The high priestess was red-eyed and haggard from her efforts. This was the culmination of three days of work, weaving a great healing spell around the delirious prince. Lesser potions and cantrips had not restored Shobbat’s shattered wits, nor healed his blindness, though his wild ravings had been soothed and he had stopped flailing uncontrollably. He was left lying rigid in his bed, eyes closed. Sa’ida had no choice but to perform the strongest, most arduous spell of healing known to her.
Acolytes and priestesses worked in shifts, new ones arriving at the palace every six hours to relieve their predecessors. The chant went on without a break for three days. Aromatics and incense were burned, and elaborate designs, in yellow paint, were drawn on the walls and floor of the prince’s bedchamber. The design created a great invisible funnel through which the goddess’s healing power could flow. Shobbat lay in the center of the vortex, a thick strip of leather between his clenched teeth to prevent them cracking under the strain.
The chanting priestesses came and went by a prescribed schedule, but Sa’ida didn’t budge. She alone was irreplaceable. For three days and nights she did not sleep. She had performed the great healing spell only once before, but none of the priestesses knew the circumstances; Sa’ida would never discuss it.
The chanting abruptly stopped.
“Shadows of sickness, leave this man!” she commanded solemnly. “Suffering one, be whole!”
For the space of three heartbeats no one moved. Time itself seemed to halt in the room. Then Shobbat sighed deeply, the sound echoing in the stillness. His rigid body went limp. His eyes opened. He blinked several times, looking around as though his surroundings were unfamiliar.
“Am I dead?” he rasped.
“Not yet.”
Sa’ida moved away, to send word to Sahim-Khan that his son was healed.
On the bed, Shobbat lifted a hand to his face. Was he truly here? Was he at home in Khuri-Khan? The fire was gone from his mind, but the memory of what he’d seen in the Oracle’s cave remained. Monsters—animals with the heads of humans and humans with the heads of animals—had come out of the shadows, and engulfed him. They’d called his name, said he was one of them. And suddenly he’d known it was true. His hands and feet changed to slender paws. Fur sprouted from his skin, and in his mouth he tasted carrion.
Jackal! the misshapen monsters had shouted at him. You are one of us!
Sahim-Khan entered. Clad in plain white geb, his dark head bare of crown, he looked like any worried father, attending the bedside of his sick child.
“My son,” he said quietly. “Do you know me?”
“You are my lord, Sahim, Khan of All the Khurs,” Shobbat murmured, a vast weariness dragging down his eyelids.
Sahim turned to Sa’ida, standing between two priestesses. It was obvious that she too was sorely spent.
“You have a father’s gratitude, holy lady,” he said. “Whatever price you name, I shall pay, gladly.”
Shobbat’s soft snores interrupted them, and Sahim-Khan held out a hand to the high priestess. She took his arm and accompanied him out the door that led to the prince’s private sitting room. In silent ranks the priestesses of Elir-Sana departed by a different exit.
The sitting room was lush, the scene of many a princely revel. Sahim escorted the high priestess to a large chair and insisted she sit. Faint with weariness, Sa’ida complied. The austere white silk of her ceremonial gown stood out starkly against the chair’s crimson, magenta, and gold wool brocade.
“Mighty Khan,” she began, then had to clear her throat to begin anew. She was desperately thirsty, but other things must come first. “Mighty One, I believe it was no mortal illness that afflicted your son.”
Sahim’s brows lowered in a fearsome glare. “Poison? A curse?”
“No, sire. The sickness was self-inflicted.” Sahim’s mouth opened, but Sa’ida continued without pause. “Some deed of Prince Shobbat’s provoked this bout of madness.”
His surprise abated, and he looked dubious. “Shobbat is no ascetic, that is certain, but I doubt he would commit a deed foul enough to drive himself mad!”
“Not a foul deed, an impious one.” The chair was deep and plush. Sa’ida forced herself to sit stiffly upright; the slightest relaxation of her vigilance, and she would lose her battle against the fatigue that encased her limbs like dense sand. The Khan had little use for gods Khurish or foreign, and he still looked unconvinced. She knew she must choose her words with great care.
“Prince Shobbat has looked upon things a mortal should not know,” she said slowly. “What those may have been”—she shrugged her shoulders—“I cannot say, Mighty Khan.”
Sahim waved these obscure matters aside, vowing to take up the matter with Shobbat when he was stronger. If his heir was dabbling in magic, Sahim soon would cure him of such foolish curiosity.
He returned to the issue of payment, begging the holy priestess to name her reward. His coffers were full of steel and gold, courtesy of his laddad tenants. Alone with his cronies Sahim liked to boast that he was the best-paid landlord in the world.
“We do not crave wealth in our temple, Great Khan. But there is a boon you can grant us.”
He grinned, opening his arms wide. “Tell me, beloved of the goddess.”
“Put an end to the violence against the elves.”
He blinked, taken aback. “How does the fate of the laddad concern you?”
She told him then of the Speaker’s interest in the Valley of the Blue Sands and of the Lioness’s mission to find out whether the fabled valley was habitable. When she finished, her voice was almost completely gone. She waited expectantly.
The Khan astonished her by bursting into laughter.
“The place where animals speak and stones grow like palm trees from the ground?” he sputtered, quoting the fables. “Excellent! Let them go there! It’s a fitting place for them!”
His loud merriment caused Sa’ida to wince with pain. A prodigious headache was building behind her eyes. Closing them, she murmured, “Grant me this favor, Mighty Khan. Guard the laddad while they tarry here. Dark forces gather around you, seeking to destroy them. Have no commerce with these.”
This time his laugh was sardonic. “The Knights you mean? Or the bull-men of the seas? Yes, all these ‘dark forces’ have sought me out. Each wishes to destroy the laddad for their own safety. I take their gifts if it pleases me.” His black eyes grew hard, and no longer was he the grateful father. Robed and crowned or not, it was the Khan of All the Khurs who stood looking down at the priestess now. “But I rule in Khur, not these others. Gilthas’s people can rely on my protection so long as it pleases me to guard them. Please concern yourself with your goddess, holy lady, and leave politics to me.”
Sa’ida got to her feet stiffly, bowed, and departed.
The Khan watched her go, then took the chair she’d just vacated. Sa’ida was a great asset to Khur, and he was not a man to squander assets, but her request troubled him. Beyond a certain grudging admiration for the Speaker’s tenacity, and an appreciation of elven style, Sahim cared little about the elves’ ultimate fate. He was no friend of Neraka, nor the minotaurs. He knew well that once the elves were removed, his neighbors’ appetites would quickly switch to Khur. For all its empty desert, Sahim’s land bordered many vital areas. A navy with access to its coast could dominate the Bay of Balifor. Hundreds of miles of desert made a formidable barrier against minotaurs trying to enter Neraka from the north, or against Knights thrusting south to the fertile lands of minotaur-held Silvanesti.