Why, all of a sudden, did Faeterus care about the Valley of the Blue Sands?
Hengriff stood stiffly. Over the years he’d acquired too many injuries, more than a few while chasing the Lioness, to remain hunkered down on the low table for very long.
“I’ll convey your words to my masters,” he said evenly. “Fables and legends aside, the valley represents an excellent defensive position. My Order certainly wouldn’t want the elves to settle there.”
He glanced at a carafe sitting on the rug near Faeterus. The mage had a penchant for a Delphonian vintage steeped with kuroba flowers, which imparted a narcotic effect. Hengriff wanted none of that; he would endure his thirst for a while longer.
“Oh, one thing more,” he said casually. “Gilthas has an agent in the city looking for you.”
The mage’s hazel eyes opened quickly. “Really? An elf?”
“My spy on the Speaker’s council did not specify. Could be a hired Khur.”
“I hope not!” Faeterus rubbed his chin with his fingers, forgetting they were smeared with gore. The bloody streaks made his gaunt face seem savage indeed. “I need a full-blooded elf for my latest experiment. Maybe I should let Gilthas’s ferret find me.”
Hengriff had no desire to speculate on what experiments this loathsome creature might be planning. Duty discharged, he wanted only to be gone. He opened the trap door and held out his hand. He needed new paper amulets, so he could pass safely through the villa’s magical defenses. Each set of warding amulets worked in a very specific fashion-once as Hengriff departed, and once more allowing him to reenter. Faeterus would not have it any other way.
Unfortunately, Faeterus was not ready to let him go. Instead of producing new amulets, the sorcerer brought up the valley again, asking for assurances it would be granted to him. Hengriff brusquely declined to make guarantees. “The decision is not mine to make,” he growled, demanding the amulets.
Faeterus suddenly gave a very birdlike, warbling whistle. In the chamber below, the manticore sprang to its feet and came to stand below the opening. It looked up, and grinned. Hengriff had faced any number of horrors in his time, but the sight of that horrible, too-human face and its rows of steel-sharp teeth caused him to shudder. He thought of the disemboweled beggar outside.
He turned a furious look upon the sorcerer. Faeterus held the paper amulets in one long-fingered hand. “Of course you may leave if you really wish to,” the mage assured him genially. “But perhaps we should discuss proper payment for my services first?”
* * * * *
Planchet set a covered dish before his master. Gilthas, dining alone, watched expectantly as the domed cover was whisked away. Chicken again, nestled on a bed of roasted vegetables. Planchet offered him a choice of wines, Goodlund red or Silvanesti white, but Gilthas told him to save the wine for Kerian’s return.
The Speaker of the Sun and Stars drank water and ate in silence. Usually he dined with the members of his court, but for the past few days, since the audience with Sahim-Khan, his councilors had found various reasons not to attend. Everyone felt humiliated, the Qualinesti especially, as Gilthas was one of them. Lord Morillon had praised the Speaker’s diplomacy, but even he made excuses to avoid dinner. So Gilthas had only Planchet for company, as the valet waited on him.
Ten thousand steel pieces had gone out of Gilthas’s personal treasury. It wasn’t all in steel, of course. Much of it was gold and silver plate rescued from the blazing halls of the palace in Qualinost. Some of the golden service dated back to the reign of Speaker Silveran. They knew how to make fine things in those days. The gold was hammered thin as paper, yet remained stiff and strong. No one today could duplicate the alloy Silveran’s goldsmiths had used.
Golden plates and fine wines were extravagances they could live without. Sahim was a blackguard. Gilthas had always known that. Extortion at his hands was as much a part of the Speaker’s life as the desert’s incessant heat. Yet Gilthas would find a way to meet the Khan’s greedy demands so long as it bought more time for his people. His proud councilors did not understand that. They clung to glittering memories of worldly glory. Those memories were all they had for comfort as they slept each night in their stifling tents, lying on itchy woolen pallets, and toiled each day just to stay alive.
