Sanctuary

Chapter 8

Sa’ida, surrounded by chanting priestess-healers, stood by the bed of Prince Shobbat. She dipped a finger in the oil warming in a shallow copper pan and traced on his forehead the seal of Elir-Sana.

The high priestess was red-eyed and haggard from her efforts. This was the culmination of three days of work, weaving a great healing spell around the delirious prince. Lesser potions and cantrips had not restored Shobbat’s shattered wits, nor healed his blindness, though his wild ravings had been soothed and he had stopped flailing uncontrollably. He was left lying rigid in his bed, eyes closed. Sa’ida had no choice but to perform the strongest, most arduous spell of healing known to her.

Acolytes and priestesses worked in shifts, new ones arriving at the palace every six hours to relieve their predecessors. The chant went on without a break for three days. Aromatics and incense were burned, and elaborate designs, in yellow paint, were drawn on the walls and floor of the prince’s bedchamber. The design created a great invisible funnel through which the goddess’s healing power could flow. Shobbat lay in the center of the vortex, a thick strip of leather between his clenched teeth to prevent them cracking under the strain.

The chanting priestesses came and went by a prescribed schedule, but Sa’ida didn’t budge. She alone was irreplaceable. For three days and nights she did not sleep. She had performed the great healing spell only once before, but none of the priestesses knew the circumstances; Sa’ida would never discuss it.

The chanting abruptly stopped.

“Shadows of sickness, leave this man!” she commanded solemnly. “Suffering one, be whole!”

For the space of three heartbeats no one moved. Time itself seemed to halt in the room. Then Shobbat sighed deeply, the sound echoing in the stillness. His rigid body went limp. His eyes opened. He blinked several times, looking around as though his surroundings were unfamiliar.

“Am I dead?” he rasped.

“Not yet.”

Sa’ida moved away, to send word to Sahim-Khan that his son was healed.

On the bed, Shobbat lifted a hand to his face. Was he truly here? Was he at home in Khuri-Khan? The fire was gone from his mind, but the memory of what he’d seen in the Oracle’s cave remained. Monsters—animals with the heads of humans and humans with the heads of animals—had come out of the shadows, and engulfed him. They’d called his name, said he was one of them. And suddenly he’d known it was true. His hands and feet changed to slender paws. Fur sprouted from his skin, and in his mouth he tasted carrion.

Jackal! the misshapen monsters had shouted at him. You are one of us!

Sahim-Khan entered. Clad in plain white geb, his dark head bare of crown, he looked like any worried father, attending the bedside of his sick child.

“My son,” he said quietly. “Do you know me?”

“You are my lord, Sahim, Khan of All the Khurs,” Shobbat murmured, a vast weariness dragging down his eyelids.

Sahim turned to Sa’ida, standing between two priestesses. It was obvious that she too was sorely spent.

“You have a father’s gratitude, holy lady,” he said. “Whatever price you name, I shall pay, gladly.”

Shobbat’s soft snores interrupted them, and Sahim-Khan held out a hand to the high priestess. She took his arm and accompanied him out the door that led to the prince’s private sitting room. In silent ranks the priestesses of Elir-Sana departed by a different exit.

The sitting room was lush, the scene of many a princely revel. Sahim escorted the high priestess to a large chair and insisted she sit. Faint with weariness, Sa’ida complied. The austere white silk of her ceremonial gown stood out starkly against the chair’s crimson, magenta, and gold wool brocade.

“Mighty Khan,” she began, then had to clear her throat to begin anew. She was desperately thirsty, but other things must come first. “Mighty One, I believe it was no mortal illness that afflicted your son.”

Sahim’s brows lowered in a fearsome glare. “Poison? A curse?”

“No, sire. The sickness was self-inflicted.” Sahim’s mouth opened, but Sa’ida continued without pause. “Some deed of Prince Shobbat’s provoked this bout of madness.”

His surprise abated, and he looked dubious. “Shobbat is no ascetic, that is certain, but I doubt he would commit a deed foul enough to drive himself mad!”

“Not a foul deed, an impious one.” The chair was deep and plush. Sa’ida forced herself to sit stiffly upright; the slightest relaxation of her vigilance, and she would lose her battle against the fatigue that encased her limbs like dense sand. The Khan had little use for gods Khurish or foreign, and he still looked unconvinced. She knew she must choose her words with great care.

“Prince Shobbat has looked upon things a mortal should not know,” she said slowly. “What those may have been”—she shrugged her shoulders—“I cannot say, Mighty Khan.”

