than he.
He passed the first sign-a six-inch square of parchment bearing markings in red and black ink. A warning. A panic- spell had been placed over the ruined house. Had Hengriff not been wearing a counter-charm, he would’ve been seized by unreasoning fear.
When he reached the atrium, with its dry fountain and garden of weeds, he passed the second sign. This one was a human skull, eye sockets packed with clay. A pebble of polished malachite had been pushed into each clay- filled socket, making grotesque eyes. That’s exactly what they were. The occupant of the blighted villa could watch the path with these magical eyes. Interlopers were dealt with harshly.
The Knight came upon one such unlucky soul. A Khur lay sprawled by the fountain. His torso had been ripped open, his body left here as an extra warning to the unwary. By his clothes, Hengriff took him to be a beggar come to search for trinkets he could sell. He was past such needs now.
At the foot of the broken tower was the third sign. An ordinary copperplate, such as was used in taverns all around the city, was nailed to the tower door with three iron nails. Lines were scratched into the copper. They formed the sigil of madness. Anyone passing through the door without proper protection would go immediately insane.
Hengriff snorted. Perhaps the villa’s current resident had come home once without his protective amulets. That would explain much about him.
Despite the devastation all around, the great door swung smoothly inward, silent on well-oiled hinges. The interior smelled strongly of musk.
“Hello!” He tried to call softly, but his voice still boomed like a drumbeat.
Something stirred in the darkness. Something big. His hand went to his sword hilt.
“Faeterus! It’s Hengriff,” he said, feeling somewhat foolish. His voice could hardly be mistaken for any other’s.
A square of light appeared overhead as a trap door opened. Hengriff held up a hand to block the sudden glare. The light showed him a strange beast curled against the far wall, several yards away. It had a lion’s tawny body and limbs, but a long neck covered with small, bronze-colored scales. Its head was its most disturbing feature. Framed by a short, stiff mane of reddish hair, the head was round, like a human’s, with human- looking icy blue eyes, a flat nose, and a very wide mouth.
The mouth split in a grin as Hengriff tightened his grip on his sword hilt. At least four rows of teeth, one behind the other, glittered like polished steel in the wide mouth. The large eyes gazed at him steadily, without blinking. The Knight knew then what had happened to the beggar lying dead outside.
A knotted rope unspooled from the open trap door, its end striking the floor at Hengriff’s feet. The Knight began to climb, senses alert. A good place to ambush someone, he thought.
As his head and shoulders penetrated the room above, heat washed over him like a lowering weight. Oil lamps with silver reflectors lit the scene brightly, but the warmth came from two large fireplaces, opposite each other in the large, round room. Fires blazed high in each.
The room was decorated in an extreme of Khurish fashion that would have embarrassed a native-born Khur. Dark yellow carpets were layered six inches deep, helping to mask the warped floor. Every inch of wall space was covered by tapestries, depicting not only Khurish scenes of deserts and oases, but foreign sights as well-the barbaric splendor of Ergoth, the staid pageantry of old Solamnia, and geometric Tarsan designs shot through with spun gold thread.
There were no chairs or proper tables, only silk and velvet pillows, divans spread with plush wool and damask rugs, and low tables meant to be used by diners seated on the floor. Contributing to the suffocating atmosphere were jeweled incense burners hanging from the ceiling beams; they filled the air with the heavy reek of spice.
Hengriff’s host had returned to his dinner after dropping the rope through the trap door. An etched silver tray was balanced on the divan cushions beside him. Hengriff glanced at its contents and quickly looked away. A bird of some sort, plucked clean, but still raw. Savage.
“Welcome, noble Hengriff,” said Faeterus, waving a hand.
Gone was his bulky disguise. Shorn of the heavy, ragged robes and thick gray wig, Faeterus was revealed to be an elf of advanced years, with cottony white hair, eyebrows like flyaway wings over hazel eyes, and a chin sharp as the prow of a war galley. His hands were unusually large for an elf, with prominent joints and exceptionally long fingers, darkly stained by decades of mixing potions. He wore long, white cotton trousers and an abbreviated geb.
“That’s quite a watchdog you
“A rare creature indeed. A manticore from over the seas. It ensures my privacy.”
Faeterus indicated the Knight could join him, but Hengriff settled himself on a low table nearby, after deeming it strong enough to take his weight. He would not recline on the cushioned divan with the mage, nor sit on the carpeted floor at his feet like a supplicant.
“A new development,” he announced. “Prince Shobbat has regained his wits. As usual he’s aflame to depose his father, but when I mentioned the elves had gone to the valley, he seemed ready to relapse. He’s so frightened he’s willing to stir up the desert wanderers to stop the elves.” He held up Shobbat’s letter. “He gave me this proclamation, in which he incites them to make righteous war on the elves.”
“Shobbat is an idiot. Does it say anything more?” Faeterus bit delicately into the raw bird. Blood ran down his chin until he dabbed it with a napkin.
“He invites the nomads here to Khuri-Khan, to destroy the elves in their tent-city.”
Faeterus froze, then put down his dinner. “Not an idiot-a madman!”
“Maybe. He says his father has betrayed Khur by allowing the elves to remain here, and by filling his coffers with elven steel.”
“They’ll have Sahim-Khan’s head, too, in the bargain.”
“I’m sure that’s what Shobbat intends.”
Faeterus picked up a narrow, conical goblet made of gilded glass and gulped wine like a sailor just back from a long voyage. His fingers left gory prints on the shiny stem. Hengriff wondered whether his nails were naturally that umber shade, or if he painted them.
“An idiot after all,” Faeterus said, refilling his goblet. “Sahim is popular. The nomads won’t unite against him, not now.”
“Perhaps if they had more provocation,” Hengriff suggested.
“That will take some thought. The wanderers aren’t like ordinary people, elf or human. What pleases us offends them, and what angers them we would consider trivial.” The mage leaned back against his cushions, and added, “What will you do for me if I do this favor for you?”
I won’t wring your scrawny neck, Hengriff thought. “This isn’t a souk, elf. I’m not here to bargain. Get to the point. What do you want?”
Faeterus reclined on the cushions, closing his eyes. “A trifle, really,” he murmured.
Hengriff doubted that. The mage seemed immune to the standard temptations. As far as Hengriff could tell, he had only two guiding principles: hatred for his own race, and devotion to the pursuit of his magical arts. Whatever he wanted, it likely would be something extraordinary.
“I want what Gilthas wants: the Valley of the Blue Sands.”
Hengriff frowned at this puzzling reply. He knew the nomads of the northern desert regarded the valley as sacred, belonging to the gods and forbidden by them at the same time. Most of the stories he’d heard, in the souks and various taverns, were improbable in the extreme. In one, the valley was said to house an army of stone soldiers, motionless for two thousand years, who would awaken on hearing a certain magical word. If the wrong word of power was voiced, they would animate only long enough to kill the one who’d said it, then resume their stony existence. Other tales said the valley contained a city of gold, a race of invisible dragons, or-oddest of all-the tombs of dead, foreign gods.
Why, all of a sudden, did Faeterus care about the Valley of the Blue Sands?
Hengriff stood stiffly. Over the years he’d acquired too many injuries, more than a few while chasing the Lioness, to remain hunkered down on the low table for very long.
“I’ll convey your words to my masters,” he said evenly. “Fables and legends aside, the valley represents an excellent defensive position. My Order certainly wouldn’t want the elves to settle there.”
