Sanctuary

Chapter 1

For centuries Khur was thought of as an empty land, devoid of life or livelihood, containing only sand, stone, and sun. In truth the desert was home to many living things, each adapted to the stark environment. Beneath the sand dwelt creatures tenacious and frequently venomous. Above ground grew grass like wire, thorny vines, and waxen shrubs. By night the desert rose bloomed, source of the rarest perfume in the world. The scent was sweet, but the petals of the plant were deadly poison. Such was the life of the land of Khur.

The people of Khur were likewise shaped by their desert home. Most were nomads of hard mien and severe law, devoted to clan, tribe, and gods. Living on their own in a harsh land, they knew no master but the desert. Each tribe was its own nation, and every nomad his own lord. Ungovernable, they nonetheless had a king, the Khan of Khur, who dwelt in the city of Khuri-Khan.

The city had grown up in the east, where sea and sand met. Looted and sacked many times in the past (the last time by followers of the dread wyrm Malystryx), Khuri-Khan was rising again. Newly restored, the squat round towers and square dwellings once more thrust up from the endless sand. Scaffolds enfolded the shattered façade of the Khuri yl Nor—“the Palace of the Setting Sun”—and the city’s outer wall was checkered with newly cut stone blocks, repairing the destruction wrought by the recent war. City dwellers had picked up the bricks and shattered timbers of their homes and set them in place. Noble and commoner alike had planted thousands of date palm seedlings throughout the city, alongside the towering ancients that still survived. Trade resumed and life went on in the noisy, contentious Khurish fashion.

New construction was not the only change in Khur. Outside the walls of Khuri-Khan sprawled a vast camp of multicolored tents. Miles across, the conglomeration of shelters clustered under the city wall like fungus clinging to a fallen log. Crowded into this makeshift metropolis were a hundred thousand elves, former residents of Qualinesti and Silvanesti. The camp of exiled elves was known to its inhabitants (not without irony) as “Khurinost,” and to the people of Khuri-Khan as Laddad-ihar, the Elves’ Anthill.

Laddad was an old word whose literal meaning—“those who walk on air”—was a reference to the griffon riders of ancient times. Now it meant simply “elves,” encompassing Qualinesti, Silvanesti, and Kagonesti, since the Khurs made no distinction among the groups.

In the center of this great patchwork camp of tents was the home of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Gilthas, son of Tanis Half-Elven and Lauralanthalasa, was last of the line of Speakers great and ill, which stretched back to the founder of the Qualinesti nation, Kith-Kanan, and through him to the august Silvanos Goldeneye. On Gilthas had fallen the daunting task of leading his people out of their ruined homeland, abandoning it to the Knights of Neraka, mobs of wild goblins, and the bandit horde of Captain Samuval. The Qualinesti had fought their way across half a continent and come to rest here in this desolate desert. Thousands perished on the journey, felled by arrow and sword, as well as the less material but no less deadly menaces of heat, disease, exhaustion, and heartbreak. The sands of western Khur were littered with bones, broken carts, and abandoned possessions, and watered by the tears of an entire race.

When Gilthas first beheld the city of Khuri-Khan, a scant one thousand elves stood at his back. After the horrors of exile and the agonizing trek across the desert, the sun-baked capital of Khur seemed a dream of paradise, but the elves’ ballad of woe wasn’t done. As months passed, more refugees arrived, in groups of five or ten, as well as columns numbering in the thousands. From the far south came Silvanesti driven out of their forest glades and crystal halls by hordes of rampaging minotaurs. Fewer Silvanesti than Qualinesti abandoned their homeland, for no matter how wretched their existence, most could not bear to leave their sacred ancestral lands. Instead, they faded into the forest, there to dwell among the trees like their primeval ancestors. Those who had joined Gilthas were, for the most part, high officials, warriors, and nobles of the Silvanesti court. When Gilthas was proclaimed Speaker of the Stars by the abdicating Alhana Starbreeze, the exiled courtiers of Silvanost swallowed their outrage at having a Qualinesti (and one tainted with human blood!) as their ruler. If the race of elves was to survive, it needed a leader. The once-scorned “Puppet King” had proven himself capable. Elves of greater reputation had succumbed to death or, despairing, had given in to the enemy. Not Gilthas. The test of exile showed his true mettle, so the Silvanesti notables gathered around him, forming a tightly knit circle of advisors to the throne of the united elven nations.

