The great carved door swung wide, and standing in its gap was an elf wearing a long, heavy gown of spun white cloth, over which he wore a larger, looser garment stitched with intricate script Kiril didn't recognize. His face, while certainly that of an elf, was strangely weathered. Despite his fey blood, his skin marked him as one who'd spent a lifetime in the sun. "My name," said the man, "is Essam.
Enter." He moved to the side and gestured inward. Behind him Kiril saw the heart of the dervish community of Al Qahera. The entrance, wide as it was, opened onto a far larger and deeper plaza, enclosed on all sides by stone balconies, galleries, and square tunnels leading to hidden rooms. The entire plaza was brilliantly lit by hundreds of clove oil lanterns. Great bronze plaques with calligraphic script hung from every surface that didn't sport a tapestry of intricate weave. A beautiful mosaic design was laid out in tiles that paved the entire floor of the plaza. A high-walled stone well protruded from the plaza's center. From where she stood at the entrance, Kiril scented the cool tang of deep water. People moved everywhere-men, women, and children. All were elves, and all were weathered like Essam. The adults wore flowing, colorful gowns, but the children wore loose pants and simple tunics. One edge of the wide plaza, which was well over a hundred paces in diameter, hosted a bazaar with several semipermanent stands. The elves of Al Qahera were thickly gathered there. But the appearance of strangers had apparently distracted the Qaherans from the merits of their transactions. Everyone in the subterranean, lantern-lit plaza looked in her direction. Essam clapped his hands and yelled, "Call the healer-we have visitors, and one is ill. Come! Do not stare, my friends-we shall have time to make their acquaintance when our visitors have rested and washed away the burdens of their journey." Essam paused and smiled openly at Kiril. "Perhaps we might hope for a story from our guests, describing how they found themselves on our porch, running before a gowaan storm." Several children rushed forward, curious, along with a young elf woman in a blue caftan, hardly older than a child herself. She nodded at Kiril and said, "My name is Fadheela. You and your friend can stay in our guestroom. My father is a healer." Kiril blinked, taking in the comfort of the round chamber. A covering stitched with desert stars hung from the ceiling.
Soft sheepskin lay across the floor. A fire in a tiny side alcove burned away the subterranean chill. No smoke lingered in the room-the fireplace was apparently well vented. Kiril wondered briefly how fresh air was drawn in, then shrugged. The elves of Al Qahera had obviously worked it out.
"I do feel much better, Kiril," said Thormud in an irritated tone.
The dwarf sat propped up on the small bed, his back against a wooden headboard carved with still more elaborate designs. "I'd like to go down to the plaza tonight to talk with the Qaherans." "You heard Fadheela's father. You've caught some sort of dolor, and you need bed rest if you want to shake it off." "But…" "Tonight, you sleep." The geomancer sighed. "Perhaps that would be best. I am strangely fatigued." Kiril didn't tell the dwarf the entire diagnosis.
Fadheela's father felt that the dwarf might be suffering from some sort of magical curse. It was a potential explanation for Thormud's lack of response to the healer's spell of purification. "Damn right, it's for the best. Don't worry. I'll tell you everything that happens.
Maybe they know something about what we're looking for. Maybe they've seen something strange out in the desert." The dwarf nodded but was already blinking his eyes. He fell asleep a moment later. Kiril pulled up his blanket, strapped Angul to her belt, and departed the small chamber. Fadheela waited for her in the foyer of the apartment, one of many similar apartments on both sides, above, and below. The best apartments faced the central plaza of Al Qahera, and as a healer, Fadheela's father enjoyed some privilege. "How is your friend?"
Fadheela asked. "Better. He's asleep. Maybe I'll take him something to eat later." "Good-that sounds good!" Fadheela clapped happily, then reached forward to grasp one of Kiril's hands. The swordswoman, out of surprise, allowed the desert elf to complete the motion without losing a limb. Fadheela said, "Come with me, then. Everyone's down in the plaza. You'll just love meeting everyone, I promise!" The girl pulled, and Kiril consciously forced herself not to resist the tug out of the apartment. They walked onto the wide balcony two stories above the tiled floor of the central courtyard and looked down. Since she'd rested in Fadheela's rooms, answered her father's questions, and washed off several days of travel, the lamps in the courtyard had been turned down, dousing the corners of the chamber in warm shadow. A large bonfire blazed in a stone-lined firepit. Kiril traced the smoke as it rose up past their balcony and floated up a few more stories before exiting through a large cavity in the ceiling. The odor of something succulent roasting over the flames pulled her gaze back down to the fire, where young Qaherans slowly turned several spits. Others were setting up large plank tables and stools. A group of elves tuned up flutes, sitars, drums, and other instruments. Well over a hundred people gathered in the plaza-and perhaps double that number. "What's all this?" Kiril asked, an anxious note creeping into her voice. Her enthusiastic guide smiled and said, "We do this every night-don't worry, you needn't fear being singled out." Kiril nodded, still suspicious. Fadheela pulled her along the balcony toward a stairway that spiraled down to the plaza, and whispered as they neared the bottom, "But your presence is unique, and we'd all love to hear something of your journey!" Kiril muttered, "Blood, I'm sure you would." Essam met them at the bottom of the stairs. "How is your stout friend? In Mas'ud's able hands he must be doing better, yes?" "Much better," Kiril assured him. No need to discuss curses in polite company, she thought. "How joyous!" her host enthused. "Now come, I've reserved a place of honor for you by the fire. It is always cold down here in Al Qahera, despite the desert above, and you'll be glad to sit close." Kiril just nodded. She drew most of the eyes in the plaza as Essam and Fadheela led her through the throng. Her neck and cheeks warmed. She did not enjoy being the center of attention. They made their way to several stools near the fire, as Essam promised. She dropped onto her stool immediately, then saw that everyone else remained standing. She yearned for a pull from her flask. With steely determination, she kept her hands at her sides, but the flush of embarrassment blossomed visibly across her checks. The Qaherans bowed their heads in a moment of silence. Once concluded, the stillness was shattered by laughter, loud cheers, a cacophony of instruments, and a few songs. Various spirited discussions picked up where they'd left off before the hush. Most everyone sat down at the tables, Kiril was relieved to see. And so the evening progressed. Portions of burned meat, burned vegetables, and burned fungus were pulled off the spits and sent circulating around the tables. "Burned" was apparently the preferred style of cooking in Al Qahera. Between courses came musical interludes, stories, and acts of skill that included a knife juggler and a puppeteer. Large jugs of water were sent around, cold and fresh, apparently just pulled up from the central well. To Kiril's jaded throat, the water went down like the finest Sildeyuir vintage. It wasn't long before she found herself listening happily to the music, hanging on the words of the storytellers, and laughing uproariously at several extemporaneous acts put on by the desert dwellers. Essam turned to her and said loudly, "Tell us a story, Kiril!" She stood up, and with uncharacteristic openness, began to relate to the elves of Al Qahera the story of her most recent trip with her employer, Thormud Horn. Kiril spoke in generalities, without specifying what worried the geomancer so much that he had initiated a trip into the desert. Kiril wasn't even completely clear on what they were chasing. She glossed over certain details, such as Prince Monolith joining them. She didn't want to explain that an earth elemental lord was camped out in front of the dervish community. When she reached the point in her travelogue where Thormud determined that the true nexus of their quest lay in the Raurin desert, her listeners' interest intensified. Essam cleared his throat and interrupted Kiril. "Forgive me, but please allow me to ask-what is the nature of this evil that lies out in our desert?"