Sanctuary

Chapter 2

“Hard edges, that’s where things is clearest. Where land and sky come together cleanly, with nothing in between. A man can see what’s what, and who’s who. Good and evil are obvious. They say the sea is like that. The desert is, too.”

The guide, the very opposite of the usual taciturn nomad, folded his hands across his horse’s neck and continued to expound his philosophy. His audience of one, riding a few steps behind, made no reply. Prince Shobbat of Khur was only half listening. Sunrise was an hour past and already the heat was intense. Shobbat adjusted the brim of his broad felt hat and told himself, for the hundredth time, that his goal was worth this suffering.

As far as Shobbat could see in all directions was sand, broken rock, and scattered boulders bleached to a uniform shade of tan by the unflinching sun. No color at all relieved the trail northwest from Khuri-Khan into the trackless wastes that made up most of the realm of Khur. No shade either. Only hard light by day and perfect, starry blackness at night.

Surveying the desolation around him, Shobbat wondered if there wasn’t something to the windbag nomad’s notions after all. Devoid of trees and buildings, the vista certainly was pristine.

“In green lands, there’s trees, grass, and the like, sprouting out of the dirt to tie air and land together,” his guide was saying. “Clouds in the sky are the breath of growing things, fogging the air. Underfoot there’s nothing but corruption, worms, beetles, and rot, spreading over the land like a mantle of decay.”

Shobbat grunted, eyes squinted nearly closed against the glare. “You’re a poet.”

“No, my lord. A nomad. I’ve known the hard edges all my life.”

The guide’s name was Wapah. So dry and leather-like was his face that he might have been any age from thirty to sixty. His beard was long, and the same flat brown color as the sand. Plaited into the hair on his head were thin reed staves that supported the light, cloth shade protecting his head and neck. Spiders were embroidered around the hem of the dirty linen cloth. The black-and-orange leaping sand spider was the symbol of Wapah’s clan. A single bite from the creature could kill a man in minutes, or rot the leg off a healthy horse in a day.

Under brows so thick they were plaited into tiny braids, Wapah’s eyes were pale gray. This was an unusual hue among Khurs, but not unknown in Wapah’s clan. Gray-eyed nomads did not wear the perpetual squint of other desert-dwellers. Wide-eyed in a land of killing glare, the people of the Leaping Spider Clan seemed more intensely aware of their surroundings. Many were seers and given to visions, and for this reason nomads like Wapah were called “mirror-eyed.”

Prince Shobbat, eldest son of Sahim, Khan of Khur, was not nearly so prepossessing. Past thirty, he was (as a court wit once said) “bearded and bland.” He wore a loose linen tunic tucked into riding trousers of the same material, and tall, dark leather boots. The yellow and red sash at his middle did not, as he intended, hide his princely paunch but merely accentuated it. In the same vein, the beginnings of jowls were poorly concealed by his short black beard. When his father was Shobbat’s age, he’d already been khan for ten years. All the prince had accomplished thus far was to eat a great deal, drink a great deal, and pursue a great many comely women. This journey represented his first significant foray beyond the walls of Khuri-Khan. It had been prompted by a broken wall and a cryptic stone tablet.

After the Vanishing of the Moons, the dragon Malystryx claimed and occupied Khur. Repeated attacks by the Red Overlord had left the Khuri yl Nor heavily damaged. After Malys was overthrown, Sahim-Khan gave his eldest son the task of overseeing repairs on the palace. It was a dull, thankless job until, one day, the laborers demolishing a cracked wall in the south wing had come upon a stone tablet hidden in a niche inside the blocks.

Shobbat immediately set a team of scholars to translating the tablet. It wasn’t easy. The text was written in hieratic Istarian, a difficult, priestly script reserved for the theocratic elite of that lost land, but working in three teams of two, the six scholars completed the translation in a dozen days. Shobbat collected the translations, found they agreed, then had the scholars slain.

He regretted having to order their deaths, as he respected learning, but he could not risk anyone finding out what they had discovered. He’d seen to it their deaths were quick and painless—Scholars were always thirsty. To celebrate the completion of their work, he sent each of them a special vintage, doctored with arsenic. It slaked their thirsts, permanently. The deaths were attributed to cultists and soon forgotten.

In secrecy, the prince made plans. He sent trusted men to the Grand Souks to find a desert guide. Wapah was the result. Mirror-eyed nomads had a reputation as peerless navigators of the sands.

The nomad did not question why a pampered prince wished to travel to an obscure point more than two days’ ride northwest of the city. For ten fine steel swords and a like number of stallions, handpicked from the Khan’s own herd, Wapah would have guided Prince Shobbat to the bottom of the Blood Sea.

“Hard edges,” the guide repeated. “They make men strong and straight, allow them to see clear and to know what dwellers in green lands never know.”

Shobbat obligingly asked what that might be.

“The will of Those on High.”

Shobbat hid a smile, not wanting to antagonize a man on whom his life depended. Alone among all the peoples of the world, the desert nomads had never stopped worshiping their old gods. Sahim-Khan always said this was because the unfettered sun boiled away their few wits. Shobbat’s father sneered at the nomads because he feared them. Nine times in the violent history of Khur the reigning khan had been slain in battles against his own desert-dwelling subjects. Sahim-Khan had no intention of being the tenth.

“The laddad came here from the green lands,” Shobbat said. “It is written they drew forth the first life from the land, and their mages can make stone itself blossom.”

“They do not make this land green.”

Wapah’s phrasing was ambiguous, but Shobbat did not ask him to explain. Their horses had topped a long, high dune sculpted by wind into the shape of a great curling wave, and a blast of southwesterly air flung grit in their faces. The prince coughed and spat, but his saliva never reached the ground. The dry air swallowed it.

Wapah cautioned him not to waste precious water. The nomad kicked the flanks of his short-legged pony and started down the windward face of the dune. Shobbat glared after him. He reached back and gave a reassuring pat to the skins of water lashed to the saddle under his gauzy cloak. The old nomad was just trying to frighten him. If they reached their destination in the time promised, they had plenty of water.

Wind rapidly erased Wapah’s tracks in the soft sand. Shobbat urged his mount on. If he lost his guide, he was doomed.

The desert would swallow him as completely as it had his spit.

They had entered an area of sand dunes broken at intervals by intrusions of ancient rock. The rock was layered horizontally in shades of brown and tan. Shobbat grimaced. What a harsh, ugly land. He missed the teeming streets of Khuri-Khan, thick with the scents of cinnamon and cardamom, of sandalwood, and yes, of unwashed humanity. The emptiness of the desert made him feel small and unimportant. He was unaccustomed to such thoughts, and they frightened him. Fear made him angry.

