Sanctuary

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.”