As he watched the preparations, Gilthas ate the tiny meal Truthanar had brought. The Silvanesti healer had touched his king deeply. Arriving at the worksite with the usual dose of unpleasant-tasting medicine, he also brought a surprise: a small pot of kefre.
Gilthas had developed a liking for the Khurish beverage during the exile outside the desert capital. The healer had found the kefre, as well as the white clay pot and tiny matching cup in which it was traditionally drunk, among the Speaker’s baggage where they had been carefully packed away by Planchet before the desert crossing. Truthanar had hoped the drink would help awaken his king’s vanished appetite.
Cradling the cup in his thin hands, Gilthas inhaled deeply. The pungent aroma of kefre enveloped him, even as thoughts of his lost friend and absent wife filled his mind.
The frame slowly rose over the pit.
12
When Kerian regained her senses, she was being dragged down a murky lane, her toes bumping over uneven cobblestones. She had wit enough not to struggle, instead using the opportunity to size up her situation.
Two men had her by the arms. Her empty scabbard flopped against her leg, but she felt her concealed knife still in place, hidden in the small of her back. Her upper arm throbbed where the Torghanist dagger had sliced it. A crude bandage had been tied around the wound, and the bleeding had stopped. Her captors smelled of wood smoke, goats, and sour milk, aromas associated more normally with nomads than city-dwelling Khurs.
The tiniest lift of her head gave her a glimpse forward. A pair of Khurs carried the unconscious Sa’ida. Several other men accompanied them. The Khurs’ faces were hidden by scarves and broad-brimmed hats pulled low. The progress of the silent procession could be judged by the sound of slamming shutters and doors that preceded them. The locals had learned to make themselves scarce when the Sons of Torghan were abroad.
She first thought they were bound for the Temple of Torghan, but her surroundings told another tale. This was not Temple Walk, where Khuri-Khan’s important sanctuaries were found. Temple Walk was a broad paved avenue. This was a shadowed, mean-looking lane fronted by tall mud-brick houses. The buildings suggested Arembeg, the city’s southern district, a maze of tight lanes and alleys unrelieved by squares or souks. Arembeg was a good place for cutthroats to hide from the khan’s soldiers and his legion of informers.
Her captors halted at a nondescript door in a dead-end alley. One Torghanist lifted his cudgel and rapped a sequence of knocks on the door. The narrow portal opened inward a few inches.
“We have them,” the Torghanist said, and a voice from within ordered them to enter.
The room was wide. Furniture was scant. Common Khurish chairs were short and three-legged, with a single pole sticking up as backrest. Sa’ida was set onto one, her hands tied behind her back. One of the Torghanists holding Kerian’s arms muttered about ill luck befalling those who mistreated a holy woman.
No such worry affected their handling of Kerian. They did not bother with a chair, but dropped her facedown on the dirt floor. When she hit, she contrived to have her left arm fall limply across her lower back.
“What of the beast?” The voice asked. His accent was foreign to Khur, and his voice was loud in the low-ceilinged room.
“It was too fierce. We didn’t have the proper weapons. It killed two of my men and tore up four more. We threw a net over it and left it there.”
Kerian silently rejoiced. Eagle Eye was alive.
“Are the implements ready?” asked the leader.
Kerian heard the clink of metal, and a grunted remark that the irons would be hot enough soon. She had no doubt who the “implements” were for and what their purpose would be. From beneath slit eyelids, she watched the Torghanists come and go from a brazier heaped with glowing coals.
“You were right to watch the temple, my lord,” said one of the Khurs. “How did you know the laddad would return there?”
“I didn’t. But I marked Sa’ida for a traitor long ago. It doesn’t surprise me the elves would remain in contact with her. She was their ally when they were here. Even now she works to undermine your nation and your gods.”
The Khurs’ replies told Kerian that any squemishness they’d felt at capturing the priestess was fading rapidly. One man asked what was to be done with the laddad woman. “I doubt we’ll get anything out of her,” the foreigner said coolly. “Perhaps if she sees what the priestess must endure, she’ll be more willing to share what she knows.”