Wapah had drawn a loosely woven scrap of cloth across his face to keep out the blowing dust. He returned to his earlier theme, explaining how the hard edges of the desert taught his people about truth and made them spiritually superior to outsiders. It was unclear whether he meant only those from outside Khur, or city-dwellers like the prince as well.

“We did not fear when the Vanishing came,” the nomad declared. “Our gods were not points of light in the sky, but beings immortal and unchanging. They never left us. They guard us still.”

Blown sand stung the exposed flesh of Shobbat’s cheeks like a thousand shards of glass. He turned his face away. “Was everyone else in the world wrong when they thought the gods departed?” he asked testily.

Wapah shrugged one shoulder. “Who knows what godless barbarians think?”

On they rode, the nomad talking, the prince of Khur riding in uncomfortable silence. In spite of Wapah’s talk of the desert’s hard edges, the land had begun to look molten and soft to Shobbat. The terrific heat smelted the air itself, causing everything to shimmer and blur. Both horses grunted deep in their chests, resenting the task they were obliged to perform. Every two hundred steps, the duo paused for water. Two swallows for each beast and one for each man, as Wapah prescribed.

Once the sun climbed to its zenith, even the nomad fell silent. The air was too dry for speech. Shobbat’s narrow, dark lips, so like his mother’s, cracked. Smears of blood stained the gauze scarf covering his nose and mouth.

Just after midday they reached the first landmark on Wapah’s itinerary, a shelf of stone rising out of the sand to a height greater than the mounted men. Pointed at one end and rounded at the other, the prominence was known as the Tear of Elir-Sana, named for the divine healer.

Unlike the monotonous sand or the unvarying hues of other rocks, the Tear of Elir-Sana presented a bold, colorful sight. It was composed of multicolored layers of rock; some were as orange as a sunset, others ash gray, blue-black, or creamy yellow. The eastern face was deeply grooved by generations of wind-borne sand. From tip to rounded end, the perfect teardrop was thirty feet in length. A spring bubbled from a cleft on the west side of the Tear. According to legend, the spring had been born from the tears of the goddess Elir-Sana, when she had collapsed here, half-dead from exhaustion.

Wapah announced they would refill their waterskins here. The water was said to have healing powers. Although it certainly slaked Shobbat’s thirst, he found the taste nothing out of the ordinary.

After filling his two empty skins, the prince struggled back to his horse through the fine, drifted sand. His booted toe caught on something hidden just beneath the surface, and he fell forward. The full skins slung around his neck dragged him down. Cursing, he sat up and glared at the object that had tripped him. It was a skull. Clean, dry, and yellowed, it was not human.

“What unholy thing is this?”

Wapah leaned down from his saddle and peered at the find. “Dragon-man.”

A draconian skull? Shobbat’s annoyance vanished as he studied it more closely. The cranium was wide and triangular.

Fangs as long as Shobbat’s thumb sprouted from the upper jaw, and there was a horny beak like that of a monstrous bird. The skull was half again as big as a human head, and on its rear were several parallel gouges-cuts from a blade, most likely.

“A warrior,” the prince said, standing and dusting sand from his long coat.

“A scout in search of water. He found it, but never left. The desert takes no prisoners.” Shobbat did not point out this draconian appeared to have died by the sword, not from exposure.

Mounted once more, Shobbat spotted something imbedded in a stratum of the Tear. He drew the dagger from his sash and jabbed at the rock. Fragments cascaded around his horse’s hooves.

Wapah frowned at this wanton destruction but kept silent.

The prince had uncovered a yellow stone protruding from a layer of similarly colored sandstone. “Is this a shell?” he exclaimed. The object looked very like the top half of a clam.

Wapah shook his head. “Only a stone, shaped by chance. A jest of the gods.”

The prince disagreed. He speculated the sea might once have covered this part of Khur. Wapah immediately dismissed this notion.

“It is told in the Song: the land of Khur is the oldest of the world, the first solid ground created by the gods,” the nomad said flatly. “It has never been under water.”

The Song was sacred to the nomads. A collection of legends from the distant past, it contained thousands of verses, too many for anyone to memorize entirely, so it was divided into eight cantos, each named for one of the great gods of the nomads: Kargath the Warrior, Rakaris the Hunter, Torghan the Avenger, Elir-Sana the Healer, Anthor the Hermit, Hab’rar the Messenger, Soro the Firemaker, and Ayyan the Deceiver. Wapah was a singer of the Anthor Canto.

The two men rode on. Progress became more difficult, as the horses had to plow through belly-deep sand. Wapah’s short-legged gray animal, more accustomed to such terrain, kept a steady pace. Shobbat’s elegant chestnut, its long legs meant for speed, floundered. As a result, sundown had come and gone by the time they reached their destination.

Like the Tear of Elir-Sana, Shobbat’s goal was an island of stone in an ocean of moving sand. Rather than a single formation, it comprised a thick column of gray stone forty feet in height, ringed close around by four black granite towers only half as tall. The four angled inward, their tops touching the central column. Pale starlight gave the formation an eerie feel, like an ancient and forgotten temple.

The tablet found in the ruins of the Khuri yl Nor had spoken of this strange formation as an ancient oracle. It was said there were passages and a cave in the central spire. The cave was the prince’s destination.

The wind died with the sunset. The air quickly lost the heat of day and grew cold, but warmth still radiated from the broiled sand. Shobbat dismounted and rummaged through his saddlebags. Knowing there would be no wood for torches, he’d brought a small brass lamp. He knelt and placed the lamp on the sand, then struck flint on steel to light the wick.

Wapah asked his intentions. When Shobbat said he planned to enter the formation, the nomad put heels to his horse’s flanks and moved quickly to the crouching prince.

“Nothing was said of entering!” he said. “You must not! Do not disturb the spirits of this place!”

“I didn’t come here just to view the sights. What I seek is within.”

A cascade of sparks fell from his flint, and Shobbat concentrated on coaxing the flame to life. As he adjusted the wick, he heard a scrape of metal. Wapah had drawn his weapon, a narrow sword bare of crossguard, the style preferred by most nomads.

“You dare draw on me? I am your prince!”

Wapah was a motionless silhouette. The feeble lamplight did not reach his face, and his expression was hidden by the night. “If I rode away, what would you do? you’d never make it back to your city,” he murmured.

For the first time, Shobbat felt a flicker of uncertainty. He quickly quashed it, falling back on all the arrogance and assurance of his privileged upbringing.

“My whereabouts are known, fool,” he snapped. “If I do not return, for whatever reason, your entire clan will be hunted down and destroyed!”

This was a lie. No one in Khuri-Khan knew where Shobbat was. The prince didn’t trust anyone enough for that.