Khuri-Khan had been quiet since Gilthas’s visit. Armed patrols of Khurish soldiers tramped the back streets in strength, discouraging malefactors and maintaining an uneasy calm. Traffic in and out of the city had fallen off, although this was likely no more than a temporary condition. Traveling merchants were cautious folk. Having heard about the riot in the capital, many diverted to Delphon to peddle their wares. If the situation remained calm, if no more unrest developed, they would return. For now, though, the flow of Khurs in and out of Khuri-Khan had almost completely ceased.
Repairs on the city wall faltered as stone caravans from Kortal, in the Khalkist foothills, dwindled. Sahim was spending great sums to import hard stone from the far-away mountains to bolster his defenses. The route between Kortal and Khuri-Khan passed through the territory of the Weya-Lu tribe. For some reason, the Weya-Lu had abandoned their usual trade route. Without the nomads to man caravans, the flow of hard stone to the capital stopped.
Next to Gilthas’s plate lay the dispatches from Kerian. A dusty, desiccated courier had arrived with the reports late last night. The Kagonesti had placed the leather pouch in the Speaker’s own hands, then passed out, falling from the saddle into the arms of Taranath. The dispatches he brought contained wonderful news. The entrance to the Inath-Wakenti had been found.
However, Gilthas’s elation was tempered by the other news in the dispatches. Kerian’s troop had clashed several times with armed nomads. She reported this matter-of-factly, as if it was to be expected. She assured him they had nothing to fear from the nomads. The wanderers’ weapons were poor and their tactics feeble. If necessary, she could defeat three or four times the number she’d faced thus far.
Her words, intended to reassure, had exactly the opposite effect. It was just this situation Gilthas had feared more than anything else. He understood Sahim-Khan, and that made working with the human possible. The nomads of the desert were another matter. Aloof, proud as a dozen Silvanesti lords, the nomads were motivated by a complex tangle of piety and honor. Their fierce conviction in their own virtue made dealing with them difficult at best. Should they decide to make war in earnest upon the elves, then life in Khur would become much, much harder. Perhaps even impossible.
The dark heart of the matter, Gilthas well knew, was Kerianseray’s fiery nature. Could she control herself? She must not fight the desert folk. Defend herself, yes, but she could not hammer the nomads as she would Dark Knights or minotaurs. The fragile peace between Khurs and elves would not withstand wide bloodshed. Could the Lioness carry out her reconnaissance without starting a war?
His expression must have reflected his inner turmoil. Planchet, standing to one side, asked if he was unwell.
Gilthas smiled ruefully. “No, old friend. Just thinking instead of eating.” He tried to pay attention to his dinner, but he’d lost his appetite. All he could think was, where was Kerian? What was happening to her now?
He didn’t know whether the griffon had reached her safely, but already he was doubting the wisdom of sending the creature. He hoped she would use Eagle Eye wisely. He’d been second-guessing the mission for days now. The nomads were fighting to defend their land; he could understand that. An armed force of foreigners had entered their territory, and they were trying to drive them out. Perhaps he could have sent diplomats instead of scholars. Perhaps he should’ve tried to hire nomad guides. Perhaps he should not have put his hot- tempered wife in charge.
Yet, he knew he couldn’t have done otherwise. Kerianseray was the general of his armies, his strong right arm.
Through the dark days of the terrible journey across the Plains of Dust and the Burning Lands, when thousands of their people had died, Kerian’s strength had sustaine
d him, had sustained all of them.
Planchet claimed his attention. Gilthas saw the valet was standing by the door flap, conversing with a servant. “Sire,” Planchet said, “Lord Morillon wishes to see you. He says it is most urgent.”
“Send him in.” A few days earlier, Gilthas had informed his closest councilors, including Morillon, of Kerian’s mission, that she was seeking the Inath-Wakenti, and that he hoped the legendary valley might become a new home for their people.
For once Morillon arrived without his usual corps of sycophants. He looked grave. “Great Speaker, I bring news.”
“Of Kerianseray?”
“Partly, sire. The city is buzzing with the news of Lady Kerianseray’s arrival at the valley.”
“Already?” Planchet commented in amazement. “News travels fast.”
“There is more,” Morillon said. “There are rumors that a great massacre has occurred. Hundreds of Khurish women and children of the Weya-Lu tribe were slain in camp, many miles north of here. Some are saying that it was done by Lady Kerianseray’s troops.”
