by Pati Nagle
Turon arrayed his guardians between Skyruach and the river. He sent Jharan up with a message for us to hold off the kobalen up on the plain, to keep them back from the rock, especially to our left.”
Felisan paused, leaning forward to stare into the fire, which was starting to burn low. Curunan reached for another log to put on the coals.
“I have often wondered if Turon chose Jharan to carry that message on purpose, to spare him. Jharan thinks not, but I have wondered.”
Felisan exchanged a long glance with Heléri, who said nothing. He looked back at the fire, new yellow flames leaping bright into the starry night.
“In any event, he was spared by it, for just after he reached the top of Skyruach the kobalen broke through Turon’s line. We watched the Southfæld Guard vanish under a wave of black, even as we shot down the kobalen as fast as we were able. It was then that Jharan and I said our farewells, and pledged to meet again in spirit. We fully expected to die by nightfall.”
Eliani had never seen her father look so aggrieved. He sensed her gaze and looked at her, eyes deep with pain. He reached out a hand to stroke her hair.
“The day was ending, the sun drawing near the mountains. A long day, near midsummer. We were weary beyond words, but determined to defend the road to the last. A column of kobalen were forming to march past us, on to Glenhallow. We doubted we could stop them but we loosed our arrows and darts upon them anyway, and they hesitated. They turned to sling darts back at us.
“It was then that a miracle occurred. It seemed miraculous to us, at least. The kobalen stopped fighting us. They wavered and broke. We knew it could not be because of our efforts, and it was not. We looked north, and saw Eastfæld’s banners in the light of the dying sun.”
He straightened in his chair and let out a long sigh. “The kobalen dispersed before Eastfæld like mist on the wind. In mere moments, the black swarm—the mob that we had expected to swallow us as they had swallowed Turon and the flower of Southfæld—vanished, scattered, and ran. We watched Eastfælders hunt them up into the mountains and trap them against the river. It was over.”
He fell silent. Eliani held still. It seemed that the others were holding their breath, waiting for more.
There was more, Eliani knew. There was the story of Eastfæld’s first skirmish, at Midrange, where they stopped the flow of kobalen southward and drove them back up into the pass before marching to Skyruach’s rescue, but Felisan said nothing of this. He had not been there himself, and it seemed he had told all he cared to tell.
Eliani glanced at Curunan, who looked numb. She raised her cup to drink but found it empty. She set it on the ground beside her father’s.
Luruthin’s voice broke the silence. “Eliani and Curunan and I saw Skyruach this evening. We saw the conces on the field.”
Felisan nodded. Eliani stirred, shifting her legs, which had grown stiff with sitting so long.
“What are the larger conces?”
“Each honors one company of the Southfaeld Guard, with the names of the fallen from that company carved into the stone. The families of many of the fallen set up individual conces to their kindred as well.”
“And there is a tall pillar carved from Skyruach itself.”
“Yes. It is to commemorate Turon and his successors, and those who defended the rock, and those from Alpinon and Eastfaled who fell. Their names are all graven onto it. Hundreds of names.”
“Turon’s is first?” Curunan's voice was small.
“Yes. Turon, his brother Raethan, their kindred Virshan, Thilani, Delesan, Lovhari, Torithan, and Maronin. When we learned that they all had been in Turon’s force and had fallen, we knew that Jharan would become governor of Southfæld.”
Felisan stirred, sat up, then stretched his legs toward the fire. “But that is a tale for another day. It is late, and we should rest. I would like to start early tomorrow.”
As if his words had broken a spell, the guardians all stood up and began to prepare the camp for night. They murmured softly, agreeing upon shifts of sentry duty, then most retired to their tent.
Felisan gazed sidelong at Curunan. “You, youngling, should go and take your rest.”
Curunan looked hurt. “But what about—”
Luruthin stepped up beside the youth. “Will you play a game of tenstone with me before we retire?”
Curunan looked at him, wavered, then yielded to temptation. “I will beat you this time!”
“You may try.”