For a long moment they gazed at each other, the pampered prince and the talkative nomad. Then Wapah sheathed his sword and bowed his head. “Let Those on High judge you. I shall not.”

Shobbat picked up his lamp, his brief fear forgotten. Sentimentalists, that’s what these nomads were. They’d ride to their deaths shouting for joy, but threaten their families and they crumbled. Exploiting that weakness allowed Shobbat’s father to rule them. Sahim-Khan was the least sentimental man in the world.

The prince labored through the deep sand to the base of the formation. The central column seemed enormously high, rising tower-like against the starry sky. Around its base lay shards of black granite, shivered off the surrounding spires. Shobbat was grateful for the firmer footing they provided. The flickering light of his lamp showed no inscriptions, carvings, or any indication of intelligent handiwork, only rough, wind-worn granite.

Two-thirds of the way around from his starting point, he found an opening at ground level in the third black column. His heartbeat quickened. The roughly square entrance was partially blocked by drifted sand, and the prince had to drop to his knees to enter.

A passage rose into the column of stone. Steps had been cut in the dense granite, spiraling around the wall. At last, evidence of an intelligent hand! The information on the tablet was again proven correct. Shobbat drew a jeweled dagger from his sash and started up the steps.

The dark air seemed to absorb the weak glow of his lamp. With his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the darkness beyond seemed even more intense. The dry, clean air of the desert outside had given way to a rank, fetid aroma that grew stronger as he climbed. The amber light showed gray splotches on the wall. Bat droppings and dried guano crunched beneath his boots. The presence of living creatures so deep in the desert was curious. What did they live on?

As he drew closer to the top, Shobbat saw that the ceiling of the hollow spire seemed to writhe. Thousands of bats were clustered tightly together across the rough-hewn surface. He could almost feel their tiny black eyes on him, glaring at the intruder who dared penetrate their abode. A few of the creatures dropped from their inverted perches and fluttered by his head. Shobbat pressed his back against the wall and covered his eyes with one arm, waiting for the bats to pass. The irregular steps on which he trod had become narrower as he ascended; here, near the top, they were deep enough only to accommodate the front half of his foot. A misstep, and he’d go crashing to the floor below.

He had encountered no landings or side chambers along the way, just a continuing inward spiral of rutted steps. Watching the bats circle away and vanish through a black crevice at the top of the steps, Shobbat had to smile. So there was an upper chamber!

Continuing upward, he reached an arched opening, low enough that he had to stoop to pass through. Outside, a breeze whistled around the tops of the spires. The air was remarkably cold, and it refreshed him like a draft of new wine after the rank odor of the interior.

From ground level it had appeared the tops of the four shorter spires touched the central column. In fact, there was a gap of some six feet between Shobbat’s perch and the central column. Bridging the gap was a slab of black granite. It was barely wider than Shobbat’s two feet, but he wobbled across, both arms held out to maintain his balance. He had not come so far to be stopped by his dislike of high places.

On the other side a round opening penetrated the central pinnacle. He halted at the opening and brought the lamp in close. Two lines of writing were chiseled into the gray rock, curving around the top edge of the entrance. Although the spelling was archaic, the words were in the Common tongue:

The roots of the Tree are deep. I shall live again.

It made little sense to Shobbat, but echoed what the scholars in Khuri-Khan had translated from the tablet.

He stepped through the opening and found himself in a large cave. The floor was paved with a polished black stone; the walls and distant ceiling were gray granite. As far as he could tell, the chamber was empty.

He shouted a few times, without visible result. Wind gusted against his back, sending his hat winging away and extinguishing his lamp. He wavered, off-balance in the sudden blackness.

“Enter, visitor.”

Shobbat pivoted in a full circle, but could not find the source of the low voice. “Who’s there?” he called.

“The one you came to find,” said the voice, then added a lilting phrase in a language Shobbat did not understand.

Brilliant light flooded the cave, blinding the prince. With a cry, he dropped both knife and lamp and covered his aching eyes. A sound no desert-dweller could mistake came to his ears, the beguiling splash of water. He lowered his hands. Blinking, squinting, he beheld an impossible scene.

The cavern was lit as brightly as noonday in the desert, but the air was cool and fresh. Even more astonishing, a fine tree towered over Shobbat, its branches spreading to the high roof of the cave. Knowing only the palms and succulents of Khur, the prince could not identify it. Its trunk was at least three feet in diameter, the bark gray-green and rough. Its dark green leaves were shaped like the shields carried by nomad warriors—long and narrow, rounded on one end and pointed on the other.

Shobbat stood staring dumbly upward. He had never seen such a tree before, and it was plainly impossible for its like to grow inside a closed cavern, shut off from the sun.

“No one has sought me out in an age. Your question must be grave.”

Shobbat’s gaze dropped from the magnificent tree to the old man sitting cross-legged at its base. He was thin, draped in linen rags the color of old parchment. White hair, fine as floss, hung to his shoulders. His skin was lined and darkened by time and the elements. He was obviously blind, his closed eyelids shriveled and sunken.

“Are you the Oracle of the Tree?” asked the prince.

Long, bony fingers gestured to the empty air. “There is no other.”

A breeze set the tree’s leaves to shivering. In the periphery of the cave, Shobbat saw movement, but when he turned to look in that direction, there was no one to be seen. Alarmed, he retrieved the dagger he had dropped and demanded to know who else was present.

The ancient turned his head slightly left and right, then shrugged. “We are alone.” Shobbat insisted he’d seen movement. “Those are images of the past and future, not living beings.”

The dismissive tone infuriated Shobbat. The haughty prince drew himself up, announcing his name and rank. The old man was not impressed.

“Makes no difference who you are. In any event, I’ve been expecting you.”

“Expecting me? How?”

“I am not fixed in time like mortal men. I live equally in past, present, and future. Thus, I know you seek the throne of your father, Sahim-Khan of Khur.”

Shobbat snorted. “What prince doesn’t? Is that the extent of your augury?”

“You need do nothing to achieve your goal, Prince of Khur. Outlive your father, and the throne is yours.”

“Bah! He intends to live forever!” Shobbat’s petulant expression became harder, more resolute, and he added, “He treats with Nerakans, ogres, and minotaurs, seeking to enlarge his realm, and he allows foreigners to enter our country. All he sees is the gold and steel they bring, but his dalliances will destroy Khur. He does not deserve the throne!”

The prince again saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Again, when he looked directly at it, it vanished. He shifted from one foot to the other, gripping the hilt of his dagger nervously.

“My father has granted asylum to the exiled elves,” he said. “He intends to use them as pawns to limit the influence of the Knights of Neraka. I need to know—will he succeed?”

