Sanctuary

Chapter 13

Daybreak came, with the nomads nowhere in sight. Glanthon had riders scour the pass for signs, but the Weya-Lu appeared to be gone. The pine copses and juniper thickets on the hillsides overlooking the pass were empty. On the floor of the pass, a distinct trail of hoofprints led due south. The way out of Inath-Wakenti was free and clear.

As the Lioness had commanded, the company of elves would bear west, not south, the direction from which they had come. This eventually would put them on the caravan road from Kortal to Khuri-Khan. Since that road bypassed the cauldron of the High Plateau, it was a safer route in some respects, but for several days they would be riding further away from their comrades in Khurinost and closer to the border with Neraka. Still, Glanthon agreed with his commander’s reasoning that this was the best way to go. Feeling a bit naked without the encircling mountains, trees, and ghostly ruins, the elves rode forth into the open desert again.

One of the last tasks they’d completed before leaving Inath-Wakenti was to make a small lap table for Favaronas. Thin planks of yellow pine were pegged together into a surface that allowed the archivist to write and read while on horseback. A hole near the top center of the board fitted over his saddle pommel. This stabilized the lapboard and kept it from sliding off the moving horse. Favaronas shortened his stirrups and balanced the lapboard across his drawn up knees. In this way, he could work on his report to the Speaker even as they were on the move.

Without nomads to fight, Glanthon soon grew bored and came back to ride alongside Favaronas and distract him with a discussion of the valley. Glanthon believed a system of tunnels underlay the ruins. He was certain the secret of the ruins lay underground. Had time permitted, he would have sought permission from the Lioness to search further in the tunnels they’d found, looking for signs of their missing comrades and more evidence of previous civilizations.

“You think our missing warriors are in the tunnels?” Favaronas said.

“Where else?” Glanthon reasoned.

“With magic involved, there’s no limit to where they might have been taken. The next valley over, or even to the stars themselves.”

Favaronas’s testy response silenced the talkative warrior, but only briefly. Glanthon changed the subject, asking whether Favaronas had learned anything about the odd stone artifacts they’d removed from the underground chamber.

The archivist sighed. “Not very much,” he admitted. Each of the eight stone cylinders bore a brief inscription engraved on one side. Favaronas was convinced they’d once been real books, but had been changed to solid stone.

“I have deciphered the labels, at least partly. They are not, as I first thought, a forgotten dialect of Old Silvanesti. Instead, each syllable is an abbreviation of a longer word or phrase. The first is marked Ba-Laf-Om-Thas, which means ‘Balif, Lord of the Thon-Thalas,’ and Hoc-Sem-Ath. Which I believe translates as ‘Halfway Between Lives.’”

“What does that mean?”

“I wish I knew.” The archivist recalled the discussion at the Speaker’s dinner, the night before they’d begun this journey. The cartographer Sithelbathan had said the furthest outpost of the ancient elven kingdom, Balif’s Gate, was supposed to have been located in or near the valley.

Glanthon looked over his shoulder at the three mountains, Torghan’s Teeth, receding behind them. “You think those stones are the ruins of that outpost? You think Silvanesti made them?”

“Not necessarily.” The imprecision of it all plainly made the archivist unhappy. “But I’m beginning to think the valley was visited by followers of General Balif, probably after the First Dragon War, thirty-five hundred years ago. We know from ancient tradition that Balif left Silvanesti under a cloud, or a curse, and eventually helped found the kender nation of Balifor. Some authorities claim he became a kender himself, but there’s no evidence for that theory.” He sighed. “Many relevant records are still in the temples of Silvanost, closely guarded. Others were lost in the First Cataclysm.”

“Perhaps these cylinders contain the true history of Balif!” Glanthon exclaimed.

Favaronas drew his geb close around him as if feeling a chill despite the desert heat. “Perhaps. One other possibility has occurred to me, but it’s really too frightful to contemplate.”

Glanthon had to prompt the scholar, reminding him of his duty to the Speaker, before he would continue. Even then, Favaronas looked around furtively, making certain no one was eavesdropping.

“Do you know much about the history of our race?” he asked.

Glanthon’s education didn’t extend much beyond reading, writing, and simple mathematics, He admitted his lack of scholarship.

