Sanctuary

The captain turned away from Morillon, pointedly addressing Gilthas. “Great Speaker, we were able to do much against the Knights back home. And they were greater in numbers than the minotaurs.”

Morillon said, “Back home you were on familiar ground, with a friendly population to help you. Nothing in Khur is friendly-not the people, not the terrain, not the climate.” He inclined his head to the Speaker. “Great Gilthas decides wisely.”

Captain Ambrodel said no more, but his eyes blazed with frustration.

Other soldiers in the assembly took up his notion of raiding Silvanesti, and a brisk discussion ensued. Lord Morillon, his attention on the Speaker, saw the fleeting expression of pain that crossed his monarch’s face. It was plain the Speaker’s thoughts were on the fate of his dashing, dangerous wife. Sunrise was only an hour past, but the Speaker looked to have slept poorly. He was known sometimes to walk the narrow lanes of Khurinost late at night, his responsibilities weighing heavily on him.

The debate was becoming increasingly loud, but Morillon’s cultured voice cut across it with practiced ease. “The Speaker is weary,” he announced. “Let us withdraw.”

Hytanthas would have lingered, but Morillon ushered him to the door, chiding the younger elf for taxing the Speaker’s patience. The captain’s frustration flared.

“We’re not in Silvanost any longer, my lord! Our Speaker has ears for all his subjects, not just the rich and titled!”

Cousin faced cousin: Morillon composed, indoor-pale; Hytanthas an inch taller, his suntanned visage red with anger. Yet the eyes were the same: the hard, unflinching blue of the sky arching over their tent city.

Hytanthas finally stalked away to carry the Speaker’s orders to Lord Taranath. Lord Morillon watched his cousin until he was lost from sight in the maze of narrow passages that ran between the adjacent tents. Morillon was a longtime courtier, having begun in service to Queen Mother Alhana, and he had long ago mastered the art of keeping his expression bland, even when irritated. Upstart youngsters with no manners vexed him greatly. Cousin or no, he marked Hytanthas as one of the Lioness’s hotheads and vowed to keep an eye on him.

Dismissing the young elf from his thoughts for now, Morillon approached the Speaker again. His coterie of Silvanesti lords followed closely.

“Sire, I have an audience with Sahim-Khan this afternoon. Are there any special messages you wish me to convey?” he asked.

“Tell him his climate is appalling.” Seeing no change in the Silvanesti’s expression, Gilthas added gently, “A joke, my lord.”

Morillon inclined his head. “Yes, Great Speaker.”

Gilthas sighed. “Assure the Khan of my goodwill and good wishes. As for the tribute-do what you think the situation supports.”

For the privilege of remaining in the Khan’s domain, the elves were required to pay Sahim-Khan a thousand steel pieces a day. This staggering sum came due every twenty days. Lord Morillon had been attempting to negotiate a lower price.

The noble acknowledged the Speaker’s vague command with a bow and departed, the gaggle of silent Silvanesti trailing in his wake.

Alone, Gilthas seated himself in the canvas cross-framed chair that now served as his throne, giving in to exhaustion and melancholy. As he rubbed his eyes, Planchet returned, entering through an opening in the far canvas wall. The valet paused at an imposing sideboard. Like most of the Speaker’s furnishings, it was a vagabond’s design, made of thin strips of wood and painted cloth. The skill of the painters had given it the look of polished wood and marble. Emptied of its contents, the cupboard could be collapsed in moments, put on a packhorse, and carried to the next night’s camp. Gilthas found it a fitting metaphor for his entire life, for the life of every elf in the miserable tent-city.

Planchet filled a clay cup with white nectar and handed it to his master. Gilthas accepted the cup, but his attention was not on the drink. “Well?” he asked.

“I’ve spoken to the seers. Six of our people and two Khurs. They will try to ascertain Lady Kerianseray’s whereabouts and… well-being.”

“Assuming she’s alive,” Gilthas whispered, then flinched, as though saying the words would draw doom down upon his wife.

“Sire, you know as well as I, the lady in question is very difficult to kill. Have faith! If anyone can pull the minotaurs’ tails and escape to boast about it, it’s Kerianseray.” He said it lightly, trying to coax a smile from Gilthas.

Planchet handed the Speaker a small bowl of dates, figs, and nuts, urging him to break his fast. Gilthas waved a hand, telling his valet not to fuss, that he would eat later.

“You say that every time I offer you food,” Planchet complained. “You cannot rule a nation on an empty stomach.”

His calm insistence-exactly the tone one might use with a recalcitrant child-coupled with a paternal demeanor, had the desired effect: Gilthas plucked a fig from the bowl and put it in his mouth.