Gilthas stood so quickly his camp chair went over backward. “Filthy Torghanist lies!”
“I agree, Great Speaker, but the Khurs might choose to think otherwise.”
This was undeniable. Unchecked, the massacre story could inflame Khur from one end to the other. Riots in the souks would be nothing compared to the Khurs’ outrage over this.
Impatiently, Morillon asked, “Sire, what shall we do?
“I will go to Sahim-Khan, lay my thoughts before him. Once he sees we have nothing to hide, he will protect us.”
“And if he won’t?” Planchet asked bluntly.
“He must.” Gilthas hesitated. “How many warriors are in camp?”
“About thirty thousand.”
“Then have them stand ready, Planchet. No fanfare, though. Alert them quietly.”
The valet hurried away to carry out his liege’s order. Morillon’s worry had only increased.
“Great Speaker, fighting isn’t the answer,” he said. “The Khan can field twice our numbers. More if he calls upon the desert tribes!”
Gilthas shook his head. “No, he won’t summon the nomads. He fears them more than he fears us. And I agree:
Fighting is not the answer. We must learn the truth about this massacre, if it actually occurred, and prove to the Khan and his people that we are not responsible.”
“But what if-what we can’t prove such a thing?” Pressing a fist to his lips, Gilthas thought hard. He did not believe Kerian would kill innocent women and children, but who could say what might have occurred in the far desert. If a battle had taken place, if innocents had been killed, if proof of elven innocence was dubious. There were too many ifs!
“We must make preparations to leave.”
The Speaker’s pronouncement drained the color from Morillon’s face. “Leave? To go where?”
“To where Lady Kerianseray is right now. Summon the council. I want an inventory made of all food and water on hand. I want emergency plans drawn up to evacuate Khurinost on a moment’s notice.”
He was talking of uprooting a hundred thousand souls. Stunned, Morillon could only nod as the Speaker continued to pepper him with orders.
“We’ll need carts. Have as many made as possible. If there aren’t enough animals to draw them, use people. If we can’t make enough carts, use travois.” The trip to the Inath-Wakenti would be very long, very harsh, he explained.
“Great Speaker, don’t be hasty!” Morillon interjected. “Let us discuss this! Sahim-Khan is no friend of the desert tribes. With proper motivation, he would defend us if the nomads attacked!”
Gilthas’s smile was bitter. “Perhaps. But what if you are wrong? What if he refuses to defend foreigners-laddad foreigners-against his own people? There’s not enough money in the world to buy safety from the Khan, if too many of his own people rise up to threaten him.” The smile vanished. “We must have a contingency plan. We can offer to pay more for his protection. That much steel will tempt him and buy us time. See to it, my lord. Personally. Arrange an audience at once. Today.”
Morillon rushed to do Gilthas’s bidding. Like a disturbed anthill, Khurinost stirred to frantic activity. Meager supplies were counted, weapons long stored taken out. If the exiles were forced to flee, every able-bodied elf would be required to take up arms to defend their lives and their freedom.
Chapter 9
The Vale of Silence was aptly named. An hour after dawn, the Lioness and her warriors were riding across a flat, funnel-shaped valley that was utterly silent, with no breath of wind stirring or birds calling. The air was warm, but far from the blistering heat of the desert outside, and laden with moisture. The area’s other name-Valley of the Blue Sands- also was appropriate. The soil beneath their horses’ hooves was bright blue-green, a strange shade between malachite and verdigris. It also contributed to the quiet. The soft soil seemed to absorb the sound of their movements.
To spare the horses undue stress, Kerian had sent Eagle Eye aloft without her, then swung up behind Favaronas. The archivist would’ve exchanged places-after all, she was commander of the armies-but she waved away his offer. Balancing easily even without the benefit of stirrups or saddle, she studied their surroundings.
They rode past scattered stands of cedar and pine, and boulders half-buried in the sandy soil. The high mountains kept the valley floor in shade long after dawn, which probably accounted for the pockets of mist that clung to the low places.
“Well, librarian, what do you think?” the Lioness asked.
