Sanctuary

The trail was empty today. As far as Glanthon could see in both directions, nothing stirred but the wind, carrying streams of sand across the packed roadbed.

Inath-Wakenti had seemed the most isolated spot in the world. After its emptiness, Glanthon would have welcomed the company even of scruffy humans. Instead, he found their isolation persisting.

He descended the ridge to the road. Years of traffic had left it sunken a foot deep. From horseback, he could tell that not only had no one passed by today, no one had passed by in several days. The desert wind, constant as breath, had erased all but a few prints. In another day there’d be no marks left at all.

Had some calamity overtaken Kortal? War, plague, sand- storms-many possibilities sprang to mind.

The rest of the expedition appeared on the ridge. Glanthon whistled and waved them down. Of the five hundred riders (and three scholars) who’d left Khurinost with Kerianseray, just under three hundred remained. To be honest, Glanthon found the most recent loss, of Favaronas, cut him the deepest, because the archivist had vanished while he himself was in charge.

His second-in-command, a Qualinesti named Arimathan, rode up. Glanthon hailed him. “We seem to be alone in the world. What do you make of this strange situation?”

“The nomads are gone,” said the laconic Arimathan.

“Yes, but where have they gone?” No sooner had Glanthon said this, than an awful answer entered his mind.

“Form up two lines!” he barked. “All who have bows, string them! Keep them braced and ready!”

The elves obeyed, but questioned him with puzzled looks.

“The nomads have left their territory! They’d only do that in the direst circumstances. And where would they go? Khuri-Khan! They must have gone to Khuri-Khan!”

He chivvied his elves until all were ready. The entire command set out at a trot, down the caravan road.

Anxiety knotted Glanthon’s chest. He could be wrong, but he didn’t think so. It all made terrible sense. The nomads, having decided to drive the foreigners from their land, were no longer satisfied to fight the Lioness’s small band of explorers. They had gathered their people together and ridden to Khuri-Khan, to strike at the source of the laddad contagion, to destroy Khurinost.

* * * * *

Shobbat sat in a heavy mahogany chair regarding an elegant goblet. The silver had been hammered paper- thin. The bowl was small as a child’s fist and, from certain angles, translucent, allowing the delicate amber nectar inside to shine through. The utmost care and concentration were required to handle and drink from such an ethereal cup. Each one was unique, made by an elf artisan enjoined by law to create only a single such vessel every ten years. Since the coming of the laddad to Khur, Shobbat had acquired sixteen of these precious vessels. He’d ruined four before learning how to hold them. These so-called cloud cups were among his most treasured possessions, relics of a vanishing culture that would not rise again if he had his way.

Not one of his hand-picked assassins had returned. He found this very unsettling. So much so, he’d had to set the cloud cup on the table at his elbow. In his current state of agitation, he would surely snap the slender stem and crush the airy fineness of the bowl. Since the laddad soon would be extinct, he must preserve those of their arts he found attractive.

Surely enough time had passed for his hirelings to carry out their mission. How hard was it to kill one female?

Even as he posed the question to himself, he knew the answer: In the case of the Lioness, very hard indeed.

The resources of the Knights of Neraka been devoted to capturing or killing her for many ineffective years. That’s why Shobbat had hired Silvanesti for the task. These particular elves had no attachment to Kerianseray. They didn’t revere her past deeds, as the Qualinesti did, and like most who had once lived in luxury, they had not adapted well to their current poverty. Shobbat merely added plenty of steel to their own sense of noble purpose. As elves, they had the stealth and senses to reach the Lioness. He thought it a neat solution to a thorny problem. Every hunter knows that the best way to trap a jackal is with a trained jackal.

Shobbat didn’t like elves. Even in exile they reeked of smug superiority and condescension. On the other hand, he didn’t hate them. Hate was a failing only the lowly could afford. A king must be above such petty sensations, lest they cloud his mind. No, the destruction of the elves was simply a necessary action if he was to circumvent the Oracle’s prophecy. They had to go, and that was that.

It wasn’t murder, but an act of statesmanship. Monarchs-and monarchs-to-be-did not commit crimes. The elves represented an obstacle to his attaining the throne of Khur. He’d overcome so many others: the meddling Hengriff who was nearly as smug as the laddad, the high priest Minok (no one would ever find him), and the smooth laddad schemer, Morillon. Removing him had been a spur of the moment decision. Shobbat realized Morillon had too much of the Khan’s ear to be allowed to live. Too often his clever tongue unhinged Shobbat’s carefully arranged plans.

He’d made certain the laddad noble was found. His death sowed doubt about Sahim-Khan’s authority and confusion about his loyalties. Shobbat had failed to kill the laddad king, but even wounding him had been very helpful. The laddad blamed Torghanists for the crime, just as the Sons of the Crimson Vulture blamed Sahim-Khan for the disappearance of their high priest. Everyone was in a proper turmoil and, at the right moment, Shobbat would step forward to restore order and bring glory to Khur once again.

Only two more needed to die before Shobbat moved against his father. One was the laddad queen, and the other, the slippery sorcerer, Faeterus. Shobbat knew he would have the most trouble with the mage. Faeterus came and went like smoke through a chimney, making him difficult to poison or stab. Perhaps the best way to get rid of a mage was to use magic.

The night crept by like a craven cur, fearful of being noticed. Shobbat’s servants had long since retired, leaving their master alone in his sitting room on the east side of the royal citadel. He passed the time by considering how he would redecorate the private quarters of the khan, once he held that position. His father reveled in the acquisition of wealth, a trait Shobbat shared, but Sahim had no taste, no sense of style. His quarters were a jumble of possessions, thrown together without any regard for arrangement or aesthetics.

Why didn’t even one of his hired blades return with news of success or failure? Perhaps Kerianseray had managed to evade death. Shobbat considered the worst possible case, that she had discovered her masked assailants were elves and forced one to reveal who hired him. What would she do then? She would go to her husband-not for protection but to get her liege’s sanction for her vengeance. But Gilthas was still very ill. Kerianseray had forbidden Holy Sa’ida even to see him.

Shobbat was in the most secure place in Khur. He had already destroyed an important Knight of Neraka. He had little to fear from one laddad female, even one so fierce as the Lioness. Except for her barbaric ploy with the sand beast, Kerianseray hadn’t stirred from the elven camp since her husband was wounded.

He put out his hand and let the weight of the goblet rest on his fingertips. He brought it to his mouth. One never touched a cloud cup with one’s lips. Instead, he held it a hair’s breadth above his open mouth and allowed a slender stream of nectar to pour from the cup and down his throat.

* * * * *

Kerian did not return to the Speaker’s tent. Wounded, she continued on to her original destination, the one place she felt she belonged. The warriors’ enclave. Almost half the army was in the field, patrolling the desert outside Khurinost. The rest were astonished when she staggered in amongst them, wan and bleeding. They settled her on a stool and put a clay cup of raisin wine in her hand. An elf knelt by her and began to dress her sword cuts.

“The Khurs are plotting against us!” she declared, describing her narrow escape from assassins. She did not mention her attackers were Silvanesti; more important was the one who had hired them. “They killed Lord Morillon, tried to kill the Speaker, and they’ve tried to slay me twice!”

“What shall we do, Commander?” asked a Qualinesti veteran.

She opened her mouth to give orders, then closed it with a snap. She gulped sweet raisin wine then said, “I