Sanctuary

Chapter 6

Planchet and Hytanthas remained in the rooftop lean-to for hours, watching as patrols tramped up and down the streets, hammered on doors, and bellowed at each other across the empty squares. Whatever the original disturbance, Sahim-Khan’s soldiery had quelled it-no doubt with a heavy hand.

The need to remain under cover when they wished to be back with their Speaker tested their patience. The sun reached its zenith, then passed it, in the unbroken blue vault of the sky. The scents of cardamom pods and kefre bark in the little garden were as oppressive as the heat. Hytanthas gave up on his human disguise, pulling the black wig from his head and stuffing it behind a row of pots.

When a long period went by without sight of the patrols, Hytanthas slapped the older elf on the back, saying, “Let’s go!” With a terse remark about respect due to elders, Planchet followed.

The Khurish habit of building houses wider at the top than at the base made the elves’ trek much less difficult than it would have been elsewhere. And crossing Khuri-Khan by rooftop proved an edifying process. As the elves clambered over dwellings, they heard babies crying, laughter, shouted arguments, and lovemaking. A hundred different food smells vied with smoke, incense, and the stink of privies. The lives of the ordinary people of the city were open to view as Hytanthas and Planchet passed above their heads, out of sight. Khuri-Khan was indubitably foreign, yet it was also vigorously, robustly alive.

Near the Temple Walk, the buildings grew higher and larger. These were no longer private homes, but government storehouses, granaries, and colleges for the priesthoods of the various temples. Sunset was well past when they finally found themselves overlooking the great promenade lined with holy shrines.

The entrance to each temple was illuminated by torches thrust into iron ring-frames. By the wavering light, Planchet and Hytanthas watched small bands of Khurish troops, with halberds on their shoulders, march back and forth. Other than these patrols, the broad lane was empty.

“There’s the Temple of Elir-Sana,” Hytanthas whispered, pointing to their right.

The temple’s dome was lit from within and gave off a faint blue glow in the darkness. No acolytes or priestesses were visible in the courtyard. The chimes lining the low wall jingled in the night breeze.

The question now was how to get down. They were thirty feet above the road, atop a three-story, flat-roofed building. Its walls dropped smooth and straight to the pavement, offering no likely footholds for a safe descent.

A careful search of the roof revealed the solution: a trapdoor secured from the inside. Hytanthas was able to slip his slender fingers under its edges and free it. Slowly, silently, they eased the cover up.

No one cried out below, so Hytanthas lay flat on the roof and looked through the opening while Planchet gripped his legs.

“It’s a hall,” Hytanthas whispered, head-down in the opening. “Lined with doors.”

Planchet murmured a curse. No nice empty storehouse for them—they were trying to enter a priestly dormitory!

He started to haul Hytanthas back so they could try another building, but the wiry young elf lifted his feet, gripped the edge of the doorframe, and somersaulted through the opening. Catlike, he landed noiselessly. Lifting his hands, he urged Planchet to use him as a ladder to climb down.

“Insolent whelp,” muttered the Speaker’s valet. Although less agile than Hytanthas (who was a quarter his age), Planchet was no graybeard. He lowered himself through the opening, hung for a second, and let go. Unfortunately, Hytanthas, in his zeal to help, managed to trip him. The two elves went down in a tangle, hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump.

They froze, expecting sleepy priests to emerge from the rooms. None did. No light showed beneath the doors. The holy ones slept on, undisturbed.

The elves hastened down the hall, toward a stair landing. As Planchet rounded the top of the steps, he ran headlong into a woman. She was clad in a pale gray gown and turban, and carried no lamp. The two intruders, looming up suddenly in front of her, stole her breath, and Planchet’s hand clamped over her mouth before she regained it. He pressed her against the wall, hoping to forestall any magic she might try to use against them.

“Curse it, we’ve entered a college of priestesses!” he hissed. “This isn’t Sa’ida, by chance?”

Hytanthas shook his head and whispered, “Be silent, lady. We intend no harm. We are unjustly pursued by the Khan’s soldiers and seek refuge in the Temple of Elir-Sana. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he smiled. “We’ll let you go, but you mustn’t raise an alarm. Yes?” Again, a nod.

