They knew well what such a sound from a clear sky meant. She told her officers to send flankers out a hundred yards. “But make sure they keep in sight of the column,” she cautioned.
She wet a kerchief with a few drops of water, then offered the gourd to Favaronas while she dabbed her face with the damp cloth.
“What can we do if the thing attacks again? Will the magical orb work a second time?” Favaronas asked.
She shrugged, tying her hair back with the damp kerchief. Her knowledge of magical artifacts was limited. She changed the subject. “Have you any idea why this creature should be following us so doggedly?” she asked.
The scholar didn’t. He knew only what he’d told her earlier, that sand beasts were wild animals of the deep desert, and rare. Obviously the creature was a predator, but what sort of predator would follow armed and mounted warriors over several days and many miles?
“Only the two-legged kind,” Kerian said dryly. “And that’s who I think set this monster on our trail. A two- legged predator.”
When the flanking riders were in place, watching for attack or ambush, she waved the column forward. They would reach the Inath-Wakenti in two days. More and more, she felt the foolishness of Gilthas’s idea to send their people there. Even if the valley proved to have a temperate climate, it wasn’t their natural home, and never would be. Witless nomads and bloodthirsty beasts were the only creatures suited to this harsh, terrible land. Elves needed the cool green woods of the lands that had given them birth and sustenance through the ages. Without them, would they not soon cease to be elves?
As always, thoughts of home made Kerian’s blood burn. It required all her discipline to keep from reining about and galloping madly to Qualinesti, to try to free the land of its oppressors or die in the trying. They should not be in Khur! Whether desert or city or fabled valley, none of it was theirs. None of it! They should be attacking the enemies who’d dared invade their ancestral lands!
Gilthas believed life mattered more than land. Of course Gilthas worried more about life than land-he had been born into royalty. No matter where he dwelt, he was the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. He was a king-no matter where he was forced to locate his kingdom.
In all her life, Kerianseray had known no such luxury. She was a fighter for her country and her people. Without her country or her people, what was left? What was she then?
Favaronas watched curiously as the Lioness prodded her mount to a trot. Her back was straight and her chin outthrust. In the time he’d been with her, the archivist had come to know that posture, that look. She was controlling her anger. Only two things in the world could make her so furious, could reduce her lips to that tight, white line: the gnawing loss of Qualinesti to their enemies, and disagreement with the Speaker. He wondered which was consuming her now.
Chapter 7
The afternoon repose of Khuri-Khan was first broken by the jangle of sistrums and the clash of cymbals. Housewives lifted the shades covering their window openings and peered outside to see what the noise was about. Soukats, taking a respite from the morning’s trading, pushed back their hats or came out from under their awnings. Anticipating an event, wine merchants in the Grand Souks reopened their stands. The street dogs of Khuri-Khan, always alert, began barking.
The deep thump of a drum sounded, two slow beats followed by two quick. A quintet of guards appeared. Their helmets were askew, armor straps flapping, for they had been sleeping, too. They made a ragged line and ported arms, standing as much at attention as the Khan’s soldiers ever did. Someone was coming-someone important.
The curious Khurs first saw a double line of elf maidens, twenty strong. Each wore a white, knee-length silk gown and, as a concession to the punishing sun, a matching scarf tied around her head. Golden girdles draping their slim hips sparkled, as did the garland of golden leaves twining their necks. They carried white baskets, strewing the contents on the street before them. At home, this would have been flower petals. Here in Khuri-Khan it was white sand, washed and polished until it glittered like silver.
Behind the twenty maidens came thirty young elf males, also clad in white. Hands, feet, and faces were browned by years of desert life, but arms and legs were still pale as the forest shade had made them. Each elf wore abroad belt made of jointed golden plates. In the center of each plate flashed an enormous flat jewel, peridot or aquamarine. Each of the thirty elves held aloft a pole, laminated with gold. Ten poles were topped with the golden sun symbol, and ten with a stylized silver star. Atop the poles of the final ten was a flat plaque of lapis lazuli on which appeared a gold sun and silver star of equal size. The Khurs couldn’t know it, but the precious metal on these standards was only thin plating over common brass or copper. Still, they made an impressive display.
By now Khurs of all ages were spilling out of their houses to see this wondrous parade. For years, they’d sold meat, meal, cloth, and soap to the
Trailing the elf maidens and standard bearers were musicians. Four pairs of tympani strode down the center of the road, flanked on either side by a dozen white-robed youths either shaking sistrums or clanging cymbals. The rhythm was insistent: two slow beats followed by two fast, again and again. On the heels of the drummers were twelve older, brown-skinned elves dressed in green. They were Kagonesti pipers, carrying twinned flutes of silver and brass. Not yet playing, they walked with proud precision, dark hair hanging loose below their shoulders, their heads covered by leather skullcaps.
The parade penetrated the wide Street of Salah-Khan, which ran along the western end of the Grand Souks, and the pipers raised their instruments. A trill of notes floated over the desert city. Elf voices answered, crying,
After the pipers, Hamaramis and fifty warriors of the Speaker’s guard marched into view. They were arrayed in their best armor, with plumed helmets and brilliant green mantles. Boors might have noted the scuffs and dents in the armor, and how some plumes were broken, but such imperfections did not detract from the spectacle. Each warrior’s short sword was sheathed and slung over his back, a traditional method of indicating peaceful intent. Each soldier held a brass and iron buckler to his chest with his left hand, and in his right gripped a ceremonial mace made of ivory. The heads were shaped like a sun or a star.
In the last rank of these warriors marched a watchful Hytanthas. He’d been attached to the Speaker’s guard so he could point out the phantom he’d seen in the Speaker’s tent, should the creature make an appearance.
In the soldiers’ wake came a delegation of Silvanesti, led by Lord Morillon Ambrodel. They were dressed as Silvanesti lords had been for centuries, in deeply pleated robes of sky blue, sun yellow, or star white. Disdaining to mar their ensembles with practical headgear, the Silvanesti went bareheaded. They would pay for their pride later with bouts of sunburn and prickly heat.
Last of all came the Speaker himself, on foot. He could have ridden, but with every horse precious to his army, he chose not to. The way wasn’t long from Khurinost to the palace. Not nearly as long as from Qualinost to Khur.
He did not wear his best robes-the cloth-of-gold and fire-knap in which he’d been crowned-but a simple white gown, with elbow-length sleeves, which brushed his ankles. A rope of woven gold strands was tied around his waist, a collar of lapis bars encircled his throat, and gold bracelets decorated each wrist. He also had chosen not to wear a crown, neither the sun diadem of Qualinesti, nor the star circlet of Silvanesti. He was a Speaker in exile. Wearing crowns while homeless seemed to Gilthas the height of hubris.
Four favored senators walked around him, carrying poles supporting a light linen canopy. This spare shade was his only protection from the sun. Planchet walked at his left elbow. Where his consort should have walked,