Briefly, Favaronas described the founding of the first elven nation under Silvanos Goldeneye, first Speaker of the Stars. The land claimed by the elves, the land that would one day be Silvanesti, was then occupied by powerful dragons. Conflict ensued, the First Dragon War, in which Balif led his griffon riders to victory. The triumph was not Balif’s alone. The gods of magic sent a trio of mages to aid the elves. The mages were armed with five powerful dragonstones. Balif and the mages set a trap for the dragons, luring them into a final battle, then capturing their souls within the dragonstones. The dragons’ empty bodies were transformed to ridges of stone, and became part of the Khalkist range; they were part of that mountain range still.

Like all elves, Glanthon knew Silvanos had founded the nation that bore his name. But hearing the story, thrilling even in abbreviated form, left him open-mouthed.

“What happened to the dragonstones?” he asked.

“Let me quote the Chronicle of Silvanos.” This was the book all aspiring archivists were required to learn by heart. “‘Victorious, the Cloud-Legion of Lord Balif carried the captive dragon spirits away, north to the deepest range of the mountains. Here was the Pit of Nemith-Otham, the deepest cleft in the world, and into it Lord Balif cast the souls of one hundred dragons.’”

In case Glanthon didn’t follow him fully, Favaronas added, “The exact location of Nemith-Otham is not known today, but I suspect—I fear!—Inath-Wakenti was once the Pit of Nemith-Otham.”

Glanthon was amazed. If Favaronas was correct, beneath the surface of the valley lay the greatest concentration of magical force in the world, the captive souls of one hundred dragons, and the nomads’ fearful respect of the place was entirely justified.

One dragon, just one, the formidable green dragon Beryl, had destroyed an army comprising thousands of elves. Even in death she had murdered elves. Plummeting from the sky, she had crushed the city of Qualinost so badly that the land collapsed and the White-Rage River rushed in. Nearly all the survivors of the battle drowned. The Speaker’s own mother, Queen Mother Laurana, had been killed, and the site remained flooded to this day, as far as anyone knew. The dragon’s rotting corpse was still at the bottom of the lake, giving it the well-deserved name Nalis Aren, the Lake of Death.

Glanthon was a survivor of that battle. Hardly a month went by that he didn’t relive in dreams the horror and gallantry he’d witnessed. Knowing well the havoc one green dragon had wreaked, he could scarcely comprehend the destruction a hundred creatures could do.

Seeing his stricken face, Favaronas reminded him It was only a theory, and it didn’t explain the ruins, the disappearing antelope the Lioness had seen, or the strange ghost that had passed Glanthon and Favaronas in the tunnel. The only hard facts the archivist had wrung from the scrolls thus far was that Someone, in sizable numbers, had occupied the valley, and they had a connection to the valiant, doomed Balif. The titles of the other seven cylinders were as cryptic as that of the first. He had puzzled them out as “Counting of the Tribe.”

“Halfway Order of the Breeding,” “Raising of the Pillars,” and “Sleeping of the First One.”

He thought it odd the labels of two of the eight randomly chosen cylinders mentioned “halfway”. Judging from the way the word was used, he felt it referred to a group of people, not a location.

“Whatever it means,” he said, “I confess I am glad to be out of that peculiar valley for good.”

Glanthon shook his head. “It may not be for good. The Speaker hopes the valley will be our new homeland.” Ignoring Favaronas’s shocked expression, the warrior added that he thought the valley, with its hidden entrance, abundance of water, and tunnel system, would make a fine haven for them.

“We must simply solve its various mysteries,” he finished stoutly.

Favaronas said, “The humans may be right about the place.

There may be mysteries there we should not disturb.”

“What about our people? Not only the thousands languishing in that filthy camp outside Khuri-Khan, but the hundreds of thousands who bear the yoke of foreign conquerors? Do we forget them and take the easy path to everlasting exile?”

Favaronas had no answer. Glanthon was a dedicated warrior. He found virtue in hardship and nobility in war. How could an archivist at least twice his age tell the proud soldier that his ideals were wrong?

He couldn’t. Instead, he silently vowed to continue his study of the cylinders. There had to be a way to get at the interior text, if any.

