With that he turned ponderously and, leaning heavily on his makeshift cane, limped out.
Several yards away, in the corridor leading to the tent’s main room, Planchet waited. When the Speaker appeared, Planchet covered the distance between them in three long strides.
Many unhappy tasks were required of a monarch. The one he’d just performed had been the very worst. Gilthas turned a gray, sweating face to Planchet and whispered, “It is done. Take me home.”
Water dried on Kerian’s skin. How much time passed, she didn’t know, but when she finally came to herself, she was sitting on the rug, her back against the bathtub. Her smallclothes were stiff and dry.
Dismissed. She was dismissed. By her husband!
How many years had she borne arms against the enemies of her people? How long had she shed blood and fought foes more numerous, more powerful, more ruthless than she? She had won and she had lost, many times over, but always she fought on. Never had she quit. And now she was dismissed, cast aside, disparaged.
Gilthas was wrong. She had made mistakes, she admitted that, but her course wasn’t reckless, it was right. If their people were to survive, they needed bold and vigorous action, not soft words and evasion. Inath-Wakenti was a dead end, as dangerous to the elves as the desert heat and marauding nomads. Perhaps their people weren’t yet strong enough to retake Silvanesti and Qualinesti, but they would hardly grow any stronger in this dreary field of tents, living off the charity of barbarous humans. Nor could they grow stronger by crossing the murderous cauldron of the High Plateau only then to face the deadly mysteries in the Valley of the Blue Sands.
No. Elves must take control of elven destiny once more. If Gilthas and his soft advisors couldn’t see this, someone would have to show them the way. They clung to an imaginary life, thinking protocol and precedence mattered, thinking politeness and accommodation would keep their people safe. Someone would have to make them understand reality.
The first step to saving the elven race was right here. They must take Khuri-Khan, and use it as their base for striking outward from Khur. Gilthas always had been reluctant to confront Sahim because the human khan had offered the elves sanctuary during their time of trouble, but that sanctuary had come to have much too high a price—and Kerian wasn’t thinking only of steel and silver. The life they’d been forced to live, begging humans for every scrap they received, was draining the heart and soul from her people. Sahim-Khan was a liar, a schemer, and a greedy bandit. He deserved no consideration, and less mercy.
With Khuri-Khan in their hands, the elves would have access to the sea. Ships could be commandeered or built, and the Lioness and her fighters would harry the coasts of Silvanesti and Qualinesti. Ships of their former conquerors could be taken, and raids mounted on coastal towns. There were islands with temperate climates in the Southern and Eastern Courrain that would fall to a determined attack. The new elven nation would be a seafaring nation, building their wealth and power against the day they would take back their ancestral lands.
That day would come. Fists clenched, Kerian swore to herself it would come, and not in some dim, distant future, but soon. Very soon.
She got to her feet, dressing quickly in her dirty garments. It was obvious that talking to Gilthas and his advisors would be pointless. She would make her case to the warriors. Like herself, they understood the realities of life. With them behind her, Gilthas would be forced to listen to her. He could be made to see the logical perfection of her plan.
It was fully dark outside, and the wind rushed through the lanes, first one way, then back the other. Rosy haloes glowed inside the clouds overhead. The strange sight halted Kerian, despite the fervor of purpose burning in her breast. Lightning was white or bluish. Even in the gods-blasted wastes of Khur, lightning wasn’t red.
As she navigated the twisting byways on her way to the warriors’ quarter, she encountered no one. However, she quickly knew she was not alone. A hundred yards from Hamaramis’s tent she glimpsed shadows moving behind her. Senses honed by years on the run warned her. The next time there was a flash of scarlet lightning, Kerian whirled abruptly. She saw no one, but had no doubt she was being followed—and by more than one person.
She shucked the scabbard from her sword.
Cooking smoke drifted through the lane. Small black shapes flitted overhead, making faint chirping noises. She’d seen bats in Khur just one other time, the night the ash leaves had fallen on her. Recent events had driven the omen from her mind. Now that memory returned full force.
She continued her march up the alley, making as much noise as she could without being too obvious. Reaching a three-way intersection, she sprang to her right and sprinted down the winding path, taking long strides and landing only on her toes. An old Kagonesti trick, to foil trackers.
She ran far enough to lose her breath, then ducked behind a cloth merchant’s stall, its flaps closed for the night. The bats still flickered overhead, dodging between the canvas rooftops. When they had passed, silence descended. No sounds of pursuit reached her ears. She stepped out of hiding to continue on her way, and her bare feet trod on soft, green leaves.
Without looking, she knew they were ash leaves.
Fresh air teased her back. Turning, she glanced back along the twisting lane. The overlapping edges of the fabric roofs flapped lazily, then settled again. Wind puffed down the path, making the tents belly in and out like the breathing of enormous animals. All but one. One tent didn’t flex-because someone was pressed against it.
Kerian set her feet firmly and gripped her sword hilt in both hands. She didn’t have long to wait.
Four figures dashed into view. The leader held a hooded lamp, and when he saw Kerian he opened the shutter wide. Bright light dazzled her, so she lunged forward and swatted the brass lamp away. It landed in the sand, flickered, and kept burning, but less brightly.
Recovering from her lunge, she heard her attackers draw swords, one after the other. The first, the one who’d held the lamp, thrust at her, throwing himself off balance in his zeal to reach her. She bound up his blade in a parry and drove him back with a punch to his nose. A second attacker came at her, point first. She swung up at him in a wide arc. Their blades met, and the force of her swing sent his sword flying. Completing the circle, she beat aside the blade of the first attacker and repaid him in full, shoving the tip of her sword through his collar bone, deep into his chest. Blood welled.
Her attackers were strong and fast. Dressed in gebs, they wore gray cloth masks that completely covered their heads. They carried Silvanesti-style swords, but that meant little. Local artisans had taken to making such blades to peddle to the elves, who did not care for the guardless Khurish swords. The craftsmen’s ingenuity had sparked a fad for laddad-style weapons among the youths of Khuri-Khan.
As she held them off, she shouted for help. No one answered. This part of Khurinost seemed deserted. The Lioness was on her own.
She snatched up the fallen lamp and used it like a shield, fending off sword points. One of her three remaining foes got too close, and she clouted him with the lamp. He went down, but his hard head broke the oil reservoir off. The lamp died. She dropped it, and a blade found her empty hand. It scored a deep cut along the back of her left wrist.
Rapid footfalls told her that at last someone was coming. Her hope of assistance died quickly when she saw the new arrivals wore gray hoods. Having whittled her attackers to two, they now swelled to eight.