“The Knights will not rule in Khur.”

Shobbat blinked in surprise. He had expected a more cryptic response, but this was welcome clarity.

“Yet your house will not rule long, son of Sahim, if the children of Kith-Kanan are permitted to remain in Khur.”

That too was plain-speaking, yet not so welcome.

Heedless of his audience’s reaction, the oracle continued, “The elder race can win this land. Not with sword and fire, but by greening the desert.” He opened his left hand, revealing a green shoot sprouting from his palm. “It is their peculiar gift to bring life to lifelessness.”

Shobbat’s dark eyes narrowed, a flush of fury mantling his face above his beard. “I will not allow it! Khur does not belong to the laddad. The throne will be mine!”

“So it will be, noble prince. For nine and ninety days. That will be the length of your reign.”

Shobbat stalked forward, determined to wring a different fate from the scrawny old prophet. He reached out for the oracle’s neck, then froze in horror. Before his eyes, the sage’s skin became translucent. Muscle, bone, and vein stood out clearly. And the face was no longer human. The jaw had narrowed, grown pointed. The cheeks were hollow, the eye sockets high and arched. The prince recoiled from the ghastly sight, his anger freezing into fear.

“What are you, old seer?” he whispered.

The oracle ignored the question. Empty eye sockets turning to stare directly at the prince, he said, “Life has branches, like the Great Tree, and each choice represents a fork. You have one chance, Prince of Khur. It is vital that you keep the children of Kith-Kanan out of the Valley of the Blue Sands. If you do, their seed will wither in the wasteland.”

Shobbat shook his head, wondering whether he had heard properly. The Valley of the Blue Sands was nothing more than a child’s fable. What could such a myth have to do with the laddad, or with his success as khan? The burning need to know overcame his fear and he lifted his dagger, demanding an explanation.

“The word has been given. I will say no more,” the oracle told him. “Go.”

The final command echoed through the cavern as the sage vanished in a pulse of white light. When the glare subsided to a bearable level, the half-seen figures in the far edges of the cave solidified, and Shobbat could finally see them for what they were. Horrified, backing hastily away, he stabbed at them with his dagger. It was no use. They crowded in upon him, hands outstretched, claws gleaming, mouths agape. Shobbat screamed.

Outside, seated on the sand, Wapah heard the cry. A cloud of bats poured from one of the black granite towers. The horses snorted and pawed the ground. As the bats chittered overhead, weaving and dodging, debris fell around the nomad, landing lightly on the sand. Wapah picked up one of the fragments.

It was a leaf, dark and supple. Such leaves did not come from any tree Wapah had ever seen growing in Khur, yet the sand below the flying bats was littered with them, and more continued to flutter down like green rain.

Wapah pressed the leaf between his palms and begged Anthor the Hermit to protect him from the fell magic that obviously inhabited this place. A somber and solitary deity, Anthor nonetheless favored his desert children. They lived on the hard edges, where men and gods could see eye to eye.

The task Gilthas had given Kerian was straightforward enough: pay a call on Sa’ida, high priestess of the Temple of Elir-Sana in Khuri-Khan. However, his insistence that she leave Eagle Eye behind precipitated another argument. He didn’t wish his wife to draw unnecessary attention to herself by arriving at the temple door astride a royal Silvanesti griffon. For her part, Kerian believed that the awe Eagle Eye inspired in humans prevented a lot of needless wrangling with guards and petty officials.

The bickering continued until Gilthas flatly ordered her to ride a horse. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately—ending their disagreements by issuing peremptory, royal commands. Tight-lipped, the Lioness obeyed.

She took as her sole companion Captain Hytanthas Ambrodel. Gilthas viewed this as yet another sign of her contrariness. He certainly did not expect her to go without an appropriate escort. Lord Taranath and the balance of the army had not yet returned to Khurinost, but a suitable complement could have been found. The Lioness refused, citing Gilthas’s own stricture about not alarming the Khurs, and he could hardly argue against his own logic. Elves were generally accepted in Khuri-Khan (as was any cash customer). Lone elves sometimes earned glares, especially outside the broad-minded venues of the city markets, but nothing beyond that.

Gilthas had matters of state to attend to, but delayed long enough to watch his wife depart with young Ambrodel at her side. Clad in fresh tunic and trews, Kerian had disdained Khurish attire, preferring her own Wilder garb over the more comfortable local fashion. Captain Ambrodel was more practical. He wore a white geb over fawn-colored Qualinesti trousers, carefully arranging the folds of the desert garment to conceal the hilt of his sword.

The midafternoon sun bathed Kerian’s blonde head in a nimbus of white fire. As always, Gilthas could not help but be struck by her beauty, yet her grim expression was strikingly at odds with her loveliness. Her mood had grown worse since her return. It wasn’t only their clashes that accounted for this. The loss of her command and her humiliation at the hands of the bull-men still gnawed at her. She’d not told anyone else what had happened, and rumors had begun to circulate in camp. The Lioness’s courage was well known, but it could only be seen as odd that she had returned apparently unscathed from a battle in which all of her command had been lost.

Perhaps she was deep in thought, pondering the mission he’d given her, or perhaps she was concentrating on guiding her mount through the perils of the crowded tent city. Whatever the reason, although Gilthas waited, Kerian never glanced back at him. When, at last, she was lost to sight around a bend in the lane, he returned to his tent. Scouts from Taranath’s command had arrived in advance of the main body of the army, and they had much news to impart.

As Kerian and her aide passed through the tumult of the tent city, each noticed very different things. Hytanthas saw courage—common people struggling to live in a hostile, foreign place, and beginning to succeed. The Lioness saw only injustice—the most ancient race in the world forced from their rightful homes and made to suffer ignominiously in this terrible wilderness.

Like the roots of a tree, the environs of Khurinost were tangled, having grown haphazardly according to the lay of the land and the whims of its builders. Sahim-Khan had given the elves permission to set up a camp outside his capital; he had given them little else. Exhausted, sick, sunburned, and parched, the elves cobbled together whatever shelter they could, making tents out of everything from silken cloth to horse blankets to canvas sails formerly used by ships plying the Bay of Balifor.

Desert winds and errant embers from cookfires had taken a steady toll on the makeshift habitations, but as days became months and months grew into years, the elves learned to do better. The flimsy tents acquired wooden doorways, brass fireboxes and chimneys, and carpets to cover the sand. Wide, central streets were left open to the broiling sun, to allow carts and mounted elves to pass and to bring in fresh air, but the rest, the miles of narrow, twisting passages between tents great and small, were roofed with rush mats woven from the knife-edged grass that grew along the seaside below the city. The result was a warren no stranger could hope to navigate, the very antithesis of the elven love of order and beauty. But the confusing maze of streets and passages also served as an effective defense against interlopers.