The westward ride progressed without incident. As dusk fell, the warriors camped just below the summit of a broad, gravelly hill. They’d come across no signs of nomads. The desert west of the mountains seemed as devoid of people as the Vale of Silence had been.

They had plenty of water from the valley, but rations were growing short. Only pine nuts and berries had been found during their foraging trips in the valley. Tis sterility caused much comment among the elves. Many were former herdsmen or farmers, and a few had been gardeners in the great city of Qualinost. In elven lands a gardener was no menial laborer, but an artist comparable to a sculptor, poet, or painter. They could come up with no obvious reason for the valley’s lack of game and edible plants. No two-legged hunters prowled its paths; it contained plenty of water; its climate was mild. The soil was sandy and poor in many places, not to mention having that odd color, but nearer the highlands there should be better minerals in the earth. Common sense dictated the valley should be teeming with life. Why, then, was it so silent and empty?

Favaronas had formulated an answer, but he did not share it with the others, not wishing to be drawn into a long discussion. The ghostly lights in the ruins were attracted to horses, riders, and even the murderous sand beast. He believed that, over time, the will-o’-the-wisps had cleared the valley of animal life, right down to the flies. Where the creatures had been taken he could not say, but the Speaker must consider this danger before bringing the entire nation to dwell there.

Clouds appeared in the east, high and solid looking. The desert air usually was so dry no clouds could penetrate this far from the sea, so their appearance caused much comment as the elves settled into camp. When flickers of lightning flashed beneath the clouds, the elves knew they were seeing something extraordinary, but not even that could keep the weary warriors awake long.

Favaronas labored far into the night, trying to unlock the secret of the stone cylinders. He gathered dry desert grasses and built a small fire by a stand of saltbush, whose grayish-green leaves had served as his dinner. He laid one of the cylinders in the flames, but fire had no effect on it. He tried pouring water, then oil, on the cylinders, to soften them, but again met with failure. The ends of the cylinders bore tight spiral patterns. They looked like nothing so much as ordinary vellum scrolls turned to stone, perhaps by age or magic. If the former, it might be possible to separate the books using mechanical means, but if magic was involved, his efforts were pointless. The Speaker would have to find skilled mages to unravel the guarded cylinders.

Sometime past midnight Favaronas fell asleep, the cylinders arranged before him. His fire had died to a bed of shimmering coals.

The soft crunch of footfalls woke him. He had spent too many fearful days and nights in the valley to ignore such noises.

“Who’s there?” he hissed. Likely the noise was innocent, caused by one of Glanthon’s soldiers. Favaronas called out again, by turns nervous and angry. The fellow could have the courtesy to answer!

He tossed a handful of dry grass on the coals of his fire. Flames blossomed. To his heart-thudding shock, they illuminated a cloaked figure standing a few feet away. The figure moved back, seeking the darkness.

Favaronas shouted, getting quickly to his feet. Glanthon had given him a Weya-Lu mace because it required little skill to wield. He clutched it now. He was terrified, but certain his cry would rouse the warriors and they would protect him.

Strangely, none came. The warriors around him remained still. Despite his continued shouts, he heard snores and deep inhalations as they slept on, undisturbed.

The cloaked intruder joined several similarly clad figures at the foot of the hill. Favaronas could make out four distinct I forms, and in the night’s deep folds, he spied the movement of many more. Instead of fleeing, the four came closer and surrounded him.

He waved the mace, shouting at them to stay back. With an enemy at each point of the compass, he found himself whirling in a circle, trying desperately to keep them all in view.

“Stranger.”

The whisper brought him around to face one of the four.

“Give back what you have taken.”

He knew immediately what was meant: the stone cylinders. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Slender hands turned back the dark hood. A lovely face appeared, that of a young female elf with eyes and hair the color of sunlit gold.

The other three uncovered their heads, revealing themselves to be elf maidens, too. One had hair and eyes of darkest onyx; another was copper hued, and the fourth silvery white. All four were beautiful, with flawless, milky skin and crimson lips, but their expressions were somber.

“Give back what you have taken,” repeated the golden-haired maid.

Favaronas lowered the mace. “These relics are important to us,” he replied. “Can’t you spare them?”

In unison, the four advanced a step toward him. Golden Hair once more repeated her command, with the others echoing it.