Sahim waved these obscure matters aside, vowing to take up the matter with Shobbat when he was stronger. If his heir was dabbling in magic, Sahim soon would cure him of such foolish curiosity.

He returned to the issue of payment, begging the holy priestess to name her reward. His coffers were full of steel and gold, courtesy of his laddad tenants. Alone with his cronies Sahim liked to boast that he was the best-paid landlord in the world.

“We do not crave wealth in our temple, Great Khan. But there is a boon you can grant us.”

He grinned, opening his arms wide. “Tell me, beloved of the goddess.”

“Put an end to the violence against the elves.”

He blinked, taken aback. “How does the fate of the laddad concern you?”

She told him then of the Speaker’s interest in the Valley of the Blue Sands and of the Lioness’s mission to find out whether the fabled valley was habitable. When she finished, her voice was almost completely gone. She waited expectantly.

The Khan astonished her by bursting into laughter.

“The place where animals speak and stones grow like palm trees from the ground?” he sputtered, quoting the fables. “Excellent! Let them go there! It’s a fitting place for them!”

His loud merriment caused Sa’ida to wince with pain. A prodigious headache was building behind her eyes. Closing them, she murmured, “Grant me this favor, Mighty Khan. Guard the laddad while they tarry here. Dark forces gather around you, seeking to destroy them. Have no commerce with these.”

This time his laugh was sardonic. “The Knights you mean? Or the bull-men of the seas? Yes, all these ‘dark forces’ have sought me out. Each wishes to destroy the laddad for their own safety. I take their gifts if it pleases me.” His black eyes grew hard, and no longer was he the grateful father. Robed and crowned or not, it was the Khan of All the Khurs who stood looking down at the priestess now. “But I rule in Khur, not these others. Gilthas’s people can rely on my protection so long as it pleases me to guard them. Please concern yourself with your goddess, holy lady, and leave politics to me.”

Sa’ida got to her feet stiffly, bowed, and departed.

The Khan watched her go, then took the chair she’d just vacated. Sa’ida was a great asset to Khur, and he was not a man to squander assets, but her request troubled him. Beyond a certain grudging admiration for the Speaker’s tenacity, and an appreciation of elven style, Sahim cared little about the elves’ ultimate fate. He was no friend of Neraka, nor the minotaurs. He knew well that once the elves were removed, his neighbors’ appetites would quickly switch to Khur. For all its empty desert, Sahim’s land bordered many vital areas. A navy with access to its coast could dominate the Bay of Balifor. Hundreds of miles of desert made a formidable barrier against minotaurs trying to enter Neraka from the north, or against Knights thrusting south to the fertile lands of minotaur-held Silvanesti.

The Speaker of the Sun and Stars was a temporary asset, a fine cat’s-paw, distracting the troublesome Knights and holding the bull-men in check.

This Valley of the Blue Sands business worried him not at all. Yes, it would be easier to keep an eye on the elves if they were under the walls of Khuri-Khan, but if they chose to maroon themselves in a remote mountain valley, surrounded by the worst desert in the realm, then that would be perfectly acceptable. If the laddad waxed fat in the new location, so much the better. Fat sheep sheared thick wool, as the nomad saying went. Perhaps in time Sahim could make the Speaker of the Sun and Stars a true vassal of Khur. Hadn’t he done that (for the most part) with the nomads? Elves couldn’t be any more proud and arrogant than desert tribesmen. Then it would be Neraka and the minotaurs who must tread lightly! All would regard the name of Sahim-Khan with fear!

Thoughts of his nomadic subjects were like grains of sand in Sahim’s cup of fine wine. Worthless fanatics, all of them! They’d been slipping into the city in larger numbers, conferring with the wretch Minok, and going out to harass and murder the laddad in the name of their brutal god. Or perhaps in the name of the Dark Order.

A servant appeared in the doorway to Prince Shobbat’s bedchamber. He bore a tray laden with rosewater, fine linen, and sweet wine.

“Go away; I didn’t summon you,” Sahim said testily.

“No, Mighty Khan. Please forgive the intrusion. I was summoned to wait upon Prince Shobbat, but he isn’t in his room. I thought perhaps—” The servant looked hopefully around the sitting room, empty but for the Khan.

Sahim shoved the lackey aside and entered the bedchamber. The hour was late, just past midnight, and the only candles burning were a trio on a stand by the bed—the empty bed. Shobbat’s wrinkled, sweat-stained robe trailed off it onto the floor. The servant spoke truly: The prince was neither here nor in the water closet attached to his room.

The Khan perched his fists on his hips. He’d thought the boy would sleep for a week. Where in Kargath’s name had he gone off to now?

