Sanctuary

The closely packed houses, rebuilt after the depredations of Malys and her minions, looked bizarre to elven eyes. Some squat and square, others taller and round, they boasted a variety of tile patterns. In the wealthier districts, the more subdued shades of cream and gold predominated; here, alternating stripes of blue and white were common, but poorer householders used whatever leftover tiles they could scrounge. Their homes might be speckled with any color in the rainbow-orange, green, red, bright blue. In addition, since the people of Khuri-Khan were taxed according to the length and breadth of their home’s foundation, most dwellings were wider at the top than at ground level. When the Lioness and Hytanthas reached the top of the narrow, winding street, only a thin strip of blue sky was visible between the overhanging eaves.

At this hour, most folks were at the souks. Aside from a bony gray cat, the only sign of life was a faint chiming sound. Kerian led the way across to the lower end of the avenue called Temple Walk. All of the major shrines of the city were located along this street, which ran east-west. The Khurs were mad with religion, worshiping gods and demi-gods only vaguely familiar to outsiders. All through the Vanishing of the Gods, the Great War, and the fall of the dragons, the Khurs had clung to their faith.

Halfway down its length, the Temple Walk doglegged to the north, skirting the immovable center of Khuri-Khan, the great artesian well known as Nak-Safal. The name was difficult to translate. “Bottomless Pool” was the simplest rendering Kerian had heard.

Their trip did not take them that far. Only a short way down Temple Walk was their destination, and the source of the chiming: the Temple of Elir-Sana. A stone wall surrounded the sacred enclosure. Only five feet high, it was more decorative than defensive. Along its top was set a line of curved brass rods. From each hung thin disks of the same metal. When the air stirred, the disks clattered against the rods, creating a bright chorus of sound. It was meant to mimic the gurgle of falling water, but to Kerian and Hytanthas, born and raised in the green land of Qualinesti, there was little resemblance. Still, the sound was pretty, and mysterious. When the wall was out of sight, the chiming seemed to emanate from the very air.

The wall enclosed a large courtyard, paved with creamy limestone. At the center of the courtyard sat the Temple of Elir-Sana. It wasn’t large, but Kerian thought it easily the most beautiful building in Khuri-Khan. It didn’t compare to the great sanctuaries of Qualinost, of course, but it had a certain panache. Built of pure-white marble, the temple, like the courtyard, was partly in shadow flow. When the sun was higher, the pale stone of temple and courtyard reflected the light with neatly unbearable brilliance.

The perfectly square temple was surrounded by a colonnade. The smooth, white columns were narrower at the base than at the top, echoing the odd construction of the city’s houses. Capping the temple was a dome carved of a single block of palest blue marble, a rare color for such stone. At least thirty-five feet in diameter, the dome had been polished until it was no thicker than a fingernail. How the Khurs of old had made such a marvel, much less raised it atop the temple, was a question no one living could answer.

The metal gate was open, and the two elves rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Kerian gave her reins over to Hytanthas, telling him he’d have to wait for her outside. “Males are not allowed inside this temple,” she said. “Neither are weapons, unfortunately.”

She looped her sword belt over the pommel of her saddle and left her dagger, still sheathed, as well. Hytanthas reminded her that they must be out of the city by sunset. She nodded. That deadline was still hours away.

Sahim-Khan had decreed, ostensibly for the elves’ own safety, that no laddad could remain within the city from sunset to sunrise. The Lioness had strong opinions about Sahim and his edicts, but before she could give voice to them, the scrape of iron caused her to whirl, instantly on the alert.

Four men in Khurish attire had darted into the courtyard through the only opening in the wall. Over their linen gebs each wore an affre-the hooded, ankle-length robe favored by nomads of the high desert. Scarves concealed their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. Each man held the nomad’s favorite weapon: along, narrow-bladed sword with no crossguard.

The Lioness had swiftly drawn her sword. “Keep off!” she warned them. “We’ve business with the holy priestess and no quarrel with you.”

“We’ve a quarrel with you, laddad. Today your lives end!” said one of the men, his voice muffled by the scarf. Immediately, all four attacked.