Gone were the embroidered silk robes and soft finery worn in Qualinost and Silvanost. Living in the desert demanded more practical dress. The Speaker had taken to wearing Khurish attire, a sleeveless robe of white linen, called a geb, cinched in at the waist by the leather cord known as the ghuffran. Where once he had cultivated the distant air and pale complexion of a palace-dwelling poet, now Gilthas was lean, brown, and serious. The weight of the elven nation rested directly on his shoulders, and although he refused to let the strain break him, it occasionally bore him down. The Speaker rose early, worked all day, and lived as frugally now as once he had dwelt in aimless luxury.

This day began as most did, with Gilthas in his audience room, standing with hands clasped behind his back in the center of a round carpet. Wine-red with ocher curlicues radiating out from a central sun motif, the carpet had come from Sahim-Khan, monarch (but not master) of Khur. A gift, the Khan had said, to make the Speaker more comfortable, but Gilthas knew its true purpose: to serve as a mocking reminder of his lost throne.

“What word from Lady Kerianseray?”

The Speaker’s question caused the assortment of courtiers and vassals to break off their various conversations. They were an odd-looking group, most in Khurish attire, but a stubborn few still persisting in the fashions of their homeland. A few feet from the Speaker, alertly watching, stood Planchet, Gilthas’s longtime valet and bodyguard. Like his liege, he was dressed in the local style, but the sword at his waist was of pure Qualinesti design.

The crowd of onlookers parted to reveal a young elf, thin and hardened by sun, wind, and privation, who stiffened in salute. He doffed his Khurish-style cloth hat and said, “Lord Taranath sends his greetings, Great Speaker!”

The room grew silent. If Taranath, and not the Lioness, had dispatched this courier, it could only mean the Speaker’s wife was no longer with the army.

“The army has returned from the southern expedition and is currently at Wadi Talaft,” the messenger continued, naming a dry lake south of the city which was normally used by the nomads as a natural corral for their herds of horses and goats. “Lady Kerianseray”—the young courier swallowed—“is not with them, sire.”

Before his assembled court, Gilthas would not parade his anxiety. As calmly as possible he inquired, “What happened, Captain?”

The courier reported the failure of Kerianseray’s gamble in the south. At every turn, the army’s entrance into Silvanesti was barred by minotaurs, and the bull-men’s strength proved overwhelming. Pursued into the borderland between forest and desert, the Lioness and a handpicked band of archers had remained behind, making a stand so the rest of the beleaguered army could escape.

All eyes were on the Speaker as be digested this news. His perennial sunburn did not hide the sudden pallor of his face. Planchet took an involuntary step toward him, then halted. As much friend and trusted advisor as bodyguard, still Planchet could not allow his concern to breach the Speaker’s dignity.

The courier reported that six thousand, eight hundred eighty-nine elves had made it to Wadi Talaft. This out of ten thousand. Murmurs swept the room.

While the Speaker’s subjects whispered about the heavy losses, Planchet spoke privately to his master. Gilthas nodded once, and the valet slipped quietly from the room.

The Speaker raised a hand. In the ensuing silence, he declared, “Our adventure in the south is at an end. We cannot waste any more of our slender resources on such a hopeless cause.” He then charged the courier to bid Lord Taranath return to Khurinost.

His words set the assemblage stirring anew. Captain Ambrodel saluted, but did not depart. “Great Speaker,” he said, “pardon my boldness, but more can be done in the south! We can send small bands of fighters secretly across the Thon-Thalas, into the interior of Silvanesti—”

“To what purpose? Bands of twenty or thirty partisans can hardly prevail against the bull-men.”

This came from a tall, elegant figure with shoulder-length, jet-black hair. He wore a heavy gold bracelet on each wrist and a silk robe the same color as his blue eyes.

“Lord Morillon is correct,” Gilthas agreed evenly. “It is beyond our power to liberate our ancient homeland. More important now is finding a place we can put down roots and become a nation again.”

The young captain glared at the haughty noble. Both were Ambrodels. Hytanthas was of the younger line that had followed Kith-Kanan out of Silvanost more than twenty-five centuries earlier when he founded the Qualinesti nation. He had grown up in the Lioness’s service. Slightly rounded ears and a thickening of his eyebrows betrayed the human blood in his ancestry, and his black hair was confined in a short, neat braid, as befit a soldier. Nevertheless, he bore a distinct resemblance to his distant Silvanesti cousin, elegant Lord Morillon Ambrodel.

