Sanctuary ee-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  The closely packed houses, rebuilt after the depredations of Malys and her minions, looked bizarre to elven eyes. Some squat and square, others taller and round, they boasted a variety of tile patterns. In the wealthier districts, the more subdued shades of cream and gold predominated; here, alternating stripes of blue and white were common, but poorer householders used whatever leftover tiles they could scrounge. Their homes might be speckled with any color in the rainbow-orange, green, red, bright blue. In addition, since the people of Khuri-Khan were taxed according to the length and breadth of their home’s foundation, most dwellings were wider at the top than at ground level. When the Lioness and Hytanthas reached the top of the narrow, winding street, only a thin strip of blue sky was visible between the overhanging eaves.

  At this hour, most folks were at the souks. Aside from a bony gray cat, the only sign of life was a faint chiming sound. Kerian led the way across to the lower end of the avenue called Temple Walk. All of the major shrines of the city were located along this street, which ran east-west. The Khurs were mad with religion, worshiping gods and demi-gods only vaguely familiar to outsiders. All through the Vanishing of the Gods, the Great War, and the fall of the dragons, the Khurs had clung to their faith.

  Halfway down its length, the Temple Walk doglegged to the north, skirting the immovable center of Khuri-Khan, the great artesian well known as Nak-Safal. The name was difficult to translate. “Bottomless Pool” was the simplest rendering Kerian had heard.

  Their trip did not take them that far. Only a short way down Temple Walk was their destination, and the source of the chiming: the Temple of Elir-Sana. A stone wall surrounded the sacred enclosure. Only five feet high, it was more decorative than defensive. Along its top was set a line of curved brass rods. From each hung thin disks of the same metal. When the air stirred, the disks clattered against the rods, creating a bright chorus of sound. It was meant to mimic the gurgle of falling water, but to Kerian and Hytanthas, born and raised in the green land of Qualinesti, there was little resemblance. Still, the sound was pretty, and mysterious. When the wall was out of sight, the chiming seemed to emanate from the very air.

  The wall enclosed a large courtyard, paved with creamy limestone. At the center of the courtyard sat the Temple of Elir-Sana. It wasn’t large, but Kerian thought it easily the most beautiful building in Khuri-Khan. It didn’t compare to the great sanctuaries of Qualinost, of course, but it had a certain panache. Built of pure-white marble, the temple, like the courtyard, was partly in shadow flow. When the sun was higher, the pale stone of temple and courtyard reflected the light with neatly unbearable brilliance.

  The perfectly square temple was surrounded by a colonnade. The smooth, white columns were narrower at the base than at the top, echoing the odd construction of the city’s houses. Capping the temple was a dome carved of a single block of palest blue marble, a rare color for such stone. At least thirty-five feet in diameter, the dome had been polished until it was no thicker than a fingernail. How the Khurs of old had made such a marvel, much less raised it atop the temple, was a question no one living could answer.

  The metal gate was open, and the two elves rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Kerian gave her reins over to Hytanthas, telling him he’d have to wait for her outside. “Males are not allowed inside this temple,” she said. “Neither are weapons, unfortunately.”

  She looped her sword belt over the pommel of her saddle and left her dagger, still sheathed, as well. Hytanthas reminded her that they must be out of the city by sunset. She nodded. That deadline was still hours away.

  Sahim-Khan had decreed, ostensibly for the elves’ own safety, that no laddad could remain within the city from sunset to sunrise. The Lioness had strong opinions about Sahim and his edicts, but before she could give voice to them, the scrape of iron caused her to whirl, instantly on the alert.

  Four men in Khurish attire had darted into the courtyard through the only opening in the wall. Over their linen gebs each wore an affre-the hooded, ankle-length robe favored by nomads of the high desert. Scarves concealed their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. Each man held the nomad’s favorite weapon: along, narrow-bladed sword with no cross- guard.

  The Lioness had swiftly drawn her sword. “Keep off!” she warned them. “We’ve business with the holy priestess and no quarrel with you.”

  “We’ve a quarrel with you, laddad. Today your lives end!” said one of the men, his voice muffled by the scarf. Immediately, all four attacked.

