Paul Thompson - Destiny

Inath-Wakenti is no sanctuary for the united Qualinesti and Silvanesti elves who followed Gilthas Pathfinder out of Khur. Forced to abide there or face their enemies, the elves find themselves choosing between dying of starvation and dying in combat. Some choose combat, and Porthios takes his army to Qualinesti to fight for the liberation of that benighted land. Kerian and Gilthas do what they can to hold their remaining people together and discover the secret to freeing the valley from its mysterious will-o’-the-wisps and its ghosts, but even their efforts are not enough.

Faeterus’s plans are nearly complete, as he makes his way to the Stair of Distant Vision, there to take the power granted by the Father Who Made Not His Children before he abandoned the valley to its sterile fate. No one is left to oppose the evil sorceror, save one frightened archivist, all too aware of Faeterus’s power—and willingness to kill those who try to stop him.

Help for the elves finally arrives from an unexpected source, dragged forcibly to the valley by the Lioness, but there is no guarantee of victory even then. No one knows if there is a reward for their patience or merely a faster death, and there are no battle lines to draw, for there is no enemy to fight. The will-o’-the-wisps cannot be killed, the ghosts cannot be banished, Inath-Wakenti cannot be made to bloom.

Hope does not flourish in the valley, not even as the Weya-Lu leave off their attacks and Sa’ida brings them hope. All is staked on the vision of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, the elf who united the tribes and brought them on their journey to this place, Gilthas Pathfinder—and he is dying.

Shadows were thick in the windowless corridor deep inside the Khuri yl Nor. Open oil lamps were set on corbels at intervals along the wall, but their flames scarcely penetrated the gloom. Here in the Nor-Khan, the central citadel of the khan’s palace, the corridors were not as confusing as those farther out. Even long-time courtiers had been known to wander for hours in the outer palace, seeking a particular chamber.

Sahim Zacca-Khur, Khan of All the Khurs, was not troubled by the maze of passageways or the lack of light. He had traveled the path from his private quarters to the throne room so many times, he could do it in utter darkness. He entered a small, private side chamber and paused, taking time to gather his thoughts and smooth his elaborately curled beard. Although he was past middle age, his black hair and beard showed no gray at all.

Lastly, he adjusted the crown on his head. The crown seemed heavier lately. True, he wore a mail coif beneath it to foil assassins, but the crown itself—a ten-inch-tall hat of stiff red leather, its lower edge decorated by strings of gold beads—felt weightier these days. The departure of the laddad ought to have lightened his burdens, but it had not. Even with the exiled elves now deep in the desert, Sahim’s troubles were no fewer.

The laddad had fled their devastated homelands of Silvanesti and Qualinesti to fetch up against the walls of Khuri-Khan like debris driven by a sandstorm. For five years, Sahim had allowed them to remain in exchange for the treasure they contributed to his coffers. With them gone, he was back to squeezing coppers from the soukats, and the merchants of Khuri-Khan were notoriously tight-fisted. Of course, Sahim knew how to squeeze.

He opened the door, and the guards within the throne room raised gilded swords in salute. Sahim waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the light. Braziers and brass candelabra were thick around the room’s perimeter, and all were lit, Considering the two guests awaiting him, he felt it desirable to banish as many shadows as possible. The usual menagerie of courtiers and councilors was long in bed. Only his bodyguards and the two visitors greeted Sahim. The visitors had arranged themselves as far apart as the space of the hall permitted.

Sa’ida, high priestess of Elir-Sana, stood near the throne. Her white robe and long white hair gave her an ethereal quality at odds with her matronly build and the unhappy expression on her face. The most senior cleric of the Khurish god of healing, she seldom left the confines of the holy temple, where men were strictly forbidden. Spending any time with a reprobate and heretic such as Condortal could hardly please her.

Lord Condortal, emissary to Khur for the Knights of Neraka, had come no farther into the room than absolutely necessary and stood close by the grand doors of the main entrance. Dedicated to increasing its power, and embracing sorcery and all manner of dark mysticism to obtain that end, Condortal’s Order had been working hard to extend its influence over Khur. Sahim always had walked a fine line with the Nerakan Knights, refusing a greater presence in his cities yet allowing a measure of freedom in the open deserts that surrounded them.

The dome of Condortal’s hairless head glistened with sweat.

Sahim knew it was not merely the heat of Khur’s climate that troubled him. The khan’s recently-enacted protocol required Condortal to leave his personal retainers outside, and the knight felt naked without them.

An anxious visitor was an incautious visitor, so Sahim had kept them waiting, stewing in each other’s company in the overheated hall. Sahim himself had worn his lightest robe, of fine red silk. Embroidered in white and gold, two rampant dragons, the symbol of his own tribe, faced each other across its chest.

He did not bother to acknowledge the salutes of his soldiers or the bows of his visitors but crossed the floor with a deliberate tread, enjoying the immensely satisfying sight of the throne that awaited him. It was his people’s greatest treasure, hidden from the dragon overlord Malys during her occupation of Khur. The tall, heavy chair was covered in sheets of hammered gold. Its fan-shaped backrest was set with two star sapphires, each twice the size of Sahim’s fist and known as the Eyes of Kargath, for the Khurish god of war. Raised panels on the gilding depicted glorious events from the reigns of Sahim’s predecessors.

Once he was seated and his robe arranged to his satisfaction, Sahim acknowledged the holy lady first.

“Great Khan,” she said immediately, “the followers of Torghan are again harassing my priestesses in the city. Today alone, three were accosted in the Grand Souks.”

“Assaulted?”

Sa’ida firmed her lips. “No, sire. Manhandled, but not molested. The goods they carried were struck from their hands and trampled underfoot.”

“Deplorable. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Condortal?”

“Deplorable,” repeated the distant Nerakan, “but hardly my affair, mighty Khan.”

“No?” Sa’ida turned toward him abruptly, the tiny brass bells braided in her hair clashing to underscore her anger. “It is said the Sons of Torghan take money from Neraka.”

“A vicious rumor, started by our enemies, the elves.” Condortal bowed to the outraged priestess, but there was no deference in his voice. As usual, he spoke much too loudly, and Sahim was glad he stood so far away. “Mighty Khan, is this why I was summoned? Crime in the city is not the concern of my Order. I will take my leave—”

“I have not excused you.”

Condortal, half turned toward the doors, halted, and turned back. The khan’s mask of royal composure had not altered, but his voice was imperious.

Shifting tone, Sahim assured Sa’ida her concerns had been noted. The City Guard was on watch for Torghanist activity. “These provocations are aimed at me, not your temple, holy lady, and I will deal with them. Several Torghanist leaders have been taken.”