The Khurs engaged in ugly speculation about Kerian’s own fortitude in the face of pain. Their leering laughter steeled her for action. When enough of them were looking away, she’d show them what fortitude really meant.
The foreigner uttered a sharp reproof. “Why is the elf not tied?” he demanded. The Torghanists laughed off his concern. They’d worked her over well. She wouldn’t wake up any time soon.
“Idiots. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” He ordered the closest man to bind Kerian’s hands and ankles.
The fellow’s rag-wrapped sandals advanced toward her. He bent to grasp her slack arm. Using his body to shield the motion, she drew her concealed knife and buried it in the man’s chest. He gasped and sagged to his knees. Kerian put the blade in her teeth and catapulted to her hands and knees. She shoved the dying man at the next nearest thug. Before he could react, she was on her feet. The knife flashed. A second Torghanist collapsed onto the first, his throat slashed.
The room’s dim lighting kept the men from understanding exactly what she’d done. Not realizing she was armed, they thought she was simply making a desperate attempt to overcome far superior numbers. Only their foreign master was disturbed by her sudden revival. Kerian spotted him for the first time. He was seated at one end of a long table on the far side of the room. A lamp on the table before him illuminated his face. Kerian had never seen him before, but he was easily recognizable as a Nerakan. He was past middle age, bald, with bushy brown eyebrows. His thin cloak did nothing to conceal the armor and bejeweled court sword he wore. All of this she took in with one swift glance before he turned down the lamp’s wick.
“Didn’t you search her for weapons?” he barked.
The Torghanists hefted their cudgels and closed in. Kerian dropped to a crouch. She slashed a third Khur across the chest. He let go his weapon and staggered back, bleeding heavily. Taking up his cudgel, she fended off a hail of blows and attacked again. A Torghanist cried out as her knife opened his gut, and the rest backed off.
She gave them no time to organize but hurled the cudgel at the light. The Nerakan, thinking the blow was meant for him, jerked back. The hard wood struck the brass lamp, knocking it to the floor. Oil poured out and tiny blue flames danced across the spreading spill.
“Kill her!” the Nerakan bawled. “What are you waiting for? Kill her now!”
The Sons of Torghan tried. They were rough and ready fighters accustomed to street brawls, but they were out of their depth against the Lioness. Eight Khurs had entered the room with her. Minutes after the Nerakan ordered her death, only three still stood. Meantime the burning oil pooled around the leg of the table and ignited it. Dull orange flames flickered, giving the scene a wild, distorted look.
A Khur landed a stunning hit across Kerian’s shoulders. She whirled, driving him back with knife thrusts but received a nasty whack on the thigh from another quarter. The Khur who struck the blow got a deep cut across the forearm for his temerity.
The room was filling with smoke. The long table was alight, and flames were spreading to a dusty wall hanging. The Nerakan had fled. Coughing heavily, his Torghanist hirelings who could still move were abandoning the fight as well.
Sa’ida still slumped in her chair, unconscious. Kerian cut her bonds and carried her to the door. It was a perfect place for an ambush, but the Nerakan and the Khurs were gone. Kerian paused at the mouth of the narrow alley.
The street was empty and dark and little wider than the alley in which she stood. The fire was n
ot yet visible out here, but smoke was seeping from beneath the eaves. The second-story dwelling above was abandoned. The roof was gone and the shutterless windows showed sky beyond. No one was going to notice the fire until a neighboring structure caught.
The priestess’s weight pulled on her injured arm. She shifted the unconscious woman to her other shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she left the deeper shadows of the alley and hurried away from the house. She prayed she wasn’t following in the footsteps of the fleeing Torghanists.
Her chosen route was north, opposite the way she’d been brought. Heading uphill past a line of tightly shuttered houses, her luck held. She paused several times to listen for sounds of pursuit, but other than the sound of a dog barking, the quarter was calm.
The narrow alleys of Arembeg gave way at last to a wider street. Kerian’s progress was slow, hampered as she was by the unconscious priestess and her own injuries. She had to halt and catch her breath several times. Each time, she tried to rouse Sa’ida, but the human remained senseless. Kerian wished for a fountain with water to revive the priestess, but Khuri-Khan had few public water sources.
