Sanctuary

Thinking of the archivist, she twisted in the saddle and looked for him in the line of draped riders. One of Favaronas’s assistants had been killed by a stray nomad arrow during the set-to at the dune. The remaining two scholars were shorter than her warriors, and Favaronas especially was not an accomplished rider, making them easy to pick out. The archivist rode with knees stiff and feet pointed outward. From the bobbing motion of his head, she decided he was half asleep. Just as well. If she could afford the lapse in alertness, she’d doze, too. It would make the miles pass more swiftly.

When the horizon ahead lost all relief and became a monotonous line, the elves knew they had reached the high desert at last. Although flat, it did present strange features. The shallow sand beneath their horses’ hooves was marked with swirls, squiggles, and converging lines, as if way markers had been drawn. These were the handiwork of the only living creatures sharing the landscape with the elves: serpents, sand crawlers, spiders, and lizards. The sky took on a silver color like polished iron, and mirages shimmered over the sand. To the elves at the rear of the column, the lead riders took on a fantastic aspect as the broiling air magnified them and their horses, making them look ten feet tall. The lead riders also seemed to be treading through water, their reflections perfect in the tantalizing, phantom lakes.

The sun reached its zenith. Breathing was labor, not only forcing Kerian’s heavy chest to rise and fall, but having to take in the blistering air. She put a hand outside her white drapery. Even through her glove, it felt as though she’d plunged her hand into a campfire. Knotting her hand into a fist, she kept her arm aloft, signaling a halt.

Water was sipped sparingly. Favaronas asked for extra for his assistant, and Kerian allowed the elf—a Qualinesti named Armentero—an extra swallow. Although younger than his master, Armentero did not look at all well, but he waved aside Favaronas’s concern with a few brusque words.

Favaronas, face pink despite his sunshade, leaned close to Kerian and spoke. His mouth was too dry to manage more than a whisper. “The Speaker must be mad! Bring a hundred thousand elves through this inferno? And most on foot? Thousands would perish on the way!”

She gave a noncommittal shrug and took her turn with the water gourd. In truth, she didn’t think Gilthas realized the enormity of the difficulties involved in shifting their people from Khuri-Khan to Inath-Wakenti, even if they found the valley of legend. Such a migration would make the journey to Khur across the Plains of Dust seem a pleasant parade. The Plains were larger than the Khurish desert, but the part the elves had crossed was not nearly so hot or dry as this. To reach the Vale of Silence, the Speaker could bypass some of the High Plateau by following the caravan trail northwest to Kortal, but that presented a different set of dangers. Kortal lay on the border with Neraka. Once the Dark Knights learned of Gilthas’s scheme to save the elven race, they would stop at nothing to thwart it.

Kerian had agreed to undertake this expedition, but she believed that resettling the entire elven nation in the Vale of Silence was a preposterous idea. Favaronas was wrong. It wouldn’t be thousands, but tens of thousands who would perish on the journey. Half of their people would die, surely.

“You disagree?” Favaronas said, seeing her shake her head.

“What?”

“I said, perhaps we could rest here awhile till the sun declines.”

“Yes, we’ll rest here a few hours.”

The order was passed down the column, and the warriors dismounted, moving slowly in the breath-stealing heat.

Groups of warriors joined their sunshades together into a larger canopy, sheltering themselves and their horses. Beneath these, they cleared away the topmost, hottest layer of sand, spread canvas sheets on the ground, and took their ease. There was a little excitement when a nest of adders was uncovered, but the snakes were rapidly dispatched and everyone settled down. Soon, only the sentries were awake.

Feeling drunk with heat and weariness, Kerian muttered, “I hope the blasted valley is there, after all this effort.”

Favaronas lay facing her, his head resting on the bundle of manuscripts he’d brought along. Equally drowsy, he replied, “It’s there, General. The ancient chroniclers seldom lie.”

She snorted. Seldom lying was not exactly the same as telling the truth.

When they arose two hours later, they could not wake Favaronas’s assistant. Armentero was dead, his body rigid, skin blistering hot to the touch. Heat stroke, or “sun death” as the nomads called it. The inferno of the High Plateau had claimed its first elven victim.

Chapter 5