The captain turned away from Morillon, pointedly addressing Gilthas. “Great Speaker, we were able to do much against the Knights back home. And they were greater in numbers than the minotaurs.”

Morillon said, “Back home you were on familiar ground, with a friendly population to help you. Nothing in Khur is friendly—not the people, not the terrain, not the climate.” He inclined his head to the Speaker. “Great Gilthas decides wisely.”

Captain Ambrodel said no more, but his eyes blazed with frustration.

Other soldiers in the assembly took up his notion of raiding Silvanesti, and a brisk discussion ensued. Lord Morillon, his attention on the Speaker, saw the fleeting expression of pain that crossed his monarch’s face. It was plain the Speaker’s thoughts were on the fate of his dashing, dangerous wife. Sunrise was only an hour past, but the Speaker looked to have slept poorly. He was known sometimes to walk the narrow lanes of Khurinost late at night, his responsibilities weighing heavily on him.

The debate was becoming increasingly loud, but Morillon’s cultured voice cut across it with practiced ease. “The Speaker is weary,” he announced. “Let us withdraw.”

Hytanthas would have lingered, but Morillon ushered him to the door, chiding the younger elf for taxing the Speaker’s patience. The captain’s frustration flared.

“We’re not in Silvanost any longer, my lord! Our Speaker has ears for all his subjects, not just the rich and titled!”

Cousin faced cousin: Morillon composed, indoor-pale; Hytanthas an inch taller, his suntanned visage red with anger. Yet the eyes were the same: the hard, unflinching blue of the sky arching over their tent city.

Hytanthas finally stalked away to carry the Speaker’s orders to Lord Taranath. Lord Morillon watched his cousin until he was lost from sight in the maze of narrow passages that ran between the adjacent tents. Morillon was a longtime courtier, having begun in service to Queen Mother Alhana, and he had long ago mastered the art of keeping his expression bland, even when irritated. Upstart youngsters with no manners vexed him greatly. Cousin or no, he marked Hytanthas as one of the Lioness’s hotheads and vowed to keep an eye on him.

Dismissing the young elf from his thoughts for now, Morillon approached the Speaker again. His coterie of Silvanesti lords followed closely.

“Sire, I have an audience with Sahim-Khan this afternoon. Are there any special messages you wish me to convey?” he asked.

“Tell him his climate is appalling.” Seeing no change in the Silvanesti’s expression, Gilthas added gently, “A joke, my lord.”

Morillon inclined his head. “Yes, Great Speaker.”

Gilthas sighed. “Assure the Khan of my goodwill and good wishes. As for the tribute—do what you think the situation supports.”

For the privilege of remaining in the Khan’s domain, the elves were required to pay Sahim-Khan a thousand steel pieces a day. This staggering sum came due every twenty days. Lord Morillon had been attempting to negotiate a lower price.

The noble acknowledged the Speaker’s vague command with a bow and departed, the gaggle of silent Silvanesti trailing in his wake.

Alone, Gilthas seated himself in the canvas cross-framed chair that now served as his throne, giving in to exhaustion and melancholy. As he rubbed his eyes, Planchet returned, entering through an opening in the far canvas wall. The valet paused at an imposing sideboard. Like most of the Speaker’s furnishings, it was a vagabond’s design, made of thin strips of wood and painted cloth. The skill of the painters had given it the look of polished wood and marble. Emptied of its contents, the cupboard could be collapsed in moments, put on a packhorse, and carried to the next night’s camp. Gilthas found it a fitting metaphor for his entire life, for the life of every elf in the miserable tent-city.

Planchet filled a clay cup with white nectar and handed it to his master. Gilthas accepted the cup, but his attention was not on the drink. “Well?” he asked.

“I’ve spoken to the seers. Six of our people and two Khurs. They will try to ascertain Lady Kerianseray’s whereabouts and… well-being.”

“Assuming she’s alive,” Gilthas whispered, then flinched, as though saying the words would draw doom down upon his wife.

“Sire, you know as well as I, the lady in question is very difficult to kill. Have faith! If anyone can pull the minotaurs’ tails and escape to boast about it, it’s Kerianseray.” He said it lightly, trying to coax a smile from Gilthas.

Planchet handed the Speaker a small bowl of dates, figs, and nuts, urging him to break his fast. Gilthas waved a hand, telling his valet not to fuss, that he would eat later.

“You say that every time I offer you food,” Planchet complained. “You cannot rule a nation on an empty stomach.”

