Sanctuary

Clearly, he had expected to be dealing with one of the fierce-looking men. “Our Speaker is engaged. I represent him,” he said.

“And I speak for the Weya-Lu, the Mikku, the Tondoon, and the Mayakhur.”

“You are the leader of all those tribes?”

“In this cause, by the will of Those on High, I am.”

“I am honored to meet you. How shall I address you?”

“She is Weyadan or Maita,” Wapah offered. Some of the chiefs glowered at him for speaking out of turn.

Planchet recognized the second word as meaning something like “destiny” or “luck.” He chose the other, less emotional, title. “I am honored to meet you, Weyadan. There are many swords here today. How can we keep them in their scabbards?”

“Many transgressions have been committed against our people by the laddad. I tell you only two: You are foreigners, and you are invaders.”

“We have the permission of Sahim-Khan to dwell in his country,” Planchet countered.

“Sahim-Khan will answer to Those on High for his venality.”

“So shall we all, Weyadan.”

Adala’s dark eyes hardened. “You send spies to measure our land. You have entered a valley sacred to Those on High. This is sacrilege.”

“Our Speaker meant no blasphemy,” Planchet replied evenly. “We need a place to live where the climate is not so harsh. He heard the Valley of the Blue Sands was such a place. We had never heard it was sacred. We thought only that there we would be out of your desert and away from your cities. Desecration was not our intention.”

A snort of disbelief came from one of the younger warmasters. The chiefs around him, although plainly just as skeptical, glowered at him for his breech of manners.

Adala never took her eyes from Planchet. “What’s done is done, and you must answer for it.”

“We must dwell some place, Weyadan. It is the right of every living being to have a home.”

“You had homes and lost them. The gods have turned their backs on you, laddad.”

From his place behind Planchet, Hytanthas listened to the exchange with growing annoyance. He had expected the nomads’ leader to be a simple, uncouth fanatic. This woman was neither. There was strength in her, strength even the young Qualinesti recognized, but while Planchet was mindful of the diplomatic niceties, she persisted in hurling insults and epithets.

Planchet tried to reason around Adala, saying dark forces had conspired to deprive the elves of their homelands and they sought only to take their fate in their own hands and find a new sanctuary. If some customs of the desert folk had been transgressed, he regretted it, but the survival of the elven race required bold measures.

“What of the customs of war?” Adala asked, her entire demeanor suddenly eloquent of barely suppressed fury. “The custom that one does not murder wives and mothers, children and the aged, those who cannot fight!”

The tenor of the meeting changed instantly. Hatred emanated from the nomads, like the heat of the desert. Planchet was taken aback. After the Lioness’s ill-conceived but undeniably dramatic gesture with the dead sand beast, he’d put the rumored massacre out of his mind. Like the city-dwelling Khurs, the elves now believed that if the deaths had happened, they were the work of a wild beast.

Unfortunately, the nomads knew nothing about that or about the possible involvement of the rogue Faeterus. They still blamed the Lioness’s troops for the deaths of their families.

Hoping her answer would help him formulate a response, Planchet asked Adala to explain her accusations.

“Hundreds of Weya-Lu were murdered near the entrance to the Valley of the Blue Sands. No warriors were present, only children, women, old people; yet every one was cruelly slain. Not simply put to the sword, but ripped to pieces, then set afire!”

“Why do you think we are responsible?” he asked.

“We found tracks of laddad horses, of a laddad army, nearby. The Khan’s soldiers were in the city, and no foreign soldiers have come over the mountains since the red beast perished. The only killers in the area were the laddad army and its female warmaster!”

Hytanthas could remain silent no longer. Before Planchet could speak, the younger elf burst out, “General Kerianseray didn’t slaughter anyone! It was a sand beast controlled by the will of an evil sorcerer! It nearly killed me, too!”

His outburst provoked the nomads. The younger warmasters actually drew swords. Planchet, alarmed, raised a placating hand. At his back, he heard the concerted creak of a hundred elven bows being drawn, all because of this simple gesture. If his arm fell, the nomads would die.

“Stay your hands!” Planchet said sharply, realizing his error.

Adala spoke with equal harshness to her nomads. Swords were grudgingly sheathed. Bowstrings relaxed. Adala’s gaze skewered Hytanthas.

“The Speaker’s woman led the laddad in the desert,” she said. “That I know. Who is this sorcerer you speak of?”

At Planchet’s nod, Hytanthas told her what they had learned of Faeterus, that he was in the Khan’s pay, was perhaps an elf, but certainly a criminal, and had caused the massacre with one of his nefarious creatures.

The nomad delegation muttered among themselves. Adala appeared to weigh something in her mind, found an answer, then folded her hands across her donkey’s neck.

“Very well. Planchet of the laddad, tell your Speaker this:

Those on High teach us mercy is the gift of the strong, so I grant you mercy. You may go in peace.”

The elven warriors were astonished, Planchet less so. “Go where, Weyadan?” he asked.

“Anywhere beyond the borders of Khur.”

“And if we refuse?”

Eye to eye, Adala stared at her opponent. In her black matron’s robes, the Weya-Lu woman did not look much like the loyal bodyguard of the elven Speaker, but inside, their hearts were made of the same stern stuff. Both knew it.

“Then there will be war. Terrible war, with no conclusion but annihilation.”

Adala’s words sent a chill through everyone present. An instant later, a cold breeze swept over the dunes, carrying heavy droplets of rain and more than a little sand.

Members of both delegations were shifting on their mounts, eyeing each other, muttering to their comrades. Planchet did not move. He kept his attention on the Weyadan. She had not moved either, and something told him she was not done yet. He was right.

“In exchange for this mercy,” she said, “you must give us the slayers of our families, both of them. We will do them justice.”

At that Hytanthas jostled forward. Planchet snagged his reins, stopping him well short of the nomads, but Bilath, Bindas, and Hagath of the Mikku interposed themselves between their leader and the furious young elf.

“Our commander is not a murderer!” Hytanthas shouted. “As for the mage, we want him too. You cannot charge his crimes to us! Savages! You’re the ones who murdered Lord Morillon, aren’t you? What mercy did you show him? He was left to rot in the desert with his throat slashed!”

“Be silent!” Planchet cried in as great a voice as anyone had ever heard him use. “Go back to camp! Now!”

Snatching his reins free, Hytanthas galloped back through the lines of the escort. He did not return to the city as ordered, but galloped directly over the intervening sand hills to where the Lioness was poised with her army. Only his wound had kept him from joining her in the first place; not even that would stop him now.

Adala looked to the dark sky. Would her maita come forth again? Would the fire from on high strike down the laddad? Or would the sun break free of its shroud and shine on her, highlighting her righteous cause?

Neither happened. Instead, a squall of tepid rain lashed the motionless parties. Adala drew her veil close