The tormented prince was not only ranting like one benighted, he was blind as well! He flailed his arms, crashing into the horses and Wapah. All the while he raved about trees growing in the desert, the coming of the elves, and how they would turn everything green unless stopped.
“I would like to see more green in this land,” Adala commented, and the assembled men stared at her. “But not under the rule of foreigners.”
Wapah had been forced to club Shobbat unconscious. After tying him onto his horse, the nomad started back to Khuri-Khan. When the prince awoke on the return journey, he was still crazed. Wapah questioned him, and Shobbat answered without guile, revealing everything, why he had come, what he’d hoped to gain, and what the oracle had said. But always, his talk returned to the elves and the danger they posed to Khur.
“He sought to depose his father,” said Etosh, with a sage nod. “His madness is the judgment of the gods, punishment for plotting such blood betrayal!”
There was little love for Sahim-Khan among the Weya-Lu, but when sons conspired to murder their fathers, evil was truly loose in the world.
Wapah said it was not the prince’s designs on the throne of Khur that consumed his disordered mind on the journey back to the city, but the oracle’s revelation that the laddad might transform Khur into a green land and rule over it. Wapah’s audience agreed with the maddened prince on that score. If that happened, the tribes of Khur would be lost. Everything they valued-families, traditions, loyalty to the gods-would be forfeit to foreign ways. Even the clean, beautiful emptiness of the land would be choked out by the vines and trees of the elves.
“ ‘If the elves find the Valley of the Blue Sands,’ ”
Wapah said, quoting the prince, “ ‘then the people of Khur are lost!’ ”
Draining his crater of tea, Wapah was silent at last. His audience was thunderstruck. Even Adala had no comeback to this final revelation. Elves looking for the Valley of the Blue Sands? Why would they go there? No one went there. It was haunted by troubled, unholy spirits.
“You should have slit the Khur’s throat,” said Etosh, breaking the somber silence. “Left him in the desert to feed the vultures.”
Several loud voices took issue with this statement. Such a betrayal of his charge would have brought ill hick down upon Wapah and his tribe. A Weya-Lu’s word was a bond not only to the men to whom it had been given, but to Those on High as well.
For a time, they argued the merit of Wapah’s decision to ferry the stricken prince back to Khur. As nothing useful emerged from their dispute, Adala finally Cut them off.
“We must meet this storm and see if it is a true tempest or only the ravings of a sun-maddened prince,” she said.
She stood. Extending her arm, she swept the circle, pointing to each man in turn. “We will go to the City by the Sea. We will see what the laddad are about. If they are quiet, and cleave to the will of the Khan, we will leave them in peace. But if they intend to invade the valley, we must stop them. The oracle said the laddad would not rule if they were kept from the Valley of the Blue Sands. By our blood, it is our duty to keep them out. The sacred land of Khur will endure.”
She completed the circle, adding, “Your oaths on it, as men of Weya-Lu!”
Readily they swore, the burden of the oath light just now. No man present knew how heavy it might prove.
Messengers were sent out right away. Other tribes in the region would be told of this threat. If the elves moved toward the valley, it would mean war.
Some southern tribes freely raided elven caravans, picked off stray laddad riders, even attacked small camps. As a warrior people, they treated all strangers in their land thus. Over the years the elves had grown in number as more arrived in exile, and they showed no signs of leaving. Adala had even heard reports of elves in the Weya-Lu’s ancestral city, Delphon. The city was a sinkhole of iniquity and vice (as all cities were), but it was the font of the Weya-LU tribe. For foreigners not even human ones-to be there, contaminating the tombs and temples of the tribe’s great ancestors, was a bitter draught to swallow. But as long as the laddad remained at Khuri-Khan and other cities, the nomads could ignore them. However, if Sahim-Khan allowed them to spread across the vastness of the open desert, then the people of the desert would rise up and proclaim a new khan.
And not the spoiled Shobbat; he was as wicked and godless as his father. A new dynasty must be established, a house of virtue and strength.
