Sanctuary ee-1

by Paul B. Thompson

In the center of this great patchwork camp of tents was the home of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Gilthas, son of Tanis Half-Elven and Lauralanthalasa, was last of the line of Speakers great and ill, which stretched back to the founder of the Qualinesti nation, Kith-Kanan, and through him to the august Silvanos Goldeneye. On Gilthas had fallen the daunting task of leading his people out of their ruined homeland, abandoning it to the Knights of Neraka, mobs of wild goblins, and the bandit horde of Captain Samuval. The Qualinesti had fought their way across half a continent and come to rest here in this desolate desert. Thousands perished on the journey, felled by arrow and sword, as well as the less material but no less deadly menaces of heat, disease, exhaustion, and heartbreak. The sands of western Khur were littered with bones, broken carts, and abandoned possessions, and watered by the tears of an entire race.

  When Gilthas first beheld the city of Khuri-Khan, a scant one thousand elves stood at his back. After the horrors of exile and the agonizing trek across the desert, the sun-baked capital of Khur seemed a dream of paradise, but the elves’ ballad of woe wasn’t done. As months passed, more refugees arrived, in groups of five or ten, as well as columns numbering in the thousands. From the far south came Silvanesti driven out of their forest glades and crystal halls by hordes of rampaging minotaurs. Fewer Silvanesti than Qualinesti abandoned their homeland, for no matter how wretched their existence, most could not bear to leave their sacred ancestral lands. Instead, they faded into the forest, there to dwell among the trees like their primeval ancestors. Those who had joined Gilthas were, for the most part, high officials, warriors, and nobles of the Silvanesti court. When Gilthas was proclaimed Speaker of the Stars by the abdicating Alhana Starbreeze, the exiled courtiers of Silvanost swallowed their outrage at having a Qualinesti (and one tainted with human blood!) as their ruler. If the race of elves was to survive, it needed a leader. The once-scorned “Puppet King” had proven himself capable. Elves of greater reputation had succumbed to death or, despairing, had given in to the enemy. Not Gilthas. The test of exile showed his true mettle, so the Silvanesti notables gathered around him, forming a tightly knit circle of advisors to the throne of the united elven nations.

  Gone were the embroidered silk robes and soft finery worn in Qualinost and Silvanost. Living in the desert demanded more practical dress. The Speaker had taken to wearing Khurish attire, a sleeveless robe of white linen, called a geb, cinched in at the waist by the leather cord known as the ghuffran. Where once he had cultivated the distant air and pale complexion of a palace-dwelling poet, now Gilthas was lean, brown, and serious. The weight of the elven nation rested directly on his shoulders, and although he refused to let the strain break him, it occasionally bore him down. The Speaker rose early, worked all day, and lived as frugally now as once he had dwelt in aimless luxury.

  This day began as most did, with Gilthas in his audience room, standing with hands clasped behind his back in the center of a round carpet. Wine-red with ocher curlicues radiating out from a central sun motif, the carpet had come from Sahim-Khan, monarch (but not master) of Khur. A gift, the Khan had said, to make the Speaker more comfortable, but Gilthas knew its true purpose: to serve as a mocking reminder of his lost throne.

  “What word from Lady Kerianseray?”

  The Speaker’s question caused the assortment of courtiers and vassals to break off their various conversations. They were an odd-looking group, most in Khurish attire, but a stubborn few still persisting in the fashions of their homeland. A few feet from the Speaker, alertly watching, stood Planchet, Gilthas’s longtime valet and bodyguard. Like his liege, he was dressed in the local style, but the sword at his waist was of pure Qualinesti design.

  The crowd of onlookers parted to reveal a young elf, thin and hardened by sun, wind, and privation, who stiffened in salute. He doffed his Khurish-style cloth hat and said, “Lord Taranath sends his greetings, Great Speaker!”

  The room grew silent. If Taranath, and not the Lioness, had dispatched this courier, it could only mean the Speaker’s wife was no longer with the army.

  “The army has returned from the southern expedition and is currently at Wadi Talaft,” the messenger continued, naming a dry lake south of the city which was normally used by the nomads as a natural corral for their herds of horses and goats. “Lady Kerianseray”-the young courier swallowed-”is not with them, sire.”

  Before his assembled court, Gilthas would not parade his anxiety. As calmly as possible he inquired, “What happened, Captain?”

  The courier reported the failure of Kerianseray’s gamble in the south. At every turn, the army’s entrance into Silvanesti was barred by minotaurs, and the bull-men’s strength proved overwhelming. Pursued into the borderland between forest and desert, the Lioness and a handpicked band of archers had remained behind, making a stand so the rest of the beleaguered army could escape.

  All eyes were on the Speaker as be digested this news. His perennial sunburn did not hide the sudden pallor of his face. Planchet took an involuntary step toward him, then halted. As much friend and trusted advisor as bodyguard, still Planchet could not allow his concern to breach the Speaker’s dignity.

  The courier reported that six thousand, eight hundred eighty-nine elves had made it to Wadi Talaft. This out of ten thousand. Murmurs swept the room.

  While the Speaker’s subjects whispered about the heavy losses, Planchet spoke privately to his master. Gilthas nodded once, and the valet slipped quietly from the room.