The large man’s shoulders nearly scraped the walls of the narrow alley. His four companions were hardly less imposing, yet despite their bulk, all five moved quietly, their soft leather boots silent on the timeworn pavement. At the intersection of two lanes, the leader stopped. He probed the corner of the wall in front of him, searching for three tell-tale notches scored in the brick. Finding them, he turned right and moved on. The others followed.

The lintel above the fifth door bore the same parallel notches. Leaving his four companions on watch in the alley, the leader entered without knocking and carefully closed the door behind himself. He turned back the hood of his cloak.

“I am here,” Lord Hengriff said, his bass voice rumbling in the small room.

The room brightened as the thin red line of a lamp wick was adjusted. The light showed Prince Shobbat sitting at a table, his bare dagger gleaming next to the lamp. The ruddy lamplight also revealed the results of his encounter with the Oracle of the Tree. The Prince’s face was the gray of wood ash. His eyebrows and beard were white, and white streaked the hair combed back from his forehead. His once soft features were drawn, and his eyes burned from deep, hollow sockets.

“I heard you were unwell, Highness,” Hengriff said.

“I have recovered.”

From what the Nerakan saw, this seemed a debatable conclusion. “This meeting is not wise.”

“But necessary.”

Shobbat’s hand strayed to the dagger, caressing the wire-wrapped grip, but his eyes remained fixed on the Knight’s face. “The time for talk is over. The time has come to act. My father must go.”

He expected some reaction—at the very least, a nod of satisfaction—but Hengriff only stood there, immobile as stone. Shobbat demanded, “Will Neraka support me once I’m on the throne?”

“The Order always supports strong rulers friendly to its cause.

Shobbat’s fingers closed on the dagger grip, and he slammed the weapon on the table, making the little lamp jump. “Why all the mystery?” he shouted. “Can’t you just give me a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Permit me to say, Highness, your timing is not the best. You have been out of circulation for some time, yes? And your father is very popular just now, thanks to his humiliation of the elves. How much money did he squeeze from Gilthas in the name of reparations?”

“Ten thousand steel.”

A tidy sum, thought Hengriff. Sahim’s little triumph over the Speaker would make him admired in the souks and taverns, even by those who knew him to be a bloody tyrant. He had executed eleven Torghanists captured during the rioting; even now, their heads gathered flies in the plaza before the Khuri yl Nor. Yet Hengriff knew the dead men were longtime criminals culled from the city dungeons. The real culprits had purchased their safety. Minok, high priest of Torghan, with the Khan’s death sentence still hanging over him, had given Hengriff gold to buy freedom for himself and his followers.

After considering the possible repercussions of allowing the Torghanists to remain in prison (and perhaps talk under torture), the Knight paid the bribes. First, though, he swapped Minok’s Khurish coins for Nerakan. He intended the released prisoners to associate their deliverance with the Order, and to spend that money in the souks. There was no better ambassador than money.

“—and slay him while he sleeps. What do you think?” Shobbat was saying.

“A very good plan,” Hengriff replied, realizing with some amusement that while he was lost in thought the prince must have been outlining his plot to murder his father. “When will you strike?”

“Soon. There may not be time to warn you in advance.” “I understand.”

Shobbat stood and tucked the dagger back into his sash—this one an unsettling mixture of cherry red and lime green stripes. Hengriff waited till he was done, then casually delivered the news he’d brought. “Your Highness, have you heard? The elves have found the Valley of the Blue Sands.”

The effect was all he’d hoped. Shobbat gave a violent start, even faltering backward.

“How did this happen?” he gasped.

“Gilthas sent his bitch, Kerianseray, to seek the place. They reached the valley three days ago.”

Shobbat sat back down with a thump. The Oracle’s prediction rang in his ears.

“How…”The prince cleared his throat twice. “How do you know this?”

“I have many eyes and ears in Khuri-Khan, even in the elves’ camp.” He folded massive arms across his chest. “Why is this valley important, Highness? What does Gilthas expect to find there?”

Shobbat barely heard Hengriff, his thoughts were racing so. The chain of events foretold by the Oracle had begun. His future, his very life, was in the balance. He strove to master his emotions. He’d already given away too much to the Dark Knight.

“Who can say? The valley is uninhabited,” he muttered. “It has some religious significance for the tribes who dwell nearby.”

