Sanctuary ee-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  “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?”

  “I believe it came from a temple archive. When Khuri-Khan was sacked, many libraries were looted and their contents ended up in the souks.” He tapped the spot again. “I am convinced the valley is real, and this is its true location.”

  The Valley of the Blue Sands was reputed to have a mild, balmy climate, quite unlike the rest of Khur. Annals from the libraries of Qualinost mentioned it, calling it Inath-Wakenti, Vale of Silence. Shielded by mountains, it was said to be one of the few spots in the world unchanged since the First Cataclysm. Elven chronicles even mentioned it as a place where the gods once dwelled. Scholars disagreed on what this meant. Some took it as literal truth. Others contended it was metaphorical.

  The people of Khur were just as divided in their opinions. In Khuri-Khan the Valley of the Blue Sands was regarded as nothing more than a myth, a strange place where the normal conditions they knew-heat, blazing sun, eternal drought-were turned upside down. Cityfolk used it as a setting for absurd bedtime stories for their children. In the valley, according to the stories, clouds clung to the ground instead of the sky. Stones grew like plants. Animals talked liked men. Khur’s nomads, on the other hand, did not doubt the valley’s existence. None had ever been there, but they believed the ancient tales fervently.

  With great secrecy, Gilthas had been assembling information about the Inath-Wakenti for over a year. He believed it could be the future home of the elven nation.

  Kerian asked, “What makes you think the valley is there?”

  “I’ve collected six other
maps of the region-Khurish, Nerakan, even some old Solamnic maps from the libraries of Qualinost. None of them shows this particular horseshoe-shaped configuration of the mountains. I think I know why.”

  He paused as Planchet poured them both another measure of nectar. Kerian, despite her skepticism, found herself caught by his evident conviction. She waved off Planchet’s offer of drink and urged her husband to continue.

  “The other maps are all copies of copies of copies,” Gilthas said. “This map is an original. The human who drew it knew of Inath-Wakenti because he’d been there himself!”

  He could give no plausible explanation for why later copyists would omit the valley, saying only, “Everyone in Khuri-Khan speaks of the place lightly. Even the city priests dismiss it as a legend-all but one. I don’t know whether the spot is cursed or blessed, but I intend to find out.”

  Kerianseray suddenly realized what was coming. “You want me to go there,” she said. He nodded, the smile returning to his face. Her next words chased it away again. “Gil,” she said, “this valley is nothing more than a romantic fable. Even if it were real, it isn’t our homeland, and never can be.”

  “The lands of our ancestors are lost. We do not have the strength to regain them-not yet. That time will come, my love, but for now, for the near future, we must dwell in a land of our own and not live by the grace of the Khurs. This forgotten valley could be our best hope!”

  “It’s a pretty dream, I admit, but nonetheless a complete waste of time. Give me twenty thousand warriors, and I will set the frontiers of our true homelands aflame! We can take back what is ours!”

  His demeanor hardened, and it was the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, not her husband, who said firmly, “Preparations for an expedition have begun. I expect you to lead it, General.”

  “I see. As you command, Great Speaker.”

  The mocking words fell like lead weights at his feet. She would have continued arguing, but he cut her off.

  “I’ve chosen Favaronas, one of the foremost historians in my service”-he’d almost said in Qualinost-”to accompany you. You will lead an escort of five hundred warriors.”

  She frowned, questioning the wisdom of sending so small a party. Gilthas reminded her that the mission was exploration, not conquest.

  “Exploration?” she repeated. “This is a wild-goose chase. We should return to the Thon-Thalas and raise the people of Silvanesti against the minotaurs!”

  “I have made my decision! The matter is closed!”

  Planchet, devoutly wishing he were elsewhere, glanced from monarch to general, husband to wife. The burden of recent days was taking its toll. Never had he heard so open and bitter a breach between them.

  “You are Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Twill do my duty,” the Lioness said at last. There was no sarcasm in her voice, but her tone was icy.

  She made as if to go, but Gilthas, relaxing in the face of her agreement, forestalled her. “You need not begin the journey just yet. I have another task I wish you to undertake right away, one for which you are uniquely qualified.”

  She brightened, and in her expression he saw visions of daring raids on griffonback, the clash of steel on steel. The Speaker smiled benignly at his bold general.

  “I need you to visit a priestess.”

  * * * * *

  The bed trembled. Composed of rope netting stretched between four posts and topped by a thin, cotton-stuffed mattress, it tended to shake with little provocation. Gilthas, ever cautious, opened his eyes and silently took in the situation.

  His private quarters were lit by the soft light of a blue bulls-eye lamp which hung from the tent post by the door. The simple canvas stools and chairs around the bed were empty. Kerianseray lay by his side, face down, rigid as a statue. Her hands, balled into hard fists, gripped the mattress. Every few seconds her whole body shook.

  He touched her shoulder lightly, trying to ease her out of the dream. Her skin was dry and fever hot. She did not wake. He murmured her name several times, but still she did not rouse. When he laid his hand on her cheek, she sprang to life, rolling over so hard and fast she knocked him from the bed. He rolled out of the way as his wife fought unseen enemies. He heard the bedsheet tear in her hands.

  “Kerian!” he yelled. “Wake up!”

