Paul Thompson: Sanctuary

He stood and beckoned her to follow. To one side of the wide, circular room was an assortment of chests and cupboards containing official documents they’d saved from Qualinost. He unlocked a metal-strapped box and drew out a long, rolled parchment.

“One of my scribes found this in the Grand Souks. He paid eight steel for it.”

A high price. Unrolled, the parchment proved to be a map, a drawing of Khur from the beaches of Balifor Bay to the wall of mountains stretching from Kern in the north to Blöde in the south. Kerian’s disappointment was acute. Her husband possessed innumerable maps and charts. His scribes visited the souks every day, spending precious steel and asking about maps. Initially she had been encouraged by his efforts, assuming he was seeking information that would aid them in their quest to retake their homelands. But after months, when nothing useful had turned up, she lost interest.

As he spread the curling parchment with both hands, Gilthas told her eagerly that the scribe who’d found it had haggled the price down from fifteen steel. Such negotiation was the norm in Khurish souks; there would be loud discussion, much shaking of heads and gesticulating, the buyer pretending to walk away two or three times, before at last a price was settled, a deal struck.

“This isn’t just any map,” he assured her. “It’s almost two hundred years old.”

She considered the curled parchment more carefully. The detail on it was indeed amazing, with dry wadis and oases marked. In the lower right corner, where the cartographer would usually sign his work, was a peculiar sigil, a stylized bird with drooping wings drawn in black ink.

Kerian leaned in to study the map, and as she did so Gilthas felt the power, barely leashed, radiating from her, like body heat or the smell of her sweat. They were so often apart, he tended to forget how her presence overwhelmed him. Kerianseray was the most exciting woman he had ever known.

Their eyes met, and Gilthas saw again the brilliant, captivating warrior she’d been before defeat, exile, and privation had hollowed her face, hardened her views, and etched bitterness in her eyes. Despite their arguments, he loved her still. He regretted their growing estrangement. They disagreed constantly as the years went by—on policy, on strategy, seemingly on everything.

As his silent regard continued, Kerian opened her mouth to speak, but her words were interrupted. Planchet returned just then, to inquire whether they needed anything more.

Gilthas waved the valet inside and had him hold the right edge of the scroll. With his freed hand, Gilthas tapped a spot in the northern reaches of Khur, a place where the Khalkist Mountains split, enclosing a horseshoe-shaped valley. Although it was not distinguished in any way on the map, Gilthas smiled as his finger brushed this spot.

“This is the Valley of the Blue Sands,” he said, lowering his voice, as though wary of eavesdroppers. “Called by Khurish nomads the ‘Breath of the Gods.’”

Planchet’s surprise was wordless. Not so the Lioness’s.

“I’ve heard you talk of this place. I thought it only a legend! Where did you get this map?”

“I believe it came from a temple archive. When Khuri-Khan was sacked, many libraries were looted and their contents ended up in the souks.” He tapped the spot again. “I am convinced the valley is real, and this is its true location.”

The Valley of the Blue Sands was reputed to have a mild, balmy climate, quite unlike the rest of Khur. Annals from the libraries of Qualinost mentioned it, calling it Inath-Wakenti, Vale of Silence. Shielded by mountains, it was said to be one of the few spots in the world unchanged since the First Cataclysm. Elven chronicles even mentioned it as a place where the gods once dwelled. Scholars disagreed on what this meant. Some took it as literal truth. Others contended it was metaphorical.

The people of Khur were just as divided in their opinions. In Khuri-Khan the Valley of the Blue Sands was regarded as nothing more than a myth, a strange place where the normal conditions they knew—heat, blazing sun, eternal drought—were turned upside down. Cityfolk used it as a setting for absurd bedtime stories for their children. In the valley, according to the stories, clouds clung to the ground instead of the sky. Stones grew like plants. Animals talked liked men. Khur’s nomads, on the other hand, did not doubt the valley’s existence. None had ever been there, but they believed the ancient tales fervently.

With great secrecy, Gilthas had been assembling information about the Inath-Wakenti for over a year. He believed it could be the future home of the elven nation.

Kerian asked, “What makes you think the valley is there?”

“I’ve collected six other maps of the region—Khurish, Nerakan, even some old Solamnic maps from the libraries of Qualinost. None of them shows this particular horseshoe-shaped configuration of the mountains. I think I know why.”

He paused as Planchet poured them both another measure of nectar. Kerian, despite her skepticism, found herself caught by his evident conviction. She waved off Planchet’s offer of drink and urged her husband to continue.

“The other maps are all copies of copies of copies,” Gilthas said. “This map is an original. The human who drew it knew of Inath-Wakenti because he’d been there himself!”

He could give no plausible explanation for why later copyists would omit the valley, saying only, “Everyone in Khuri-Khan speaks of the place lightly. Even the city priests dismiss it as a legend—all but one. I don’t know whether the spot is cursed or blessed, but I intend to find out.”

Kerianseray suddenly realized what was coming. “You want me to go there,” she said. He nodded, the smile returning to his face. Her next words chased it away again. “Gil,” she said, “this valley is nothing more than a romantic fable. Even if it were real, it isn’t our homeland, and never can be.”

“The lands of our ancestors are lost. We do not have the strength to regain them—not yet. That time will come, my love, but for now, for the near future, we must dwell in a land of our own and not live by the grace of the Khurs. This forgotten valley could be our best hope!”

“It’s a pretty dream, I admit, but nonetheless a complete waste of time. Give me twenty thousand warriors, and I will set the frontiers of our true homelands aflame! We can take back what is ours!”

His demeanor hardened, and it was the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, not her husband, who said firmly, “Preparations for an expedition have begun. I expect you to lead it, General.”

“I see. As you command, Great Speaker.”

The mocking words fell like lead weights at his feet. She would have continued arguing, but he cut her off.

“I’ve chosen Favaronas, one of the foremost historians in my service”—he’d almost said in Qualinost —“to accompany you. You will lead an escort of five hundred warriors.”

She frowned, questioning the wisdom of sending so small a party. Gilthas reminded her that the mission was exploration, not conquest.

“Exploration?” she repeated. “This is a wild-goose chase. We should return to the Thon-Thalas and raise the people of Silvanesti against the minotaurs!”

“I have made my decision! The matter is closed!”

Planchet, devoutly wishing he were elsewhere, glanced from monarch to general, husband to wife. The burden of recent days was taking its toll. Never had he heard so open and bitter a breach between them.

“You are Speaker of the Sun and Stars. I will do my duty,” the Lioness said at last. There was no sarcasm in her voice, but her tone was icy.

She made as if to go, but Gilthas, relaxing in the face of her agreement, forestalled her. “You need not begin the journey just yet. I have another task I wish you to undertake right away, one for which you are uniquely qualified.”