Sanctuary

“It’s a hall,” Hytanthas whispered, head-down in the opening. “Lined with doors.”

Planchet murmured a curse. No nice empty storehouse for them—they were trying to enter a priestly dormitory!

He started to haul Hytanthas back so they could try another building, but the wiry young elf lifted his feet, gripped the edge of the doorframe, and somersaulted through the opening. Catlike, he landed noiselessly. Lifting his hands, he urged Planchet to use him as a ladder to climb down.

“Insolent whelp,” muttered the Speaker’s valet. Although less agile than Hytanthas (who was a quarter his age), Planchet was no graybeard. He lowered himself through the opening, hung for a second, and let go. Unfortunately, Hytanthas, in his zeal to help, managed to trip him. The two elves went down in a tangle, hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump.

They froze, expecting sleepy priests to emerge from the rooms. None did. No light showed beneath the doors. The holy ones slept on, undisturbed.

The elves hastened down the hall, toward a stair landing. As Planchet rounded the top of the steps, he ran headlong into a woman. She was clad in a pale gray gown and turban, and carried no lamp. The two intruders, looming up suddenly in front of her, stole her breath, and Planchet’s hand clamped over her mouth before she regained it. He pressed her against the wall, hoping to forestall any magic she might try to use against them.

“Curse it, we’ve entered a college of priestesses!” he hissed. “This isn’t Sa’ida, by chance?”

Hytanthas shook his head and whispered, “Be silent, lady. We intend no harm. We are unjustly pursued by the Khan’s soldiers and seek refuge in the Temple of Elir-Sana. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he smiled. “We’ll let you go, but you mustn’t raise an alarm. Yes?” Again, a nod.

The elves exchanged a look. After a moment’s hesitation, Planchet took his hand away. Immediately, the priestess hissed, “No men are allowed here! Ever!”

“Begging your pardon, holy lady, but we’re not men,” Planchet said reasonably, touching the tip of one pointed ear.

“Males! This is sacrilege!” Her voice was rising. “The Khan will hear of this violation!”

That was enough for Planchet. He snatched the scarf from her head, loosing a fall of gray hair, and gagged her with the cloth. She tried to yell, but only a thin gurgle emerged around the gag.

He took her by one arm, Hytanthas grabbed the other, and they propelled the priestess down the stairs. At the bottom, they found a small cupboard under the steps. Planchet pressed her inside. Whipping out his silk kerchief, he tied her ankles together. When he asked Hytanthas to surrender his own kerchief, the younger elf shrugged. He had none.

“What kind of uncouth stripling goes out without a kerchief?” Planchet snapped.

“A poor one, with no more possessions than he stands in!”

Planchet spun Hytanthas around and pulled off his geb, leaving him standing in leggings and low boots. The priestess’s eyes grew wider still at the sight of the bare-chested elf. Planchet had to admit he was an odd-looking sight. The dye he’d used for his disguise had been applied only to arms, neck, and face. His torso was several shades lighter.

Planchet tore a strip from the geb’s hem and used it to bind the woman’s wrists, then tore another to bind her wrists to her ankles, hoping to delay her escape. He tossed the ruined garment back to Hytanthas.

“And what am I to do with this?” Hytanthas asked sarcastically.

“Make yourself some kerchiefs,” Planchet rejoined.

The woman’s eyes, incandescent with fury above the gag, followed them as they closed the cupboard door.

They exited the building through a side door, which put them in an alley. The gate in the wall surrounding the Temple of Elir-Sana was directly ahead, across the promenade; the iron portal stood open. The patrol had already passed by, and all was quiet. They stepped out of the alley’s concealment and strode toward the temple gate.

As Hytanthas reached the gate, a deep voice rumbled behind them, “Stand where you are!”

Planchet hissed a soft curse. Both elves pivoted to face this new menace.

Hard leather heels thudded. A broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man strode forward. He was clad in leather trews and a short tunic, much like the attire worn by huntsmen in Qualinesti. The stranger’s togs were not the green or brown of the forest, however. They were an unsettling shade of purplish red. His wide face was clean shaven, with brows thick and black. He was head and shoulders taller than the two elves. His identity was obvious to both of them. It was the Nerakan emissary, Hengriff.

“That’s hardly proper attire for where you’re going,” he said, gesturing at Hytanthas’s torn geb. His other hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed sword, a slender court blade.

“Your own garb is out of place, too,” Planchet said wryly. “Don’t you stifle in all that leather?”