Ahead, some forty yards beyond the edge of Khurinost, the wall of Khuri-Khan rose, its western face washed by the afternoon sun. Kerian lifted her gaze from the tent-city and studied the wall.

Sahim-Khan’s first priority after the fall of Malystryx was to rebuild his city’s defenses. Until these were complete his capital was vulnerable. The northern and western sectors had been repaired first. In those directions lay the greatest threats: the Knights of Neraka and the ogres of Kern. The elves lived under Sahim’s watchful eye, penned in by the city wall on one side and the pitiless desert on the other. The Lioness recognized Sahim-Khan’s sanctuary as both a gift and a trap. If the elves’ enemies moved against them now, there would be no escape for the Firstborn.

“Trapped,” she muttered.

“General?” Hytanthas asked, but she only shook her head.

A sextet of heavily armed humans guarded the west gate. They wore broad-brimmed helmets styled after the sun hats worn by nomads, but wrought in iron. Their cuirasses, cuisses, and greaves were of Nerakan pattern. For many years, Khurish soldiers had hired themselves out as mercenaries to the Knights. The soldiers also wore a coiled dragon device on their breastplates, marking them as members of the Khur tribe.

Although the Khurs had given their name to the country, they were only one of the Seven Tribes of the desert, named for the seven sons of Keja, who had first united the desert-dwellers into a single nation. Centered on the natural fortress of Khuri-Khan, the Khur tribe had come to dominate the others both in war and trade. All the khans of Khur had begun as princes of the Khur tribe.

The guards had no trouble recognizing the elf general. Dressed in Kagonesti leathers, golden head bare to the brilliant sun, Kerianseray was hard to miss. The tallest Khur sketched an awkward salute. It was a Nerakan habit they had not fully mastered. Kerian acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod and kept moving, plunging into the heavy shadow of the gate. The gate was enormously thick, a full sixteen feet of stone. Compared to the blazing desert outside, the tunnel was black as a dragon’s heart, and the Lioness blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the sudden loss of light.

The Khurs had nothing with which to build but crumbly sandstone, and soft limestone from the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Balifor. To protect this weak stone they applied a veneer of large glazed tiles to the inner and outer surfaces of their walls. When maintained, this coating strengthened the stone and made it impervious to wind and rain. Many buildings were covered by tiles glazed in creamy or golden tones, but some were quite colorful, in bold primary hues or multicolored hues like patchwork quilts.

At the other end of the tunnel, the two elves were greeted by a riotous mix of colors, sounds, and smells that was utterly foreign. This was the Fabazz, or Lesser Souk, the city’s market for spices, incense, and foodstuffs. Streams of smoke from charcoal grills mingled with the odors of freshly butchered meat, sizzling fat, and drying herbs. The aromas were not unpleasant, but to an elf, with senses far keener than any human’s, the sensations of the Fabazz could be torturous.

The soukats, or merchants, converged on the newcomers, waving samples of their wares. The soukats of Khur had welcomed the elves even more than their khan. To them the world was divided into buyers and sellers; whether the buyer was elf or human concerned them not at all. All steel was equal, and equally sought.

Had they been on foot, Kerian and Hytanthas might easily have been overwhelmed. Khurish traders were not noted for their reticence, and in the Fabazz their approach was practically an attack. Most of the merchandise here was perishable. What wasn’t sold today would have to be marked down for sale tomorrow (or worse, cast off).

“Great lady!” A soukat shoved a small bundle toward the Lioness, its smell so sharp that her horse sidestepped quickly. “Buy these spices! The burning they bring to the tongue will be matched by the burning they incite in the heart of the one you love!”

“Ignore him, lady!” boomed another soukat. “Mushra sells only street sweepings! Kandar has the best spices, oils, and resins in Khur! Buy from Kandar, who weighs his goods honestly!”

“Kandar is an infamous liar, noble lady! Only Teffik weighs truly, and handpicks his spices each morning from the Delphon caravans!”

When Kerian showed no sign of stopping, the soukats redoubled their efforts. Soon her horse was rendered immobile by the gesticulating merchants. Hytanthas could make no headway either.

A live chicken, squawking loudly and wings flapping, was suddenly thrust in Kerian’s face. Recoiling, she planted a foot against the poulterer’s chest and shoved with all her strength. The unlucky man was flung back against his fellows. All of them crashed into their carts and went down in a clatter of tin pans and a flurry of squawking chickens.

Wails of protest rose up from the soukats. This was not how things were done! In the Fabazz, a little shoving was commonplace, but nothing this rough. A number of soukats hefted pieces of the broken carts, waving the staves at the elves. The Lioness ostentatiously drew her sword. Reluctant but loyal, the captain did the same. The Khurs parted ranks and allowed the armed elves to pass.

By the time they emerged on the other side of the market, ascending the stepped street there, the Lioness’s face wore a fierce grimace, and not for the altercation with the poulterer. That she had found rather invigorating. No, her distaste was for the stench that now saturated her clothing. The reek of the Fabazz seemed to permeate her very skin. She longed for a fountain so she might wash her hands and face, but this was a vain hope. Khuri-Khan did not waste water on such displays.

The closely packed houses, rebuilt after the depredations of Malys and her minions, looked bizarre to elven eyes. Some squat and square, others taller and round, they boasted a variety of tile patterns. In the wealthier districts, the more subdued shades of cream and gold predominated; here, alternating stripes of blue and white were common, but poorer householders used whatever leftover tiles they could scrounge. Their homes might be speckled with any color in the rainbow-orange, green, red, bright blue. In addition, since the people of Khuri-Khan were taxed according to the length and breadth of their home’s foundation, most dwellings were wider at the top than at ground level. When the Lioness and Hytanthas reached the top of the narrow, winding street, only a thin strip of blue sky was visible between the overhanging eaves.

At this hour, most folks were at the souks. Aside from a bony gray cat, the only sign of life was a faint chiming sound. Kerian led the way across to the lower end of the avenue called Temple Walk. All of the major shrines of the city were located along this street, which ran east-west. The Khurs were mad with religion, worshiping gods and demi-gods only vaguely familiar to outsiders. All through the Vanishing of the Gods, the Great War, and the fall of the dragons, the Khurs had clung to their faith.

Halfway down its length, the Temple Walk doglegged to the north, skirting the immovable center of Khuri-Khan, the great artesian well known as Nak-Safal. The name was difficult to translate. “Bottomless Pool” was the simplest rendering Kerian had heard.

