Sanctuary

Shobbat didn’t like elves. Even in exile they reeked of smug superiority and condescension. On the other hand, he didn’t hate them. Hate was a failing only the lowly could afford. A king must be above such petty sensations, lest they cloud his mind. No, the destruction of the elves was simply a necessary action if he was to circumvent the Oracle’s prophecy. They had to go, and that was that.

It wasn’t murder, but an act of statesmanship. Monarchs—and monarchs-to-be—did not commit crimes. The elves represented an obstacle to his attaining the throne of Khur. He’d overcome so many others: the meddling Hengriff who was nearly as smug as the laddad, the high priest Minok (no one would ever find him), and the smooth laddad schemer, Morillon. Removing him had been a spur of the moment decision. Shobbat realized Morillon had too much of the Khan’s ear to be allowed to live. Too often his clever tongue unhinged Shobbat’s carefully arranged plans.

He’d made certain the laddad noble was found. His death sowed doubt about Sahim-Khan’s authority and confusion about his loyalties. Shobbat had failed to kill the laddad king, but even wounding him had been very helpful. The laddad blamed Torghanists for the crime, just as the Sons of the Crimson Vulture blamed Sahim-Khan for the disappearance of their high priest. Everyone was in a proper turmoil and, at the right moment, Shobbat would step forward to restore order and bring glory to Khur once again.

Only two more needed to die before Shobbat moved against his father. One was the laddad queen, and the other, the slippery sorcerer, Faeterus. Shobbat knew he would have the most trouble with the mage. Faeterus came and went like smoke through a chimney, making him difficult to poison or stab. Perhaps the best way to get rid of a mage was to use magic.

The night crept by like a craven cur, fearful of being noticed. Shobbat’s servants had long since retired, leaving their master alone in his sitting room on the east side of the royal citadel. He passed the time by considering how he would redecorate the private quarters of the khan, once he held that position. His father reveled in the acquisition of wealth, a trait Shobbat shared, but Sahim had no taste, no sense of style. His quarters were a jumble of possessions, thrown together without any regard for arrangement or aesthetics.

Why didn’t even one of his hired blades return with news of success or failure? Perhaps Kerianseray had managed to evade death. Shobbat considered the worst possible case, that she had discovered her masked assailants were elves and forced one to reveal who hired him. What would she do then? She would go to her husband-not for protection but to get her liege’s sanction for her vengeance. But Gilthas was still very ill. Kerianseray had forbidden Holy Sa’ida even to see him.

Shobbat was in the most secure place in Khur. He had already destroyed an important Knight of Neraka. He had little to fear from one laddad female, even one so fierce as the Lioness. Except for her barbaric ploy with the sand beast, Kerianseray hadn’t stirred from the elven camp since her husband was wounded.

He put out his hand and let the weight of the goblet rest on his fingertips. He brought it to his mouth. One never touched a cloud cup with one’s lips. Instead, he held it a hair’s breadth above his open mouth and allowed a slender stream of nectar to pour from the cup and down his throat.

* * * * *

Kerian did not return to the Speaker’s tent. Wounded, she continued on to her original destination, the one place she felt she belonged. The warriors’ enclave. Almost half the army was in the field, patrolling the desert outside Khurinost. The rest were astonished when she staggered in amongst them, wan and bleeding. They settled her on a stool and put a clay cup of raisin wine in her hand. An elf knelt by her and began to dress her sword cuts.

“The Khurs are plotting against us!” she declared, describing her narrow escape from assassins. She did not mention her attackers were Silvanesti; more important was the one who had hired them. “They killed Lord Morillon, tried to kill the Speaker, and they’ve tried to slay me twice!”

“What shall we do, Commander?” asked a Qualinesti veteran.

She opened her mouth to give orders, then closed it with a snap. She gulped sweet raisin wine then said, “I am no longer commander of the army. The Speaker has relieved me.”

Surprise did not rob them of their voices. Numerous warriors demanded to know why.

“I was told that my transgressions were these: I left my company in the field to fly to my husband’s side. I fought nomads who attacked me first.” She lifted her head and stared at the elves around her. “I who have fought with all my strength to save the elven race from destruction! I continue to fight! If you’ll follow me, we can save our people!”