Hengriff studied Shobbat in silence. The prince’s wan complexion was growing paler by the second, pale as the stain that had spread through his beard and hair. The man was a weakling, Hengriff thought. If he weren’t so close to the throne of Khur the Knight would have washed his hands of him long ago. He’d been laughably easy to buy. Even more than his greedy father, Shobbat loved money, not only for the power it represented but for the luxuries it could buy. The Order had toyed with the idea of installing him as puppet ruler of Khur, but his behavior had become increasingly erratic and evasive. The elves’ expedition to the Valley of the Blue Sands certainly disturbed the Prince deeply; it would probably disturb Hengriff’s superiors as well. But they had an exaggerated opinion of Gilthas’s shrewdness, and a positive mania about the Lioness. The latter Hengriff could understand much more than the former. Kerianseray had been a thorn in Knightly flesh for years.

Answering a question from Shobbat, Hengriff explained that the elves had crossed the High Plateau to reach the valley, avoiding the well-watched caravan route to Kortal.

“They fought several skirmishes with the Weya-Lu tribe. The last was a full-fledged battle, I gather. Having failed to stop the elves going into the valley, the nomads are camped at its entrance, and are trying to recruit other tribes to help destroy the intruders when they come out.”

Shobbat tugged thoughtfully at his beard. Although he might wish the nomads every success in stopping the laddad, no would-be khan could be happy to hear the desert tribes were massing. Every time that happened, a khan lost his head.

Like the rising of the sun, but with much less warning, a smile spread across Shobbat’s face. With his red-rimmed eyes and pallid lips, it was not a charming expression. And now it was Hengriff’s turn to be surprised, though he was practiced enough not to show it.

“My lord,” the prince asked, “are you able to communicate with these distant events, or do you only receive subsequent word of them?”

Aware of the import of what he was about to say, Hengriff replied, “The former, Your Highness.”

“Good! I will compose a missive, and you will have it conveyed to the tribesmen you say have gathered to stop the elves.”

Hengriff bowed slightly, thinking he would do what he pleased.

The prince snapped a command, and out of the shadows a lackey appeared, bearing a leather case. Shobbat pushed aside bottles of wine and perfume, a short sword, and a purse thick with coins, to pull out parchment, ink, and a pen-brush. The proclamation he composed was short and to the point, written in large, flowing script. Hengriff easily read the words upside-down. Again, he was surprised. This ambitious fool had more talent for intrigue than he had imagined. He might have to be more careful with the prince in the future.

Shobbat signed the document with a flourish, rolled it tightly, and sealed it with black wax. He pressed his signet into the wax and handed the scroll to Hengriff.

“You may be the savior of my country,” said the prince earnestly.

“I’d rather be the destroyer of the elves,” replied Hengriff.

Shobbat showed his eyeteeth. “It is the same thing.”

“Your message will be in nomad hands in three days, Your Highness.”

Shobbat extinguished the lamp, and the two men went their separate ways.

“Success, my lord?” asked Hengriff’s lieutenant waiting outside.

Hengriff glanced at the closed door. How did one reckon success in this maelstrom of deceit and treachery? He was still alive, still working for the Order. That was one measure of success.

He grunted an affirmative and added, “I have another visit to pay. When we get there, you men can return to our quarters.”

The five Knights slipped away, moving like a cluster of shadows. Out of the crowded Hameek district Hengriff led them to the northern part of the city, known as the Harbalah. Wrecked by Malys and her minions, it was still not rebuilt. The sights and smells of the vibrant, living sections of Khuri-Khan ended when they crossed Istra Street into the ruins. Hengriff halted by a broken dwelling and dismissed his men.

They hesitated. The lieutenant said, “My lord, we obey, but… our lives are pledged to safeguard yours. Shouldn’t we accompany you?”

“Not this time. Go.”

Reluctantly, they did. Hengriff remained where he was until the four loyal warriors turned a corner and were out of sight. When he was satisfied he was alone, he continued ahead. No torches or lamps burned here. There was only starlight to see by. Still, he made good progress through the rubble and shattered houses. He knew the way very well.

A tall tower stood out starkly against the night sky. Its upper floors had been toppled by the red dragon, but even truncated the tower was still many times higher than any other structure in the vicinity. Piled around its base were the ruins of a fine villa, once the home of the richest date merchant in Khur. His bones moldered beneath the toppled walls of his mansion.

Clouds drifting in from the sea passed over the stars, casting the ruins into deeper darkness. It was an eerie journey through the ruined grounds, cluttered with broken statuary, rubble, and blown trash, the gardens nowadays home to little more than thin, scraggly date palms. Roofless, the interior of the once fine home was open to the air. What remained of its gessoed walls was bright with painted scenes of desert life, the pictures cracked and peeling. The path through the trash was barely wide enough for Hengriff’s feet. The one who’d made it was much smaller than he.

