Sanctuary

stop to fight. Go!”

Boot to boot, the wedge of elves hit the nomads head-on. The elves, highly trained veterans on taller, heavier horses, pushed through the loose nomad formation, trading sword cuts as they went Bilath tried to hold his men as Adala had instructed, but the elves would not be denied. Bilath himself received a slash on the temple. A second cut might have finished him, but the elf warrior tore by without pause.

On the southern front, the Weya-Lu led by Bindas were coming up fast. Their desert ponies were a hardy lot, and the animals’ fear had faded as they grew accustomed to the griffon’s strange scent. Adala’s stolid donkey had never given in to the terror. On beholding the griffon, Adala proclaimed the strange flying beast a sign. Monsters from the Abyss had been raised against them, she told her rapt followers. The wicked laddad thought to cow them, but Torghan the Avenger would strengthen Weya-Lu sword-arms and steel their hearts. The Weya-Lu shouted, “Adala maita!” Then they thundered forward at a gallop.

Riding near the Weyadan, Wapah stared uncertainly at the griffon. He recognized it as a creature associated with the Silvanesti and didn’t quite understand how it could be both a sign from Those on High and a monster raised by the laddad for use against the people of the desert.

Shrugging, he decided this was just another example of what happened when a man strayed from the hard edges of the desert. Here, mountains pierced the sky, letting in confusion.

The griffon swooped in, hovering in front of the nomad band: Adala tugged Little Thorn’s reins, halting the donkey. Her warriors stopped as well.

“Begone, monster!” Adala shouted to the griffon. “Return to the wicked land of your ancestors!”

“That’s just what I plan to do!” said a voice from the creature’s back, and a javelin came flying at Adala.

The mother of the Weya-Lu held her place. The javelin struck the ground a few feet in front of Little Thorn’s hooves, burying its iron head six inches into the hard soil. The shaft vibrated with the force of the throw. The griffon wheeled and flew off into the night.

Etosh came riding back from the head of the nomad band.

“Weyadan, the laddad are entering the valley! We have failed!”

The anger Adala had felt on hearing the laddad voice subsided. Her face resumed its patient cast. “All is well, brother. They have gone into the sacred valley, but there they will perish.”

The tribe, she said, would camp here, blocking the only pass out of the valley. When the laddad tried to escape, they would be destroyed. She urged Little Thorn forward, grasped the javelin, and worked it free of the soil. Wapah came up beside her as she was studying the weapon.

“We should not stay here, Weyadan,” he said. “This land is not good. The hard edges are dulled. Unnatural things abide.”

“We must stay. Our land and our honor demand it.” She looked up at him, taller than she on his pony, and added, “I have seen a new vision of our path, cousin. It’s not enough to expel the foreigners from the valley. When the laddad here have been dealt with, we will raise the tribes, all the tribes of Khur, and lead them to Khuri-Khan. We will deal with the laddad there, too.”

She handed him the javelin, and turned her animal away. He touched the tip of the slender spear lightly; it was keen enough to make his thumb bleed. Had it hit the Weyadan, it easily would have pierced her back to front. Wrapping the sharp head in a length of protective cloth, Wapah lashed the javelin across the rear of his saddle. Nomads were never wasteful.

Six miles away, the Lioness brought Eagle Eye to ground far enough in front of her warriors that their horses wouldn’t go wild. They reined up. Elves and horses alike were panting for breath. Her officers and Favaronas joined her on foot next to the griffon.

“They didn’t follow us,” she said. “I think they’re afraid- of the valley or Eagle Eye, I’m not sure which.”

Favaronas said, “Lucky your creature found us. I thought the time for such wonders was past!”

Kerian, too, had been marveling at the griffon’s cleverness. With the rush of battle behind her she realized how odd it was that Eagle Eye had arrived fully saddled, with weapons of battle, like the javelin quiver, in place. She certainly hadn’t left him stabled that way.

The answer to the conundrum was tucked inside the javelin quiver. It was a folded parchment whose message convinced her that wonders were no match for the everyday power of love.

Thought you could use a friend, the note said. It was signed simply, “G.”

Chapter 8

Sa’ida, surrounded by chanting priestess-healers, stood by the bed of Prince Shobbat. She dipped a finger in the oil warming in a shallow copper pan and traced on his forehead the seal of Elir-Sana.

The high priestess was red-eyed and haggard from her efforts. This was the culmination of three days of work, weaving a great healing spell around the delirious prince. Lesser potions and cantrips had not restored Shobbat’s shattered wits, nor healed his blindness, though his wild ravings had been soothed and he had stopped flailing uncontrollably. He was left lying rigid in his bed, eyes closed. Sa’ida had no choice but to perform the strongest, most arduous spell of healing known to her.

Acolytes and priestesses worked in shifts, new ones arriving at the palace every six hours to relieve their predecessors. The chant went on without a break for three days. Aromatics and incense were burned, and elaborate designs, in yellow paint, were drawn on the walls and floor of the prince’s bedchamber. The design created a great invisible funnel through which the goddess’s healing power could flow. Shobbat lay in the center of the vortex, a thick strip of leather between his clenched teeth to prevent them cracking under the strain.

The chanting priestesses came and went by a prescribed schedule, but Sa’ida didn’t budge. She alone was irreplaceable. For three days and nights she did not sleep. She had performed the great healing spell only once before, but none of the priestesses knew the circumstances; Sa’ida would never discuss it.

The chanting abruptly stopped.

“Shadows of sickness, leave this man!” she commanded solemnly. “Suffering one, be whole!”

For the space of three heartbeats no one moved. Time itself seemed to halt in the room. Then Shobbat sighed deeply, the sound echoing in the stillness. His rigid body went limp. His eyes opened. He blinked several times, looking around as though his surroundings were unfamiliar.

“Am I dead?” he rasped.

“Not yet.”

Sa’ida moved away, to send word to Sahim-Khan that his son was healed.

On the bed, Shobbat lifted a hand to his face. Was he truly here? Was he at home in Khuri-Khan? The fire was gone from his mind, but the memory of what he’d seen in the Oracle’s cave remained. Monsters-animals with the heads of humans and humans with the heads of animals-had come out of the shadows, and engulfed him. They’d called his name, said he was one of them. And suddenly he’d known it was true. His hands and feet changed to slender paws. Fur sprouted from his skin, and in his mouth he tasted carrion.

Jackal! the misshapen monsters had shouted at him. You are one of us!

Sahim-Khan entered. Clad in plain white geb, his dark head bare of crown, he looked like any worried father, attending the bedside of his sick child.

“My son,” he said quietly. “Do you know me?”

“You are my lord, Sahim, Khan of All the Khurs,” Shobbat murmured, a vast weariness dragging down his eyelids.

Sahim turned to Sa’ida, standing between two priestesses. It was obvious that she too was sorely spent.

“You have a father’s gratitude, holy lady,” he said. “Whatever price you name, I shall pay, gladly.”

Shobbat’s soft snores interrupted them, and Sahim-Khan held out a hand to the high priestess. She took his arm and accompanied him out the door that led to the prince’s private sitting room. In silent ranks the priestesses