  Unlike the city guards at the gate, these humans seemed unfamiliar with their foes. Three of them went for Hytanthas, thinking him the greater threat. Only one was left to engage the Lioness. Her sword flashed up, thrusting at the man’s throat. With unexpected agility, the fellow parried her thrust and riposted. She turned aside his attack, but the slick surface of the limestone betrayed her. She slid-not far, but enough to throw off her balance. She felt the man’s blade nick her left ear.

  He chuckled. She distinctly heard him. Quickly, he attacked again, repeating the very same moves as before.

  The Lioness’s lip curled. He thought he was toying with her! A smart warrior would have taken advantage of her stumble to drive home a killing thrust. Instead, the nomad was content to repeat his previously successful attack, cutting her right ear this time. He obviously saw her as no real threat.

  Fury engulfed her, not just for this stupid human’s lucky hits, but for all the indignities and humiliations she and her people had suffered for six terrible years.

  In a blur of motion, she lunged beyond the man, reversed her grip on her sword, and thrust it into his back. Steel punched easily through his desert garb, through skin and flesh, grating on bone. As he gave a shocked gasp, Kerian drove her blade in even further, burying it to its hilt.

  Meanwhile Hytanthas had been forced to backpedal frantically, gaining time to draw his own sword. He was surrounded by flickering points and keen edges, all seeking his flesh. One foe landed a hit on his left arm, but the mail Hytanthas wore under his geb turned the blade. The elf made a wide, whirling slash at the men’s faces-even the bravest fighter feared for his eyes-and his attackers drew back. All but one.

  This man was too slow, and the elf’s point scored a bloody line across his forehead. With a hoarse cry, the human clapped a hand to the wound. Blood coursed down, soaking the scarf over his face.

  The other two men shoved their injured comrade aside and came on again. Hytanthas gave ground, then gave more, and still more, working hard to keep their blades at bay, until he found his back against the temple wall and could retreat no further.

  While one masked man attacked, keeping Hytanthas busy, his comrade stooped, gathered a handful of fine sand, and flung it at the elf’s face. Hytanthas had no warning. Suddenly, he found himself painfully blinded. He thrust out his sword in a desperate parry and waited for the feel of iron plunging into his body.

  Retrieving her sword from her dead foe’s back, the Lioness rushed to her aide’s defense. By the time Hytanthas cleared his eyes, one of his attackers was dead and the other had fled. Hytanthas would have given chase, but a sharp command brought him up short.

  “We have a prisoner.” The Lioness pointed to the man Hytanthas had cut on the forehead. Face awash in gore, the human was groveling on the bloody ground, trying to crawl away unnoticed.

  Kerian ordered him to his feet and, when he whined about his injury, growled, “Stand up, you coward, or I’ll hamstring you!”

  He made as if to rise, then rolled over abruptly, his hand shooting out to fling a short dagger. Kerian whipped her sword in a half-arc, deflecting the missile. The dagger flew back the way it had come, plunging into its owner’s neck. The assassin gave a gurgling shriek and clamped a hand to the wound, blood pouring over his fingers.

  Glaring up at the Lioness, his black eyes overflowing with hate, he groaned, “For Torghan!” Bloody froth bubbled from his lips, and his straining body went slack.

  Hytanthas exclaimed over
her amazing parry, but the Lioness, looking down at the dead nomad, denied any prowess. She rested her sword on her shoulder and said, “I didn’t want him dead. He could have told us who sent him.”

  At her direction, Hytanthas rifled the dead men’s clothes. He found nothing, no coins, no personal belonWus, not even the fly whisk most city dwellers found essential. One odd fact: each man bore a scarlet tattoo on his left breast, of a crouching bird with wings folded and head curiously lowered, it seemed a bit familiar to Kerian, but she couldn’t think where she might have seen it.

  “What is that? An eagle?” Hytanthas asked.

  “Condor.”

  The elves around. A woman stood in the shadows of the temple colonnade, stepping into the sunlight, she approached slowly. Her voluminous robes were dazzlingly white. Her long hair was likewise white, braided, and woven through with azure ribbons and tiny brass bells. A wide, flat bat shaded her face, which was brown and smooth as polished wood. Her hands were folded into the sleeves of her robe.

  The Lioness bowed her head, something few had seen her do, and sheathed her sword with unusual care, sliding the blade home silently.

