“There is more,” Morillon said. “There are rumors that a great massacre has occurred. Hundreds of Khurish women and children of the Weya-Lu tribe were slain in camp, many miles north of here. Some are saying that it was done by Lady Kerianseray’s troops.”
Gilthas stood so quickly his camp chair went over backward. “Filthy Torghanist lies!”
“I agree, Great Speaker, but the Khurs might choose to think otherwise.”
This was undeniable. Unchecked, the massacre story could inflame Khur from one end to the other. Riots in the souks would be nothing compared to the Khurs’ outrage over this.
Impatiently, Morillon asked, “Sire, what shall we do?
“I will go to Sahim-Khan, lay my thoughts before him. Once he sees we have nothing to hide, he will protect us.”
“And if he won’t?” Planchet asked bluntly.
“He must.” Gilthas hesitated. “How many warriors are in camp?”
“About thirty thousand.”
“Then have them stand ready, Planchet. No fanfare, though. Alert them quietly.”
The valet hurried away to carry out his liege’s order. Morillon’s worry had only increased.
“Great Speaker, fighting isn’t the answer,” he said. “The Khan can field twice our numbers. More if he calls upon the desert tribes!”
Gilthas shook his head. “No, he won’t summon the nomads. He fears them more than he fears us. And I agree:
Fighting is not the answer. We must learn the truth about this massacre, if it actually occurred, and prove to the Khan and his people that we are not responsible.”
“But what if-what we can’t prove such a thing?” Pressing a fist to his lips, Gilthas thought hard. He did not believe Kerian would kill innocent women and children, but who could say what might have occurred in the far desert. If a battle had taken place, if innocents had been killed, if proof of elven innocence was dubious. There were too many ifs!
The Speaker’s pronouncement drained the color from Morillon’s face. “Leave? To go where?”
“To where Lady Kerianseray is right now. Summon the council. I want an inventory made of all food and water on hand. I want emergency plans drawn up to evacuate Khurinost on a moment’s notice.”
He was talking of uprooting a hundred thousand souls. Stunned, Morillon could only nod as the Speaker continued to pepper him with orders.
“Great Speaker, don’t be hasty!” Morillon interjected. “Let us discuss this! Sahim-Khan is no friend of the desert tribes. With proper motivation, he would defend us if the nomads attacked!”
Gilthas’s smile was bitter. “Perhaps. But what if you are wrong? What if he refuses to defend foreigners- laddad foreigners-against his own people? There’s not enough money in the world to buy safety from the Khan, if too many of his own people rise up to threaten him.” The smile vanished. “We must have a contingency plan. We can offer to pay more for his protection. That much steel will tempt him and buy us time. See to it, my lord. Personally. Arrange an audience at once. Today.”
Morillon rushed to do Gilthas’s bidding. Like a disturbed anthill, Khurinost stirred to frantic activity. Meager supplies were counted, weapons long stored taken out. If the exiles were forced to flee, every able-bodied elf would be required to take up arms to defend their lives and their freedom.
Chapter 9
The Vale of Silence was aptly named. An hour after dawn, the Lioness and her warriors were riding across a flat, funnel-shaped valley that was utterly silent, with no breath of wind stirring or birds calling. The air was warm, but far from the blistering heat of the desert outside, and laden with moisture. The area’s other name-Valley of the Blue Sands- also was appropriate. The soil beneath their horses’ hooves was bright blue-green, a strange shade between malachite and verdigris. It also contributed to the quiet. The soft soil seemed to absorb the sound of their movements.
To spare the horses undue stress, Kerian had sent Eagle Eye aloft without her, then swung up behind Favaronas. The archivist would’ve exchanged places-after all, she was commander of the armies-but she waved away his offer. Balancing easily even without the benefit of stirrups or saddle, she studied their surroundings.
They rode past scattered stands of cedar and pine, and boulders half-buried in the sandy soil. The high mountains kept the valley floor in shade long after dawn, which probably accounted for the pockets of mist that clung to the low places.
“Well, librarian, what do you think?” the Lioness asked.
“Feels dead,” Favaronas replied. “No birds, no insects, not even any flowers blooming.”
He was right. A profound stillness lay heavily over the area. Only a few miles in, the effect was becoming unnerving. It was easy to imagine how the valley came to be shunned. Curious nomads, penetrating this far, would become spooked and flee, carrying with them tales of the eerie silence. Over the years, those stories would’ve grown with every telling.
If the atmosphere was unsettling, the scenery was increasingly beautiful, as the valley opened to them. The gray Khalkist peaks on the eastern side took on a slate-blue shade as the sun climbed over them, slanting into the valley and washing the facing western range with golden light. Islands of grass appeared, not the brown or gray flora of the desert, but familiar green shoots, the first they’d seen since leaving their homelands. The presence of grass was more than nostalgic. Where grass grew, livestock could live. Where livestock could live, elves could live.
With the sun above the eastern mountains, the temperature climbed, but never beyond a pleasant warmth. The Lioness and Favaronas came to a wide, shallow stream that wandered across the valley floor. It was shaded by two small willow trees, their slender branches motionless in the still air.
Kerian slid off the horse’s rump and squatted on a flat boulder by the water’s edge. Even as Favaronas called a warning, she dipped her hand in the stream and lifted it to her lips.
“To lead is to take risks,” she said, smiling wryly, then swallowed.
He didn’t have to ask if the water was good. His horse dropped its nose into the shimmering flow and drank noisily. In minutes, the entire command had followed suit. The fresh water was like a gift from the gods. The water they’d brought was warm, and tasted like the skins and gourds in which it was carried; the well water of Khuri-Khan was bland and flat. This water was ice-cold, with a distinct and pleasant mineral bite.
Eagle Eye alighted a dozen yards away, haunch-deep in the stream, and dipped his feathered head to drink. Thirst slaked, the beast stalked ashore on the east bank and lay down to sleep among cattails and tall grass. Before long his head was under his wing, and he was snoring like a boiling kettle.
Much refreshed, the Lioness allowed her warriors to linger by the stream, watering their horses and washing their gritty faces and feet. Favaronas sat on a gray rock overhanging the stream and sketched on a slip of parchment with a charcoal stick. The Lioness watched a map of the valley take shape beneath his skillful hands.
Drawing the long serpentine curve of the creek, he asked, “What shall we call this stream?”
“You’re drawing the map. Call it whatever you like.”
After a pause, he said, “Lioness Creek,” writing as he spoke.
“Speaker’s Creek would be more appropriate.”
“You said I could call it whatever I like.”
She shrugged and pulled off her boots. The chilly water was a blessing to hot, tired feet.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, their rest was abruptly interrupted. The air shuddered from some distant
