Paul Thompson - Sanctuary

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.

Even in the best-run homes—

“Are you saying it isn’t the Khan I should be worrying about, but someone else in the city?”

The high priestess seemed to feel she’d already said too much. Abruptly she tucked her hands into her sleeves and bowed her head.

Kerian tried to persuade the priestess to reveal her thoughts. She strove to keep her voice level, but passion throbbed in every syllable. “Help us, Holy Mistress. Help me! I want to lead my people out of Khur, back to our ancestral lands, as soon as possible. We’re defenseless here. I have tried to make the Speaker see this, but he will not.”

“Yes, convince your king to leave Khur. That is the best course.”

“He will not listen!” Kerian kicked the sand, sending a spray of white grains into the air. “He’s tired of fighting and dreams of a new elven homeland in Khur, in that mythical valley!”

The priestess lifted her head abruptly, the tiny bells braided into her hair jangling discordantly. “The Valley of the Blue Sands does exist,” she said quietly. “The analects of the goddess speak of it quite clearly. She calls it ‘the refuge of the damned’.”

Kerian snorted. Maybe Gilthas was onto something. Who was more damned these days than elves? She pushed these thoughts aside and concentrated on fulfilling her mission. “The Speaker respectfully requests any documents you might have with information on the valley. Will you lend them, Holy Mistress?”

The priestess raised a hand, and a young acolyte appeared silently in answer. Sa’ida murmured to the girl, who bowed and left.

“I gladly dispense the wisdom of the great goddess,” Sa’ida said. “I hope it will persuade your king to abandon this impossible notion.”

Kerian nodded. “Holy Mistress, I agree with you. My people’s future does not lie in Khur.”

In moments, the acolyte returned, accompanied by three others. Each of the four bore a leather case about three feet long. Sa’ida checked the clay tags on the four cases and gave her permission for them to be turned over to the Lioness.

As Kerian took one, the priestess reached out, resting a hand on hers. “I entrust these sacred texts to you, Kerianseray,” she said gravely. “By your word they must be safeguarded.”

Equally grave, the Lioness accepted the charge. She asked whether the priestess would land in trouble with Sahim-Khan, or the Torghanists, for helping the elves.

“Why should I, a humble servant of the great goddess, fear the enmity of men?” asked the priestess.

Humble servant? The Lioness was amused. The old woman before her exerted enormous influence in Khuri-Khan, not only at court but among the people as well. In a fiercely patriarchal society, the healer-priestesses of Elir-Sana were accorded a respect and reverence given to no other women. This so-called humble servant was vital to the rule of Sahim-Khan. If the healers of Elir-Sana ever chose to withhold their skills from Sahim-Khan, his city would be in dire straits indeed.

Before leaving, Kerian offered a contribution to the temple’s coffers. The high priestess gave her a severe look. “Alms are always welcome, but one cannot buy the favors of the goddess.”

“I don’t want the goddess’s favor, just yours.”

Sa’ida rose to her feet, face flushing. “You offend!”

“Forgive me, Holy Mistress. The cowardly attack on myself and my young aide distressed me. Please forget my unfortunate words.”

Mention of the tattooed assassins had the desired effect. Sa’ida was plainly upset by the incident. In many ways, Torghan and Elir-Sana were polar opposites, even enemies. The god of the unforgiving desert, of revenge and rage, had little common ground with the goddess of healing, humility, and plenty.

Kerian bowed and turned to go, the three acolytes carrying the other leather cases trailing in her wake. However, Sa’ida called her back.

Stepping away from the Lioness, and turning to face the statue of Elir-Sana, the high priestess spread her hands and sank to her knees. She began to chant a rhythmic, unintelligible sentence. The three acolytes standing near Kerian bowed their heads immediately, but the elf general watched in wide-eyed fascination as the priestess reached out toward the statue’s base. Her hand passed into the marble pedestal without hindrance. The Lioness blinked rapidly, suspecting a trick of the light.

On her feet again, Sa’ida held out a closed fist. “For your bravery, and to ease your suffering, the goddess presents you with a gift,” she said.

This proved to be a smooth, heavy object. About the size of a goose egg, it resembled a giant opal, its white surface veined with pink, green, and gold. Pretty, but the Lioness couldn’t begin to fathom its purpose. She asked, and Sa’ida gave a suitably cryptic answer.

“It will stop the killing—at least for a time. Keep it close by, seeker.”

Their meeting was at an end. With Sa’ida in the lead and the three acolytes trailing behind, Kerian departed the sanctuary. The high priestess did not speak again until they reached the final portal, the double doors that would take Kerian outside. Sa’ida sent the three acolytes out, leaving her alone briefly with the Lioness.

“You and your people should depart Khur as soon as possible. No man in Khur is your friend—and only sorrow can come of your remaining here.”

With that, the high priestess of Elir-Sana turned and walked back into her temple’s shaded depths.

The Khuri yl Nor was a conglomeration of halls, corridors, and antechambers, all grouped around a central citadel, the great keep known as the Nor-Khan. As much a defensive position as the residence of the Khan, the Nor-Khan boasted thick walls of stone and brick, a massive roof, and absolutely no windows. The interior was always dark and cool, no matter the time of day.

The low light couldn’t hide the magnificence of the Sapphire Throne of Khur. Torchlight only seemed to enhance its beauty. The six-foot-tall chair rested on a wide dais at one end of the throne room. Constructed of wood and covered with hammered gold, the throne was one of the few treasures successfully hidden from Malys and her minions. Its fan-shaped backrest contained two perfect star sapphires, the so-called Eyes of Kargath, the Khurish god of war. The flames of torches, reflecting in the gems, imparted an eerie appearance of life to them.

The Khan of All the Khurs, Sahim Zacca-Khur, was sitting in his impressive throne. He was richly attired in a trailing robe of sea-green silk slashed at the cuffs and hem with stripes of darker jade. Although he was past middle age, his black beard carried no hint of gray in its thick curls. Both chin and nose were proudly outthrust, like the prow of a ship. Heavy gold rings hung from his earlobes. On his head he wore the crown of Khur—a ten-inch-tall conical hat of stiff, red leather, its lower edge decorated by a band of hammered gold.