These weren’t phantoms. Unlike the translucent ghost he’d encountered in the tunnel, these elves were flesh and blood. Even in the poor light he could see the tracks left in their hair by combs, hear the rustle of their robes, see how their thin sandals pressed into the gravelly sand.

“Please, we didn’t mean to steal anything,” he said, addressing Golden Hair. “I’m an archivist, an expert on documents. These cylinders are very old, and I’d like to read them. You’re elves; you must know how important these cylinders could be to our people. Do you know how to open them?”

She unclasped her cloak and let it fall, exposing bare flesh. The others followed suit. Before Favaronas could digest this development, one of the maidens sprang on him from behind. Another snatched the mace from his hand, and a third struck the backs of his knees, toppling him to the ground.

His head hit the ground with such force that the stars overhead vanished in a sunrise of pain. A terrible weight settled on his chest. When his head finally cleared, he saw the golden-haired elf sitting on his chest. Although she looked so slight a strong breeze would sway her, she was extremely heavy. He could hardly draw breath against the crushing weight of her body. He pleaded for air.

She leaned down, grasping his head between her hands. As she moved closer, her lovely face shattered. Instead of a radiantly fair elf maid, Favaronas found himself eye to eye with a wolf, one with golden eyes and matching pelt.

“Give back what you have stolen!” the wolf snarled.

He couldn’t understand why the creatures didn’t just take the stone cylinders and go. They had certainly defeated him. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

“Take them!” he wheezed. “Why don’t you...just take them?”

“You shall have no rest until you return what you have taken!”

So saying, the wolf lifted one paw high. Favaronas couldn’t draw breath to scream before the claws slashed across his throat.

The uneasy calm continued at Khuri-Khan. Slate-colored clouds piled higher and higher over the city until they no longer flowed with the wind. For the first time in living memory, the desert sun vanished completely. Khurs and elves sweltered despite the unexpected shade. No breath of wind stirred, and the heat was stifling. Brief, unpredictable showers of rain fell, keeping everyone sodden, steamy, and uncomfortable.

The murder of Lord Morillon fanned the flames of fear and distrust already smoldering from the attempt on the Speaker’s life. There were no clues to his death. No evidence pointed to anyone in particular, but the view in Khurinost was that Morillon had been slain by fanatical Torghanists.

Sahim-Khan agreed. His fierce captain Vatan and one hundred elite palace guards cleared the Temple of Torghan. The entire college of priests was dragged away in chains, along with two dozen scruffy nomads hiding in the temple grounds, and a handful of terrified servants. High priest Minok could not be found.

The elves kept close to their tents. They saw conspiracies every time more than two Khurs appeared on the city street; Planchet and Taranath quickly organized water collection for the entire colony. Warriors, rather than ordinary citizens, were sent to purchase the life-giving liquid. Even without their chargers, and dressed in regular attire, the warriors cut an unmistakable profile as they stood watch over their comrades.

During one of these expeditions Hytanthas Ambrodel learned of the death of Lord Hengriff. He sought out Planchet on his return from the city. The Speaker’s guard commander, Hamaramis, was with the valet.

“Hengriff’s corpse lies in the palace yard,” Hytanthas announced grimly. “Wearing a placard that says ‘Traitor.’”

“A suitable end for a Dark Knight,” Hamaramis opined.

“He saved my life that night at the ruined villa,” the captain insisted. “He may have had a nefarious purpose in mind, but the truth is, he saved me. He seemed an honorable man.” Hamaramis snorted, and Hytanthas added stubbornly, “He deserves better than to feed the flies!”

Planchet understood. He went to a chest standing against the wall of the Speaker’s tent and removed a small sack from one of its drawers. He tossed it to Hytanthas.

“Bribe the guards and secure the Knight’s remains. See to it he gets an honorable burial.”

Head held high under Hamaramis’s disapproval, Hytanthas departed to repay his debt to the Dark Knight of Neraka.

“That money could be better spent.”

The two elves turned to see the Lioness standing in the doorway leading to the Speaker’s bedchamber. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. She’d been up all night, nursing her injured husband.

“It could be used to find Morillon’s killer, or the spineless fiend who tried to kill the Speaker,” she said.

