women.
“Holy Mistress,” the thing hissed. “Help me! I am cursed.”
“What are you, beast?”
“Holy Mistress, it is I, Prince Shobbat!”
She recoiled in shock, and the tiny brass bells woven through her white hair jangled discordantly. The furry beast crept closer on yellow-nailed paws. The night was a warm one, and the creature’s black tongue lolled as he panted.
Holding her staff in both hands before her, she commanded him to halt. “Whoever-whatever-you are, you may not enter the temple of the Beneficent Healer!”
Rising up on his haunches, Shobbat slumped against the temenos wall. “Oh, help me, Holy Mistress,” he pleaded. “I am =hunted through the streets of my own city. My father means to kill me!”
Sa’ida took a step toward him, eliciting a chorus of gasps and cries from the acolytes crowded in the temple doorway behind her. She ignored them.
“How do you come to be in this state?”
“I do not know! Perhaps I meddled with powers a righteous man should have shunned, but…“ The shrug he gave was eloquent, even if bizarre coming from such a creature.
He told her of the disgraced royal mage Faeterus and of his visit to the mysterious Oracle of the Tree, deep in the desert. The prince believed the Oracle was to blame for his condition. He told her of the grotesque images of melded humans and animals he’d seen there.
At the end of his recitation, it was her turn to shrug. “I cannot help you. I can only heal hurts, not reverse a spell of sorcery.”
“At least let me pass the night here, Holy Mistress. That is all I ask.”
“You must know that is not possible, Highness.” Her voice faltered on the title. “You would desecrate this temple. You must go and trust in fate.”
Despite his grotesque state, his anguish was genuine. She felt a small stirring of pity for the foolish prince. “Find the one who cursed you. Only he can remove the spell,” she said.
He protested the impossibility of finding the Oracle. “Yes, but there is another possibility,” she reminded him. “One who is not spirit, but flesh and blood.”
She was right. Faeterus was no spirit. He could be found. The thought of having Faeterus’s skinny throat in his jaws filled Shobbat with pleasure. The mage would cure him or else.
Seeing the thing before her grin with unmistakable malice, Sa’ida’s brief flicker of pity died. She aimed the globe on her staff at Shobbat and proclaimed, “Go from this place!”
As if shoved by an invisible hand, Shobbat was propelled backward across the courtyard and out the open gate. The gate swung shut on its own, locking with a loud clang. A luminous glow appeared above the low temple wall. Sa’ida had raised a magical shield.
Shobbat snarled. When he was khan, he would raze the woman’s wretched temple flat. No, better still, he would turn the sacred shrine into a stable. Let his prized horses appreciate the beauty of that translucent blue dome.
He laughed and the sound caused a dog nearby to bark. The noise pierced Shobbat like a knife. The dog’s scent came to him, and he knew it was a hound. Several other barks answered, and he remembered his fear. He was being hunted. He had to get out of the city.
Faeterus kept a house in the Harbalah, the northern district of the city still not rebuilt after the depredations of the red dragon Malys. The mage’s home was bound to contain plenty of things he’d touched. From them Shobbat could get the sorcerer’s scent. He would track Faeterus to the end of the world, if need be, and wring a cure from him.
As he slunk away, howls arose from every dog within a mile. Masters cursed or kicked them, and told them to shut up, unaware of the danger passing by.
Chapter 21
All night the elves argued. The fantastic spectacle in the sky faded, but the fire it ignited among Porthios’s followers waxed ever hotter.
The battle lines were strangely drawn. On one side, Alhana Starbreeze and Hytanthas Ambrodel were all for going immediately to the aid of their brethren in Khur. Despite their loyalty to their lady, both Samar and Chathendor were on the opposing side. Among the royal guards, those burning to avenge the elves slain in the desert far outnumbered those aligned with their commander, Samar.
The debate took place around a bonfire built in the center of the plateau. Porthios watched from a crag a dozen feet above the assembly, his robe and mask painted scarlet by the blazing fire. Kerian sat cross-legged on the ground, not far from Alhana in her camp chair.
After the vision in the sky, Kerian had removed herself to her tiny tent. Alhana sent an elf to ask her to join their discussion, but when he hailed her, the Lioness threatened to strangle him with her bare hands. Her voice was choked and hoarse. They left her alone. She eventually joined the group around the bonfire but was uncharacteristically silent. She concentrated on sharpening her sword with a whetstone, but as voices on both sides of the issue grew heated, she set the stone aside. The metallic scraping was hardly soothing to anyone’s nerves.
Alhana indicated Hytanthas could speak on behalf of her faction. The young Qualinesti warrior, backlit by the fire, declaimed eloquently on the need to go to the aid of their people.
“Will we allow our brothers and sisters to be slaughtered in a distant desert?”
“Yes, it is distant,” Samar said. “Khur is not our land. It is no place for Qualinesti, Silvanesti, or Kagonesti. We are invaders there. No wonder the Khurs fight to drive us out.”
Alhana challenged her loyal friend. “Gilthas did not lead our people there to conquer or occupy. He sought only a haven from the barbarians who overran our countries. He dealt with the Khurish khan in good faith. Now the Khurs seek to exterminate those who were their guests. Captain Ambrodel is right: How can we sit by and let this happen?”
“Khur is very far,” Chathendor pointed out. “Many hundreds of miles. If we marched for Khur tomorrow, the Speaker and those with him would be long gone by the time we arrived. We’d be marching into the arms of those who destroyed a great host of our brethren. With not a thousand souls ourselves, what should we accomplish but our own doom?”
The elderly chamberlain’s reasoned words carried weight. A murmur arose as those in the crowd began to take sides. There were far more voices raised on the side of caution, of remaining here, than for the position espoused by Hytanthas and Alhana. Hytanthas looked at the Lioness. She’d said not a word since belatedly joining the group, and was staring at the sword lying across her knees. He feared to ask what she thought. She’d made it plain she had no desire to return to Khur.
Alhana had no such reservations. “Niece,” she said, “I must know your thoughts on this.”
Kerian began sharpening her blade again: one stroke on the right side, one stroke on the left. The metallic hiss punctuated her words.
“We all saw the image in the clouds.”
She looked up at Alhana. “Since I arrived in Qualinesti, our paths seem to have been shaped by powers greater than ourselves or Neraka or the bandit chiefs. A city garrisoned by hundreds falls to a band of twenty. We find arms enough to equip a rebellion and elude an army of thousands hunting us. And you, aunt, are saved from certain death by some means I still don’t understand. Is this all common chance? Or are we being directed?”
The assembly pondered her words. The only sounds were the crackle of the bonfire and the faint scuff of
