Paul Thompson: Sanctuary

“To what purpose? Bands of twenty or thirty partisans can hardly prevail against the bull-men.”

This came from a tall, elegant figure with shoulder-length, jet-black hair. He wore a heavy gold bracelet on each wrist and a silk robe the same color as his blue eyes.

“Lord Morillon is correct,” Gilthas agreed evenly. “It is beyond our power to liberate our ancient homeland. More important now is finding a place we can put down roots and become a nation again.”

The young captain glared at the haughty noble. Both were Ambrodels. Hytanthas was of the younger line that had followed Kith-Kanan out of Silvanost more than twenty-five centuries earlier when he founded the Qualinesti nation. He had grown up in the Lioness’s service. Slightly rounded ears and a thickening of his eyebrows betrayed the human blood in his ancestry, and his black hair was confined in a short, neat braid, as befit a soldier. Nevertheless, he bore a distinct resemblance to his distant Silvanesti cousin, elegant Lord Morillon Ambrodel.

The captain turned away from Morillon, pointedly addressing Gilthas. “Great Speaker, we were able to do much against the Knights back home. And they were greater in numbers than the minotaurs.”

Morillon said, “Back home you were on familiar ground, with a friendly population to help you. Nothing in Khur is friendly—not the people, not the terrain, not the climate.” He inclined his head to the Speaker. “Great Gilthas decides wisely.”

Captain Ambrodel said no more, but his eyes blazed with frustration.

Other soldiers in the assembly took up his notion of raiding Silvanesti, and a brisk discussion ensued. Lord Morillon, his attention on the Speaker, saw the fleeting expression of pain that crossed his monarch’s face. It was plain the Speaker’s thoughts were on the fate of his dashing, dangerous wife. Sunrise was only an hour past, but the Speaker looked to have slept poorly. He was known sometimes to walk the narrow lanes of Khurinost late at night, his responsibilities weighing heavily on him.

The debate was becoming increasingly loud, but Morillon’s cultured voice cut across it with practiced ease. “The Speaker is weary,” he announced. “Let us withdraw.”

Hytanthas would have lingered, but Morillon ushered him to the door, chiding the younger elf for taxing the Speaker’s patience. The captain’s frustration flared.

“We’re not in Silvanost any longer, my lord! Our Speaker has ears for all his subjects, not just the rich and titled!”

Cousin faced cousin: Morillon composed, indoor-pale; Hytanthas an inch taller, his suntanned visage red with anger. Yet the eyes were the same: the hard, unflinching blue of the sky arching over their tent city.

Hytanthas finally stalked away to carry the Speaker’s orders to Lord Taranath. Lord Morillon watched his cousin until he was lost from sight in the maze of narrow passages that ran between the adjacent tents. Morillon was a longtime courtier, having begun in service to Queen Mother Alhana, and he had long ago mastered the art of keeping his expression bland, even when irritated. Upstart youngsters with no manners vexed him greatly. Cousin or no, he marked Hytanthas as one of the Lioness’s hotheads and vowed to keep an eye on him.

Dismissing the young elf from his thoughts for now, Morillon approached the Speaker again. His coterie of Silvanesti lords followed closely.

“Sire, I have an audience with Sahim-Khan this afternoon. Are there any special messages you wish me to convey?” he asked.

“Tell him his climate is appalling.” Seeing no change in the Silvanesti’s expression, Gilthas added gently, “A joke, my lord.”

Morillon inclined his head. “Yes, Great Speaker.”

Gilthas sighed. “Assure the Khan of my goodwill and good wishes. As for the tribute—do what you think the situation supports.”

For the privilege of remaining in the Khan’s domain, the elves were required to pay Sahim-Khan a thousand steel pieces a day. This staggering sum came due every twenty days. Lord Morillon had been attempting to negotiate a lower price.

The noble acknowledged the Speaker’s vague command with a bow and departed, the gaggle of silent Silvanesti trailing in his wake.

Alone, Gilthas seated himself in the canvas cross-framed chair that now served as his throne, giving in to exhaustion and melancholy. As he rubbed his eyes, Planchet returned, entering through an opening in the far canvas wall. The valet paused at an imposing sideboard. Like most of the Speaker’s furnishings, it was a vagabond’s design, made of thin strips of wood and painted cloth. The skill of the painters had given it the look of polished wood and marble. Emptied of its contents, the cupboard could be collapsed in moments, put on a packhorse, and carried to the next night’s camp. Gilthas found it a fitting metaphor for his entire life, for the life of every elf in the miserable tent-city.

Planchet filled a clay cup with white nectar and handed it to his master. Gilthas accepted the cup, but his attention was not on the drink. “Well?” he asked.

“I’ve spoken to the seers. Six of our people and two Khurs. They will try to ascertain Lady Kerianseray’s whereabouts and… well-being.”

“Assuming she’s alive,” Gilthas whispered, then flinched, as though saying the words would draw doom down upon his wife.

“Sire, you know as well as I, the lady in question is very difficult to kill. Have faith! If anyone can pull the minotaurs’ tails and escape to boast about it, it’s Kerianseray.” He said it lightly, trying to coax a smile from Gilthas.

Planchet handed the Speaker a small bowl of dates, figs, and nuts, urging him to break his fast. Gilthas waved a hand, telling his valet not to fuss, that he would eat later.

“You say that every time I offer you food,” Planchet complained. “You cannot rule a nation on an empty stomach.”

His calm insistence—exactly the tone one might use with a recalcitrant child—coupled with a paternal demeanor, had the desired effect: Gilthas plucked a fig from the bowl and put it in his mouth.

“Happy?” he said, smiling slightly around a mouthful of fruit.

“Very happy, Great Speaker.”

With that, the longtime valet and sometime general of the royal guard withdrew, a cheery, “Rest well, sire,” floating over his shoulder as he disappeared.

Before the Battle of Sanction, when he’d put Planchet in charge of the Qualinesti troops, Gilthas had told him just how important he considered him to be. Friend, advisor, father-figure, bodyguard, Planchet was all of that and more. Kerianseray was Gilthas’s heart, his love, his life; Planchet, he’d come to realize, was his strength, the firm center in the swirling chaos of their lives.

Gilthas lifted the cup to his lips again. His hand trembled. Nettled by the sight, he drank quickly, draining the cup. The nectar was young and raw, inclining to sourness. No one could make good wine while in headlong flight. Nectar, like a nation, needed stability to reach its full potential.

He poured another measure. One had to make do with what one had. He drained the cup again, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

The world was turned on its head. Filthy goblins prowled Qualinost, despoiling the forested lanes of Kith-Kanan’s city. Great blustering minotaurs inhabited the crystal halls of Silvanost. The bulky monsters could scarcely fit through a typical elven doorway—what use would they have for an entire city? To think such uncouth hands held the twin epitomes of grace, culture, and civilization! The images in his mind—or perhaps the raw wine-made sickness rise in Gilthas’s throat. Coughing, he fought it down.

He chided himself for falling into that trap, thinking that places made a nation. Cities and towers, gardens and temples were only chattel. What really mattered was life, and the things that ensured life: food, water, simple shelter. Those essentials must be secured if the elven race was to survive.