Planchet poured a cup of raw wine and handed it to the Lioness. “They might be the same person,” he said evenly. “Barring a new player, the roster of our foes is shrinking. Sahim-Khan, for all his grasping ways, has shown he’s not our true enemy, and Lord Hengriff is dead.”

“Who does that leave?” she asked.

“The mage Faeterus, for one. We don’t know much about him, but he tried to kill Captain Ambrodel, evaded the Nerakans, and is still at large.”

“What about the Torghanist high priest?”

Planchet shook his head. “A pawn in the game, not a player, I think. Sahim-Khan’s been hunting him for days. He dares not show his face anywhere in Khuri-Khan.”

“Prince Shobbat?” Hamaramis suggested.

Here, Planchet frowned without replying. The heir to the throne of Khur was a cipher to the elves. He had little to do with the running of the country and spent most of his time overseeing repairs to the palace or pursuing his personal pleasures. It was rumored he was involved in Hengriff’s fall, but the elves found this hard to credit. No one in Khuri-Khan took the spoiled, pleasure-loving prince seriously as a threat.

Kerian held out her empty cup and Planchet refilled it.

“How fares the Speaker, lady?” Hamaramis asked quietly.

“He sleeps. His fever waxes each night and wanes by day.”

Planchet said, “An entire corps of healers from Khuri-Khan waits to attend him.”

“Humans have done enough for the Speaker!” she snapped. Her furious expression lasted only seconds, then settled back into its usual stolid exhaustion. “Our people can take care of him.”

Although she had no grudge against Sa’ida or the Temple of Elir-Sana Kerian had been so shaken by the treacherous attack on Gilthas that she wouldn’t allow any humans near him. Elven sages, lacking the resources of their native lands, were having difficulty controlling his fever, but Kerian insisted only elves treat the Speaker.

She finished her drink, then returned to the dim room where Gilthas slept. The temperature was warm but bearable, the heat kept at bay by the palm fan that rotated slowly next to his bed. It was powered by the strong arms of boys who turned the crank located in an adjacent room. So great was their desire to aid their Speaker, most had to be forced to rest and allow another to take his place.

Around the room’s shadowed periphery, healers consulted each other in whispers. Irritated by their murmuring, Kerian ordered the room cleared.

She sat on her side of the rope-framed bed, careful not to block the breeze from the fan. In the low light she could see sweat on Gilthas’s forehead and along his jaw. His breath was slow and steady, but a little raspy. His eyes were closed. When she touched his cheek, she felt the fever burning inside him.

“I found the valley, Gil,” she said softly. “It’s just where your librarian said it would be, but I fear it’s no place for us. There’s something wrong with it, some kind of curse”—she grimaced at the ignorant word, but could think of no other—“on the place. A force snatches away living creatures, including our people. We never discovered where they went. The Inath-Wakenti holds no animal life at all, not so much as a lizard or a fly. I know the place fascinates you, and we can certainly send other explorers to study it, but that valley is no sanctuary for our beleaguered nation.”

He never stirred. She took his hand. Despite the sweat on his face, his hand was dry, and hot as the sands outside. She put her face close to his, willing him to waken, to be well, to hear.

“You must give up the foolish idea that we can find a new homeland. We have a home. Two homes, in fact. It’s our sacred duty and our destiny to return and take them back. That’s what we should do, what we must do!”

She realized she was squeezing his hand. Releasing it, she stood and paced across the room like a caged version of her namesake.

“There’s talk about me in the tents, you know. They say I abandoned my warriors to come home to you. I can’t deny it, but I won’t apologize for it. I flew here to be by your side.”

She halted her restless movement.

“We have to get out of here, Gil. Once Sahim-Khan drains us of all our treasure, he’ll sell us to the Knights or the bull-men or any of the other half-dozen groups that would like to see us exterminated. Or the nomads and Torghanists will unite against us and save him the trouble. Then what will we do?”

He didn’t answer, only lay breathing slowly. Six feet away, yet he might as well have been across the continent. Her husband wasn’t here. He’d gone somewhere she couldn’t reach. Fear, frustration, and worry squeezed her heart. She could no longer simply sit and stare at him.

Picking up her helmet and sword-belt from a chair by the bed, she departed. When she reached the audience room, she sent the healers back in again.