His calm insistence—exactly the tone one might use with a recalcitrant child—coupled with a paternal demeanor, had the desired effect: Gilthas plucked a fig from the bowl and put it in his mouth.

“Happy?” he said, smiling slightly around a mouthful of fruit.

“Very happy, Great Speaker.”

With that, the longtime valet and sometime general of the royal guard withdrew, a cheery, “Rest well, sire,” floating over his shoulder as he disappeared.

Before the Battle of Sanction, when he’d put Planchet in charge of the Qualinesti troops, Gilthas had told him just how important he considered him to be. Friend, advisor, father-figure, bodyguard, Planchet was all of that and more. Kerianseray was Gilthas’s heart, his love, his life; Planchet, he’d come to realize, was his strength, the firm center in the swirling chaos of their lives.

Gilthas lifted the cup to his lips again. His hand trembled. Nettled by the sight, he drank quickly, draining the cup. The nectar was young and raw, inclining to sourness. No one could make good wine while in headlong flight. Nectar, like a nation, needed stability to reach its full potential.

He poured another measure. One had to make do with what one had. He drained the cup again, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

The world was turned on its head. Filthy goblins prowled Qualinost, despoiling the forested lanes of Kith-Kanan’s city. Great blustering minotaurs inhabited the crystal halls of Silvanost. The bulky monsters could scarcely fit through a typical elven doorway—what use would they have for an entire city? To think such uncouth hands held the twin epitomes of grace, culture, and civilization! The images in his mind—or perhaps the raw wine-made sickness rise in Gilthas’s throat. Coughing, he fought it down.

He chided himself for falling into that trap, thinking that places made a nation. Cities and towers, gardens and temples were only chattel. What really mattered was life, and the things that ensured life: food, water, simple shelter. Those essentials must be secured if the elven race was to survive.

And his people would survive. Gilthas was determined on that point. All else was mere vanity.

Gilthas had brought his people out of the conflagration that engulfed Qualinesti, across the Plains of Dust, to the supposed sanctuary of Khur. Fate had delivered the throne of Silvanesti into his hands when his cousin Porthios, Speaker of the Stars, vanished. Porthios’s son and successor, Silvanoshei, was slain at the end of the war. Queen Mother Alhana, grieving the death of her son, had gone on a desperate search for Porthios. Before leaving, she’d given into Gilthas’s hands the crown of Silvanesti.

Out of the catastrophe of exile had come one of the greatest events in Gilthas’s life, in any elf’s life: the unification of two kingdoms sundered since the Kinslayer War. Alhana, a Silvanesti, and Porthios, a Qualinesti, had hoped their own marriage would bring the two nations together. Instead, it had driven them further apart. Now, against all odds, the two nations were one again, united in the person of Gilthas himself. Once sneered at as the “Puppet King” he was now known as Gilthas Pathfinder. It was up to him to find the path to a permanent home—wherever that might be.

Temporarily, pride could be sacrificed, honor dispensed with, treasure spent. To hold the ancient race of the Firstborn together, he would treat with whomever he must, even a rogue like Sahim-Khan, one of the most conniving, grasping humans he’d ever met.

In a royal line known for black hearts, Sahim’s naked ambition and glowing greed stood out as exceptional. With half his capital in ruins, he dreamed of elven wealth flowing in to repair it. But if it took treasure to buy sanctuary, no matter how makeshift and uncomfortable, for his exiled people, then Gilthas would use every scrap of steel and gold his subjects could raise. Treasure, like buildings and land, was expendable. Life was not.

Once, he had measured his life by the fleeting moments spent with Kerian. Like a tempered blade, she was bright, sharp, and deadly, and must be handled with care. Not for her and Gilthas were quiet comfort and gently murmured vows of love. Theirs was a marriage of opposites. Planchet had said once—after a particularly rough day and too much potent nectar—that it was as if the gods had cleaved apart a single hero, creating strong, hot-headed Kerianseray and thoughtful, feeling Gilthas. Their marriage had joined the two halves together again, creating one person, one soul.

She lived. As certainly as he felt his own heartbeat, Gilthas knew Kerian was not dead.

He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until a noise suddenly jolted him awake. The empty nectar bottle lay next to his chair; the clay cup had fallen from his hand.

As he sat wondering how long he’d dozed and what had awakened him, the tent roof shook, sending motes of dust down onto his head. Shouts arose outside. A sirocco must have swept over the tent complex, upsetting some of the less stable dwellings.