  “Holy Mistress Sa’ida?” she asked. The woman nodded, and the Lioness gestured at the two dead attackers. “Are these men known to you?”

  “No man is known to me, but I recognize the mark they bear. It is the sign of Torghan the Avenger.”

  Torghan, Lord of the Wastes, was the Khurish god of vengeance, often represented as a giant vulture or condor. The elves knew him as Kinis, a malign deity not worshiped by their race. To his most devoted followers, the minotaurs, he was the great god Sargas. Kerian wondered if there might be a link between the Khurish cult of Torghan and the minotaurs who had invaded Silvanesti. It was not an alliance she liked to contemplate. In any event, she could not fathom why Torghanists of any stripe would attack her in broad daylight, in the supposedly safe confines of a holy temple.

  The white-robed priestess regarded the dead man closest to her in thoughtful silence, then remarked, “You stabbed him in the back.”

  Kerian’s eyes narrowed, but the priestess’s tone wasn’t accusatory; she seemed merely to be stating a fact. The elf lifted a hand to one of her bloody ears, causing Hytanthas to exclaim at the injuries he only now noticed. She brushed aside his concern, reliving again the rush of fury she’d felt when the Torghanist cut her so casually.

  “Let us retire within,” the priestess said to her. “I will tend your injury.”

  Hytanthas could not enter the sacred precincts, but the priestess gave him leave to remain in the shaded colonnade. One of the temple acolytes, she said, would bring him refreshment. He went to tie their horses out of the sun before settling down to await his commander. Kerian followed the high priestess inside.

  After the searing light of day, the stone-lined passages of the Temple of Elir-Sana were cool and dark. Only the scuff of the priestess’s feet ahead gave Kerian any hint she was not alone. She had a general idea of the temple’s layout and assumed the Holy Mistress was taking her to private chambers, located at the rear. However, halfway along a dark corridor, Sa’ida turned and parted a cloth doorflap on her right.

  In the small, dimly lit chamber beyond, obviously waiting for them, stood an elder acolyte, dressed in a woman’s geb of white linen, her hair covered by a matching turban. She held a small, silver tray on which rested various medicaments and a small roll of gauze. Kerian wondered how the high priestess had called for the medicines. Sa’ida had not been out of her sight since the battle with the Torghanists.

  The acolyte cleaned the elf’s wounds, but when the woman started to bandage her cuts, the high priestess stopped her, saying the injuries would heal more quickly if left open to the goddess’s gaze. Although not especially pious, Kerian certainly had no desire to walk around with her ears wrapped in white gauze, so she agreed.

  Sa’ida lifted another doorflap. Silhouetted against the light beyond, she turned and said to Kerian, “Come, seeker. We shall commune under the eyes of the goddess.”

  Kerian soon found herself in the temple’s heart, the domed sanctuary. The pale blue stone of the high ceiling softened the harsh rays of the sun, bathing the great room in gentle light. Unlike the close, incense-laden interiors of most shrines, the air in the Temple of Elir-Sana was clean and fresh. Centered under the sky-colored dome, the sacred image of the goddess rested on a high pedestal. On the floor of the chamber, radiating out from the sacred image like the spokes of a wheel, were six lanes filled with sifted white sand, carefully raked to eliminate footprints. The paved floor between the wide lanes was dotted with stylized sculptures of trees, each six to eight feet tall. Slender tubes of copper or brass served as trunks and branches. Ovals of silver, hammered thin, formed the leaves, twinkling as they moved gently in the air.

  Here and there in the white sand lanes, priestesses and acolytes performed their sacred rituals. Choosing an empty path, Sa’ida led the Lioness toward the image of the goddess. As she took in the sight, Kerian’s steps slowed, then ceased.

  The goddess was shown as a stout, broad-shouldered woman, her arms crossed over an ample bosom. Her hands, fingers spread, lay flat against her shoulders. Her hair, gathered into a single, heavy hank, was pulled forward over her left shoulder. Her chin was down, her eyes closed. Depicted in a typical Khurish gown, the great goddess Elir-Sana resembled nothing so much as a well-fed matron of Khuri-Khan-albeit one filled with a private melancholy. Unlike the temple itself, the image wasn’t marble. In fact, it wasn’t stone at all, but golden-yellow wood. Lovingly oiled over many years of devotion, the surface had a soft burnished sheen. The statue was the single largest piece of wood that Kerian had seen in Khur. In this barren land, fine wood was more esteemed than gold.