  The Speaker raised a hand. In the ensuing silence, he declared, “Our adventure in the south is at an end. We cannot waste any more of our slender resources on such a hopeless cause.” He then charged the courier to bid Lord Taranath return to Khurinost.

  His words set the assemblage stirring anew. Captain Ambrodel saluted, but did not depart. “Great Speaker,” he said, “pardon my boldness, but more can be done in the south! We can send small bands of fighters secretly across the Thon-Thalas, into the interior of Silvanesti-”

  “To what purpose? Bands of twenty or thirty partisans can hardly prevail against the bull-men.”

  This came from a tall, elegant figure with shoulder-ength, jet-black hair. He wore a heavy gold bracelet on each wrist and a silk robe the same color as his blue eyes.

  “Lord Morillon is correct,” Gilthas agreed evenly. “It is beyond our power to liberate our ancient homeland. More important now is finding a place we can put down roots and become a nation again.”

  The young captain glared at the haughty noble. Both were Ambrodels. Hytanthas was of the younger line that had followed Kith-Kanan out of Silvanost more than twenty-five centuries earlier when he founded the Qualinesti nation. He had grown up in the Lioness’s service. Slightly rounded ears and a thickening of his eyebrows betrayed the human blood in his ancestry, and his black hair was confined in a short, neat braid, as befit a soldier. Nevertheless, he bore a distinct resemblance to his distant Silvanesti cousin, elegant Lord Morillon Ambrodel.

  The captain turned away from Morillon, pointedly addressing Gilthas. “Great Speaker, we were able to do much against the Knights back home. And they were greater in numbers than the minotaurs.”

  Morillon said, “Back home you were on familiar ground, with a friendly population to help you. Nothing in Khur is friendly-not the people, not the terrain, not the climate.” He inclined his head to the Speaker. “Great Gilthas decides wisely.”

  Captain Ambrodel said no more, but his eyes blazed with frustration.

  Other soldiers in the assembly took up his notion of raiding Silvanesti, and a brisk discussion ensued. Lord Morillon, his attention on the Speaker, saw the fleeting expression of pain that crossed his monarch’s face. It was plain the Speaker’s thoughts were on the fate of his dashing, dangerous wife. Sunrise was only an hour past, but the Speaker looked to have slept poorly. He was known sometimes to walk the narrow lanes of Khurinost late at night, his responsibilities weighing heavily on him.

  The debate was becoming increasingly loud, but
Morillon’s cultured voice cut across it with practiced ease. “The Speaker is weary,” he announced. “Let us withdraw.”

  Hytanthas would have lingered, but Morillon ushered him to the door, chiding the younger elf for taxing the Speaker’s patience. The captain’s frustration flared.

  “We’re not in Silvanost any longer, my lord! Our Speaker has ears for all his subjects, not just the rich and titled!”

  Cousin faced cousin: Morillon composed, indoor-pale; Hytanthas an inch taller, his suntanned visage red with anger. Yet the eyes were the same: the hard, unflinching blue of the sky arching over their tent city.

  Hytanthas finally stalked away to carry the Speaker’s orders to Lord Taranath. Lord Morillon watched his cousin until he was lost from sight in the maze of narrow passages that ran between the adjacent tents. Morillon was a longtime courtier, having begun in service to Queen Mother Alhana, and he had long ago mastered the art of keeping his expression bland, even when irritated. Upstart youngsters with no manners vexed him greatly. Cousin or no, he marked Hytanthas as one of the Lioness’s hotheads and vowed to keep an eye on him.

  Dismissing the young elf from his thoughts for now, Morillon approached the Speaker again. His coterie of Silvanesti lords followed closely.

  “Sire, I have an audience with Sahim-Khan this afternoon. Are there any special messages you wish me to convey?” he asked.

  “Tell him his climate is appalling.” Seeing no change in the Silvanesti’s expression, Gilthas added gently, “A joke, my lord.”

  Morillon inclined his head. “Yes, Great Speaker.”

  Gilthas sighed. “Assure the Khan of my goodwill and good wishes. As for the tribute-do what you think the situation supports.”

  For the privilege of remaining in the Khan’s domain, the elves were required to pay Sahim-Khan a thousand steel pieces a day. This staggering sum came due every twenty days. Lord Morillon had been attempting to negotiate a lower price.

  The noble acknowledged the Speaker’s vague command with a bow and departed, the gaggle of silent Silvanesti trailing in his wake.

  Alone, Gilthas seated himself in the canvas cross-framed chair that now served as his throne, giving in to exhaustion and melancholy. As he rubbed his eyes, Planchet returned, entering through an opening in the far canvas wall. The valet paused at an imposing sideboard. Like most of the Speaker’s furnishings, it was a vagabond’s design, made of thin strips of wood and painted cloth. The skill of the painters had given it the look of polished wood and marble. Emptied of its contents, the cupboard could be collapsed in moments, put on a packhorse, and carried to the next night’s camp. Gilthas found it a fitting metaphor for his entire life, for the life of every elf in the miserable tent-city.