“Heal the Speaker,” she said curtly.

Past Hamaramis and Planchet, past the courtiers waiting in hushed circles, past her husband’s loyal servants she strode in unyielding silence. In the square outside the sprawling tent she found the company she’d summoned. One warrior held the reins of her horse. She swung into the saddle without benefit of stirrup.

The Lioness rode away toward Khuri-Khan with forty armed and armored warriors behind her.

Gilthas inhaled sharply and opened his eyes.

“My heart,” he gasped. Healers rushed to his side, thinking the Speaker was complaining about the organ in his chest, but he was not. “I heard you,” he panted. “Come back, my heart!”

But Kerian was already gone.

Water from the recent rains stained the ruined villa’s white limestone walls. Opportunistic seeds, long dormant in the soil, had sprouted, covering the pebbled paths and former gardens in a profusion of hairy, green shoots.

The Lioness had heard a full account from Hytanthas of his adventure with Faeterus and the mage’s monsters. When she and her riders reached the villa ruins clustered around the broken tower, she sent twenty elves to find the carcasses of the sand beast and manticore, while she and the remaining twenty scoured the grounds for clues to the mage’s whereabouts.

The clouds above were still, and no air stirred through the rubble piles and toppled columns. The atmosphere carried the heavy, expectant feeling of an impending storm. It was unnerving to the elves and their horses.

The dead monsters were easy enough to find. The headless manticore was draped over a pile of rubble. Closer to the villa, the sand beast was likewise yielding to corruption. The elves were forced to tie kerchiefs over their noses just to approach its body.

Kerian entered the mansion’s front doorway. Scraps of parchment blew over her feet. She speared one on her sword tip and brought it up to read. It looked scorched. Every line of ink on the vellum was charred. Her reading skills were limited, but she recognized the curls and tracery of a magical sigil. The weakened parchment broke apart. The fragments fluttered to the floor.

A warrior hailed her. He had found the sorcerer’s sanctum in the broken tower. She entered the tower through a large door that swung inward on silent hinges. The interior was lit only by the faint daylight from an open trap door overhead. She mounted a ladder they’d knocked together from house timbers, and entered Faeterus’s former residence.

The round room was filled with carpets, tapestries, and numerous pillows. Daylight penetrated through hairline cracks in the tower walls. Aside from the overblown furnishings, all they found were more pieces of disintegrating parchment, a collar and leash for the manticore, and an empty wicker cage.

One of the elves bent down, peering into the shadows. He stood up abruptly, cursing.

Kerian came over. “What is it?”

“Dead birds!” Six common pigeons, the bane of soukats all over Khuri-Khan, lay dead on the rug. Their headless bodies were arranged in a neat line.

Kerian spied a squat brass urn in the corner. Recognizing it as a Khurish oil pot, she picked it up and shook it. It was half full. She sent her warriors out. As they went back down the ladder, she began pouring mutton oil on the thick carpet. Tossing aside the empty urn, she swept parchment fragments into a heap on the oil-soaked carpet. With flint and steel, she showered sparks on the little pile of tinder. Soon, the first red flame crept forth. Smoke was puffing from the trap door opening as she joined her elves.

Outside, Kerian saw the first flames erupt from the windows of the villa proper and knew the job was done. Not only was she taking away an enemy’s fortress, she was sending him a clear message: The Lioness had taken the field against him, and there would be no quarter.

In the gardens, the other half of her company had gotten a dozen ropes around the sand beast’s carcass. The gangrenous wound on its hip gave Kerian great satisfaction. Hengriff may have slain the beast, but she and her warriors had slowed it down so he could do the job. Had he encountered the sand beast as they first had, she had no doubt it would have killed the Knight as easily as it had her brave warriors.

Having roped the stinking carcass to their protesting horses, the elves awaited her next order.

“Follow me,” she told them.

The company rode out of the Harbalah and into Khuri-Khan proper. At the rear of the procession, six riders dragged the lifeless body of the sand beast behind their mounts. From windows and doorways Khurs reacted with horror as the putrefying remains were dragged past their houses, shedding blood and flesh as it went. Some screamed, and many cursed the laddad as they passed.