Such were Adala’s thoughts as she crossed the blinding expanse of sand to her tent. Ducking under the flap, she flipped the sun veil back over her head and left such worldly concerns outside with the sun. Chisi had scoured the griddle and hung it from a tent pole to cool. The brass mixing bowl was rinsed clean.
With no more distracting thoughts of elves or cities or immoral monarchs, Adala dipped a hand in a basket of dried lentils. One, two, three handfuls clattered into the bowl. More water from the jug, to soak the stone-hard, brown seeds. Lentils went well with bread. She only hoped she had enough salt to season them properly.
* * * * *
Without fanfare, the Lioness led her small force out of Khurinost before sunrise.
If the Speaker’s expensive map could be trusted, the Inath-Wakenti was more than two hundred miles away. The trip would take them across the High Plateau, some of the worst desert in Khur, with no wells, no oases, and no hospitable life for most of the way. According to Khurish records, rain had not fallen on the High Plateau in a hundred years, so every elf carried water, water, and more water. Spare arms and most armor were left behind, to allow the horses to bear a heavier burden of liquid. In consultation with Sithelbathan, Kerian had sketched out a route north by east, skirting the caravan trail to Kortal, which was rife with Nerakan spies. Each member of the expedition was provided with a copy of the map, so if he became separated from the main body, he would know where to go.
An experienced professional, Kerian completed her own preparations for the journey fairly quickly. This left her a few precious hours to spend as Gilthas’s wife and not as the commander of his army. She puzzled anew over the seeming contradiction of her husband and king. He was both the gentlest person she’d ever known, and the toughest. Gilthas could give his last crust of bread to a hungry person in the street, then in the next breath, sentence a malefactor to death. He did not posture or preen as Speaker of the Sun and Stars, but honestly cared for every soul under his rule and for the long-range welfare of his realm.
Neither of them spoke of the task Kerian faced or her lack of faith in its purpose. Clad only in candlelight, they sat on their bed, facing each other, heads bowed, her forehead resting on her husband’s shoulder.
Gilthas breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of her, striving to lock the memory firmly in his heart. Her unbound hair cascaded over them both. The feel of it curling against his shoulders was one of the sweetest sensations he had ever known.
“Will you take Eagle Eye?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. The motion caused her hair to sweep slowly across his upper back. Gilthas shivered. “No, you know he frightens the horses. They will be nervous enough. And he drinks more water than a dragon.”
Kerian felt her husband smile against her shoulder. “I have a salve for you,” he said. “The apothecary Redinivis brought it. He said it will keep you from getting sunburned.”
“And how many gallons of this salve are we supposed to carry with us?”
The smile became a low chuckle. “The stone jar he gave me is small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.” She snorted, and Gilthas added, his voice pitched higher to mimic the apothecary, “However, to be efficacious, the balm must be applied quite liberally.”
Husband and wife laughed together. Amusement grew into something deeper. This was their last night together for some time, and they made the most of it.
Before dawn, Kerian rose and dressed without disturbing her husband. It wasn’t until she was in the outer room, ready to depart, that Gilthas ap
peared.
“Weren’t you going to say goodbye?” he asked.
The sight of him thus, clad in a threadbare gown, long hair awry, brought an unexpected rush of tenderness, but she couldn’t allow herself to give in to her feelings. She was departing on a risky mission. Her life and, more importantly, the lives of those she led, required all the skill and cunning of the Lioness, not the wifely sentiments of Kerianseray.
Striving for lightness, she said, “Think of your dignity, Gil! Should the Speaker of the Sun and Stars stand around outside, mooning like a lovesick maiden bidding goodbye to her swain?”
Matching her teasing tone, he replied, “I am Speaker. I’m only coddled like a maiden.”
She grinned. They embraced, but too soon for Gilthas she released him and stepped back. A flash of a smile, and in the next heartbeat she was gone, out into the predawn stillness. For a long time, Gilthas remained where he was, standing, staring after her.