Their trip did not take them that far. Only a short way down Temple Walk was their destination, and the source of the chiming: the Temple of Elir-Sana. A stone wall surrounded the sacred enclosure. Only five feet high, it was more decorative than defensive. Along its top was set a line of curved brass rods. From each hung thin disks of the same metal. When the air stirred, the disks clattered against the rods, creating a bright chorus of sound. It was meant to mimic the gurgle of falling water, but to Kerian and Hytanthas, born and raised in the green land of Qualinesti, there was little resemblance. Still, the sound was pretty, and mysterious. When the wall was out of sight, the chiming seemed to emanate from the very air.

The wall enclosed a large courtyard, paved with creamy limestone. At the center of the courtyard sat the Temple of Elir-Sana. It wasn’t large, but Kerian thought it easily the most beautiful building in Khuri-Khan. It didn’t compare to the great sanctuaries of Qualinost, of course, but it had a certain panache. Built of pure-white marble, the temple, like the courtyard, was partly in shadow flow. When the sun was higher, the pale stone of temple and courtyard reflected the light with neatly unbearable brilliance.

The perfectly square temple was surrounded by a colonnade. The smooth, white columns were narrower at the base than at the top, echoing the odd construction of the city’s houses. Capping the temple was a dome carved of a single block of palest blue marble, a rare color for such stone. At least thirty-five feet in diameter, the dome had been polished until it was no thicker than a fingernail. How the Khurs of old had made such a marvel, much less raised it atop the temple, was a question no one living could answer.

The metal gate was open, and the two elves rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Kerian gave her reins over to Hytanthas, telling him he’d have to wait for her outside. “Males are not allowed inside this temple,” she said. “Neither are weapons, unfortunately.”

She looped her sword belt over the pommel of her saddle and left her dagger, still sheathed, as well. Hytanthas reminded her that they must be out of the city by sunset. She nodded. That deadline was still hours away.

Sahim-Khan had decreed, ostensibly for the elves’ own safety, that no laddad could remain within the city from sunset to sunrise. The Lioness had strong opinions about Sahim and his edicts, but before she could give voice to them, the scrape of iron caused her to whirl, instantly on the alert.

Four men in Khurish attire had darted into the courtyard through the only opening in the wall. Over their linen gebs each wore an affre-the hooded, ankle-length robe favored by nomads of the high desert. Scarves concealed their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. Each man held the nomad’s favorite weapon: along, narrow-bladed sword with no crossguard.

The Lioness had swiftly drawn her sword. “Keep off!” she warned them. “We’ve business with the holy priestess and no quarrel with you.”

“We’ve a quarrel with you, laddad. Today your lives end!” said one of the men, his voice muffled by the scarf. Immediately, all four attacked.

Unlike the city guards at the gate, these humans seemed unfamiliar with their foes. Three of them went for Hytanthas, thinking him the greater threat. Only one was left to engage the Lioness. Her sword flashed up, thrusting at the man’s throat. With unexpected agility, the fellow parried her thrust and riposted. She turned aside his attack, but the slick surface of the limestone betrayed her. She slid—not far, but enough to throw off her balance. She felt the man’s blade nick her left ear.

He chuckled. She distinctly heard him. Quickly, he attacked again, repeating the very same moves as before.

The Lioness’s lip curled. He thought he was toying with her! A smart warrior would have taken advantage of her stumble to drive home a killing thrust. Instead, the nomad was content to repeat his previously successful attack, cutting her right ear this time. He obviously saw her as no real threat.

Fury engulfed her, not just for this stupid human’s lucky hits, but for all the indignities and humiliations she and her people had suffered for six terrible years.

In a blur of motion, she lunged beyond the man, reversed her grip on her sword, and thrust it into his back. Steel punched easily through his desert garb, through skin and flesh, grating on bone. As he gave a shocked gasp, Kerian drove her blade in even further, burying it to its hilt.

Meanwhile Hytanthas had been forced to backpedal frantically, gaining time to draw his own sword. He was surrounded by flickering points and keen edges, all seeking his flesh. One foe landed a hit on his left arm, but the mail Hytanthas wore under his geb turned the blade. The elf made a wide, whirling slash at the men’s faces—even the bravest fighter feared for his eyes—and his attackers drew back. All but one.

This man was too slow, and the elf’s point scored a bloody line across his forehead. With a hoarse cry, the human clapped a hand to the wound. Blood coursed down, soaking the scarf over his face.

The other two men shoved their injured comrade aside and came on again. Hytanthas gave ground, then gave more, and still more, working hard to keep their blades at bay, until he found his back against the temple wall and could retreat no further.

While one masked man attacked, keeping Hytanthas busy, his comrade stooped, gathered a handful of fine sand, and flung it at the elf’s face. Hytanthas had no warning. Suddenly, he found himself painfully blinded. He thrust out his sword in a desperate parry and waited for the feel of iron plunging into his body.

Retrieving her sword from her dead foe’s back, the Lioness rushed to her aide’s defense. By the time Hytanthas cleared his eyes, one of his attackers was dead and the other had fled. Hytanthas would have given chase, but a sharp command brought him up short.

“We have a prisoner.” The Lioness pointed to the man Hytanthas had cut on the forehead. Face awash in gore, the human was groveling on the bloody ground, trying to crawl away unnoticed.

Kerian ordered him to his feet and, when he whined about his injury, growled, “Stand up, you coward, or I’ll hamstring you!”

He made as if to rise, then rolled over abruptly, his hand shooting out to fling a short dagger. Kerian whipped her sword in a half-arc, deflecting the missile. The dagger flew back the way it had come, plunging into its owner’s neck. The assassin gave a gurgling shriek and clamped a hand to the wound, blood pouring over his fingers.

Glaring up at the Lioness, his black eyes overflowing with hate, he groaned, “For Torghan!” Bloody froth bubbled from his lips, and his straining body went slack.

Hytanthas exclaimed over her amazing parry, but the Lioness, looking down at the dead nomad, denied any prowess. She rested her sword on her shoulder and said, “I didn’t want him dead. He could have told us who sent him.”

At her direction, Hytanthas rifled the dead men’s clothes. He found nothing, no coins, no personal belongings, not even the fly whisk most city dwellers found essential. One odd fact: each man bore a scarlet tattoo on his left breast, of a crouching bird with wings folded and head curiously lowered, it seemed a bit familiar to Kerian, but she couldn’t think where she might have seen it.

“What is that? An eagle?” Hytanthas asked.

“Condor.”

The elves around. A woman stood in the shadows of the temple colonnade, stepping into the sunlight, she approached slowly. Her voluminous robes were dazzlingly white. Her long hair was likewise white, braided, and woven through with azure ribbons and tiny brass bells. A wide, flat bat shaded her face, which was brown and smooth as polished wood. Her hands were folded into the sleeves of her robe.