The elves exchanged a look. After a moment’s hesitation, Planchet took his hand away. Immediately, the priestess hissed, “No men are allowed here! Ever!”

“Begging your pardon, holy lady, but we’re not men,” Planchet said reasonably, touching the tip of one pointed ear.

“Males! This is sacrilege!” Her voice was rising. “The Khan will hear of this violation!”

That was enough for Planchet. He snatched the scarf from her head, loosing a fall of gray hair, and gagged her with the cloth. She tried to yell, but only a thin gurgle emerged around the gag.

He took her by one arm, Hytanthas grabbed the other, and they propelled the priestess down the stairs. At the bottom, they found a small cupboard under the steps. Planchet pressed her inside. Whipping out his silk kerchief, he tied her ankles together. When he asked Hytanthas to surrender his own kerchief, the younger elf shrugged. He had none.

“What kind of uncouth stripling goes out without a kerchief?” Planchet snapped.

“A poor one, with no more possessions than he stands in!”

Planchet spun Hytanthas around and pulled off his geb, leaving him standing in leggings and low boots. The priestess’s eyes grew wider still at the sight of the bare-chested elf. Planchet had to admit he was an odd-looking sight. The dye he’d used for his disguise had been applied only to arms, neck, and face. His torso was several shades lighter.

Planchet tore a strip from the geb’s hem and used it to bind the woman’s wrists, then tore another to bind her wrists to her ankles, hoping to delay her escape. He tossed the ruined garment back to Hytanthas.

“And what am I to do with this?” Hytanthas asked sarcastically.

“Make yourself some kerchiefs,” Planchet rejoined.

The woman’s eyes, incandescent with fury above the gag, followed them as they closed the cupboard door.

They exited the building through a side door, which put them in an alley. The gate in the wall surrounding the Temple of Elir-Sana was directly ahead, across the promenade; the iron portal stood open. The patrol had already passed by, and all was quiet. They stepped out of the alley’s concealment and strode toward the temple gate.

As Hytanthas reached the gate, a deep voice rumbled behind them, “Stand where you are!”

Planchet hissed a soft curse. Both elves pivoted to face this new menace.

Hard leather heels thudded. A broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man strode forward. He was clad in leather trews and a short tunic, much like the attire worn by huntsmen in Qualinesti. The stranger’s togs were not the green or brown of the forest, however. They were an unsettling shade of purplish red. His wide face was clean shaven, with brows thick and black. He was head and shoulders taller than the two elves. His identity was obvious to both of them. It was the Nerakan emissary, Hengriff.

“That’s hardly proper attire for where you’re going,” he said, gesturing at Hytanthas’s torn geb. His other hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed sword, a slender court blade.

“Your own garb is out of place, too,” Planchet said wryly. “Don’t you stifle in all that leather?”

“I’m accustomed to it. Besides, I prefer it to the local style. Too much like a woman’s dress. Males are not allowed within this temple, you know.”

While he talked, the elves desperately searched the darkness behind him. Hengriff seemed alone. Although a formidable-looking fighter, the Knight could hardly hope to best two agile, sword-armed elves. Still, he seemed supremely confident.

Hytanthas said, “We have business with the high priestess. We’re known to her.”

“Business? What business could elves have with a fusty old priestess?”

“Our own,” Planchet said, then shoved Hytanthas through the open gate, shouting, “Go!” Unfortunately, the captain, taken by surprise, stumbled.

The Knight shouted a command. Suddenly, the night air was filled with a strange whirring sound.

Four lengths of rope, blackened by soot, hit the pavement in an arc behind Hengriff. Down each rope slid a brawny human dressed all in black—short black tunics, close-fitting trousers, and suede boots. In seconds, the men had landed silently and drawn swords. They sprinted toward the elves.

Planchet jerked Hytanthas to his feet, and the pair scrambled through the gate. The pursuing Nerakans did not try to crowd through the narrow opening, but vaulted the chest-high wall. It delayed them hardly at all. Hengriff approached with more deliberation, entering by the gate.

