Sanctuary

“And how many gallons of this salve are we supposed to carry with us?”

The smile became a low chuckle. “The stone jar he gave me is small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.” She snorted, and Gilthas added, his voice pitched higher to mimic the apothecary, “However, to be efficacious, the balm must be applied quite liberally.”

Husband and wife laughed together. Amusement grew into something deeper. This was their last night together for some time, and they made the most of it.

Before dawn, Kerian rose and dressed without disturbing her husband. It wasn’t until she was in the outer room, ready to depart, that Gilthas appeared.

“Weren’t you going to say goodbye?” he asked.

The sight of him thus, clad in a threadbare gown, long hair awry, brought an unexpected rush of tenderness, but she couldn’t allow herself to give in to her feelings. She was departing on a risky mission. Her life and, more importantly, the lives of those she led, required all the skill and cunning of the Lioness, not the wifely sentiments of Kerianseray.

Striving for lightness, she said, “Think of your dignity, Gil! Should the Speaker of the Sun and Stars stand around outside, mooning like a lovesick maiden bidding goodbye to her swain?”

Matching her teasing tone, he replied, “I am Speaker. I’m only coddled like a maiden.”

She grinned. They embraced, but too soon for Gilthas she released him and stepped back. A flash of a smile, and in the next heartbeat she was gone, out into the predawn stillness. For a long time, Gilthas remained where he was, standing, staring after her.

The west wind picked up as the column of riders left the tent-town. Robed and scarved against the flying sand, the elves rode in silence, unaccompanied by flying banners or flourishing pipers. Not like the old days, when the warriors of Silvanesti never stirred out of their capital city without a band of pipers, one thousand of their land’s noblest youths. Or the army of Qualinesti, who marched and rode to the beat of massed drums, the golden sun standard of Kith-Kanan borne before them. No, the contingent of the exiles’ army departed quietly, their horses’ hooves making little noise in the soft, yielding sand.

Despite the discretion, their departure did not escape notice. In the saddle between two high dunes, a solitary figure lay prone, covered from nose to toes in a hooded robe the same color as the sea of sand. His eyesight was sharp as a falcon’s. Neither distance nor the low light hampered him; he counted the double line of elven riders, and noted their course. Due north.

The spy slid backward through the sand until he was hidden from the elves by the intervening dune. Rising, he raced down the wind-shaped hill. At the bottom, two mounted men waited, one of them holding the reins of his horse.

He vaulted onto his pony. Snatching the reins, he hissed, “The laddad are going north! Five hundred, with sword and bow!”

The youngest of the three pulled his horse around in a half-circle until it faced west. “I ride to my chief!” he said. “The Tondoon will know of this!”

The watcher spoke to the third, older man. “I will take word to the Mikku tribe. Tell the Weyadan the warning was true: the foreigners are on the move.”

The gray-eyed nomad nodded grimly. “By nightfall every tribe from the mountains to the sea Will know the laddad are loose!”

They galloped away, each taking his own direction. Before they were out of sight of each other, the constant wind had erased their tracks from the sand.

The army of elves rode on. Dawn broke, and the sun quickly purged the chill of night. An hour after dawn the temperature was already hotter than ever was felt in Silvanesti. It would only increase.

Nomads did not travel by day unless sorely pressed. Like the serpents, lizards, and spiders of the desert, they preferred to lie still during the day and go out by night. Elves, accustomed to working by day, continued this habit even when the desert sun bore down full strength. This led to a new saying among nomads: Only fools, vultures, and laddad go abroad by day.

The Lioness rode at the head of the column, feeling the sweat run down inside her breastplate and pool in the small of her back. Her face remained dry. As Soon as a bead of sweat formed on her forehead or neck, the insatiably thirsty air sucked it away.

She looked back over the elves following her and was struck by how unfamiliar they were-not just Gilthas’s scholars, Favaronas and his two assistants—but the warriors, too. So many of her old comrades had fallen during the last days of Qualinost, the march into exile, and the brutal crossing of the Plains of Dust. Not all the losses were hard to take. Senator Palthainon, a slippery politician who made his name undermining Gilthas’s policies, had vanished during the flight from Qualinesti. Whether dead or captured by Samuval’s bandits, no one knew, but the Lioness felt either a suitable end for the troublesome rogue.