The west wind picked up as the column of riders left the tent-town. Robed and scarved against the flying sand, the elves rode in silence, unaccompanied by flying banners or flourishing pipers. Not like the old days, when the warriors of Silvanesti never stirred out of their capital city without a band of pipers, one thousand of their land’s noblest youths. Or the army of Qualinesti, who marched and rode to the beat of massed drums, the golden sun standard of Kith-Kanan borne before them. No, the contingent of the exiles’ army departed quietly, their horses’ hooves making little noise in the soft, yielding sand.
Despite the discretion, their departure did not escape notice. In the saddle between two high dunes, a solitary figure lay prone, covered from nose to toes in a hooded robe the same color as the sea of sand. His eyesight was sharp as a falcon’s. Neither distance nor the low light hampered him; he counted the double line of elven riders, and noted their course. Due north.
The spy slid backward through the sand until he was hidden from the elves by the intervening dune. Rising, he raced down the wind-shaped hill. At the bottom, two mounted men waited, one of them holding the reins of his horse.
He vaulted onto his pony. Snatching the reins, he hissed, “The laddad are going north! Five hundred, with sword and bow!”
The youngest of the three pulled his horse around in a half-circle until it faced west. “I ride to my chief!” he said. “The Tondoon will know of this!”
The watcher spoke to the third, older man. “I will take word to the Mikku tribe. Tell the Weyadan the warning was true: the foreigners are on the move.”
The gray-eyed nomad nodded grimly. “By nightfall every tribe from the mountains to the sea Will know the laddad are loose!”
They galloped away, each taking his own direction. Before they were out of sight of each other, the constant wind had erased their tracks from the sand.
The army of elves rode on. Dawn broke, and the sun quickly purged the chill of night. An hour after dawn the temperature was already hotter than ever was felt in Silvanesti. It would only increase.
Nomads did not travel by day unless sorely pressed. Like the serpents, lizards, and spiders of the desert, they preferred to lie still during the day and go out by night. Elves, accustomed to working by day, continued this habit even when the desert sun bore down full strength. This led to a new saying among nomads: Only fools, vultures, and laddad go abroad by day.
The Lioness rode at the head of the column, feeling the sweat run down inside her breastplate and pool in the small of her back. Her face remained dry. As Soon as a bead of sweat formed on her forehead or neck, the insatiably thirsty air sucked it away.
She looked back over the elves following her and was struck by how unfamiliar they were-not just Gilthas’s scholars, Favaronas and his two assistants-but the warriors, too. So many of her old comrades had fallen during the last days of Qualinost, the march into exile, and the brutal crossing of the Plains of Dust. Not all the losses were hard to take. Senator Palthainon, a slippery politician who made his name undermining Gilthas’s policies, had vanished during the flight from Qualinesti. Whether dead or captured by Samuval’s bandits, no one knew, but the Lioness felt either a suitable end for the troublesome rogue.
Someone in the column-a Kagonesti, by his accent- started to sing. Other riders took up the tune, a chorus of hoarse male voices. It was an old Wilder song, about being chased through the forest by unnamed enemies:
Where I go I leave no trail, no trail,
But hang upon the sparrow’s tail.
And fly as lightly as the wind, the wind,
For I was horn of Wilder kin.
The words rang strange in this lifeless landscape, and after four verses the song died out. The air was too dry for singing anyway.
Flankers patrolled diligently ahead and behind the column, as well as a hundred yards on either side. An hour before noon, the scouts circled back to the main body for replacement. One rider did not appear. The Lioness halted the column and sent a pair of elves to find the missing rider. The pair did not return either.
She ordered the entire force to search for the missing. Spread out in a long double line, the elves descended the side of a north-facing dune. The tracks of the pair the Lioness had sent were still visible at the foot of the dune. Halfway up the next one, elves on the left side of the formation raised an alarm. Someone was moving atop the dune!
Swords sprouted from the line. Climbing through the heavy sand was hard work, and they labored uphill with horses gasping from the heat and effort. Within twenty yards of the crest, a dozen darkly wrapped figures popped up, bows in hand.