“I have questions and I want answers,” he said firmly. “You’ll come with us.”

“Not today, Nerakan!”

Hengriff laughed at Hytanthas’s defiant statement. Echoing like a bull’s bellow, the sound filled the courtyard. It died abruptly when light flooded the scene. The double doors to the temple had opened. Silhouetted there, her long shadow reaching out from the colonnade, was a woman.

“Begone! Men of war, you cannot remain on sacred ground!”

Hengriff shouted across the distance, “You don’t command me, Sa’ida, nor my men!”

The high priestess, followed by a handful of acolytes, appeared out of the light. She looked even more commanding than Hengriff. Stern and regal, she kept her eyes fixed on the Knight, and spread her arms wide as she approached. Her white robe seemed to gather the light, surrounding her with a bright, flowing aura.

Without looking away from her, Hengriff ordered his men to take the elves. The four warriors advanced, but when they were just five yards away, the swords suddenly flew from their hands. The Nerakans tried to keep coming, but a powerful force pushed against them. They bent forward at the waist, like men bucking a high wind, though the air was still.

Hengriff put a hand on the hilt of his own sword, but did not draw his weapon. In grim silence he watched his men shoved relentlessly backward across the courtyard and through the opening in the wall. Once in the street, however, they straightened, the unseen pressure no longer affecting them.

“You’ll regret this, healer,” Hengriff rumbled. “You’ve made an enemy.”

“Death was always our enemy! Go!”

The Knight spared a glance at the elves. “This is not finished,” he told them. He and his men departed, submerging into the darkness beyond the sacred enclosure.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sa’ida sent two acolytes to close the temple gates; the clang of iron broke through the elves’ dazed immobility. Planchet got to his feet and straightened his clothing, brushing dust from his knees. He performed introductions in his most diplomatic manner. Sa’ida pursed her lips, frowning.

“I know who you are. This one”—she nodded at Hytanthas—“has been here before. But you cannot remain. It is forbidden.”

“Yes, lady, I know, but we hoped you could provide sanctuary,” Planchet replied. “The Khan’s soldiers are in the streets, hunting elves.

“It’s not the Khan you need fear, but the followers of Torghan.”

She gestured at her followers. Two gray-haired acolytes approached, received quiet instructions, and departed.

Hytanthas, still dazed by events, found he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Those men,” he finally asked, “how did you repel them, holy lady?”

“Potent protective spells are woven around our sacred shrine. No one may bear weapons of war into the goddess’s sanctuary.” The two elves glanced down at the swords they wore. “Do not draw them,” she warned. “If you do, you will be driven out, even as they were.”

The gray-haired acolytes returned, each carrying a bundle of clothing. Khurish robes, mostly old and dingy, were laid at the elves’ feet.

“Hengriff is intimate with the Khan. When word reaches him that you are here, soldiers will come. I am sorry, but I cannot offer you any hospitality. You must disguise yourselves and go,” Sa’ida said.

Hytanthas started to object, but Planchet cut him off. The valet thanked the priestess politely and began sorting through the clothing. Reluctantly, his companion did the same, discarding the torn garment he still wore. They decked themselves in sleeveless gebs and trailing outer robes. A scarf wrapped around the head concealed their tell-tale ears. Thus swathed from head to foot, and with the added cloak of night, their disguises looked authentic.

Planchet tugged the sash tight around his waist, bowed slightly, and walked toward the iron gate. Hytanthas hovered briefly, torn between the need to go with his comrade and the desire to try and learn more about the Nerakan Knight. Sa’ida ended his conflict by turning and leading her followers into the temple. The doors closed, the bright light was cut off, and Hytanthas was left in darkness.

“Come, lad,” Planchet called. “We’ve a long way to go.”

The journey across the dark city was a nervous one, but they reached Khurinost without serious incident. Dawn was breaking as they approached their greatest challenge, the city gatehouse, but luck was with them. A horde of soukats milled outside, eager to get back to their stalls in the markets. The mayhem of the day before had not discouraged them. Indeed, some spoke about how good business ought to be today as curious crowds came out to see where so much blood had been shed. Beset by the noisy, pushy tradesmen, the guards on the gate didn’t give the disguised elves a second glance.

