A small patrol of elven cavalry saw the party of nomads come trotting out of the desert. The patrol had not yet heard of the nomad horde’s approach, but they were wary of the small band in front of them. One of the elves recognized the truce sign and explained to his captain the meaning of the upside-down pots on the escorts’ spears.
“Send a message to Lord Planchet,” the captain said calmly. “Tell him some nomads are paying us a friendly visit.” He turned to the courier. “Emphasize friendly.”
The sun had risen beyond the clear air on the eastern horizon and was once more sheathed in clouds. The courier galloped in and out of uncharacteristic sprinkles of rain. By the time they entered Khurinost, horse and rider were trailing wisps of steam.
The Speaker and his closest advisors were assembled in the circular audience hail in his repaired tent. One by one various couriers relayed their news. Word of Kerianseray’s revolt set the councilors humming. When this was paired with notice of the arrival often thousand nomads, the conversation grew heated indeed. Gilthas had sent orders for Kerian to halt her advance on the nomads and return to Khurinost, but he had no confidence she would heed his command.
The sodden courier delivered his news, that nomad leaders wished to meet with the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, and that they carried the nomad symbol for a friendly parley.
With that, the room fell still. Gilthas said, “I will meet them.”
“Great Speaker, no!” Planchet burst out. “It’s not wise or safe. Let me go in your stead.” Healed of his fever and wound, the Speaker still was weak and found it difficult to walk or stand for extended periods. Seeing the leader of the elves in such a state might embolden the nomads.
Reluctantly, Gilthas was forced to agree with his old friend’s assessment.
There was no time to organize an awe-inspiring procession of elven strength. From his days in masquerade, Hytanthas Ambrodel had learned enough about the nomads to tell the Speaker they would not respect Planchet if he showed up alone or in too ragged a fashion. So a fine white horse was secured for the Speaker’s valet. With a retinue that included a hundred mounted warriors and Captain Ambrodel, Planchet rode out of Khurinost. First, he must head off the Lioness. The parley would be pointless if she launched an attack.
He found her leading eighteen thousand warriors, over half the elven army, along the ridge northwest of Khuri-Khan. Her headlong charge had slowed to a walk as her well-honed tactical sense took over. She’d sent out numerous scouts, and was awaiting their return when Planchet’s delegation overtook her.
“Lady, in the name of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, I command you to return to Khurinost with all your riders!” Planchet said.
“I answer to a higher power than the Speaker now,” she replied, reining up. “The elven people.”
“The nomads have asked for a parley. Are you so bent on war you won’t let me talk to them?”
She shrugged. “Talk all you want, it won’t change a thing. The Khurs want our blood.”
Time was short. Amid echoing thunder, Planchet put his white horse next to Kerian’s bay.
“Stay your hand, lady,” he urged. “For one hour, I beg of you.”
Like the ardent young officers at her back, he held his breath. He could watch the thoughts progress across her face, like the play of sun and shadows on the desert sands. Despite the shared years that lay between them, he had no certainty she would give him the time he needed.
At last, she nodded. “For an old friend, one hour. Less, if the nomads move against Khurinost.”
Planchet nodded and dug in his spurs. His entourage bolted down the dune after him. Relief at the Lioness’s agreement quickly faded, swallowed by new worry. The valet felt like an impostor. For all his gifts, he did not have the regal bearing or poise that came naturally to his liege. His physique was long, but slightly stooped, his hair bleached dead white by the Khurish sun. He was no one’s idea of a king—or khan, for that matter.
The chiefs of the nomads heard the horn blasts and saw dust trails rising into the leaden sky.
Adala was bent forward on Little Thorn’s back, hands busily working. Wapah saw she had a small rattan basket. The binding on the rim had become frayed, and she was replacing it with a fresh strand of grass.
“The khan of the laddad,” Wapah whispered. She nodded.
“I will be done before he arrives.”
As the elves drew closer, the nomad chiefs and warmasters sat up straighter on their sturdy ponies. The elves were mounted on long-legged horses, making them seem taller. Seated as she was on her faithful donkey, Adala was the lowest person in the entire group. She was also, as always, the only woman present, She gave no sign of noticing any of this. Instead, she finished her repair of the basket, working the ends of the new rim into place, then hung the container from the short horn on her saddle.
The elf on the white horse leading the others stopped. Looking up and down the line of nomad chiefs, he announced, “I am Planchet, councilor to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, monarch of all the elves.”
Mild surprise rippled through the human assembly. He had spoken in Khur.
Adala seemed unimpressed. She replied in the Common tongue, “I am Adala Fahim, Saran di Kyre, Weyadan of the Weya-Lu, and keeper of the maita. I would speak to your khan.”
Now the elves were caught off guard. Planchet regarded the black-draped, motherly woman with surprise. Clearly, he had expected to be dealing with one of the fierce-looking men. “Our Speaker is engaged. I represent him,” he said.
“And I speak for the Weya-Lu, the Mikku, the Tondoon, and the Mayakhur.”
“You are the leader of all those tribes?”
“In this cause, by the will of Those on High, I am.”
“I am honored to meet you. How shall I address you?”
“She is Weyadan or Maita,” Wapah offered. Some of the chiefs glowered at him for speaking out of turn.
Planchet recognized the second word as meaning something like “destiny” or “luck.” He chose the other, less emotional, title. “I am honored to meet you, Weyadan. There are many swords here today. How can we keep them in their scabbards?”
“Many transgressions have been committed against our people by the laddad. I tell you only two: You are foreigners, and you are invaders.”
“We have the permission of Sahim-Khan to dwell in his country,” Planchet countered.
“Sahim-Khan will answer to Those on High for his venality.”
“So shall we all, Weyadan.”
Adala’s dark eyes hardened. “You send spies to measure our land. You have entered a valley sacred to Those on High. This is sacrilege.”
“Our Speaker meant no blasphemy,” Planchet replied evenly. “We need a place to live where the climate is not so harsh. He heard the Valley of the Blue Sands was such a place. We had never heard it was sacred. We thought only that there we would be out of your desert and away from your cities. Desecration was not our intention.”
A snort of disbelief came from one of the younger warmasters. The chiefs around him, although plainly just as skeptical, glowered at him for his breech of manners.
Adala never took her eyes from Planchet. “What’s done is done, and you must answer for it.”
“We must dwell some place, Weyadan. It is the right of every living being to have a home.”
“You had homes and lost them. The gods have turned their backs on you, laddad.”