The Lioness shouted a warning as arrows daubed with red paint hissed toward her startled troops. One struck low on her breastplate and glanced off. She barked a command, and her own archers loosed into the line of snipers. One fell. The rest responded with more arrows, this time aimed low, at the elves’ horses.
“Get those snakes!” the Lioness cried. On the right, two score riders swept forward, swords held high. The concealed bowmen couldn’t rise up high enough to aim at them without exposing themselves to the elf archers. With elven arrows arcing over their heads, the Lioness and the bulk of the elves spurred hard up the hill. Just as they cleared the top, those on the right reached the flat ridge at the dune’s crest and charged the enemy. There were only eleven: nine bow-armed nomads and two others minding their horses at the base of the dune. Faced on two sides by the foe, the nomads quit, racing for their ponies. Several were ridden down and sabered before the Lioness called for prisoners. The killing ceased, but not a single nomad escaped.
Four prisoners were herded to the Lioness. Three others, wounded and unable to walk, were carried forward and dumped at her feet.
“Who are you men? What tribe? What clan?” she asked. She had expected nomad interference, but not so soon, not such a pointless ambush. With a shiver she recalled a similar attack at the priestess’s temple.
The nomads were silent. One of them knelt by a wounded comrade and began to chant a muted prayer.
Again, more calmly, the Lioness posed her questions promising to spare all if they would answer. Not one of the captured humans said a word.
“Why do you fight us?” the Lioness demanded. Her exhausted horse picked up her anger and snorted, prancing in a tight circle. “We’re not your enemies. We’re nomads now, too, driven from our homes and forced to wander this desert. Tell me, are you bandits, or have you been paid to fight us?”
Nothing. Two of the humans sat on the sand and hugged their knees, eyes still fixed on the ground. The third continued to pray under his breath. The fourth, trembling from exhaustion and a wound on his upper thigh, remained on his feet, staring defiantly at her.
The Lioness glared back, frustrated by their silence. She had no time for this.
She allowed herself only a moment of indecision before snapping, “Captain!”
A Kagonesti veteran saluted his commander. “Search them:’ she said. “Anything unusual, bring to me. Take their swords and break their bows and arrow
s. Leave them food and water for two days. Their horses go with us.”
The standing nomad opened his mouth to protest. Without horses, they were doomed. They would never reach a water source before their own supply gave out.
“You have something to say?” she asked sternly, yet her eyes were hopeful. The bearded man firmed his lips and said nothing. Hope vanished.
“Very well. Carry out my orders, Captain.”
All the nomads, living and dead, were searched. The only thing of interest the searchers found was the small leather bag that each man wore on a string around his neck. One pouch was brought to Kerian. It was very light, containing a fetish, no doubt. She loosened the neck and upended the bag. A black and orange creature fell out, landing on the neck of her horse.
“Spider!” yelled the elf warrior who’d brought the bag. He swatted at it with his gauntlet. With astonishing power for so small a creature, it sprang from the horse and landed, legs spread, on the soldier’s cheek.
The elf screamed. One of his comrades yanked the palm- sized spider from his face and flung it to the ground. He stamped it with his iron-shod boot.
Tragically, the evil already had been done. Two fang marks showed clearly on the elf’s cheek. From the holes, red streaks were spreading even as the Lioness watched. The stricken elf went rigid, his eyes and mouth wide in agony. The Lioness shouted for a healer. The elf began to tremble, then convulse. Despite his comrades’ strong arms, he went down, dragging them with him.
“What can we do?” the Lioness yelled at the nomad.
He shrugged, his face hard. “Iron’s the only cure for him now.” He drew a finger across his throat.
She turned away from him in disgust, and dismounted. The elf’s face was dreadful, his mouth stretched wide in a scream he could not vent, and his face mottled by the red streaks that mapped the lightning-fast flow of poison through his blood.
Kerian knelt beside him. With a tenderness few could imagine, she touched his cheek. His skin was cold. What had been living flesh now felt like marble. His eyes, blue irises lost in a bloody sea, shifted toward her slightly.
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