Sanctuary

He stood and beckoned her to follow. To one side of the wide, circular room was an assortment of chests and cupboards containing official documents they’d saved from Qualinost. He unlocked a metal-strapped box and drew out a long, rolled parchment.

“One of my scribes found this in the Grand Souks. He paid eight steel for it.”

A high price. Unrolled, the parchment proved to be a map, a drawing of Khur from the beaches of Balifor Bay to the wall of mountains stretching from Kern in the north to Blöde in the south. Kerian’s disappointment was acute. Her husband possessed innumerable maps and charts. His scribes visited the souks every day, spending precious steel and asking about maps. Initially she had been encouraged by his efforts, assuming he was seeking information that would aid them in their quest to retake their homelands. But after months, when nothing useful had turned up, she lost interest.

As he spread the curling parchment with both hands, Gilthas told her eagerly that the scribe who’d found it had haggled the price down from fifteen steel. Such negotiation was the norm in Khurish souks; there would be loud discussion, much shaking of heads and gesticulating, the buyer pretending to walk away two or three times, before at last a price was settled, a deal struck.

“This isn’t just any map,” he assured her. “It’s almost two hundred years old.”

She considered the curled parchment more carefully. The detail on it was indeed amazing, with dry wadis and oases marked. In the lower right corner, where the cartographer would usually sign his work, was a peculiar sigil, a stylized bird with drooping wings drawn in black ink.

Kerian leaned in to study the map, and as she did so Gilthas felt the power, barely leashed, radiating from her, like body heat or the smell of her sweat. They were so often apart, he tended to forget how her presence overwhelmed him. Kerianseray was the most exciting woman he had ever known.

Their eyes met, and Gilthas saw again the brilliant, captivating warrior she’d been before defeat, exile, and privation had hollowed her face, hardened her views, and etched bitterness in her eyes. Despite their arguments, he loved her still. He regretted their growing estrangement. They disagreed constantly as the years went by-on policy, on strategy, seemingly on everything.

As his silent regard continued, Kerian opened her mouth to speak, but her words were interrupted. Planchet returned just then, to inquire whether they needed anything more.

Gilthas waved the valet inside and had him hold the right edge of the scroll. With his freed hand, Gilthas tapped a spot in the northern reaches of Khur, a place where the Khalkist Mountains split, enclosing a horseshoe-shaped valley. Although it was not distinguished in any way on the map, Gilthas smiled as his finger brushed this spot.

“This is the Valley of the Blue Sands,” he said, lowering his voice, as though wary of eavesdroppers. “Called by Khurish nomads the ‘Breath of the Gods.’”

Planchet’s surprise was wordless. Not so the Lioness’s.

“I’ve heard you talk of this place. I thought it only a legend! Where did you get this map?”

“I believe it came from a temple archive. When Khuri-Khan was sacked, many libraries were looted and their contents ended up in the souks.” He tapped the spot again. “I am convinced the valley is real, and this is its true location.”

The Valley of the Blue Sands was reputed to have a mild, balmy climate, quite unlike the rest of Khur. Annals from the libraries of Qualinost mentioned it, calling it Inath-Wakenti, Vale of Silence. Shielded by mountains, it was said to be one of the few spots in the world unchanged since the First Cataclysm. Elven chronicles even mentioned it as a place where the gods once dwelled. Scholars disagreed on what this meant. Some took it as literal truth. Others contended it was metaphorical.

The people of Khur were just as divided in their opinions. In Khuri-Khan the Valley of the Blue Sands was regarded as nothing more than a myth, a strange place where the normal conditions they knew-heat, blazing sun, eternal drought-were turned upside down. Cityfolk used it as a setting for absurd bedtime stories for their children. In the valley, according to the stories, clouds clung to the ground instead of the sky. Stones grew like plants. Animals talked liked men. Khur’s nomads, on the other hand, did not doubt the valley’s existence. None had ever been there, but they believed the ancient tales fervently.

With great secrecy, Gilthas had been assembling information about the Inath-Wakenti for over a year. He believed it could be the future home of the elven nation.

Kerian asked, “What makes you think the valley is there?”

“I’ve collected six other maps of the region-Khurish, Nerakan, even some old Solamnic maps from the libraries of Qualinost. None of them shows this particular horseshoe-shaped configuration of the mountains. I think I know why.”