Planchet headed straight for the Speaker’s tent. Hytanthas followed, but more than once the valet had to double back and retrieve the wayward warrior, finding him standing idle, his gaze distant, and him lost in thought. Planchet himself was bone-weary and ravenous. Neither he nor Hytanthas had eaten since yesterday morning, before this whole adventure began. He could only imagine how much worse the captain must feel, these events having come directly on the heels of the two tense days he’d spent disguised in the capital. But there could be neither rest nor food and drink until they’d reported to the Speaker.

A small group of court officials occupied the audience chamber, but the Speaker was not present. In his place, Morillon Ambrodel held court at the center of the disturbed crowd. As a result of the violence of yesterday morning, they quickly learned, a flood of Qualinesti and Silvanesti had returned from Khuri-Khan with stab wounds, broken heads, and worse. Forty-four elves were still missing. Planchet heard cries of “What are we to do?” and “The Speaker must protect us!”

His strong hands and penetrating voice parted the crowd. Pushing aside Qualinesti, Silvanesti, and Kagonesti alike, Planchet made his way to Morillon and asked where the Speaker could be found.

“Still abed, for aught I know. Rousing him is your job, I believe.” The haughty noble eyed Planchet’s scruffy human attire with distaste. “Where have you been anyway?”

The valet folded his arms and surveyed the assembly. Some of the elves were former senators of the Thalas-Enthia. Others were commoners, elevated by circumstance or the vote of their neighbors to become their representatives to the Speaker. Every face bore an expression of grave concern.

“I passed the night in the city, my lord, running and hiding from humans intent on cutting my throat,” he said.

Gasps circled the chamber. “Is the Khan turning against us?” asked a frightened senator.

The valet held up placating hands. “Don’t panic. The riot appears to have been started by followers of the Khurish god Torghan. When the Khan’s troops arrived to put down the fighting, they were told elves started it. Calm has been restored in the city, but I must report these events to the Speaker. He and the Khan need to meet to clarify what happened.”

“I must go to Sahim-Khan.”

All heads turned. Gilthas stood in the passage leading to his private rooms. Lord Morillon swept up to him.

“Great Speaker, you should not wait upon a barbarian lord like Sahim! Let him come to you. You have precedence as ruler of the most ancient race—”

“It’s his country, Morillon. I will go to Sahim-Khan as soon as he will receive me.”

Everyone spoke at once, some supporting Morillon’s attitude, others the Speaker’s. Woven through the discussion was frightened speculation about the possibility of war with the Khan’s army.

Hytanthas found his mind drifting. The debate raging around him sounded like the hum of bees disturbed in their hive. He was wrung out. He felt disconnected, distant. Then, unexpectedly, his gaze fell on a stranger.

Across the chamber, a stooped figure stood motionless amidst the milling elves. Covered in heavy layers of ragged brown robes, he was comically out of place, yet no one seemed to notice him. Senators moved around Hytanthas, bumping him occasionally, but they gave no sign of seeing the robed stranger. Hytanthas stared hard but could get no impression of a face, only a cowled darkness.

He called a warning. But the noise of the discussion had risen to such a level, he couldn’t even hear his own shouted words. Nor did any of the others seem to hear him. He began shouldering his way through the crowd, intent on reaching the cowled intruder. Was he a spy in the pay of Sahim-Khan, or another tool of Neraka? Whatever he was, he should not be here listening to the elves’ intimate councils.

As he reached the stranger, Hytanthas grabbed the dagger worn by a rugged-looking Kagonesti, the chosen representative of his tribe. Normally keenly aware, the Wilder elf didn’t react at all to Hytanthas’s theft of his weapon.

Closer now, he noted the stranger’s face was hidden in the depths of his hood, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Hytanthas seized him by the wrist. Or he tried. His hand passed through the intruder’s arm as though he was a ghost.

At last, the stranger took notice of him. The cowl turned toward Hytanthas and from it came a faint, startled query:

“You see me? How is that possible?”