The Lioness bowed her head, something few had seen her do, and sheathed her sword with unusual care, sliding the blade home silently.

“Holy Mistress Sa’ida?” she asked. The woman nodded, and the Lioness gestured at the two dead attackers. “Are these men known to you?”

“No man is known to me, but I recognize the mark they bear. It is the sign of Torghan the Avenger.”

Torghan, Lord of the Wastes, was the Khurish god of vengeance, often represented as a giant vulture or condor. The elves knew him as Kinis, a malign deity not worshiped by their race. To his most devoted followers, the minotaurs, he was the great god Sargas. Kerian wondered if there might be a link between the Khurish cult of Torghan and the minotaurs who had invaded Silvanesti. It was not an alliance she liked to contemplate. In any event, she could not fathom why Torghanists of any stripe would attack her in broad daylight, in the supposedly safe confines of a holy temple.

The white-robed priestess regarded the dead man closest to her in thoughtful silence, then remarked, “You stabbed him in the back.”

Kerian’s eyes narrowed, but the priestess’s tone wasn’t accusatory; she seemed merely to be stating a fact. The elf lifted a hand to one of her bloody ears, causing Hytanthas to exclaim at the injuries he only now noticed. She brushed aside his concern, reliving again the rush of fury she’d felt when the Torghanist cut her so casually.

“Let us retire within,” the priestess said to her. “I will tend your injury.”

Hytanthas could not enter the sacred precincts, but the priestess gave him leave to remain in the shaded colonnade. One of the temple acolytes, she said, would bring him refreshment. He went to tie their horses out of the sun before settling down to await his commander. Kerian followed the high priestess inside.

After the searing light of day, the stone-lined passages of the Temple of Elir-Sana were cool and dark. Only the scuff of the priestess’s feet ahead gave Kerian any hint she was not alone. She had a general idea of the temple’s layout and assumed the Holy Mistress was taking her to private chambers, located at the rear. However, halfway along a dark corridor, Sa’ida turned and parted a cloth doorflap on her right.

In the small, dimly lit chamber beyond, obviously waiting for them, stood an elder acolyte, dressed in a woman’s geb of white linen, her hair covered by a matching turban. She held a small, silver tray on which rested various medicaments and a small roll of gauze. Kerian wondered how the high priestess had called for the medicines. Sa’ida had not been out of her sight since the battle with the Torghanists.

The acolyte cleaned the elf’s wounds, but when the woman started to bandage her cuts, the high priestess stopped her, saying the injuries would heal more quickly if left open to the goddess’s gaze. Although not especially pious, Kerian certainly had no desire to walk around with her ears wrapped in white gauze, so she agreed.

Sa’ida lifted another doorflap. Silhouetted against the light beyond, she turned and said to Kerian, “Come, seeker. We shall commune under the eyes of the goddess.”

Kerian soon found herself in the temple’s heart, the domed sanctuary. The pale blue stone of the high ceiling softened the harsh rays of the sun, bathing the great room in gentle light. Unlike the close, incense-laden interiors of most shrines, the air in the Temple of Elir-Sana was clean and fresh. Centered under the sky-colored dome, the sacred image of the goddess rested on a high pedestal. On the floor of the chamber, radiating out from the sacred image like the spokes of a wheel, were six lanes filled with sifted white sand, carefully raked to eliminate footprints. The paved floor between the wide lanes was dotted with stylized sculptures of trees, each six to eight feet tall. Slender tubes of copper or brass served as trunks and branches. Ovals of silver, hammered thin, formed the leaves, twinkling as they moved gently in the air.

Here and there in the white sand lanes, priestesses and acolytes performed their sacred rituals. Choosing an empty path, Sa’ida led the Lioness toward the image of the goddess. As she took in the sight, Kerian’s steps slowed, then ceased.

The goddess was shown as a stout, broad-shouldered woman, her arms crossed over an ample bosom. Her hands, fingers spread, lay flat against her shoulders. Her hair, gathered into a single, heavy hank, was pulled forward over her left shoulder. Her chin was down, her eyes closed. Depicted in a typical Khurish gown, the great goddess Elir-Sana resembled nothing so much as a well-fed matron of Khuri-Khan—albeit one filled with a private melancholy. Unlike the temple itself, the image wasn’t marble. In fact, it wasn’t stone at all, but golden-yellow wood. Lovingly oiled over many years of devotion, the surface had a soft burnished sheen. The statue was the single largest piece of wood that Kerian had seen in Khur. In this barren land, fine wood was more esteemed than gold.

“She is a quiet god,” Sa’ida said, her low voice sounding loud in the stillness. “A suffering god. She afflicts and heals, and laments both.”

To the Lioness, the Khurish deity sounded like Quen, the Qualinesti goddess of healing. She almost mentioned this, but decided not to. It might provoke a sermon.

“Why is she so stout?” she asked.

“She is the bringer of plenty. How could she be lean?”

Several low, wide stools ringed the statue’s pedestal. Sa’ida sat on one of these, spreading her many-layered gown like a fan until the stool vanished beneath it.

As the priestess settled herself, Kerian’s attention was caught by the metal tree next to her. Its dangling silver foliage had been shaped to resemble aspen leaves. A memory flashed in Kerian’s mind: the first light of sunrise catching on aspen leaves, the pinkish-orange blush tinting the trees’ pale trunks. It was a sight she used to take for granted, rising every morning in the greenwood. Now, such memories brought only bitterness, reminding her how far she was from the leafy embrace of home.

The high priestess was regarding her curiously. Kerian realized she was still caressing the metal leaf. She let it go quickly, as if burned.

“Seeker, why have you come? To obtain the comfort and wisdom of the goddess?” Sa’ida asked.

“No, Holy Mistress. I do not seek the goddess, but her priestess.”

“Why?”

The Lioness met bluntness with bluntness. “It is said you know of the Valley of the Blue Sands.”

An emotion passed over Sa’ida’s face, brief but intense, like a thunderstorm in the desert. Her lips flexed downward, and a furrow appeared between her eyes. As quickly as it had come, the expression was gone, replaced by her usual, serene mask.

“I know the legend, yes. But why does it interest you?”

“It doesn’t,” Kerian said flatly. “But it does interest my husband, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. He has acquired a map he believes shows the location of the fabled valley. He desires to know what you know about this place.”

The priestess was silent for so long that Kerian thought she would not answer. When she finally did, the words came slowly.

“It is said to be a place untouched by the world for more than two and a half thousand years. What does Gilthas Pathfinder want there?”

Out of habit, Kerian’s hand moved to rest where her sword hilt should be, but was not. Feeling off-balance, she blurted, “He seeks a home for our people.”

