Sanctuary

Wind gusted through the sea of tents, flapping roofs, and shivering taut anchor lines. A hard rain had lashed Khurinost just after sunset, and the sodden tents steamed in the cool night air. No one slept. Elves clustered in the narrow lanes or sat in groups before fires in open squares. Talk was of the growing dangers around them—the attempt on the Speaker’s life, the murder of Lord Morillon, the attack on the city gates by Khurish fanatics. Morillon was respected by many, the Speaker loved by all, yet no one in Khurinost would survive if the water supply was cut off.

The gates had reopened, but talk turned inevitably to the fact that it could so easily happen again. Half the elves believed it would be necessary to storm Khuri-Khan and secure the wells. The other half felt it was time to leave. Exactly where they would go was a subject of great debate.

With Gilthas sleeping, Kerian took some time for herself. General Hamaramis, a fastidious fellow, owned one of the best bathtubs in Khurinost. His tent was currently unoccupied, as he was with his troops keeping watch on the Khurs, so she stole away for a much-needed bath. Long days in the desert had left her feeling dry, dirty, and wrung out like a washcloth. Worse, the stench of her encounter with the sand beast’s carcass could not be overcome by her usual quick ablutions in a basin of water. The odor of decay had permeated every part of her, right down to the roots of her hair. If she didn’t clean up soon, she thought it might never come off.

Hamaramis’s tub was a homemade contraption comprising tent stakes supporting heavy canvas sides, but just now it seemed more luxurious to Kerian than the gold, silver, and porcelain fixtures in the palace of Qualinost. She hauled her own water from a brass tank outside the general’s tent, and she didn’t bother heating it. It was nearly the warmth of blood anyway, thanks to the Khurish climate.

Long hunted by enemies, the Lioness was too wary to strip to the skin and chose to retain her underclothes. Before stepping into the tub, she carefully combed the thick, grit-encrusted mass of her hair. Sand and tiny gravel cascaded to the floor with every stroke.

The tub wasn’t long enough for her to stretch out full-length. Once in, she pulled up her knees and leaned back, submerging head and hair. The clear water turned gray.

The old general disdained soap as an effete affectation preferring to scrub himself with a sponge. Kerian eyed the creamy brown sponge, which hung on a peg inside the tent decided it looked rough enough to plane wood; and made do with a scrap of linen for a washcloth.

She straightened her legs, leaning against the back of the tub, and closed her eyes. The tent was quiet, save for intermittent gusts of wind outside and the tapping of some metal object, stirred by the breeze. With effort, she cleared her mind and let the quiet and blessed moisture work their soothing magic. She dozed.

“That looks wonderful.”

She didn’t start, since she’d heard him coming and recognized his halting gait, but she was surprised to see him.

Looking more than frail, Gilthas leaned against the wooden doorframe. He’d donned a geb, the sleeveless garment hanging loosely without benefit of belt. It bulged over the bandages on his right shoulder. A dressing gown was draped over his shoulders. The stump of a spade handle served him as a cane.

“I can’t believe you’re up and about,” she said.

“It’s a shock to me too,” he replied, smiling faintly. Without warning, he began to slide off the jamb. Kerian was out of the tub in a flash, catching him before he hit the floor.

Hamaramis’s furniture, like the general himself, was rather spare. Kerian eased Gilthas onto a short, unpadded bench and stood looking down at him, hands on hips, dripping on the carpet.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed. You’ll aggravate your wound.”

“It’s healed.” She looked surprised, and he added, “High Priestess Sa’ida is quite skilled.”

“I gave orders she wasn’t to be admitted!”

He was taken aback. “Why?”

“It was a human who wounded you. We’ve had quite enough favors from them!”

Gilthas coughed, wincing. “You wouldn’t say that if it was your shoulder,” he rasped. But she would, of course.

Annoyed, yet unwilling to berate him while he was so weak, she decided to finish her bath. Taking up Hamaramis’s rough sea sponge and stepping back into the tub, she dedicated herself to scrubbing feet and legs while her husband watched.

Finally, the heavy silence and his grim expression were too much. “Whatever it is, just say it!” she said, tossing the sponge into the bath with a splash.

“I’m trying to find the words.” His voice was calm, but concern laced every syllable. “You left your command in the Valley of the Blue Sands?”

“Yes.”

“Kerian, this is a grave matter.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. But Glanthon is a competent officer. He’ll get his warriors, and Favaronas, home.”