The sound of ripping cloth put the lie to that notion and brought the elf to his feet. Sunlight poured through the roof into his face as a sword sawed through the ceiling panel. Head fuzzy from wine and sleep, Gilthas stared at the bright sword point, wondering how anyone could stand on the billowing roof. The tent poles and stays surely could not bear the weight.

More shouting, louder now, came to his ears, and the sword withdrew. A masked figure garbed in dirty white robes dropped through the hole, landing heavily but adroitly on fingers and toes. Beneath the figure’s Khurish scarf a steel helmet gleamed.

At the same moment, Planchet burst through the tent flap, sword at the ready. Behind him came a swarm of the Speaker’s householders, armed with everything from pikes to roasting spits. Gilthas held up a hand, halting his bodyguard on the threshold. He directed a wry look at the intruder.

“Lady, you’ve holed my roof.”

Kerianseray, caked with dust and dried blood, straightened. She yanked the dust mask from the lower half of her face and shoved her sword back in its scabbard. Heedless of the astonished Planchet, and the gaping looks of the others, she leaned forward and kissed her consort warmly.

Drawing back, she exclaimed, “Those damned Silvanesti wouldn’t let me in!” Lord Morillon and his cohorts, steeped in the court protocol of Silvanost, did their best to control access to the Speaker—even barring the Lioness when they could.

“How did you get past them?” Gilthas asked, amused. With one hand he cupped her smooth brown cheek, hollowed by travail.

“Eagle Eye.”

He glanced up at the hole in the roof. The griffon flashed past as he circled overhead. Theirs was a remarkable relationship. With the Lioness the fierce creature was tame as a kitten, obeying her every word. Griffons usually bonded with a single rider from an early age and, should that rider be lost, never took kindly to another. Eagle Eye’s original rider had perished fighting the minotaurs. Against all odds, the spirited beast had taken a liking to the Lioness—most probably because they were two of a kind, Gilthas thought.

The Speaker’s would-be rescuers dispersed and Planchet went to fetch more nectar. In the meantime, Kerian helped herself to an orange, a fruit common to Khur’s seaside gardens. She pulled off hood and helmet and raked a hand through her matted hair.

“Lord Taranath’s messenger just left here”—Gilthas noted the angle of the sunlight—“less than an hour ago. After hearing his report, I feared for your safety.”

His words seemed somehow to take away her joy at their reunion. Coughing the dust of Khur from her throat, she rasped, “Yet I am safe, and here I am.”

When she said no more, he asked about the rear guard Hytanthas had mentioned, the five hundred archers with whom she had made a stand against the minotaurs. She answered, “They gave their lives for the rest of the army.”

“No others survived? Only you?” asked Gilthas, mystified.

She crushed the orange slice she held. Juice ran between her fingers. “It was not my choice!”

Before she could explain this strange statement Planchet returned. She filled a cup and moved away from her husband, lapsing into sullen silence. Sensing the tension in the room, Planchet did not linger.

Gilthas went to stand behind his wife, close but not touching. He could almost feel the angry emotion radiating from her, like heat from the Khurish Sun.

“I rejoice to see you, my love,” he said softly.

“I’m not happy to be here, Gil! I should have fallen with my warriors!”

On the last word her voice broke, and he would have held her then. But she made no move toward him, did not turn, only drank deeply from her cup.

He asked what had happened, and still she was silent for a longtime. At last, with an abrupt shake of her head, she said, “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s done. We must honor our dead by resuming the campaign. The bull-men will pay!”

She gripped her cup so tightly her knuckles showed white. Gilthas gave up the attempt to comfort her and returned to his chair, frowning. Somehow it was a little easier to say what he must while sitting in the royal throne. Raising his voice slightly, he forbade his wife to return south. The plan to invade Silvanesti, Gilthas declared, was over.

She whirled, a wild look in her eyes. “You’re quitting the fight? Why?”

Gilthas kept his own voice even. “Again and again it’s proven a waste of lives, battling the minotaurs. I have a more important task for you.”

“What more important task is there than fighting our enemies?”

“Finding a home for our people.”

Her laugh was sharp and dismissive. This was an old argument, one they were having more often these days. Kerianseray, her warriors, and many Silvanesti nobles among the exiles wanted to win back the lands lost to the invaders Gilthas believed this a pointless dream. His people’s only hope was to find a new homeland, one free of minotaurs, bandits, goblins, and greedy humans.