The warrior riding nearest the Lioness said, “General, why are we—?”

“It’s a gift for Sahim-Khan,” she said calmly.

The elves held their formation, but all wondered whether they were on a suicide ride. The human Khan had been known to kill for insults far less than this.

The bulk of the carcass forced them to keep to the wide thoroughfares. These took them through the heart of Khuri-Khan. By the time they skirted the Grand Souks, a crowd had gathered behind them. The Lioness ignored the hostile, angry Khurs and rode steadily on.

Word of their approach sped ahead, and they arrived to find the gates of the Khuri yl Nor solidly shut against them. Kerian directed her troopers to drag the decaying sand beast up to the gate and cut it loose.

From the battlements above, a Khurish officer yelled, “What are you doing, laddad? You can’t leave that there!”

She removed her helmet. Despite the clouded sky, her golden head shone like a land-bound sun.

“I am Kerianseray, consort of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars,” she proclaimed in her best command voice. “This is a gift for Sahim-Khan with my compliments. Summon him.”

The officer laughed harshly. “No one summons the Khan of All the Khurs!”

“Tell him it has to do with the massacre of the nomad camp, and with his pet sorcerer, Faeterus.”

Mention of the atrocity stirred the mob behind the elves. Angry shouts and denunciations flew. The elven warriors, tense already, fingered sword hilts and worked to control their restive mounts. Only Kerian remained calm. She sat tall on her bay horse, back straight, eyes never leaving the Khurish officer.

Perhaps it was her calm insistence, or the growling mob behind her, that convinced him, but the officer disappeared from the battlement. For a time nothing happened. Distant thunder rumbled. Flies, drawn by the carrion, tormented everyone. “Unclean!” cried the mob. “Drive the killers out!”

At last the double gates parted. The crowd fell silent. Thunder murmured again.

A double line of Khurish soldiers, twenty in all, marched out the gate. Behind them walked, not Sahim-Khan, but Hakkam, commander of the Khan’s army. The soldiers halted and Hakkam strode between their lines, approaching the Lioness.

“Lady Kerianseray,” he said. He grimaced at the carcass. “You’ve been hunting, I see.”

“No, General. Like a vulture, I only picked up what was already dead. Is Sahim-Khan coming?”

“Of course not. Say what must be said to me.”

Sensing that she had gotten as far as she could, she crossed her wrists on the pommel of her saddle and leaned forward over them.

“This stinking carcass is all that remains of a sand beast. I believe they are native to your remote desert.” Hakkam conceded they were. “It was slain a few nights ago by Lord Hengriff. You know the man?” Kerian said sarcastically.

Matching her tone, Hakkam replied, “A warrior of considerable prowess. Not the best intriguer.”

“This beast was slain in the Harbalah, on the grounds of a villa destroyed by Malys. The beast traveled there from the Valley of the Blue Sands, where it tried to kill me and my entire company.”

Her words set the mob surging and muttering again. Kerian raised her voice to be heard above them. “At first I thought it had come across us by accident, but after its first attack, it tracked us across fifty miles of open desert. We passed by the peaceful camp of the Weya-Lu tribe one night on our way to the valley. We did them no harm. The sand beast, on our trail, must have slaughtered them after we passed on.”

A profound silence descended. The buzzing of the flies sounded very loud.

“When we fought the beast a final time, we wounded it, and it escaped.” Wisely, she didn’t cloud the issue with talk of will-o’-the-wisps and the instantaneous transference of the one-ton sand beast from Inath-Wakenti to Khuri-Khan.

“Ask yourself, General Hakkam, ask yourself as I have done, why did this creature, wounded and in agony, turn up on the grounds of a wrecked mansion in your city?”

He folded sinewy arms across his chest and obligingly said, “Why?”

“It was returning to its master, the sorcerer Faeterus, who lived in the ruined mansion. Maddened with pain, it attacked one of my warriors who was keeping an eye on the mage. The fortunate arrival of Lord Hengriff put an end to its murderous rampage.”

Hakkam stared at her for a moment longer, eyes narrowed in thought, then slowly approached the dead beast. Its rotting hide was nearly invisible beneath a writhing coat of blowflies. Hakkam was a hardened desert fighter and did not flinch.

