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.
“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
“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.