He passed the first sign—a six-inch square of parchment bearing markings in red and black ink. A warning. A panic-spell had been placed over the ruined house. Had Hengriff not been wearing a counter-charm, he would’ve been seized by unreasoning fear.

When he reached the atrium, with its dry fountain and garden of weeds, he passed the second sign. This one was a human skull, eye sockets packed with clay. A pebble of polished malachite had been pushed into each clay-filled socket, making grotesque eyes. That’s exactly what they were. The occupant of the blighted villa could watch the path with these magical eyes. Interlopers were dealt with harshly.

The Knight came upon one such unlucky soul. A Khur lay sprawled by the fountain. His torso had been ripped open, his body left here as an extra warning to the unwary. By his clothes, Hengriff took him to be a beggar come to search for trinkets he could sell. He was past such needs now.

At the foot of the broken tower was the third sign. An ordinary copperplate, such as was used in taverns all around the city, was nailed to the tower door with three iron nails. Lines were scratched into the copper. They formed the sigil of madness. Anyone passing through the door without proper protection would go immediately insane.

Hengriff snorted. Perhaps the villa’s current resident had come home once without his protective amulets. That would explain much about him.

Despite the devastation all around, the great door swung smoothly inward, silent on well-oiled hinges. The interior smelled strongly of musk.

“Hello!” He tried to call softly, but his voice still boomed like a drumbeat.

Something stirred in the darkness. Something big. His hand went to his sword hilt.

“Faeterus! It’s Hengriff,” he said, feeling somewhat foolish. His voice could hardly be mistaken for any other’s.

A square of light appeared overhead as a trap door opened. Hengriff held up a hand to block the sudden glare. The light showed him a strange beast curled against the far wall, several yards away. It had a lion’s tawny body and limbs, but a long neck covered with small, bronze-colored scales. Its head was its most disturbing feature. Framed by a short, stiff mane of reddish hair, the head was round, like a human’s, with human-looking icy blue eyes, a flat nose, and a very wide mouth.

The mouth split in a grin as Hengriff tightened his grip on his sword hilt. At least four rows of teeth, one behind the other, glittered like polished steel in the wide mouth. The large eyes gazed at him steadily, without blinking. The Knight knew then what had happened to the beggar lying dead outside.

A knotted rope unspooled from the open trap door, its end striking the floor at Hengriff’s feet. The Knight began to climb, senses alert. A good place to ambush someone, he thought.

As his head and shoulders penetrated the room above, heat washed over him like a lowering weight. Oil lamps with silver reflectors lit the scene brightly, but the warmth came from two large fireplaces, opposite each other in the large, round room. Fires blazed high in each.

The room was decorated in an extreme of Khurish fashion that would have embarrassed a native-born Khur. Dark yellow carpets were layered six inches deep, helping to mask the warped floor. Every inch of wall space was covered by tapestries, depicting not only Khurish scenes of deserts and oases, but foreign sights as well—the barbaric splendor of Ergoth, the staid pageantry of old Solamnia, and geometric Tarsian designs shot through with spun gold thread.

There were no chairs or proper tables, only silk and velvet pillows, divans spread with plush wool and damask rugs, and low tables meant to be used by diners seated on the floor. Contributing to the suffocating atmosphere were jeweled incense burners hanging from the ceiling beams; they filled the air with the heavy reek of spice.

Hengriff’s host had returned to his dinner after dropping the rope through the trap door. An etched silver tray was balanced on the divan cushions beside him. Hengriff glanced at its contents and quickly looked away. A bird of some sort, plucked clean, but still raw. Savage.

“Welcome, noble Hengriff,” said Faeterus, waving a hand.

Gone was his bulky disguise. Shorn of the heavy, ragged robes and thick gray wig, Faeterus was revealed to be an elf of advanced years, with cottony white hair, eyebrows like flyaway wings over hazel eyes, and a chin sharp as the prow of a war galley. His hands were unusually large for an elf, with prominent joints and exceptionally long fingers, darkly stained by decades of mixing potions. He wore long, white cotton trousers and an abbreviated geb.

“That’s quite a watchdog you have,” Hengriff said, casting about for a decent place to sit.

“A rare creature indeed. A manticore from over the seas. It ensures my privacy.”

Faeterus indicated the Knight could join him, but Hengriff settled himself on a low table nearby, after deeming it strong enough to take his weight. He would not recline on the cushioned divan with the mage, nor sit on the carpeted floor at his feet like a supplicant.

“A new development,” he announced. “Prince Shobbat has regained his wits. As usual he’s aflame to depose his father, but when I mentioned the elves had gone to the valley, he seemed ready to relapse. He’s so frightened he’s willing to stir up the desert wanderers to stop the elves.” He held up Shobbat’s letter. “He gave me this proclamation, in which he incites them to make righteous war on the elves.”