Hytanthas tried shouting again, “Great Speaker, a spy!”

He found his own wrist gripped. The stranger’s hand was solid enough now, with long fingers and prominent joints. His hold was like the snap of a bear trap, swift and hard. Hytanthas protested and jerked his arm repeatedly, but couldn’t free himself.

“You had better come with me,” hissed the stranger.

Hytanthas finally caught a glimpse of the intruder’s face. It was dark, like polished wood, with a beak of a nose, thin lips, and eyes like none the elf had ever seen before. His eyes were dark brown—nearly black—from corner to corner. Hytanthas cried out in horror, and the cry rose in pitch as he noticed something even worse. Hanging down behind the hooded figure was a tail, bushy brown and fully three feet long.

At that moment, Gilthas glanced away from his wrangling advisors and his eye fell upon Captain Ambrodel. Hytanthas’s head was tilted back, his mouth slack. He held his left arm rigidly across his chest. Concerned, Gilthas called attention to the captain’s distorted posture.

The Kagonesti senator standing in front of Hytanthas turned and spoke to the young elf as Gilthas made his way across the room. But Hytanthas did not respond; his eyes remained closed.

The Speaker arrived, laying a hand on Hytanthas’s rigid arm. Instantly, the bizarre trance was broken. Hytanthas opened his eyes, staggered back, and fell unconscious to the floor.

Planchet knelt by him. “Fainted,” he said, attributing the incident to a lack of food and the rigors of the past few days.

At the Speaker’s direction, Planchet carried the unconscious elf to a spare room off of Gilthas’s own bedchamber. Excusing himself, telling his subjects to continue their discussion during his brief absence, Gilthas followed.

Planchet had placed the captain on a cot and was removing his boots. He looked up as the Speaker entered.

“I don’t think this was caused by simple weakness,” Gilthas said quietly, his expression grave.

He gently lifted Hytanthas’s left arm, the one the young elf had held so rigidly. The wrist bore red marks, as though strong fingers had held it in a crushing grip.

By strenuous riding through the night, the Weya-Lu band circled wide of the elves and got between them and the pass leading into the Valley of the Blue Sands. The normally empty foothills were alive with skulking scouts and reconnaissance parties from both sides, all feeling their way through unfamiliar territory with every nerve strained to detect the enemy. Adala had hoped to pick up reinforcements before meeting the Lioness again, but her messages to other tribes had gone unanswered. When the elven army was seen to be heading north from Khuri-Khan, the Tondoon and Mikku scouts had assured Adala’s scout of their tribes’ support. Unfortunately, those assurances had not yet generated anything of substance. No Tondoon or Mikku riders had arrived to bolster the Weyadan’s force.

Adala disregarded advice from both Etosh and Bilath that they wait a while longer, to give other tribesmen time to join them. The laddad must be punished for their foul deeds. They must be stopped and prevented from entering the hidden valley. The prophecy of the Oracle clearly warned of grave upheavals if the elves claimed the spot. The leader of the Weya-Lu carried several titles, one of the lesser-known being “Protector of the Blue Sands.” Until flow, this had seemed only an ancient, ceremonial distinction. With the incursion of the laddad, the title was gaining new significance. And overlaying everything else was the Weyadan’s unswerving, white-hot need for vengeance. The murderous foreigners had to be brought to account for their massacre of the nomad camp.

Most of the Weya-Lu accepted their leader’s judgment that the elves were responsible for the atrocity. A few, like Wapah and Bilath, were troubled by the lack of evidence linking the slaughter to the laddad, but even they had to admit there seemed no other explanation. Sahim-Khan certainly was ruthless enough, but he stood to gain nothing from the killing. Besides, his army was bottled up in the capital, watching the elven host and guarding against any sudden coup. Knights of Neraka or wayward bands of ogres or minotaurs might be responsible, but none were known to be in the area. The only foreigners in Khur were the elves, and elven cavalry had certainly been close by.