If Kerian had said Gilthas intended to move bag and baggage into the female—only precincts of the temple, Sa’ida could not have looked more shocked. “You enjoy the favor of Sahim-Khan,” the priestess sputtered. “Would you trade that for a perilous journey to a land that may not even exist?”

This sentiment echoed the Lioness’s own feelings on the subject, but she was ever practical. “The Speaker of the Sun and Stars believes our people cannot remain in Khur forever, even with Sahim-Khan’s protection. This is not our country, nor our climate. Everyone knows the Khan covets the wealth we brought, and it may be that he hopes to harvest elven wisdom for his own ends. The Speaker is willing to trade treasure and knowledge for a little land and a little peace.” Kerian shook her head. “I, however, see a darker future.”

Sa’ida said nothing. Nettled, the Lioness spoke more candidly still. “I believe Sahim will sell us out. ‘To Neraka, to the minotaur, to anyone who meets his price. It’s only a matter of time.”

Her raised voice echoed through the chamber, ringing off the high, polished dome. Acolytes and priestesses glanced her way before resuming their prayers.

Sa’ida lowered her eyes, her posture echoing the goddess above her. “The seeker may be wise.”

The elf general ground her teeth in frustration. “May be? Do you have definite knowledge of Sahim-Khan’s treachery?”

A tiny shrug rippled across the priestess’s shoulders. “The deserts of Khur are broad. No one can hope to hold every grain of sand. Even in the best-run homes, scorpions and spiders are found.”

First bluntness, now maddening ambiguity. What in Chaos was the woman trying to say? That Sahim-Khan didn’t rule unchallenged in Khur? That was hardly a revelation. Everyone knew the nomads beyond the city were an independent lot. Still, with the backing of his well-trained troops, Sahim kept peace among the tribes. But what if the trouble wasn’t outside the city, in the larger desert—what if it was much closer? Kerian thought of the Torghanist assassins in the courtyard.

Even in the best-run homes—

“Are you saying it isn’t the Khan I should be worrying about, but someone else in the city?”

The high priestess seemed to feel she’d already said too much. Abruptly she tucked her hands into her sleeves and bowed her head.

Kerian tried to persuade the priestess to reveal her thoughts. She strove to keep her voice level, but passion throbbed in every syllable. “Help us, Holy Mistress. Help me! I want to lead my people out of Khur, back to our ancestral lands, as soon as possible. We’re defenseless here. I have tried to make the Speaker see this, but he will not.”

“Yes, convince your king to leave Khur. That is the best course.”

“He will not listen!” Kerian kicked the sand, sending a spray of white grains into the air. “He’s tired of fighting and dreams of a new elven homeland in Khur, in that mythical valley!”

The priestess lifted her head abruptly, the tiny bells braided into her hair jangling discordantly. “The Valley of the Blue Sands does exist,” she said quietly. “The analects of the goddess speak of it quite clearly. She calls it ‘the refuge of the damned’.”

Kerian snorted. Maybe Gilthas was onto something. Who was more damned these days than elves? She pushed these thoughts aside and concentrated on fulfilling her mission. “The Speaker respectfully requests any documents you might have with information on the valley. Will you lend them, Holy Mistress?”

The priestess raised a hand, and a young acolyte appeared silently in answer. Sa’ida murmured to the girl, who bowed and left.

“I gladly dispense the wisdom of the great goddess,” Sa’ida said. “I hope it will persuade your king to abandon this impossible notion.”

Kerian nodded. “Holy Mistress, I agree with you. My people’s future does not lie in Khur.”

In moments, the acolyte returned, accompanied by three others. Each of the four bore a leather case about three feet long. Sa’ida checked the clay tags on the four cases and gave her permission for them to be turned over to the Lioness.

As Kerian took one, the priestess reached out, resting a hand on hers. “I entrust these sacred texts to you, Kerianseray,” she said gravely. “By your word they must be safeguarded.”

Equally grave, the Lioness accepted the charge. She asked whether the priestess would land in trouble with Sahim-Khan, or the Torghanists, for helping the elves.

“Why should I, a humble servant of the great goddess, fear the enmity of men?” asked the priestess.

Humble servant? The Lioness was amused. The old woman before her exerted enormous influence in Khuri-Khan, not only at court but among the people as well. In a fiercely patriarchal society, the healer-priestesses of Elir-Sana were accorded a respect and reverence given to no other women. This so-called humble servant was vital to the rule of Sahim-Khan. If the healers of Elir-Sana ever chose to withhold their skills from Sahim-Khan, his city would be in dire straits indeed.

Before leaving, Kerian offered a contribution to the temple’s coffers. The high priestess gave her a severe look. “Alms are always welcome, but one cannot buy the favors of the goddess.”

“I don’t want the goddess’s favor, just yours.”

Sa’ida rose to her feet, face flushing. “You offend!”

“Forgive me, Holy Mistress. The cowardly attack on myself and my young aide distressed me. Please forget my unfortunate words.”

Mention of the tattooed assassins had the desired effect. Sa’ida was plainly upset by the incident. In many ways, Torghan and Elir-Sana were polar opposites, even enemies. The god of the unforgiving desert, of revenge and rage, had little common ground with the goddess of healing, humility, and plenty.

Kerian bowed and turned to go, the three acolytes carrying the other leather cases trailing in her wake. However, Sa’ida called her back.

Stepping away from the Lioness, and turning to face the statue of Elir-Sana, the high priestess spread her hands and sank to her knees. She began to chant a rhythmic, unintelligible sentence. The three acolytes standing near Kerian bowed their heads immediately, but the elf general watched in wide-eyed fascination as the priestess reached out toward the statue’s base. Her hand passed into the marble pedestal without hindrance. The Lioness blinked rapidly, suspecting a trick of the light.

On her feet again, Sa’ida held out a closed fist. “For your bravery, and to ease your suffering, the goddess presents you with a gift,” she said.

This proved to be a smooth, heavy object. About the size of a goose egg, it resembled a giant opal, its white surface veined with pink, green, and gold. Pretty, but the Lioness couldn’t begin to fathom its purpose. She asked, and Sa’ida gave a suitably cryptic answer.

“It will stop the killing—at least for a time. Keep it close by, seeker.”

Their meeting was at an end. With Sa’ida in the lead and the three acolytes trailing behind, Kerian departed the sanctuary. The high priestess did not speak again until they reached the final portal, the double doors that would take Kerian outside. Sa’ida sent the three acolytes out, leaving her alone briefly with the Lioness.

“You and your people should depart Khur as soon as possible. No man in Khur is your friend—and only sorrow can come of your remaining here.”

With that, the high priestess of Elir-Sana turned and walked back into her temple’s shaded depths.