As he sat wondering how long he’d dozed and what had awakened him, the tent roof shook, sending motes of dust down onto his head. Shouts arose outside. A sirocco must have swept over the tent complex, upsetting some of the less stable dwellings.
The sound of ripping cloth put the lie to that notion and brought the elf to his feet. Sunlight poured through the roof into his face as a sword sawed through the ceiling panel. Head fuzzy from wine and sleep, Gilthas stared at the bright sword point, wondering how anyone could stand on the billowing roof. The tent poles and stays surely could not bear the weight.
More shouting, louder now, came to his ears, and the sword withdrew. A masked figure garbed in dirty white robes dropped through the hole, landing heavily but adroitly on fingers and toes. Beneath the figure’s Khurish scarf a steel helmet gleamed.
At the same moment, Planchet burst through the tent flap, sword at the ready. Behind him came a swarm of the Speaker’s householders, armed with everything from pikes to roasting spits. Gilthas held up a hand, halting his bodyguard on the threshold. He directed a wry look at the intruder.
“Lady, you’ve holed my roof.”
Kerianseray, caked with dust and dried blood, straightened. She yanked the dust mask from the lower half of her face and shoved her sword back in its scabbard. Heedless of the astonished Planchet, and the gaping looks of the others, she leaned forward and kissed her consort warmly.
Drawing back, she exclaimed, “Those damned Silvanesti wouldn’t let me in!” Lord Morillon and his cohorts, steeped in the court protocol of Silvanost, did their best to control access to the Speaker-even barring the Lioness when they could.
“How did you get past them?” Gilthas asked, amused. With one hand he cupped her smooth brown cheek, hollowed by travail.
“Eagle Eye.”
He glanced up at the hole in the roof. The griffon flashed past as he circled overhead. Theirs was a remarkable relationship. With the Lioness the fierce creature was tame as a kitten, obeying her every word. Griffons usually bonded with a single rider from an early age and, should that rider be lost, never took kindly to another. Eagle Eye’s original rider had perished fighting the minotaurs. Against all odds, the spirited beast had taken a liking to the Lioness-most probably because they were two of a kind, Gilthas thought.
The Speaker’s would-be rescuers dispersed and Planchet went to fetch more nectar. In the meantime, Kerian helped herself to an orange, a fruit common to Khur’s seaside gardens. She pulled off hood and helmet and raked a hand through her matted hair.
“Lord Taranath’s messenger just left here”-Gilthas noted the angle of the sunlight-”less than an hour ago. After hearing his report, I feared for your safety.”
His words seemed somehow to take away her joy at their reunion. Coughing the dust of Khur from her throat, she rasped, “Yet I am safe, and here I am.”
When she said no more, he asked about the rear guard Hytanthas had mentioned, the five hundred archers with whom she had made a stand against the minotaurs. She answered, “They gave their lives for the rest of the army.”
“No others survived? Only you?” asked Gilthas, mystified.
She crushed the orange slice she held. Juice ran between her fingers. “It was not my choice!”
Before she could explain this strange statement Planchet returned. She filled a cup and moved away from her husband, lapsing into sullen silence. Sensing the tension in the room, Planchet did not linger.
Gilthas went to stand behind his wife, close but not touching. He could almost feel the angry emotion radiating from her, like heat from the Khurish Sun.
“I rejoice to see you, my love,” he said softly.
“I’m not happy to be here, Gil! I should have fallen with my warriors!”
On the last word her voice broke, and he would have held her then. But she made no move toward him, did not turn, only drank deeply from her cup.
He asked what had happened, and still she was silent for a longtime. At last, with an abrupt shake of her head, she said, “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s done. We must honor our dead by resuming the campaign. The bull-men will pay!”
She gripped her cup so tightly her knuckles showed white. Gilthas gave up the attempt to comfort her and returned to his chair, frowning. Somehow it was a little easier to say what he must while sitting in the royal throne. Raising his voice slightly, he forbade his wife to return south. The plan to invade Silvanesti, Gilthas declared, was over.
She whirled, a wild look in her eyes. “You’re quitting the fight? Why?”
Gilthas kept his own voice even. “Again and again it’s proven a waste of lives, battling the minotaurs. I have a more important task for you.”
“What more important task is there than fighting our enemies?”
“Finding a home for our people.”
Her laugh was sharp and dismissive. This was an old argument, one they were having more often these days. Kerianseray, her warriors, and many Silvanesti nobles among the exiles wanted to win back the lands lost to the invaders Gilthas believed this a pointless dream. His people’s only hope was to find a new homeland, one free of minotaurs, bandits, goblins, and greedy humans.
He stood and beckoned her to follow. To one side of the wide, circular room was an assortment of chests and cupboards containing official documents they’d saved from Qualinost. He unlocked a metal-strapped box and drew out a long, rolled parchment.
“One of my scribes found this in the Grand Souks. He paid eight steel for it.”
A high price. Unrolled, the parchment proved to be a map, a drawing of Khur from the beaches of Balifor Bay to the wall of mountains stretching from Kern in the north to Blцde in the south. Kerian’s disappointment was acute. Her husband possessed innumerable maps and charts. His scribes visited the souks every day, spending precious steel and asking about maps. Initially she had been encouraged by his efforts, assuming he was seeking information that would aid them in their quest to retake their homelands. But after months, when nothing useful had turned up, she lost interest.
As he spread the curling parchment with both hands, Gilthas told her eagerly that the scribe who’d found it had haggled the price down from fifteen steel. Such negotiation was the norm in Khurish souks; there would be loud discussion, much shaking of heads and gesticulating, the buyer pretending to walk away two or three times, before at last a price was settled, a deal struck.
“This isn’t just any map,” he assured her. “It’s almost two hundred years old.”
She considered the curled parchment more carefully. The detail on it was indeed amazing, with dry wadis and oases marked. In the lower right corner, where the cartographer would usually sign his work, was a peculiar sigil, a stylized bird with drooping wings drawn in black ink.
Kerian leaned in to study the map, and as she did so Gilthas felt the power, barely leashed, radiating from her, like body heat or the smell of her sweat. They were so often apart, he tended to forget how her presence overwhelmed him. Kerianseray was the most exciting woman he had ever known.
Their eyes met, and Gilthas saw again the brilliant, captivating warrior she’d been before defeat, exile, and privation had hollowed her face, hardened her views, and etched bitterness in her eyes. Despite their arguments, he loved her still. He regretted their growing estrangement. They disagreed constantly as the years went by-on policy, on strategy, seemingly on everything.
As his silent regard continued, Kerian opened her mouth to speak, but her words were interrupted. Planchet returned just then, to inquire whether they needed anything more.
Gilthas waved the valet inside and had him hold the right edge of the scroll. With his freed hand, Gilthas tapped a spot in the northern reaches of Khur, a place where the Khalkist Mountains split, enclosing a horseshoe- shaped valley. Although it was not distinguished in any way on the map, Gilthas smiled as his finger brushed this spot.
“This is the Valley of the Blue Sands,” he said, lowering his voice, as though wary of eavesdroppers. “Called by Khurish nomads the ‘Breath of the Gods.’”
Planchet’s surprise was wordless. Not so the Lioness’s.
“I’ve heard you talk of this place. I thought it only a legend! Where did you get this map?”
