Sanctuary

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-pniestesses 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.

Chapter 3

The Khuri yl Nor was a conglomeration of halls, corridors, and antechambers, all grouped around a central citadel, the great keep known as the Nor-Khan. As much a defensive position as the residence of the Khan, the Nor-Khan boasted thick walls of stone and brick, a massive roof, and absolutely no windows. The interior was always dark and cool, no matter the time of day.

The low light couldn’t hide the magnificence of the Sapphire Throne of Khur. Torchlight only seemed to enhance its beauty. The six-foot-tall chair rested on a wide dais at one end of the throne room. Constructed of wood and covered with hammered gold, the throne was one of the few treasures successfully hidden from Malys and her minions. Its fan-shaped backrest contained two perfect star sapphires, the so-called Eyes of Kargath, the Khurish god of war. The flames of torches, reflecting in the gems, imparted an eerie appearance of life to them.

The Khan of All the Khurs, Sahim Zacca-Khur, was sitting in his impressive throne. He was richly attired in a trailing robe of sea-green silk slashed at the cuffs and hem with stripes of darker jade. Although he was past middle age, his black beard carried no hint of gray in its thick curls. Both chin and nose were proudly outthrust, like the prow of a ship. Heavy gold rings hung from his earlobes. On his head he wore the crown of Khur-a ten-inch-tall conical hat of stiff, red leather, its lower edge decorated by a band of hammered gold.

The Khan was staring pensively at the eleven men arrayed before him. The men were his geel- khana. Khuri-Khan was divided into eleven precincts, known as geel. Each had a commander of the guard, a geel-khana. Despite the moderate temperature of the room, they were sweating heavily.

After allowing the silence to lengthen sufficiently, Sahim-Khan finally spoke. His tone was calmly conversational; the expression in his dark eyes was anything but.

“Each day you report the streets of my city are calm. Yet the laddad queen was attacked by assassins at the doorway of one of our holiest temples. Who were the attackers?”

The eldest guard captain, like the Khan a member of the Khur tribe, replied, “Mighty One, they were followers of Torghan’

“From here in the city?” Sahim’s voice rose. “No, Great Khan. The two who were slain were nomads.”

The Khan grunted. At least the assassins who’d dared test his sovereignty were not locals. Nomads were another matter. None could say what desert wanderers might do.

“The laddad have my permission to be here, and they have the privilege of my protection. Why were they attacked?”

“Mighty One, we have been told”-the captain laid heavy emphasis on the last word, so his lord would know this opinion was not his own-”that the Sons of the Crimson Vulture were driven to madness by the sight of so many foreigners in our city.”

“It is I who decides who is welcome in Khuri-Khan. Only I!” Sahim declared coldly.

He stood and began pacing slowly across the dais. Even through the thick carpet and with his heavy scarlet slippers, he could feel the ruts in the stone, claw marks left by the great dragon. Rather than upsetting, Sahim found the sensation comforting. The formidable beast Malys was gone, and he, Sahim Zacca-Khur, stood in the monster’s place.

Torchlight sent his distorted shadow rippling across the tapestries decorating the thick walls of the keep. The light also glittered on the design embroidered on his robe: two rampant golden dragons, the emblem of his line, faced each other across Sahim-Khan’s broad chest. The design rose and fell as he halted, breathing deeply, pondering in silence. This worried his underlings. A shouting Khan was expending his bile. A silent Khan was hoarding it for a future explosion.

At last he spoke, his voice so low they could barely hear it, even though they were straining to catch every nuance.

“I shall have to apologize to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Can any of you imagine how likely Jam to enjoy that?” Faces blanched, but no one spoke, and he bellowed, “Can you”

“I see no need for you to apologize to anyone.”

All eyes, including the Khan’s, turned to the man who had spoken. Below the dais, on Sahim’s left, was a tall, powerfully built man in foreign dress. He sat in a high-backed, western-style chair, the only person in the room, other than Sahim himself, allowed to sit. His face was clean shaven, his skin dark. His voice resembled the bellow of a bull, even in calm discourse.

“Lord Hengriff speaks truly,” the eldest guardsman said quickly. “The Mighty Khan need not stoop to apologize to the laddad.”