He stood and beckoned her to follow. To one side of the wide, circular room was an assortment of chests and cupboards containing official documents they’d saved from Qualinost. He unlocked a metal-strapped box and drew out a long, rolled parchment.

“One of my scribes found this in the Grand Souks. He paid eight steel for it.”

A high price. Unrolled, the parchment proved to be a map, a drawing of Khur from the beaches of Balifor Bay to the wall of mountains stretching from Kern in the north to Blöde in the south. Kerian’s disappointment was acute. Her husband possessed innumerable maps and charts. His scribes visited the souks every day, spending precious steel and asking about maps. Initially she had been encouraged by his efforts, assuming he was seeking information that would aid them in their quest to retake their homelands. But after months, when nothing useful had turned up, she lost interest.

As he spread the curling parchment with both hands, Gilthas told her eagerly that the scribe who’d found it had haggled the price down from fifteen steel. Such negotiation was the norm in Khurish souks; there would be loud discussion, much shaking of heads and gesticulating, the buyer pretending to walk away two or three times, before at last a price was settled, a deal struck.

“This isn’t just any map,” he assured her. “It’s almost two hundred years old.”

She considered the curled parchment more carefully. The detail on it was indeed amazing, with dry wadis and oases marked. In the lower right corner, where the cartographer would usually sign his work, was a peculiar sigil, a stylized bird with drooping wings drawn in black ink.

Kerian leaned in to study the map, and as she did so Gilthas felt the power, barely leashed, radiating from her, like body heat or the smell of her sweat. They were so often apart, he tended to forget how her presence overwhelmed him. Kerianseray was the most exciting woman he had ever known.

Their eyes met, and Gilthas saw again the brilliant, captivating warrior she’d been before defeat, exile, and privation had hollowed her face, hardened her views, and etched bitterness in her eyes. Despite their arguments, he loved her still. He regretted their growing estrangement. They disagreed constantly as the years went by—on policy, on strategy, seemingly on everything.

As his silent regard continued, Kerian opened her mouth to speak, but her words were interrupted. Planchet returned just then, to inquire whether they needed anything more.

Gilthas waved the valet inside and had him hold the right edge of the scroll. With his freed hand, Gilthas tapped a spot in the northern reaches of Khur, a place where the Khalkist Mountains split, enclosing a horseshoe-shaped valley. Although it was not distinguished in any way on the map, Gilthas smiled as his finger brushed this spot.

“This is the Valley of the Blue Sands,” he said, lowering his voice, as though wary of eavesdroppers. “Called by Khurish nomads the ‘Breath of the Gods.’”

Planchet’s surprise was wordless. Not so the Lioness’s.

“I’ve heard you talk of this place. I thought it only a legend! Where did you get this map?”

“I believe it came from a temple archive. When Khuri-Khan was sacked, many libraries were looted and their contents ended up in the souks.” He tapped the spot again. “I am convinced the valley is real, and this is its true location.”

The Valley of the Blue Sands was reputed to have a mild, balmy climate, quite unlike the rest of Khur. Annals from the libraries of Qualinost mentioned it, calling it Inath-Wakenti, Vale of Silence. Shielded by mountains, it was said to be one of the few spots in the world unchanged since the First Cataclysm. Elven chronicles even mentioned it as a place where the gods once dwelled. Scholars disagreed on what this meant. Some took it as literal truth. Others contended it was metaphorical.

The people of Khur were just as divided in their opinions. In Khuri-Khan the Valley of the Blue Sands was regarded as nothing more than a myth, a strange place where the normal conditions they knew—heat, blazing sun, eternal drought—were turned upside down. Cityfolk used it as a setting for absurd bedtime stories for their children. In the valley, according to the stories, clouds clung to the ground instead of the sky. Stones grew like plants. Animals talked liked men. Khur’s nomads, on the other hand, did not doubt the valley’s existence. None had ever been there, but they believed the ancient tales fervently.

With great secrecy, Gilthas had been assembling information about the Inath-Wakenti for over a year. He believed it could be the future home of the elven nation.

Kerian asked, “What makes you think the valley is there?”

“I’ve collected six other maps of the region—Khurish, Nerakan, even some old Solamnic maps from the libraries of Qualinost. None of them shows this particular horseshoe-shaped configuration of the mountains. I think I know why.”

He paused as Planchet poured them both another measure of nectar. Kerian, despite her skepticism, found herself caught by his evident conviction. She waved off Planchet’s offer of drink and urged her husband to continue.

