Sanctuary

Gone were the embroidered silk robes and soft finery worn in Qualinost and Silvanost. Living in the desert demanded more practical dress. The Speaker had taken to wearing Khurish attire, a sleeveless robe of white linen, called a geb, cinched in at the waist by the leather cord known as the ghuffran. Where once he had cultivated the distant air and pale complexion of a palace-dwelling poet, now Gilthas was lean, brown, and serious. The weight of the elven nation rested directly on his shoulders, and although he refused to let the strain break him, it occasionally bore him down. The Speaker rose early, worked all day, and lived as frugally now as once he had dwelt in aimless luxury.

This day began as most did, with Gilthas in his audience room, standing with hands clasped behind his back in the center of a round carpet. Wine-red with ocher curlicues radiating out from a central sun motif, the carpet had come from Sahim-Khan, monarch (but not master) of Khur. A gift, the Khan had said, to make the Speaker more comfortable, but Gilthas knew its true purpose: to serve as a mocking reminder of his lost throne.

“What word from Lady Kerianseray?”

The Speaker’s question caused the assortment of courtiers and vassals to break off their various conversations. They were an odd-looking group, most in Khurish attire, but a stubborn few still persisting in the fashions of their homeland. A few feet from the Speaker, alertly watching, stood Planchet, Gilthas’s longtime valet and bodyguard. Like his liege, he was dressed in the local style, but the sword at his waist was of pure Qualinesti design.

The crowd of onlookers parted to reveal a young elf, thin and hardened by sun, wind, and privation, who stiffened in salute. He doffed his Khurish-style cloth hat and said, “Lord Taranath sends his greetings, Great Speaker!”

The room grew silent. If Taranath, and not the Lioness, had dispatched this courier, it could only mean the Speaker’s wife was no longer with the army.

“The army has returned from the southern expedition and is currently at Wadi Talaft,” the messenger continued, naming a dry lake south of the city which was normally used by the nomads as a natural corral for their herds of horses and goats. “Lady Kerianseray”—the young courier swallowed—“is not with them, sire.”

Before his assembled court, Gilthas would not parade his anxiety. As calmly as possible he inquired, “What happened, Captain?”

The courier reported the failure of Kerianseray’s gamble in the south. At every turn, the army’s entrance into Silvanesti was barred by minotaurs, and the bull-men’s strength proved overwhelming. Pursued into the borderland between forest and desert, the Lioness and a handpicked band of archers had remained behind, making a stand so the rest of the beleaguered army could escape.

All eyes were on the Speaker as be digested this news. His perennial sunburn did not hide the sudden pallor of his face. Planchet took an involuntary step toward him, then halted. As much friend and trusted advisor as bodyguard, still Planchet could not allow his concern to breach the Speaker’s dignity.

The courier reported that six thousand, eight hundred eighty-nine elves had made it to Wadi Talaft. This out of ten thousand. Murmurs swept the room.

While the Speaker’s subjects whispered about the heavy losses, Planchet spoke privately to his master. Gilthas nodded once, and the valet slipped quietly from the room.

The Speaker raised a hand. In the ensuing silence, he declared, “Our adventure in the south is at an end. We cannot waste any more of our slender resources on such a hopeless cause.” He then charged the courier to bid Lord Taranath return to Khurinost.

His words set the assemblage stirring anew. Captain Ambrodel saluted, but did not depart. “Great Speaker,” he said, “pardon my boldness, but more can be done in the south! We can send small bands of fighters secretly across the Thon-Thalas, into the interior of Silvanesti—”

“To what purpose? Bands of twenty or thirty partisans can hardly prevail against the bull-men.”

This came from a tall, elegant figure with shoulder-length, jet-black hair. He wore a heavy gold bracelet on each wrist and a silk robe the same color as his blue eyes.

“Lord Morillon is correct,” Gilthas agreed evenly. “It is beyond our power to liberate our ancient homeland. More important now is finding a place we can put down roots and become a nation again.”

The young captain glared at the haughty noble. Both were Ambrodels. Hytanthas was of the younger line that had followed Kith-Kanan out of Silvanost more than twenty-five centuries earlier when he founded the Qualinesti nation. He had grown up in the Lioness’s service. Slightly rounded ears and a thickening of his eyebrows betrayed the human blood in his ancestry, and his black hair was confined in a short, neat braid, as befit a soldier. Nevertheless, he bore a distinct resemblance to his distant Silvanesti cousin, elegant Lord Morillon Ambrodel.