  Planchet filled a clay cup with white nectar and handed it to his master. Gilthas accepted the cup, but his attention was not on the drink. “Well?” he asked.

  “I’ve spoken to the seers. Six of our people and two Khurs. They will try to ascertain Lady Kerianseray’s whereabouts and… well-being.”

  “Assuming she’s alive,” Gilthas whispered, then flinched, as though saying the words would draw doom down upon his wife.

  “Sire, you know as well as I, the lady in question is very difficult to kill. Have faith! If anyone can pull the minotaurs’ tails and escape to boast about it, it’s Kerianseray.” He said it lightly, trying to coax a smile from Gilthas.

  Planchet handed the Speaker a small bowl of dates, figs, and nuts, urging him to break his fast. Gilthas waved a hand, telling his valet not to fuss, that he would eat later.

  “You say that every time I offer you food,” Planchet complained. “You cannot rule a nation on an empty stomach.”

  His calm insistence-exactly the tone one might use with a recalcitrant child-coupled with a paternal demeanor, had the desired effect: Gilthas plucked a fig from the bowl and put it in his mouth.

  “Happy?” he said, smiling slightly around a mouthful of fruit.

  “Very happy, Great Speaker.”

  With that, the longtime valet and sometime general of the royal guard withdrew, a cheery, “Rest well, sire,” floating over his shoulder as he disappeared.

  Before the Battle of Sanction, when he’d put Planchet in charge of the Qualinesti troops, Gilthas had told him just how important he considered him to be. Friend, advisor, father-figure, bodyguard, Planchet was all of that and more. Kerianseray was Gilthas’s heart, his love, his life; Planchet, he’d come to realize, was his strength, the firm center in the swirling chaos of their lives.

  Gilthas lifted the cup to his lips again. His hand trembled. Nettled by the sight, he drank quickly, draining the cup. The nectar was young and raw, inclining to sourness. No one could make good wine while in headlong flight. Nectar, like a nation, needed stability to reach its full potential.

  He poured another measure. One had to make do with what one had. He drained the cup again, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

  The world was turned on its head. Filthy goblins prowled Qualinost, despoiling the forested lanes of Kith-Kanan’s city. Great blustering minotaurs inhabited the crystal halls of Silvanost. The bulky monsters could scarcely fit through a typical elven doorway-what use would they have for an entire city? To think such uncouth hands held the twin epitomes of grace, culture, and civilization! The images in his mind-or perhaps the raw wine-made sickness rise in Gilthas’s throat. Coughing, he fought it down.

  He chided himself for falling into that trap, thinking that places made a nation. Cities and towers, gardens and temples were only chattel. What really mattered was life, and the things that ensured life: food, water, simple shelter. Those essentials must be secured if the elven race was to survive.

  And his people would survive. Gilthas was determined on that point. All else was mere vanity.

  Gilthas had brought his people out of the conflagration that engulfed Qualinesti, across the Plains of Dust, to the supposed sanctuary of Khur. Fate had delivered the throne of Silvanesti into his hands when his cousin Porthios, Speaker of the Stars, vanished. Porthios’s son and successor, Silvanoshei, was slain at the end of the war. Queen Mother Alhana, grieving the death of her son, had gone on a desperate search for Porthios. Before leaving, she’d given into Gilthas’s hands the crown of Silvanesti.

  Out of the catastrophe of exile had come one of the greatest events in Gilthas’s life, in any elf’s life: the unification of two kingdoms sundered since the Kinslayer War. Alhana, a Silvanesti, and Porthios, a Qualinesti, had hoped their own marriage would bring the two nations together. Instead, it had driven them further apart. Now, against all odds, the two nations were one again, united in the person of Gilthas himself. Once sneered at as the “Puppet King” he was now known as Gilthas Pathfinder. It was up to him to find the path to a permanent home-wherever that might be.

  Temporarily, pride could be sacrificed, honor dispensed with, treasure spent. To hold the ancient race of the Firstborn together, he would treat with whomever he must, even a rogue like Sahim-Khan, one of the most conniving, grasping humans he’d ever met.

  In a royal line known for black hearts, Sahim’s naked ambition and glowing greed stood out as exceptional. With half his capital in ruins, he dreamed of elven wealth flowing in to repair it. But if it took treasure to buy sanctuary, no matter how makeshift and uncomfortable, for his exiled people, then Gilthas would use every scrap of steel and gold his subjects could raise. Treasure, like buildings and land, was expendable. Life was not.

  Once, he had measured his life by the fleeting moments spent with Kerian. Like a tempered blade, she was bright, sharp, and deadly, and must be handled with care. Not for her and Gilthas were quiet comfort and gently murmured vows of love. Theirs was a marriage of opposites. Planchet had said once-after a particularly rough day and too much potent nectar-that it was as if the gods had cleaved apart a single hero, creating strong, hot-headed Kerianseray and thoughtful, feeling Gilthas. Their marriage had joined the two halves together again, creating one
person, one soul.

  She lived. As certainly as he felt his own heartbeat, Gilthas knew Kerian was not dead.

  He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until a noise suddenly jolted him awake. The empty nectar bottle lay next to his chair; the clay cup had fallen from his hand.

  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.