“Shobbat is an idiot. Does it say anything more?” Faeterus bit delicately into the raw bird. Blood ran down his chin until he dabbed it with a napkin.

“He invites the nomads here to Khuri-Khan, to destroy the elves in their tent-city.”

Faeterus froze, then put down his dinner. “Not an idiot—a madman!”

“Maybe. He says his father has betrayed Khur by allowing the elves to remain here, and by filling his coffers with elven steel.”

“They’ll have Sahim-Khan’s head, too, in the bargain.”

“I’m sure that’s what Shobbat intends.”

Faeterus picked up a narrow, conical goblet made of gilded glass and gulped wine like a sailor just back from a long voyage. His fingers left gory prints on the shiny stem. Hengriff wondered whether his nails were naturally that umber shade, or if he painted them.

“An idiot after all,” Faeterus said, refilling his goblet. “Sahim is popular. The nomads won’t unite against him, not now.”

“Perhaps if they had more provocation,” Hengriff suggested.

“That will take some thought. The wanderers aren’t like ordinary people, elf or human. What pleases us offends them, and what angers them we would consider trivial.” The mage leaned back against his cushions, and added, “What will you do for me if I do this favor for you?”

I won’t wring your scrawny neck, Hengriff thought. “This isn’t a souk, elf. I’m not here to bargain. Get to the point. What do you want?”

Faeterus reclined on the cushions, closing his eyes. “A trifle, really,” he murmured.

Hengriff doubted that. The mage seemed immune to the standard temptations. As far as Hengriff could tell, he had only two guiding principles: hatred for his own race, and devotion to the pursuit of his magical arts. Whatever he wanted, it likely would be something extraordinary.

“I want what Gilthas wants: the Valley of the Blue Sands.”

Hengriff frowned at this puzzling reply. He knew the nomads of the northern desert regarded the valley as sacred, belonging to the gods and forbidden by them at the same time. Most of the stories he’d heard, in the souks and various taverns, were improbable in the extreme. In one, the valley was said to house an army of stone soldiers, motionless for two thousand years, who would awaken on hearing a certain magical word. If the wrong word of power was voiced, they would animate only long enough to kill the one who’d said it, then resume their stony existence. Other tales said the valley contained a city of gold, a race of invisible dragons, or—oddest of all—the tombs of dead, foreign gods.

Why, all of a sudden, did Faeterus care about the Valley of the Blue Sands?

Hengriff stood stiffly. Over the years he’d acquired too many injuries, more than a few while chasing the Lioness, to remain hunkered down on the low table for very long.

“I’ll convey your words to my masters,” he said evenly. “Fables and legends aside, the valley represents an excellent defensive position. My Order certainly wouldn’t want the elves to settle there.”

He glanced at a carafe sitting on the rug near Faeterus. The mage had a penchant for a Delphonian vintage steeped with kuroba flowers, which imparted a narcotic effect. Hengriff wanted none of that; he would endure his thirst for a while longer.

“Oh, one thing more,” he said casually. “Gilthas has an agent in the city looking for you.”

The mage’s hazel eyes opened quickly. “Really? An elf?”

“My spy on the Speaker’s council did not specify. Could be a hired Khur.”

“I hope not!” Faeterus rubbed his chin with his fingers, forgetting they were smeared with gore. The bloody streaks made his gaunt face seem savage indeed. “I need a full-blooded elf for my latest experiment. Maybe I should let Gilthas’s ferret find me.”

Hengriff had no desire to speculate on what experiments this loathsome creature might be planning. Duty discharged, he wanted only to be gone. He opened the trap door and held out his hand. He needed new paper amulets, so he could pass safely through the villa’s magical defenses. Each set of warding amulets worked in a very specific fashion—once as Hengriff departed, and once more allowing him to reenter. Faeterus would not have it any other way.

Unfortunately, Faeterus was not ready to let him go. Instead of producing new amulets, the sorcerer brought up the valley again, asking for assurances it would be granted to him. Hengriff brusquely declined to make guarantees. “The decision is not mine to make,” he growled, demanding the amulets.

Faeterus suddenly gave a very birdlike, warbling whistle. In the chamber below, the manticore sprang to its feet and came to stand below the opening. It looked up, and grinned. Hengriff had faced any number of horrors in his time, but the sight of that horrible, too-human face and its rows of steel-sharp teeth caused him to shudder. He thought of the disemboweled beggar outside.

