Sanctuary

Hytanthas started to object, but Planchet cut him off. The valet thanked the priestess politely and began sorting through the clothing. Reluctantly, his companion did the same, discarding the torn garment he still wore. They decked themselves in sleeveless gebs and trailing outer robes. A scarf wrapped around the head concealed their tell-tale ears. Thus swathed from head to foot, and with the added cloak of night, their disguises looked authentic.

Planchet tugged the sash tight around his waist, bowed slightly, and walked toward the iron gate. Hytanthas hovered briefly, torn between the need to go with his comrade and the desire to try and learn more about the Nerakan Knight. Sa’ida ended his conflict by turning and leading her followers into the temple. The doors closed, the bright light was cut off, and Hytanthas was left in darkness.

“Come, lad,” Planchet called. “We’ve a long way to go.”

The journey across the dark city was a nervous one, but they reached Khurinost without serious incident. Dawn was breaking as they approached their greatest challenge, the city gatehouse, but luck was with them. A horde of soukats milled outside, eager to get back to their stalls in the markets. The mayhem of the day before had not discouraged them. Indeed, some spoke about how good business ought to be today as curious crowds came out to see where so much blood had been shed. Beset by the noisy, pushy tradesmen, the guards on the gate didn’t give the disguised elves a second glance.

Planchet headed straight for the Speaker’s tent. Hytanthas followed, but more than once the valet had to double back and retrieve the wayward warrior, finding him standing idle, his gaze distant, and him lost in thought. Planchet himself was bone-weary and ravenous. Neither he nor Hytanthas had eaten since yesterday morning, before this whole adventure began. He could only imagine how much worse the captain must feel, these events having come directly on the heels of the two tense days he’d spent disguised in the capital. But there could be neither rest nor food and drink until they’d reported to the Speaker.

A small group of court officials occupied the audience chamber, but the Speaker was not present. In his place, Morillon Ambrodel held court at the center of the disturbed crowd. As a result of the violence of yesterday morning, they quickly learned, a flood of Qualinesti and Silvanesti had returned from Khuri-Khan with stab wounds, broken heads, and worse. Forty-four elves were still missing. Planchet heard cries of “What are we to do?” and “The Speaker must protect us!”

His strong hands and penetrating voice parted the crowd. Pushing aside Qualinesti, Silvanesti, and Kagonesti alike, Planchet made his way to Morillon and asked where the Speaker could be found.

“Still abed, for aught I know. Rousing him is your job, I believe.” The haughty noble eyed Planchet’s scruffy human attire with distaste. “Where have you been anyway?”

The valet folded his arms and surveyed the assembly. Some of the elves were former senators of the Thalas-Enthia. Others were commoners, elevated by circumstance or the vote of their neighbors to become their representatives to the Speaker. Every face bore an expression of grave concern.

“I passed the night in the city, my lord, running and hiding from humans intent on cutting my throat,” he said.

Gasps circled the chamber. “Is the Khan turning against us?” asked a frightened senator.

The valet held up placating hands. “Don’t panic. The riot appears to have been started by followers of the Khurish god Torghan. When the Khan’s troops arrived to put down the fighting, they were told elves started it. Calm has been restored in the city, but I must report these events to the Speaker. He and the Khan need to meet to clarify what happened.”

“I must go to Sahim-Khan.”

All heads turned. Gilthas stood in the passage leading to his private rooms. Lord Morillon swept up to him.

“Great Speaker, you should not wait upon a barbarian lord like Sahim! Let him come to you. You have precedence as ruler of the most ancient race—”

“It’s his country, Morillon. I will go to Sahim-Khan as soon as he will receive me.”

Everyone spoke at once, some supporting Morillon’s attitude, others the Speaker’s. Woven through the discussion was frightened speculation about the possibility of war with the Khan’s army.

Hytanthas found his mind drifting. The debate raging around him sounded like the hum of bees disturbed in their hive. He was wrung out. He felt disconnected, distant. Then, unexpectedly, his gaze fell on a stranger.

Across the chamber, a stooped figure stood motionless amidst the milling elves. Covered in heavy layers of ragged brown robes, he was comically out of place, yet no one seemed to notice him. Senators moved around Hytanthas, bumping him occasionally, but they gave no sign of seeing the robed stranger. Hytanthas stared hard but could get no impression of a face, only a cowled darkness.