“What proof have you?” he called out over the buzz and whir of busy insects.

“The proof of my word, and the proof of logic. I do not kill innocents. A sand beast will, and did.”

“And this sorcerer you speak of?”

“At large in your city, perhaps in the palace of the Khan even now. Find him, General. Put your questions to him.”

She raised a gloved hand, and in unison her escort wheeled their horses. A crowd of nearly one thousand Khurs packed the back of the square. The Lioness rode back through her warriors and continued unhesitatingly toward the wall of humanity. When the Khurs realized she was not going to turn aside, they scrambled out of her way. The rest of the elves followed her.

An irritated Hakkam spat on the pavement and glanced back at the Khuri yl Nor. He hoped his sovereign had gotten a good whiff of the Lioness’s gift. After ordering the rotten carcass hauled away, he went to report to the Khan.

Sahim-Khan was waiting in the inner courtyard. He demanded an explanation. The general gave a brief account of the Lioness’s reasons for bringing the dead monster to the palace.

The Khan’s expression was odd, unreadable even to his long-time general, but his voice was firm as he replied, “This is a grave affront to the throne of Khur. I will complain to the Speaker.”

“Mighty Khan, the Speaker lies gravely wounded in his tent,” Hakkam reminded him. “While he is laid low, Kerianseray rules the laddad.”

The general saluted and was dismissed. He departed quickly so as to hide the faint smile on his face. This also caused him to miss his khan’s low, bemused chuckle.

Sahim was intrigued by Kerianseray’s argument. The laddad had neatly escaped the massacre charge. Thickheaded nomads might still believe the elves had done it, but word would circle the city within hours and the cityfolk would think otherwise. Sand beasts were nearly legendary nowadays, so rarely were they seen, but every Khur knew the stories of their savagery. In olden times, a single sand beast had been known to rip through a herd of two hundred cattle or sheep in a single night. In the territories where the monsters once dwelt in numbers, nomad bands had to erect timber fences to defend their night camps. Even then, many tribesmen still were slain. To have one turn up here, within the city’s wall, was indeed a wonder.

Neatly done, lady, Sahim thought, as he reentered the citadel.

Unfortunately, his thoughts turned to Faeterus, and all trace of amusement vanished. He was rapidly losing patience with the wretched mage. Faeterus’s machinations were costing the throne of Khur far more than his services were worth. Something would have to be done about that. Soon.

Some distance away, atop the citadel, near where he’d loosed the amazing arrow, Shobbat watched the elves depart and Khurish soldiers drag the dead sand beast away. The smell of corruption reached him even at this height. He turned away, holding a perfumed cloth over his nose.

“Potent smell, isn’t it?”

Shobbat flinched. Faeterus was there, where he had not been an instant before.

“I didn’t send for you!” the prince gasped.

“I wanted a good vantage point for the spectacle.” The hooded mage went to the edge of the balcony and peered down, resting his long fingers on the parapet. “Ugly creature. I wonder how it got from the desert to the city? Surely someone ought to have noticed it wandering through an open gate.”

“It appears to have come here from the Valley of the Blue Sands in a single night,” Shobbat said, rubbing his hands together. They were unaccountably cold. “It came straight to you. Did you summon it?”

“Certainly not. The stupid creature wanted to kill me. This incident will bear some study.”

“Don’t come here again, Faeterus. It’s too dangerous for me.”

The hood turned away from the distant view. “Yes, it is,” Faeterus agreed, and then was gone.

Shobbat’s legs were trembling. He sat abruptly on the sandstone bench at his back. The mage was out of control, coming and going from the palace at will. Something would have to be done about that. Soon.

Still, he had every reason to feel confident. The elves had made it to the valley, but they’d not stayed. Surely this would overturn the Oracle’s prophecy. He had rid himself of Hengriff, who first bribed him, then blackmailed him about the bribery.

The memory of Hengriff’s death brought a small smile. In some ways that had been a trial run for the removal of his father. Murder behind closed doors was no good. It aroused opponents, and gave traitors the mantle of pursuing justice. The best assassinations were carried out in public, with loyal supporters standing by. Many of Sahim-Khan’s guards were already in Shobbat’s pay. More would follow. Then Shobbat would strike.

Soon.