As always, thoughts of home made Kerian’s blood burn. It required all her discipline to keep from reining about and galloping madly to Qualinesti, to try to free the land of its oppressors or die in the trying. They should not be in Khur! Whether desert or city or fabled valley, none of it was theirs. None of it! They should be attacking the enemies who’d dared invade their ancestral lands!
Gilthas believed life mattered more than land. Of course Gilthas worried more about life than land—he had been born into royalty. No matter where he dwelt, he was the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. He was a king-no matter where he was forced to locate his kingdom.
In all her life, Kerianseray had known no such luxury. She was a fighter for her country and her people. Without her country or her people, what was left? What was she then?
Favaronas watched curiously as the Lioness prodded her mount to a trot. Her back was straight and her chin outthrust. In the time he’d been with her, the archivist had come to know that posture, that look. She was controlling her anger. Only two things in the world could make her so furious, could reduce her lips to that tight, white line: the gnawing loss of Qualinesti to their enemies, and disagreement with the Speaker. He wondered which was consuming her now.
The afternoon repose of Khuri-Khan was first broken by the jangle of sistrums and the clash of cymbals. Housewives lifted the shades covering their window openings and peered outside to see what the noise was about. Soukats, taking a respite from the morning’s trading, pushed back their hats or came out from under their awnings. Anticipating an event, wine merchants in the Grand Souks reopened their stands. The street dogs of Khuri-Khan, always alert, began barking.
The deep thump of a drum sounded, two slow beats followed by two quick. A quintet of guards appeared. Their helmets were askew, armor straps flapping, for they had been sleeping, too. They made a ragged line and ported arms, standing as much at attention as the Khan’s soldiers ever did. Someone was coming-someone important.
The curious Khurs first saw a double line of elf maidens, twenty strong. Each wore a white, knee-length silk gown and, as a concession to the punishing sun, a matching scarf tied around her head. Golden girdles draping their slim hips sparkled, as did the garland of golden leaves twining their necks. They carried white baskets, strewing the contents on the street before them. At home, this would have been flower petals. Here in Khuri-Khan it was white sand, washed and polished until it glittered like silver.
Behind the twenty maidens came thirty young elf males, also clad in white. Hands, feet, and faces were browned by years of desert life, but arms and legs were still pale as the forest shade had made them. Each elf wore abroad belt made of jointed golden plates. In the center of each plate flashed an enormous flat jewel, peridot or aquamarine. Each of the thirty elves held aloft a pole, laminated with gold. Ten poles were topped with the golden sun symbol, and ten with a stylized silver star. Atop the poles of the final ten was a flat plaque of lapis lazuli on which appeared a gold sun and silver star of equal size. The Khurs couldn’t know it, but the precious metal on these standards was only thin plating over common brass or copper. Still, they made an impressive display.
By now Khurs of all ages were spilling out of their houses to see this wondrous parade. For years, they’d sold meat, meal, cloth, and soap to the
Trailing the elf maidens and standard bearers were musicians. Four pairs of tympani strode down the center of the road, flanked on either side by a dozen white-robed youths either shaking sistrums or clanging cymbals. The rhythm was insistent: two slow beats followed by two fast, again and again. On the heels of the drummers were twelve older, brown-skinned elves dressed in green. They were Kagonesti pipers, carrying twinned flutes of silver and brass. Not yet playing, they walked with proud precision, dark hair hanging loose below their shoulders, their heads covered by leather skullcaps.
The parade penetrated the wide Street of Salah-Khan, which ran along the western end of the Grand Souks, and the pipers raised their instruments. A trill of notes floated over the desert city. Elf voices answered, crying,
