Paul Thompson - Destiny

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.

Stepping back, Kerian cleared her throat and assumed her sternest demeanor. “What did you call me out there Sosirah?”

A smile graced the priestess’s lips. “It means ‘Lioness’ in our language.”

Dawn came, the perpetually cloudless sky above Khuri-Khan brightening from cobalt to azure with a swiftness that still surprised Kerian. While Sa’ida met with the elder priestess who would mind temple affairs in her absence, Kerian went to see to Eagle Eye. He was sleeping in a far corner of the courtyard, still weighted down by a heavy fishing net. Sensing her approach, he awoke. She spoke soothingly to keep him from struggling against the net and injuring himself. As soon as he was free, he stretched his limbs, filled his great chest with air, and gave vent to a full-throated screech. Many of the soldiers on guard outside the wall found themselves unceremoniously tossed to the ground as their horses bucked and reared. Kerian smothered a laugh.

Aside from superficial scrapes and his still-blind left eye, Eagle Eye seemed in fine shape. She led him to the same small pool from which he’d drunk on their arrival. While he quenched his thirst, four acolytes came out of the temple. They carried baskets and a brass tray.

“Food for you and the beast,” said the eldest girl. “Ointment for the creature’s eye.”

Kerian made to take the baskets of Eagle Eye’s provender, but the acolytes bypassed her. Unafraid, the girls set the baskets directly before the griffon. He watched them with fierce head held high then snapped up the pieces of meat, bolting each in a series of prodigious gulps.

Kerian ate more decorously, though not by much. She was devouring her third peach (Khuri-Khan was famous for its golden peaches) when one of the acolytes approached the griffon on his blind side. She held a jar of unguent. Kerian warned her not to get too close. The acolyte opened the jar of unguent and began to sing.

The Khurish tune was a simple one, a children’s song about an injured little girl having a wound dressed. To Kerian’s astonishment, Eagle Eye allowed the girl to anoint his injury. He even lowered his feathered head so she could better reach his eye.

“I’ve never seen him allow a human so close before,” Kerian said.

“All creatures know pain,” the girl replied. “And all creatures understand kindness.”

By the time the sun cleared the intervening buildings and set the temple’s blue dome ablaze, Sa’ida was ready. The entire college of Elir-Sana turned out to see her off. Kerian had worried she would try to take too much heavy baggage, but those fears proved unfounded. The holy mistress carried only two modest-sized cloth bags.

Kerian fixed the pillion pad to the rear of the saddle and buckled a spare strap to the harness. After securing the woman’s bags, she cupped her hands as a toehold for the priestess.

“I’m not so infirm,” Sa’ida said, frowning.

“Humor me, Holy Mistress. I’d rather you not sustain a broken leg even before we go.”

The priestess obliged, putting her foot in Kerian’s hands and letting the elf woman hoist her up. Eagle Eye turned his supple neck to regard the new passenger. Her face paled a bit at his close, steady regard, but she did not recoil, only bade him a polite good morning and thanked him for carrying her upon his back. Blinking, he turned to look at Kerian, and she was hard-pressed not to spoil Sa’ida’s dignified greeting by laughing.

Once Sa’ida was buckled securely in place, Kerian swung herself into the saddle and took hold of the reins. She addressed the throng of anxious women.

“I swear to you all, I will guard Holy Mistress Sa’ida with my life and return her to you safely.”

“Peace and good health!” Sa’ida said, and the women called their farewells.

Because of the added weight, Eagle Eye required an extra step to get them airborne. Sa’ida held Kerian tightly around the waist as they climbed skyward, but when the griffon leveled off, she relaxed.

“How long to the Valley of the Blue Sands?” she shouted into the wind.

“We should reach it a few hours before midnight,” Kerian shouted back.

Wary of another magical attack, Kerian did not have Eagle Eye circle for height as usual. She put him into a steepish climb, due north out of Khuri-Khan. Sa’ida was looking down, staring at the receding ground. Concerned, Kerian asked if she was all right. The priestess lifted a beaming face.

“This is wonderful!”

From the air the city appeared strangely flat, Sa’ida thought, like an image drawn by a skilled mapmaker. To the south, smoke still stained the Arembeg quarter, but she could see no flames. The fire must have been brought under control. She was still concerned for those injured or displaced by the fire, but the fault for that misery lay squarely with Lord Condortal. Her attention was drawn to the palace, glittering like topaz atop its hill. She wondered whether Sahim-Khan had slept well the previous night.

When he received the letter she’d dispatched to him that morning, she was sure his rest would be troubled for some time to come.

The frame was in place. A windlass turned by eight elves was set up on firmer ground a short distance away from the pit. The windlass controlled the rope that would lower the explorers into the hole and would raise them up again. A bronze hook dangled at the end of the rope. Hamaramis would descend first. He was adjusting the rope harness around himself. A company of dismounted warriors stood nearby in case of trouble.

Vixona was seated on the edge of the toppled monolith, keeping out of the way until she was summoned. Her attention strayed toward the far-off trees. The usual crowd of silent spirits had gathered to state at the intruders in their domain.

“I must be getting used to ghosts. They don’t seem so frightening today,” she commented.

“Then walk out there and greet them,” Hamaramis said, fastening the bronze hook onto his harness.

Vixona sniffed. Like the scribes, the general seemed to resent her. The scribes she could understand. They disliked revealing the secrets of their male-dominated craft to a female. General Hamaramis’s resentment she could not fathom. She wasn’t usurping any of his rights or privileges, only exercising her own hard-won skills.

“Are you ready?” asked Gilthas. Hamaramis nodded and walked to the hole, the heavy rope dragging behind.

The windlass creaked around. Hamaramis went up, his feet dangling over the black opening. He took a firmer grip on his torch and nodded.

“Lower away!”

Vixona had left her perch. One arm wrapped around the frame for support, she leaned over to watch the general’s descent. The rope was marked in ten-yard increments with dabs of white paint. He descended three marks, thirty yards, then the rope went slack.