  She sat bolt upright, breathing hard. “Gil? You’re here?” she said hoarsely, peering at him through the tangled curtain of her hair.

  “You’re in Khurinost, my love, in our bedchamber. You were dreaming.”

  At the head of the bed on Gilthas’s side was a cupboard on which sat a jug of tepid water and a tin basin. Kerian sloshed water into the basin and bathed her face. Gilthas came up behind her, hesitated a second, then wrapped her in his arms. She leaned back, pressing her head into the hollow of his neck.

  “Were you battling minotaurs?” he asked. She nodded, but didn’t explain further. He suggested, “A burden shared is a burden lightened.”

  It took time, but eventually she gave in, telling a dreadful tale. Her pain was palpable in the darkened room, and Gilthas had to force himself to remain quiet, so as not to interrupt the flow of her story.

  “It took the bull-men less than an hour to overrun us. We killed some, but it was like trying to halt an avalanche with arrows,” she began. “What came after took much longer.”

  The elves who survived, grievously wounded or not, were bound hand and foot. Holes were dug, one for each captive, and the elves dropped in. Then the minotaurs fell to arguing amongst themselves. Some wanted to bury the elves facing their lost homeland; others thought it would be better to have them looking out into the wider desert, their backs perpetually turned to Silvanesti.

  The latter faction won out. The minotaurs filled in the holes, leaving only the elves’ heads exposed. Twenty-nine Silvanesti were left to die-of heat and thirst if they were lucky. If predators found them, their fate would be much more terrible.

  Gilthas lowered his chin to her shoulder. “And you?” he murmured.

  “They knew I commanded, but didn’t know I was the Lioness of Qualinesti, wife of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Because I was the commander they tied my hands and feet and threw me onto Eagle Eye’s back.”

  The minotaur warlord told Kerian to carry word to her people that Silvanesti was theirs no longer, and that should the elves come again they would find nothing but graves. With that, they whipped the griffon’s flanks, sending him catapulting into the sky. Wisely, the bull-men had hobbled Eagle Eye’s foreclaws and muzzled his beak with leather straps. All he could do was fly away with Kerian draped ingloriously over his back.

  The griffon flew some distance before Kerian could work her gag free and convince him to alight. She tumbled off, rolling across the trackless sand. Loyal Eagle Eye clawed at her bonds until she could break free. In turn she tore off his restraints. They had little choice but to fly on. After midnight, they came to an oasis near the coast. Four of Taranath’s warriors lay in the sand a hundred paces from the well. Wounded, they’d died of thirst within sight of water.

  Kerian replenished her arms and armor from the fallen, rested Eagle Eye briefly at the oasis, and took wing once more. By the time day broke, she and her mount were within sight of Khurinost.

  Gilthas’s eyes closed in pain. Yet the litany of horror was not, quite, done.

  “For a moment, I considered flying on,” she said. “Past this stinking pile of tents, away from Khur, our pitiful people, and even you. I thought I would fly to the homeland of the minotaurs, find the palace of their king, and challenge him to single combat.”

  “You couldn’t do that.”

  He meant she would never leave him or her people, but she misunderstood.

  “No, his guards would cut me down long before I reached the king.”

  Burying his face in her hair, Gilthas said, “I’m glad you came back, wife.”

  She surprised him then. Breaking free of his loving embrace, she whirled to face him. “I should have died with my warriors
!” she declared, voice trembling. “The bull-men shamed me! I wasn’t even worth killing. They let me live just to spread their message of fear!”

  He reminded her that while dead heroes were inspiring, only living leaders could save the elven race, could lead them to a new home. He tried to soothe her, whispering that Inath-Wakenti would be their sanctuary, a place where they could heal and grow strong against the day when they would again make their presence known in the world.

  Once more his words had an unintended effect. Kerian made a sound of disgust and stomped away. “That damned valley again! Better to water the forests of Silvanesti in minotaur blood than chase your myth! Better to die as my brave archers did than flee yet again from our enemies!”

  “Battering your head against a stone wall is foolish!” he snapped, then stopped, consciously mastering his anger. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he said, “If fate is kind, our people will return to Silvanost and Qualinost. One day. But not today, and not tomorrow.”

  Gilthas had spies among Sahim-Khan’s retainers, men with contacts in Delphon and other, smaller towns along the coast. Their reports told him that a day did not pass without minotaur ships rounding Habbakuk’s Necklace, bound for the Silvanesti coast. Their holds groaned under the weight of armored troops, sent to reinforce the army already occupying the elves’ homeland fl a grip of steel. The Speaker could not hope to vanquish such foes, not now.

  He told Kerian all these things, adding, “To all things there is an appointed time. The time to liberate our lost lands is not yet.”

  She circled the end of the bed and sank onto the other side of the mattress. “Instead, I go to the high priestess of the Temple of Elir-Safla and ask for her help in finding your mythical valley. Don’t you ever tire of asking humans for favors? ‘Give us land. Give us food. Give us water.’ Is elven honor extinct?”

  Seated back to back, their bed so narrow they were nearly touching, husband and wife stared in opposite directions. They might as well have been miles apart. The Lioness was flushed with fury, her hands clenched into fists; Gilthas’s face, blurred by tiredness, was pale, his jaw stiff with tension.