After what seemed an endless hike, she came to a small souk. Half a dozen soukats were just beginning to set up for the day’s market. When they realized the elf woman sought water not for herself but for the unconscious priestess of Elir-Sana, a water bottle was promptly produced. Sa’ida commanded the highest respect, and the soukats seemed inclined to think Kerian was to blame for her current state. The Lioness didn’t bother enlightening them. For all she knew, some of them were followers of Torghan. She poured water into her cupped hand and applied it to Sa’ida’s face, all the while urging the priestess to wake.
Sa’ida’s eyelids fluttered and opened. She sat bolt upright exclaiming in shock.
“Calm yourself, Holy Mistress. You are safe.” Kerian said, glancing up at the soukats ringing them. None wore a particularly kind expression. “Much has happened, and we should not remain here.”
Sa’ida offered the water to Kerian. The owner of the bottle was displeased, but when Sa’ida thanked him for his generosity, he did not demand its return. Kerian’s throat was dry as the desert. She drank deeply.
When Sa’ida had recovered sufficiently, she blessed the soukats in the name of Elir-Sana, and the two women left the little square. From various landmarks, Sa’ida judged them to be more than two miles from the Temple of Elir-Sana.
Kerian began to relate the events that had occurred while Sa’ida was unconscious. She hadn’t gotten far in the tale when a clangor of bronze gongs sounded. A column of smoke was rising from the Arembeg district behind them. Its base was painted red by flames. The gongs were summoning able-bodied Khurs to fight the blaze. Kerian urged the priestess to a quicker pace and finished telling of their capture and escape. Sa’ida confirmed what Kerian suspected: there was no Torghanist temple in Arembeg.
The smoke was no longer a single column, but a wide curtain. The fire was spreading. Sa’ida pitied the poor folk who would lose their homes. Kerian was not so forgiving. Those were the same folk who had bolted their doors and done nothing when Torghanists dragged two prisoners, one of them a holy priestess, down their street.
“Our attackers may worship the desert god, but they take their pay from Neraka,” Kerian said. She described the bald man she’d seen in the empty house.
“Lord Condortal!” Sa’ida exclaimed.
She identified him as the official emissary of his Order in Khur, holding the rank of ambassador.
Kerian was not surprised. Wherever the Dark Knights went, subversion and violence followed. She described the pan of branding irons Condortal was preparing for them.
“How dare he!” The priestess’s usually calm countenance was flushed with outrage. “When Sahim-Khan learns of this blasphemy, he’ll have the foreigner’s head!”
“Calm yourself. It’s all part of the game. I’ve had brushes with his kind before.”
“Such insults cannot be borne!” Sa’ida insisted.
“Really? Is that the doctrine of your divine healer, or the creed of Torghan?”
Sa’ida halted in mid-diatribe, ashamed. Her steps faltered and she put a hand on the wall of a house to steady herself. She was not a young woman. Her long hair was tangled. Many of the ribbons and tiny bells woven through it had been lost. Her white gown was torn and dirty. When they were thrown from Eagle Eye, she sustained a hard knock, and a sizable bruise darkened her forehead over her left eye.
Recovering her equanimity, she apologized for her outburst and they resumed walking. More calmly, Sa’ida thanked Kerian for saving her.
Kerian asked, “By the way, what was it that knocked us off Eagle Eye and put you out for so long?”
“A powerful spell.”
“Condortal didn’t look like a spellcaster,” Kerian mused. “Do the worshipers of Torghan have magic like that?”
Sa’ida exclaimed, “They do not! There must have been a Nerakan sorcerer at our temple!”
The possibility upset her deeply. She grew more and more agitated at the idea of a foreigner practicing illicit magic in her city. Kerian comforted her with the thought that the Nerakan and his hirelings hadn’t been after Sa’ida. They could have struck at the Temple of Elir-Sana any time. They attacked only after seeing Kerian’s arrival. Condortal’s hirelings probably had orders to seize any elves who showed up in Khuri-Khan.