“Feels dead,” Favaronas replied. “No birds, no insects, not even any flowers blooming.”
He was right. A profound stillness lay heavily over the area. Only a few miles in, the effect was becoming unnerving. It was easy to imagine how the valley came to be shunned. Curious nomads, penetrating this far, would become spooked and flee, carrying with them tales of the eerie silence. Over the years, those stories would’ve grown with every telling.
If the atmosphere was unsettling, the scenery was increasingly beautiful, as the valley opened to them. The gray Khalkist peaks on the eastern side took on a slate-blue shade as the sun climbed over them, slanting into the valley and washing the facing western range with golden light. Islands of grass appeared, not the brown or gray flora of the desert, but familiar green shoots, the first they’d seen since leaving their homelands. The presence of grass was more than nostalgic. Where grass grew, livestock could live. Where livestock could live, elves could live.
With the sun above the eastern mountains, the temperature climbed, but never beyond a pleasant warmth. The Lioness and Favaronas came to a wide, shallow stream that wandered across the valley floor. It was shaded by two small willow trees, their slender branches motionless in the still air.
Kerian slid off the horse’s rump and squatted on a flat boulder by the water’s edge. Even as Favaronas called a warning, she dipped her hand in the stream and lifted it to her lips.
“To lead is to take risks,” she said, smiling wryly, then swallowed.
He didn’t have to ask if the water was good. His horse dropped its nose into the shimmering flow and drank noisily. In minutes, the entire command had followed suit. The fresh water was like a gift from the gods. The water they’d brought was warm, and tasted like the skins and gourds in which it was carried; the well water of Khuri-Khan was bland and flat. This water was ice-cold, with a distinct and pleasant mineral bite.
Eagle Eye alighted a dozen yards away, haunch-deep in the stream, and dipped his feathered head to drink. Thirst slaked, the beast stalked ashore on the east bank and lay down to sleep among cattails and tall grass. Before long his head was under his wing, and he was snoring like a boiling kettle.
Much refreshed, the Lioness allowed her warriors to linger by the stream, watering their horses and washing their gritty faces and feet. Favaronas sat on a gray rock overhanging the stream and sketched on a slip of parchment with a charcoal stic
k. The Lioness watched a map of the valley take shape beneath his skillful hands.
Drawing the long serpentine curve of the creek, he asked, “What shall we call this stream?”
“You’re drawing the map. Call it whatever you like.”
After a pause, he said, “Lioness Creek,” writing as he spoke.
“Speaker’s Creek would be more appropriate.”
“You said I could call it whatever I like.”
She shrugged and pulled off her boots. The chilly water was a blessing to hot, tired feet.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, their rest was abruptly interrupted. The air shuddered from some distant concussion. No sound of explosion followed; there was only a shock wave that made the air and ground vibrate once, very hard. The horses shied violently. Favaronas dropped his charcoal marker. Kerian jumped to her feet.
“The sand beast?” Favaronas quavered.
Kerian was dragging on her boots. “Curse it! Pleasant scenery, clean water, and we start acting like farmers at a fair!” They were in unknown territory, and she hadn’t even posted pickets!
The elves quickly resumed their normal vigilance. Kerian ordered twenty riders to reconnoiter ahead. Another band of twenty she sent back toward the valley mouth, in case the nomads (or anyone else) overcame their fear and decided to follow them. Bow-armed flankers rode out from the main column to watch for danger.
With her warriors fully deployed, the Lioness felt more at ease. Favaronas, however, clutched his map in both hands and stared wildly, expecting any number of unnatural beasts to fall upon them.
“Calm yourself,” she told the scholar. “I don’t think it’s the sand beast this time; look at Eagle Eye.” The griffon was looking around, but didn’t seem particularly excited.
She swung into the saddle of a fresh horse. “It’s probably nothing more than echoes from an avalanche in the mountains.”
He blinked at her in surprise, then nodded slowly. They were all so primed to find something otherworldly in the valley, he’d never considered a simpler explanation. Still, he was glad when she sent Eagle Eye skyward. It wouldn’t hurt to have the griffon’s sharp eyes watching over them.
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