shrugged. “But I can confirm that the area in question was part of the Silvanesti realm, prior to the First Cataclysm. Sithelbathan said the territory was part of a large grant of land given by Silvanos Goldeneye, first speaker of the Stars, to his general and comrade Balif. It was mostly desert in those days, too. The plain south of the desert was infested with fierce nomadic human tribes, who were gradually driven out by Balif’s legions. The furthest outpost of the elven kingdom was in or near the Vale of Silence, at a place called Teth-Balif—Balif’s Gate.”

“Fascinating,” the Lioness drawled.

“Yes indeed!” her husband agreed, overlooking her ironic tone. “It may be that we have a legal claim on the Inath-Wakenti. If we could find remnants of Balif’s stronghold, that would bolster our case!”

“This was all five thousand years ago,” she said. “If anything remains, it would be rubble. I doubt Sahim-Khan will cede us land on the basis of a few ancient stones.”

The diners debated the issue as the plates were cleared, and the dessert course was served. Favaronas helped himself to slices of fresh fig, licking the sticky juice from his fingers. Sithelbathan regarded his colleague with fastidious disapproval.

“There is one cautionary tale about the Vale,” Favaronas said, now taking a handful of dates. “According to the priestesses of Elir-Sana, a powerful wizard was exiled there early in Speaker Sithas’s reign. The temple records call him Wethdika.”

Sithelbathan shook his head. “Barbarous name. Doesn’t sound like any language I’ve ever heard.”

Favaronas spat a date seed into his hand. “I am certain it is a corruption of Vedvedsica.”

The Speaker, Planchet, and Sithelbathan looked at the archivist with new respect. Kerian, lacking their formal education, didn’t recognize the name. Favaronas explained its significance.

“Vedvedsica was one of the earliest great mages of Silvanesti. In the beginning, he was an ally of the Speaker, and a vassal of Balif, but he committed a crime and was banished from the realm.”

Balif was a name Kerian knew. He had been a great warrior, and a celebrated general. “What crime?” she asked.

Gilthas said, “No one knows. It was so awful, Speaker Sithas proscribed any mention of it in the annals of his reign. It fell to Balif to arrest the mage and consign him to a prison on the remote frontier.”

“And in return, the vile sorcerer contrived his lord’s ruin,” Sithelbathan said grimly. “Balif, a fine, brave elf, was transformed into a twisted, shrunken, hideous creature. He vanished soon after, unable to dwell in Silvanesti ever again.”

Silence fell. The long-ago fate of the elf general had a painful relevance for those around the table. Were they not also banished from their homelands? Perhaps they, too, might never be able to dwell there again.

The hour was late, the tent city quiet. The night wind set the roof of the Speaker’s tent to shivering, and the sound suddenly seemed an extra presence at the table. Unconsciously, Kerian edged closer to Gilthas. Ignoring protocol, he slipped an arm around her waist.

“‘Even the bones of wizards turn to dust,’” Favaronas muttered.

The quote from the bard Sevastithanas broke the gloomy moment. Planchet moved to refill their cups, and Favaronas recounted the later history of the Inath-Wakenti.

A kingpriest of Istar had received a prophecy, warning of a coming disaster. The only place on the entire continent that would not be changed by the catastrophe was the Valley of the Blue Sands, since where the gods once walked, nature held no sway. The Kingpriest sent an expedition to the valley; it was never heard from again. Later, dwarf prospectors from Thoradin found the valley and set up a mining operation. The project yielded rich placer deposits of silver, but was so bedeviled by accidents and serious injuries that the miners abandoned it after less than a year. During the bakali breeding migration in the days of the old Ergoth Empire, a band of human tribesmen stumbled on the valley and escaped marauding lizard-men by hiding there. For a time the humans flourished, sending trading parties to Istar and Silvanesti, but after a few years the trade diminished, then died out altogether.

“The last mention of the valley in the temple archives was from a Knight of Solamnia who wandered through after the Cataclysm. He reported the valley untouched by the upheaval.

“And?” the Lioness prompted, when Favaronas paused to take a drink.

And nothing, lady,” he replied, shrugging one shoulder. “That’s the only information contained in that entry.”

Since that time, he told them, the rise of the desert nomads had choked off contact with the Vale of Silence. Nomads who lived in the region regarded it as a forbidden place, while the rest of the tribes gradually forgot about it or, like the city. dwelling Khurs, relegated it to the realm of fable.

The oil lamps on the low table sputtered as their fuel ran low. Favaronas had finished his story, but added a final warning: “The temple annals are couched in the most vague and circuitous terms, Great Speaker, and required much interpolation and extrapolation on my part.”

Gilthas was nodding thoughtfully. Kerian leaned close and nudged his cheek with her nose. “Well?” she said. “Do I go, or no?”

He smiled in his gentle, slightly sad way. “Of course. Master Favaronas, too. Our people must have a sanctuary. The Inath-Wakenti maybe the place.”

The archivist already had agreed to the journey, but when the Speaker asked Sithelbathan if he would like to go as well, the Silvanesti mapmaker quickly declined.

“Afraid of ghosts?” the Lioness teased.

The spare, neatly dressed elf drew his robe close around his neck. “Yes, lady,” he said. “I am.”