He turned a furious look upon the sorcerer. Faeterus held the paper amulets in one long-fingered hand. “Of course you may leave if you really wish to,” the mage assured him genially. “But perhaps we should discuss proper payment for my services first?”

Planchet set a covered dish before his master. Gilthas, dining alone, watched expectantly as the domed cover was whisked away. Chicken again, nestled on a bed of roasted vegetables. Planchet offered him a choice of wines, Goodlund red or Silvanesti white, but Gilthas told him to save the wine for Kerian’s return.

The Speaker of the Sun and Stars drank water and ate in silence. Usually he dined with the members of his court, but for the past few days, since the audience with Sahim-Khan, his councilors had found various reasons not to attend. Everyone felt humiliated, the Qualinesti especially, as Gilthas was one of them. Lord Morillon had praised the Speaker’s diplomacy, but even he made excuses to avoid dinner. So Gilthas had only Planchet for company, as the valet waited on him.

Ten thousand steel pieces had gone out of Gilthas’s personal treasury. It wasn’t all in steel, of course. Much of it was gold and silver plate rescued from the blazing halls of the palace in Qualinost. Some of the golden service dated back to the reign of Speaker Silveran. They knew how to make fine things in those days. The gold was hammered thin as paper, yet remained stiff and strong. No one today could duplicate the alloy Silveran’s goldsmiths had used.

Golden plates and fine wines were extravagances they could live without. Sahim was a blackguard. Gilthas had always known that. Extortion at his hands was as much a part of the Speaker’s life as the desert’s incessant heat. Yet Gilthas would find a way to meet the Khan’s greedy demands so long as it bought more time for his people. His proud councilors did not understand that. They clung to glittering memories of worldly glory. Those memories were all they had for comfort as they slept each night in their stifling tents, lying on itchy woolen pallets, and toiled each day just to stay alive.

Khuri-Khan had been quiet since Gilthas’s visit. Armed patrols of Khurish soldiers tramped the back streets in strength, discouraging malefactors and maintaining an uneasy calm. Traffic in and out of the city had fallen off, although this was likely no more than a temporary condition. Traveling merchants were cautious folk. Having heard about the riot in the capital, many diverted to Delphon to peddle their wares. If the situation remained calm, if no more unrest developed, they would return. For now, though, the flow of Khurs in and out of Khuri-Khan had almost completely ceased.

Repairs on the city wall faltered as stone caravans from Kortal, in the Khalkist foothills, dwindled. Sahim was spending great sums to import hard stone from the far-away mountains to bolster his defenses. The route between Kortal and Khuri-Khan passed through the territory of the Weya-Lu tribe. For some reason, the Weya-Lu had abandoned their usual trade route. Without the nomads to man caravans, the flow of hard stone to the capital stopped.

Next to Gilthas’s plate lay the dispatches from Kerian. A dusty, desiccated courier had arrived with the reports late last night. The Kagonesti had placed the leather pouch in the Speaker’s own hands, then passed out, falling from the saddle into the arms of Taranath. The dispatches he brought contained wonderful news. The entrance to the Inath-Wakenti had been found.

However, Gilthas’s elation was tempered by the other news in the dispatches. Kerian’s troop had clashed several times with armed nomads. She reported this matter-of-factly, as if it was to be expected. She assured him they had nothing to fear from the nomads. The wanderers’ weapons were poor and their tactics feeble. If necessary, she could defeat three or four times the number she’d faced thus far.

Her words, intended to reassure, had exactly the opposite effect. It was just this situation Gilthas had feared more than anything else. He understood Sahim-Khan, and that made working with the human possible. The nomads of the desert were another matter. Aloof, proud as a dozen Silvanesti lords, the nomads were motivated by a complex tangle of piety and honor. Their fierce conviction in their own virtue made dealing with them difficult at best. Should they decide to make war in earnest upon the elves, then life in Khur would become much, much harder. Perhaps even impossible.

The dark heart of the matter, Gilthas well knew, was Kerianseray’s fiery nature. Could she control herself? She must not fight the desert folk. Defend herself, yes, but she could not hammer the nomads as she would Dark Knights or minotaurs. The fragile peace between Khurs and elves would not withstand wide bloodshed. Could the Lioness carry out her reconnaissance without starting a war?

His expression must have reflected his inner turmoil. Planchet, standing to one side, asked if he was unwell.

Gilthas smiled ruefully. “No, old friend. Just thinking instead of eating.” He tried to pay attention to his dinner, but he’d lost his appetite. All he could think was, where was Kerian? What was happening to her now?