A council of war was called for late in the afternoon. The land hereabouts was not the best for battle. Bad for horses, the ground was uneven, covered by shelves of rock tumbled from the Pillars of Heaven long ago. Clumps of thorny creeper made the footing even more hazardous. Still, it would have to do. The council gathered on a great shelf of slate, settling into its traditional ranks. The outermost ring was composed of elder warriors, the middle ring of war chiefs, and the inner ring of clan chiefs.

Etosh wanted to divide the nomad force in two and hide one band on either side of the pass. When the laddad were firmly committed to the single track into the valley, the furious nomads would have them in a vise.

Adala listened silently to the plan. She was darning a rip in a horsehair poncho belonging to a Weya-Lu man who no longer had wife or sisters to do the task for him; all had died in the massacre. Turning the garment over, she tested the stitches with her thumbnail and found them strong. When Etosh finished speaking, she announced, “Your plan is wrong. The Weya-Lu won’t follow it.”

He took her judgment in silence, but the clan chiefs asked why she’d vetoed the scheme. It had their approval.

“Never divide your forces in the face of the enemy,” she said, “even if you are greater in number.”

Leaning forward, she used a darning needle to draw a pair of lines in the sand. The lines were at right angles to each other. “This is how we’ll take them. This part of the warband”—she indicated the north-south line—“will attack the laddad first from the side, while the others”—the east-west line—“will swing in behind them, cutting off their retreat.”

“Like the jaws of a panther,” said Wapah, seeing the deadliness of Adala’s plan. Her strategy had the advantage of never separating the nomads, while still striking the elves on two sides.

Gwarali, an elder fighter, disagreed. Adala’s battle plan left two routes for the elves to escape: westward through the foothills, and north into the valley.

“If they go in either direction, their doom is certain,” Adala said. “West takes them farther away from their people at Khuri-Khan, and we can drive them into the Burning Sands of the south. There they perish.” She folded the mended garment neatly, laying it over her lap. “If they go north, we’ll have them in a bottle.”

“Yes, but they’ll be in the valley!” said Gwarali.

“And I will ask the gods to punish them for their blasphemy.”

At this, some men not of the Leaping Spider Clan openly snickered. Adala’s dark eyes flashed.

“You dare mock Them! Those on High have placed me here to do Their will, and do it I shall, unto death!”

Gwarali, a great, bear-like man with a reddish beard and broad belly, said soothingly, “Now sister, how can you say that? Have the High Ones appeared to you?”

“Not directly, but Their will is plain. My husband was taken by death, placing me, the Weyadan, at the head of my people. My husband’s blood cousin, Wapah, was chosen by the Prince of Khur to lead him to the Oracle, thereby warning us of the laddad’s intent to steal our land and usurp the gods. Why else would these things have happened except to place the defense of our sacred land in my hands?”

“Maita.”

The word, murmured by Wapah, meant “fate,” but with the connotation of an outcome predestined by the gods, something no mortal could escape.

A few clan elders were still skeptical, but they took care to be polite about it. Gwarali tried to steer the discussion back to Etosh’s plan to ambush the elves, but the Weyadan would not bend.

She stood abruptly. This usually signaled the end of a council, and the men around her were startled by her breech of manners.

“Stay where you are!” she commanded. “I will show you my maita.”

She picked her way through the rings of chiefs and warriors. Standing on the rim of the gray slab of slate, she pointed northward. Three mountain peaks, known by the nomads as Torghan’s Teeth, were aligned in a perfectly spaced row. Half a day’s ride straight toward them led to the only pass into the Valley of the Blue Sands. So tall were the three that their tops were dusted with snow that never melted. The sky above the mountains, streaked by feathery clouds, seemed boundless as the sea. The sun was nearly gone behind the western range. The setting sun left the three mountains in shadow but touched the high clouds and the snowy tips of the Teeth with orange and crimson.

“Hear me, High Ones!” Adala cried. “The time has come for justice! If I am to be Your instrument, make it known to all! I care nothing for fame or glory, Mighty Gods, only for Your will and the rights of my people.” She flung her arms wide. “Show me my maita. Show the world!”

Her last words rang over the harsh landscape, echoing against the faraway slopes of the Teeth.