“It was simply their misfortune that the elf who showed up was you,” murmured Sa’ida.
When they reached the Temple of Elir-Sana, Sa’ida was astonished to see the khan’s armored horsemen drawn up in the avenue. They surrounded the blue-domed temple like a wall of glittering steel. Kerian was all for slipping away unseen, but Sa’ida had had enough skulking. Dirty, exhausted, and injured, the priestess stormed into the square. Fearing more treachery, the elf woman followed reluctantly in her wake.
“Marak Mali, is that you? What’s going on here?” Sa’ida demanded.
The commander of the troop, a handsome young man with an elegant mustache, looked past the line of horsemen. Shock bloomed on his face.
“Holy Lady, you are well! Bless the goddess!”
Reassured Sa’ida was indeed whole, he explained that he and his men had been sent by the khan to guard the temple from further attacks. The activities of the night had not gone unnoticed. Unlike the cowed folk of Arembeg, those living near the temple had not turned a blind eye. They ran to alert the city garrison. Sahim-Khan ordered a company of his elite horsemen to protect the ancient shrine and crush the Torghanists if they dared show their faces.
“The old rogue did well!”
Captain Mali chose to ignore the priestess’s disrespectful remark. His gaze fell upon Kerian, standing nearby, and he asked the holy lady who she was.
Kerian would have given her name, but Sa’ida replied quickly, “A courier from the khan of the laddad. She came to see me.”
Mali nodded. He’d known a laddad was about after seeing the griffon tethered in the temple courtyard. As loyal men of Khur, he and his soldiers had not desecrated the temple enclosure with their presence.
“It is irregular to entertain foreign emissaries without the Khan’s approval, holy one,” he commented cautiously.
“I wasn’t expecting her, was I?” the priestess replied tartly. “And before I could do more than greet her, the house of the goddess was invaded by mad Torghanists! They dragged us into the Arembeg district, but we managed to escape.”
He glanced southward at the smoke blackening the predawn sky. “So I see, beloved of the goddess.”
Sa’ida thanked him for his efforts and began to move away. “I must prepare myself,” she explained. “I trust you’ll be here all day?”
“We remain till the Great Khan recalls us.” Brows lifting, he asked, “Prepare yourself for what, holy one?”
“I have decided to go on a journey.”
The Lioness was elated, but allowed nothing to show on her face. It would not do for
a mere courier to shout triumphantly. Instead, she emulated the priestess’s dignified exit, following Sa’ida between lines of horsemen to the gate. The priestess carefully closed the gate behind them.
Sa’ida had taken only a few steps when the temple doors opened. Priestesses and acolytes streamed out, many of the latter in tears. They surrounded Sa’ida, loudly proclaiming their relief, praising the goddess for her safe return, and lamenting her bruised and battered state. With some effort, Sa’ida restored order. One acolyte was sent to bring ointments and clean bandages for the Lioness’s injured arm. The others were dismissed to their duties.
Once the youngsters were within the temple and out of earshot, Sa’ida addressed the priestesses. “Thanks to the goddess’s mercy—and the wits of Sosirah here—I am restored to you. I am going with Sosirah to minister to the khan of the laddad. Prepare my baggage for a journey of ten days, and include the instruments for a great healing.”
Bewildered but obedient, the priestesses departed. Kerian and Sa’ida followed them inside while Sa’ida dressed her injured arm. Kerian asked her about her change of heart.
“There is an old saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ The Dark Order and its Torghanist minions have grown too bold. Sahim-Khan will strike back at them, but it is time I do something myself.”
“And helping us may divert the Nerakans from Khur.”
“True, but”—Sa’ida’s brown eyes regarded her steadily—“your Speaker has a great soul. There aren’t enough like him in the world. He should be saved.”
Perhaps it was the fatigue of the long journey or the sudden release of tension after the brawl with the Torghanist fanatics, but Kerian’s relief was so strong she felt tears pricking her eyes. She threw her arms around the woman’s neck and hugged her hard.
“Ah, lady, remember who we are,” the priestess said but patted Kerian’s shoulder kindly.
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