Sanctuary

“We found tracks of laddad horses, of a laddad army, nearby. The Khan’s soldiers were in the city, and no foreign soldiers have come over the mountains since the red beast perished. The only killers in the area were the laddad army and its female warmaster!”

Hytanthas could remain silent no longer. Before Planchet could speak, the younger elf burst out, “General Kerianseray didn’t slaughter anyone! It was a sand beast controlled by the will of an evil sorcerer! It nearly killed me, too!”

His outburst provoked the nomads. The younger warmasters actually drew swords. Planchet, alarmed, raised a placating hand. At his back, he heard the concerted creak of a hundred elven bows being drawn, all because of this simple gesture. If his arm fell, the nomads would die.

“Stay your hands!” Planchet said sharply, realizing his error.

Adala spoke with equal harshness to her nomads. Swords were grudgingly sheathed. Bowstrings relaxed. Adala’s gaze skewered Hytanthas.

“The Speaker’s woman led the laddad in the desert,” she said. “That I know. Who is this sorcerer you speak of?”

At Planchet’s nod, Hytanthas told her what they had learned of Faeterus, that he was in the Khan’s pay, was perhaps an elf, but certainly a criminal, and had caused the massacre with one of his nefarious creatures.

The nomad delegation muttered among themselves. Adala appeared to weigh something in her mind, found an answer, then folded her hands across her donkey’s neck.

“Very well. Planchet of the laddad, tell your Speaker this:

Those on High teach us mercy is the gift of the strong, so I grant you mercy. You may go in peace.”

The elven warriors were astonished, Planchet less so. “Go where, Weyadan?” he asked.

“Anywhere beyond the borders of Khur.”

“And if we refuse?”

Eye to eye, Adala stared at her opponent. In her black matron’s robes, the Weya-Lu woman did not look much like the loyal bodyguard of the elven Speaker, but inside, their hearts were made of the same stern stuff. Both knew it.

“Then there will be war. Terrible war, with no conclusion but annihilation.”

Adala’s words sent a chill through everyone present. An instant later, a cold breeze swept over the dunes, carrying heavy droplets of rain and more than a little sand.

Members of both delegations were shifting on their mounts, eyeing each other, muttering to their comrades. Planchet did not move. He kept his attention on the Weyadan. She had not moved either, and something told him she was not done yet. He was right.

“In exchange for this mercy,” she said, “you must give us the slayers of our families, both of them. We will do them justice.”

At that Hytanthas jostled forward. Planchet snagged his reins, stopping him well short of the nomads, but Bilath, Bindas, and Hagath of the Mikku interposed themselves between their leader and the furious young elf.

“Our commander is not a murderer!” Hytanthas shouted. “As for the mage, we want him too. You cannot charge his crimes to us! Savages! You’re the ones who murdered Lord Morillon, aren’t you? What mercy did you show him? He was left to rot in the desert with his throat slashed!”

“Be silent!” Planchet cried in as great a voice as anyone had ever heard him use. “Go back to camp! Now!”

Snatching his reins free, Hytanthas galloped back through the lines of the escort. He did not return to the city as ordered, but galloped directly over the intervening sand hills to where the Lioness was poised with her army. Only his wound had kept him from joining her in the first place; not even that would stop him now.

Adala looked to the dark sky. Would her maita come forth again? Would the fire from on high strike down the laddad? Or would the sun break free of its shroud and shine on her, highlighting her righteous cause?

Neither happened. Instead, a squall of tepid rain lashed the motionless parties. Adala drew her veil close around her face and pointed an accusing finger at Planchet.

“It is on your head!” she intoned. “The choice of life or death, war or peace, is yours. Give over the Speaker’s woman and the laddad sorcerer. You have until the next sunrise. Ever after, we are enemies!”

He made no reply, only sat stiffly in the saddle as the rain poured down. Adala turned Little Thorn’s head and trotted away. Her warmasters and chiefs filed behind her, watching the elves warily for signs of treachery.

Rain fell harder. Finally, Planchet tilted his head back, to let the rain wash down his sorrowful face.

“Save us all from true believers,” he muttered.

* * * * *

Sahim-Khan strode briskly through the corridors of his citadel while horns blasted outside. Every living soul in the Khuri yl Nor was in motion, running hither and yon, carrying arms or foodstuffs or valuables deeper into the fortress. Sahim parted the chaos as he went. Even in their terror of a nomad attack, servants moved nimbly out of his way. In the citadel courtyard, he found General Hakkam and Prince Shobbat.

“Why are the nomads here?” Sahim demanded.