Paul Thompson - Sanctuary

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 untouched 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.”