For several long minutes there was silence, broken only by the muttered comments of several of the men behind her. Then out of the clear breadth of sky, thunder rolled.

The men stirred. They hadn’t expected to hear or see anything. From his place behind Adala’s seat, Wapah bowed his head. The Weyadan was the Weyadan; he would never doubt her again.

A second, louder clap of thunder boomed, caroming off the Pillars of Heaven for an endless time. By the time the echoes died, the entire council was on its feet.

Bilath shouted, “Those on High have spoken! Adala maita! Adala maita!” The others took up the cry, turning it into a chant.

Adala lowered her hands, crossing her arms and bringing her hands to rest on her chest. She was breathing heavily, with tears filling her eyes. She had believed in her fate, but this display of divine favor was overwhelming. That the gods would condescend to give so obvious a sign before the doubters of her own people—this was the greatest moment of her life.

Gwarali approached, halting respectfully three paces away. “Weyadan, we will follow you,” he said simply.

Six miles away, the sand beast was scrambling over the rocky ledges when it caught the scent of the nomad army. Poised between two spires of stone, it slowly turned its angular head, tasting the breeze. Humans, many humans, but no hint of elves. The intervening foothills confused it, limiting its usual range of sight and smell. The beast had been paralleling the elves for two days, but must have gotten ahead of them during the night. It would have to double back.

Legs like coiled steel sent the monster vaulting from its perch, and it began to run. So rapidly did the beast move, it rent the air asunder, sending cracks of thunder ringing in its wake.

Some miles away the Lioness, leading her depleted troop, heard the thunder as well. She held up a hand to halt the column. Favaronas, plodding along a dozen yards back, trotted to her.

“Did you hear it?” he demanded. “Did you hear that thunder?”

They knew well what such a sound from a clear sky meant. She told her officers to send flankers out a hundred yards. “But make sure they keep in sight of the column,” she cautioned.

She wet a kerchief with a few drops of water, then offered the gourd to Favaronas while she dabbed her face with the damp cloth.

“What can we do if the thing attacks again? Will the magical orb work a second time?” Favaronas asked.

She shrugged, tying her hair back with the damp kerchief. Her knowledge of magical artifacts was limited. She changed the subject. “Have you any idea why this creature should be following us so doggedly?” she asked.

The scholar didn’t. He knew only what he’d told her earlier, that sand beasts were wild animals of the deep desert, and rare. Obviously the creature was a predator, but what sort of predator would follow armed and mounted warriors over several days and many miles?

“Only the two-legged kind,” Kerian said dryly. “And that’s who I think set this monster on our trail. A two-legged predator.”

When the flanking riders were in place, watching for attack or ambush, she waved the column forward. They would reach the Inath-Wakenti in two days. More and more, she felt the foolishness of Gilthas’s idea to send their people there. Even if the valley proved to have a temperate climate, it wasn’t their natural home, and never would be. Witless nomads and bloodthirsty beasts were the only creatures suited to this harsh, terrible land. Elves needed the cool green woods of the lands that had given them birth and sustenance through the ages. Without them, would they not soon cease to be elves?

As always, thoughts of home made Kerian’s blood burn. It required all her discipline to keep from reining about and galloping madly to Qualinesti, to try to free the land of its oppressors or die in the trying. They should not be in Khur! Whether desert or city or fabled valley, none of it was theirs. None of it! They should be attacking the enemies who’d dared invade their ancestral lands!

Gilthas believed life mattered more than land. Of course Gilthas worried more about life than land—he had been born into royalty. No matter where he dwelt, he was the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. He was a king-no matter where he was forced to locate his kingdom.

In all her life, Kerianseray had known no such luxury. She was a fighter for her country and her people. Without her country or her people, what was left? What was she then?

Favaronas watched curiously as the Lioness prodded her mount to a trot. Her back was straight and her chin outthrust. In the time he’d been with her, the archivist had come to know that posture, that look. She was controlling her anger. Only two things in the world could make her so furious, could reduce her lips to that tight, white line: the gnawing loss of Qualinesti to their enemies, and disagreement with the Speaker. He wondered which was consuming her now.