“The other maps are all copies of copies of copies,” Gilthas said. “This map is an original. The human who drew it knew of Inath-Wakenti because he’d been there himself!”

He could give no plausible explanation for why later copyists would omit the valley, saying only, “Everyone in Khuri-Khan speaks of the place lightly. Even the city priests dismiss it as a legend—all but one. I don’t know whether the spot is cursed or blessed, but I intend to find out.”

Kerianseray suddenly realized what was coming. “You want me to go there,” she said. He nodded, the smile returning to his face. Her next words chased it away again. “Gil,” she said, “this valley is nothing more than a romantic fable. Even if it were real, it isn’t our homeland, and never can be.”

“The lands of our ancestors are lost. We do not have the strength to regain them—not yet. That time will come, my love, but for now, for the near future, we must dwell in a land of our own and not live by the grace of the Khurs. This forgotten valley could be our best hope!”

“It’s a pretty dream, I admit, but nonetheless a complete waste of time. Give me twenty thousand warriors, and I will set the frontiers of our true homelands aflame! We can take back what is ours!”

His demeanor hardened, and it was the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, not her husband, who said firmly, “Preparations for an expedition have begun. I expect you to lead it, General.”

“I see. As you command, Great Speaker.”

The mocking words fell like lead weights at his feet. She would have continued arguing, but he cut her off.

“I’ve chosen Favaronas, one of the foremost historians in my service”—he’d almost said in Qualinost—“to accompany you. You will lead an escort of five hundred warriors.”

She frowned, questioning the wisdom of sending so small a party. Gilthas reminded her that the mission was exploration, not conquest.

“Exploration?” she repeated. “This is a wild-goose chase. We should return to the Thon-Thalas and raise the people of Silvanesti against the minotaurs!”

“I have made my decision! The matter is closed!”

Planchet, devoutly wishing he were elsewhere, glanced from monarch to general, husband to wife. The burden of recent days was taking its toll. Never had he heard so open and bitter a breach between them.

“You are Speaker of the Sun and Stars. I will do my duty,” the Lioness said at last. There was no sarcasm in her voice, but her tone was icy.

She made as if to go, but Gilthas, relaxing in the face of her agreement, forestalled her. “You need not begin the journey just yet. I have another task I wish you to undertake right away, one for which you are uniquely qualified.”

She brightened, and in her expression he saw visions of daring raids on griffonback, the clash of steel on steel. The Speaker smiled benignly at his bold general.

“I need you to visit a priestess.”

The bed trembled. Composed of rope netting stretched between four posts and topped by a thin, cotton-stuffed mattress, it tended to shake with little provocation. Gilthas, ever cautious, opened his eyes and silently took in the situation.

His private quarters were lit by the soft light of a blue bulls-eye lamp which hung from the tent post by the door. The simple canvas stools and chairs around the bed were empty. Kerianseray lay by his side, face down, rigid as a statue. Her hands, balled into hard fists, gripped the mattress. Every few seconds her whole body shook.

He touched her shoulder lightly, trying to ease her out of the dream. Her skin was dry and fever hot. She did not wake. He murmured her name several times, but still she did not rouse. When he laid his hand on her cheek, she sprang to life, rolling over so hard and fast she knocked him from the bed. He rolled out of the way as his wife fought unseen enemies. He heard the bedsheet tear in her hands.

“Kerian!” he yelled. “Wake up!”

She sat bolt upright, breathing hard. “Gil? You’re here?” she said hoarsely, peering at him through the tangled curtain of her hair.

“You’re in Khurinost, my love, in our bedchamber. You were dreaming.”

At the head of the bed on Gilthas’s side was a cupboard on which sat a jug of tepid water and a tin basin. Kerian sloshed water into the basin and bathed her face. Gilthas came up behind her, hesitated a second, then wrapped her in his arms. She leaned back, pressing her head into the hollow of his neck.

“Were you battling minotaurs?” he asked. She nodded, but didn’t explain further. He suggested, “A burden shared is a burden lightened.”

It took time, but eventually she gave in, telling a dreadful tale. Her pain was palpable in the darkened room, and Gilthas had to force himself to remain quiet, so as not to interrupt the flow of her story.

“It took the bull-men less than an hour to overrun us. We killed some, but it was like trying to halt an avalanche with arrows,” she began. “What came after took much longer.”

The elves who survived, grievously wounded or not, were bound hand and foot. Holes were dug, one for each captive, and the elves dropped in. Then the minotaurs fell to arguing amongst themselves. Some wanted to bury the elves facing their lost homeland; others thought it would be better to have them looking out into the wider desert, their backs perpetually turned to Silvanesti.

