"Mmm." "Damn it." Kiril yelled ahead, "Monolith, Thormud's still not himself. Don't expect any direction from him, if you're waiting for it." The deep voice of the elemental noble resonated back, "Why should I? I am the guide, not he." "All right, rock head, if you're so smart, maybe you should think about that approaching wind devil. We won't survive its outskirts, let alone the column at the center." The elemental stalked down the empty path, but one of its stone arms rose and pointed ahead. Kiril followed the direction of his gesture and saw a tiny cavern mouth, perhaps five hundred paces distant, gaping from the side of the empty stream bed. She shrugged, saying nothing. Truth was, she was slightly embarrassed she hadn't descried the cave mouth herself. She was an elf, after all, and had a reputation to maintain.

The storm stifled the sun as they reached the aperture. They moved through a baleful twilight stained with bloody light. The cave opened out of the flat, eroded face of an ancient riverbank. The cave's sides were crumbled into heaps of crusted dust, but Kiril immediately noticed a suspiciously clean avenue down the center of the cavern floor. More suspicious yet-the flickering illumination of lantern light emerging from what should have been a lonely, black hole.

Someone lived in the cave-perhaps several someones. Prince Monolith reached out and touched the rock above the cave entrance. He held the position briefly, then stepped to the side of the cave entrance and ceased all movement. "Not coming in?" He replied, "I doubt I would fit. Plus, I might frighten the natives." "What kind of natives?" asked Kiril. "Environs as harsh as Raurin are extreme, but mortal flesh, for all its frailty, is surprisingly adaptable. The rock has led me to a colony of dervishes, despite an enchantment of misdirection attempting to lead me astray. But I have a closer association with the world than most." "I hope they're friendly."

"Enter and ask for shelter. I have observed that cultures perched on the edge of wastelands often prize hospitality above all other values." The storm was sweeping down upon them and beginning to sting Kiril with windblown grit. "I don't see what choice I have." Monolith stood silent as stone. The elf wrestled Thormud down from his seat and bodily carried him into the cave entrance. She'd worry about their equipment and supplies, still lashed to the destrier's back, later.

Xet fluttered around unhelpfully. The lantern hung from the ceiling some thirty feet down the cavern's throat, rusted and battered, but burning a half-full reservoir of oil that smelled pleasantly of cloves. The lantern light revealed the edge of a chamber that widened gradually toward a great wooden gate blocking the mouth of a deeper tunnel. The floor was worn smooth, as if by vanished waters… or by years of busy feet. Dust from the storm outside began to swirl across the stone surface. She set Thormud down with his back against the cavern wall. With the storm howling at the cave mouth, Kiril pounded on the wooden gate, carved with abstract designs. After a short wait, too brief for Kiril to consider pounding a second time, a small panel high on the door slid open. An amber glow and tinkling music streamed from the grilled opening. "Hello?" said Kiril. A man's voice replied from the other side of the door. "What do you want?" The language was Elvish, with something like a Yuirwood accent, but more liquid. Kiril was too surprised by the language and what it implied to immediately respond. "Well," said the voice again, in its strangely accented Elvish, "I can see you are not djinn; perhaps you were chased by a djinn to the safety of our doorstep?" "Perhaps," said Kiril, not actually sure what the voice was asking her. "A storm came, and we saw the cave. We hoped it would give shelter-we didn't know we'd find someone living here." "No? You weren't looking for the hidden city of Al Qahera or its people? But only those of elf blood could hope to locate Al Qahera-it is an ancient enchantment we preserve." "I am an elf, that's true, but I hail from the north, from…" she almost said Stardeep, but finally said, "from the Yuirwood forest. I am not of the Al Qaheran clan. Elves hidden in the Yuirwood call themselves 'people of the star.' But I am not really part of their society any longer, either. I am a traveler." "You've traveled far, and to one of the most inhospitable places in the world. I see no children with you, just a mountain carver. Are you carrying contraband?" "I don't understand." "Sometimes oathless smugglers make haddrum runs between Huorm and the oasis towns." "I don't know what haddrum is, but, no, we're not carrying dangerous substances, if that's what you're implying." "Then what?" "It's a long story. I'd be happy to tell you if you let us in. My friend here is sick." "Mmmm, hmm, yes, so I see," said the voice, and paused. "Very well. I'm a good judge of character, so I tell my sons and daughters." The sound of a bolt being drawn back momentarily drowned out the sound of the blowing sand. "Be welcome in Al Qahera! Bring with you no deceit, and you shall find none here."

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.