He didn’t know whether the griffon had reached her safely, but already he was doubting the wisdom of sending the creature. He hoped she would use Eagle Eye wisely. He’d been second-guessing the mission for days now. The nomads were fighting to defend their land; he could understand that. An armed force of foreigners had entered their territory, and they were trying to drive them out. Perhaps he could have sent diplomats instead of scholars. Perhaps he should’ve tried to hire nomad guides. Perhaps he should not have put his hot-tempered wife in charge.

Yet, he knew he couldn’t have done otherwise. Kerianseray was the general of his armies, his strong right arm.

Through the dark days of the terrible journey across the Plains of Dust and the Burning Lands, when thousands of their people had died, Kerian’s strength had sustained him, had sustained all of them.

Planchet claimed his attention. Gilthas saw the valet was standing by the door flap, conversing with a servant. “Sire,” Planchet said, “Lord Morillon wishes to see you. He says it is most urgent.”

“Send him in.” A few days earlier, Gilthas had informed his closest councilors, including Morillon, of Kerian’s mission, that she was seeking the Inath-Wakenti, and that he hoped the legendary valley might become a new home for their people.

For once Morillon arrived without his usual corps of sycophants. He looked grave. “Great Speaker, I bring news.”

“Of Kerianseray?”

“Partly, sire. The city is buzzing with the news of Lady Kerianseray’s arrival at the valley.”

“Already?” Planchet commented in amazement. “News travels fast.”

“There is more,” Morillon said. “There are rumors that a great massacre has occurred. Hundreds of Khurish women and children of the Weya-Lu tribe were slain in camp, many miles north of here. Some are saying that it was done by Lady Kerianseray’s troops.”

Gilthas stood so quickly his camp chair went over backward. “Filthy Torghanist lies!”

“I agree, Great Speaker, but the Khurs might choose to think otherwise.”

This was undeniable. Unchecked, the massacre story could inflame Khur from one end to the other. Riots in the souks would be nothing compared to the Khurs’ outrage over this.

Impatiently, Morillon asked, “Sire, what shall we do?

“I will go to Sahim-Khan, lay my thoughts before him. Once he sees we have nothing to hide, he will protect us.”

“And if he won’t?” Planchet asked bluntly.

“He must.” Gilthas hesitated. “How many warriors are in camp?”

“About thirty thousand.”

“Then have them stand ready, Planchet. No fanfare, though. Alert them quietly.”

The valet hurried away to carry out his liege’s order. Morillon’s worry had only increased.

“Great Speaker, fighting isn’t the answer,” he said. “The Khan can field twice our numbers. More if he calls upon the desert tribes!”

Gilthas shook his head. “No, he won’t summon the nomads. He fears them more than he fears us. And I agree: Fighting is not the answer. We must learn the truth about this massacre, if it actually occurred, and prove to the Khan and his people that we are not responsible.”

“But what if—what we can’t prove such a thing?” Pressing a fist to his lips, Gilthas thought hard. He did not believe Kerian would kill innocent women and children, but who could say what might have occurred in the far desert. If a battle had taken place, if innocents had been killed, if proof of elven innocence was dubious. There were too many ifs!

“We must make preparations to leave.”

The Speaker’s pronouncement drained the color from Morillon’s face. “Leave? To go where?”

“To where Lady Kerianseray is right now. Summon the council. I want an inventory made of all food and water on hand. I want emergency plans drawn up to evacuate Khurinost on a moment’s notice.”

He was talking of uprooting a hundred thousand souls. Stunned, Morillon could only nod as the Speaker continued to pepper him with orders.

“We’ll need carts. Have as many made as possible. If there aren’t enough animals to draw them, use people. If we can’t make enough carts, use travois.” The trip to the Inath-Wakenti would be very long, very harsh, he explained.

“Great Speaker, don’t be hasty!” Morillon interjected. “Let us discuss this! Sahim-Khan is no friend of the desert tribes. With proper motivation, he would defend us if the nomads attacked!”

Gilthas’s smile was bitter. “Perhaps. But what if you are wrong? What if he refuses to defend foreigners—laddad foreigners—against his own people? There’s not enough money in the world to buy safety from the Khan, if too many of his own people rise up to threaten him.” The smile vanished. “We must have a contingency plan. We can offer to pay more for his protection. That much steel will tempt him and buy us time. See to it, my lord. Personally. Arrange an audience at once. Today.”

Morillon rushed to do Gilthas’s bidding. Like a disturbed anthill, Khurinost stirred to frantic activity. Meager supplies were counted, weapons long stored taken out. If the exiles were forced to flee, every able-bodied elf would be required to take up arms to defend their lives and their freedom.