The latter faction won out. The minotaurs filled in the holes, leaving only the elves’ heads exposed. Twenty-nine Silvanesti were left to die—of heat and thirst if they were lucky. If predators found them, their fate would be much more terrible.

Gilthas lowered his chin to her shoulder. “And you?” he murmured.

“They knew I commanded, but didn’t know I was the Lioness of Qualinesti, wife of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Because I was the commander they tied my hands and feet and threw me onto Eagle Eye’s back.”

The minotaur warlord told Kerian to carry word to her people that Silvanesti was theirs no longer, and that should the elves come again they would find nothing but graves. With that, they whipped the griffon’s flanks, sending him catapulting into the sky. Wisely, the bull-men had hobbled Eagle Eye’s foreclaws and muzzled his beak with leather straps. All he could do was fly away with Kerian draped ingloriously over his back.

The griffon flew some distance before Kerian could work her gag free and convince him to alight. She tumbled off, rolling across the trackless sand. Loyal Eagle Eye clawed at her bonds until she could break free. In turn she tore off his restraints. They had little choice but to fly on. After midnight, they came to an oasis near the coast. Four of Taranath’s warriors lay in the sand a hundred paces from the well. Wounded, they’d died of thirst within sight of water.

Kerian replenished her arms and armor from the fallen, rested Eagle Eye briefly at the oasis, and took wing once more. By the time day broke, she and her mount were within sight of Khurinost.

Gilthas’s eyes closed in pain. Yet the litany of horror was not, quite, done.

“For a moment, I considered flying on,” she said. “Past this stinking pile of tents, away from Khur, our pitiful people, and even you. I thought I would fly to the homeland of the minotaurs, find the palace of their king, and challenge him to single combat.”

“You couldn’t do that.”

He meant she would never leave him or her people, but she misunderstood.

“No, his guards would cut me down long before I reached the king.”

Burying his face in her hair, Gilthas said, “I’m glad you came back, wife.”

She surprised him then. Breaking free of his loving embrace, she whirled to face him. “I should have died with my warriors!” she declared, voice trembling. “The bull-men shamed me! I wasn’t even worth killing. They let me live just to spread their message of fear!”

He reminded her that while dead heroes were inspiring, only living leaders could save the elven race, could lead them to a new home. He tried to soothe her, whispering that Inath-Wakenti would be their sanctuary, a place where they could heal and grow strong against the day when they would again make their presence known in the world.

Once more his words had an unintended effect. Kerian made a sound of disgust and stomped away. “That damned valley again! Better to water the forests of Silvanesti in minotaur blood than chase your myth! Better to die as my brave archers did than flee yet again from our enemies!”

“Battering your head against a stone wall is foolish!” he snapped, then stopped, consciously mastering his anger. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he said, “If fate is kind, our people will return to Silvanost and Qualinost. One day. But not today, and not tomorrow.”

Gilthas had spies among Sahim-Khan’s retainers, men with contacts in Delphon and other, smaller towns along the coast. Their reports told him that a day did not pass without minotaur ships rounding Habbakuk’s Necklace, bound for the Silvanesti coast. Their holds groaned under the weight of armored troops, sent to reinforce the army already occupying the elves’ homeland fl a grip of steel. The Speaker could not hope to vanquish such foes, not now.

He told Kerian all these things, adding, “To all things there is an appointed time. The time to liberate our lost lands is not yet.”

She circled the end of the bed and sank onto the other side of the mattress. “Instead, I go to the high priestess of the Temple of Elir-Sana and ask for her help in finding your mythical valley. Don’t you ever tire of asking humans for favors? ‘Give us land. Give us food. Give us water.’ Is elven honor extinct?”

Seated back to back, their bed so narrow they were nearly touching, husband and wife stared in opposite directions. They might as well have been miles apart. The Lioness was flushed with fury, her hands clenched into fists; Gilthas’s face, blurred by tiredness, was pale, his jaw stiff with tension.

He finally said, “No, lady, elven honor is not dead, merely stored, like the great archive of Qualinost, against the day when we can afford to display it again.”

Both of them lay down. After a moment, Gilthas reached a hand out, but she edged away, curling up on the side of the bed, as far away as possible.

That was how they fell asleep—Kerian curled in on herself, facing away from her husband, and Gilthas, face up, one hand outstretched toward her stiff back.