  “She is a quiet god,” Sa’ida said, her low voice sounding loud in the stillness. ‘A suffering god. She afflicts and heals, and laments both.”

  To the Lioness, the Khurish deity sounded like Quen, the Qualinesti goddess of healing. She almost mentioned this, but decided not to. It might provoke a sermon.

  “Why is she so stout?” she asked.

  “She is the bringer of plenty. How could she be lean?”

  Several low, wide stools ringed the statue’s pedestal. Sa’ida sat on one of these, spreading her many-layered gown like a fan until the stool vanished beneath it.

  As the priestess settled herself, Kerian’s attention was caught by the metal tree next to her. Its dangling silver foliage had been shaped to resemble aspen leaves. A memory flashed in Kerian’s mind: the first light of sunrise catching on aspen leaves, the pinkish-orange blush tinting the trees’ pale trunks. It was a sight she used to take for granted, rising every morning in the greenwood. Now, such memories brought only bitterness, reminding her how far she was from the leafy embrace of home.

  The high priestess was regarding her curiously. Kerian realized she was still caressing the metal leaf. She let it go quickly, as if burned.

  “Seeker, why have you come? To obtain the comfort and wisdom of the goddess?” Sa’ida asked.

  “No, Holy Mistress. I do not seek the goddess, but her priestess.”

  “Why?”

  The Lioness met bluntness with bluntness. “It is said you know of the Valley of the Blue Sands.”

  An emotion passed over Sa’ida’s face, brief but intense, like a thunderstorm in the desert. Her lips flexed downward, and a furrow appeared between her eyes. As quickly as it had come, the expression was gone, replaced by her usual, serene mask.

  “I know the legend, yes. But why does it interest you?”

  “It doesn’t,” Kerian said flatly. “But it does interest my husband, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. He has acquired a map he believes shows the location of the fabled valley. He desires to know what you know about this place.”

  The priestess was silent for so long that Kerian thought she would not answer. When she finally did, the words came slowly.

  “It is said to be a place untouc
hed by the world for more than two and a half thousand years. What does Gilthas Pathfinder want there?”

  Out of habit, Kerian’s hand moved to rest where her sword hilt should be, but was not. Feeling off-balance, she blurted, “He seeks a home for our people.”

  If Kerian had said Gilthas intended to move bag and baggage into the female-Only precincts of the temple, Sa’ida could not have looked more shocked. “You enjoy the favor of Sahim-Khan,” the priestess sputtered. “Would you trade that for a perilous journey to a land that may not even exist?”

  This sentiment echoed the Lioness’s own feelings on the subject, but she was ever practical. “The Speaker of the Sun and Stars believes our people cannot remain in Khur forever, even with Sahim-Khan’s protection. This is not our country, nor our climate. Everyone knows the Khan covets the wealth we brought, and it may be that he hopes to harvest elven wisdom for his own ends. The Speaker is willing to trade treasure and knowledge for a little land and a little peace.” Kerian shook her head. “I, however, see a darker future.”

  Sa’ida said nothing. Nettled, the Lioness spoke more candidly still. “I believe Sahim will sell us out. ‘To Neraka, to the minotaur, to anyone who meets his price. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Her raised voice echoed through the chamber, ringing off the high, polished dome. Acolytes and priestesses glanced her way before resuming their prayers.

  Sa’ida lowered her eyes, her posture echoing the goddess above her. “The seeker may be wise.”

  The elf general ground her teeth in frustration. “May be? Do you have definite knowledge of Sahim-Khan’s treachery?”

  A tiny shrug rippled across the priestess’s shoulders. “The deserts of Khur are broad. No one can hope to hold every grain of sand. Even in the best-run homes, scorpions and spiders are found.”

  First bluntness, now maddening ambiguity. What in Chaos was the woman trying to say? That Sahim-Khan didn’t rule unchallenged in Khur? That was hardly a revelation. Everyone knew the nomads beyond the city were an independent lot. Still, with the backing of his well-trained troops, Sahim kept peace among the tribes. But what if the trouble wasn’t outside the city, in the larger desert-what if it was much closer? Kerian thought of the Torghanist assassins in the courtyard.