Luruthin ushered him away to their tent, receiving a grateful smile from Felisan. Eliani went to her own tent, but only to fetch her cloak. She stopped at her kindred’s tent to ask Luruthin for her father’s cloak. He looked up from a scatter of green and white stones he and Curunan were sorting and got up to find the cloak, handing it to her with a glance full of meaning.
He had been a guardian, was still nominally one, and had slain his share of kobalen. His gaze told Eliani he was deeply moved by Felisan’s recital. So was she, but this was not the time to discuss it. She nodded her thanks and left.
Returning to the fire, Eliani draped her father’s cloak around his shoulders. Her own cloak cushioned and warmed her as she settled herself at his feet again.
Heléri had made more tea, a different blend this time, tasting of honey and mild spices. She shared it with Eliani and Felisan. Eliani thanked her, grateful to have her rumbling stomach soothed by the tea. She felt her father’s hand stroke her hair and turned to look at him. He was smiling softly at her. Smiling, as if telling them of Skyruach had eased the burden of his memories.
Eliani smiled back, then leaned against his legs once more. She glanced toward Heléri, who sat sipping tea and gazing into the fire.
A night for contemplation, for meditation. The past, which must not be forgotten, would inform the future. Felisan's tale had only convinced her the more that she had been selfish in refusing to use mindspeech to warn Southfaeld of the kobalen threat.
She must confer with Turisan. She would wait and do it face to face—she still did not wish to commit herself to the mindspeech, though she knew a growing sense of inevitability regarding that gift. How could she refuse to make use of it, when it would be of such great benefit to ælvenkind?
But that choice could yet be put off a little while, and she would make the most of the short time left to her. She leaned her head back to look up at the stars, and in company with her father and eldermother, silently waited for dawn.
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Jharan glanced up from cleaning his sword. Three officials were approaching his company’s camp, fresh from Glenhallow by the looks of them. They wore traveling clothes—slightly dusty—but though their expressions were serious he knew with a guardian’s instinct that they had come to the battleground since the fighting had ended.
Kanaron, his under-captain, leaned closer to mutter to him. “What do they want?”
“I expect we shall soon know.”
Jharan could think of no reason for members of the governor’s council, for so these looked to him, to come among the Guard. He returned to his work, summoning patience even as he maintained awareness of the officials’ approach.
Some administrative matter must have brought them. Glenhallow was trying to make sense of the chaos left by the battle, and well they might. The governor had died, as had his brother beside him. Fully a third of the Guard had fallen, and many companies had suffered even greater losses. It was the worst battle the Southfæld Guard had ever seen, and had it not been for the arrival of support from Eastfæld, they might all have been killed, to the last of them.
“Is this Maronin’s company?”
Jharan looked up at the speaker, a tall male with a somewhat pinched expression, though that might be caused by distaste for the battlefield. The fighting had ended less than a full day since, and blood and unspeakable filth were everywhere.
“What is left of it, yes.”
“Where is Maronin?”
Jharan exchanged a glance wi
th Kanaron, then ran his cloth down the length of his blade. He would polish it later, but it was clean enough for now. He stood and slid it into his scabbard.
“Maronin fell. The remnants of his company joined mine.”
Another official, a male with the soft hands of one who worked with ideas rather than tools, looked dismayed. “Maronin is dead?”
Jharan nodded. He had not witnessed Maronin’s death; he had been atop Skyruach at the time. He had seen the body, though—pierced with nigh on fifty kobalen darts.
“Has his flesh been burned yet?”
“Not yet. Some of his guardians are preparing it.”
“We will need proof of that.”
An odd request. Jharan turned to Kanaron.
“Will you show them?”
Kanaron nodded, standing. “This way.”
The pinch-faced male followed him away into the camp while the other two remained. The third official, the one who had not yet spoken, was female. She exchanged a grim look with her companion, then sighed.
“Who is Maronin’s nextkin?”
“I am.”
She stared at Jharan, eyes widening. “You are Maronin’s nextkin?”
“Yes. Is there some problem?”
The male moved toward him, suddenly eager. Instinct made Jharan step back, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. These were not enemies, he reminded himself, and forced his muscles to relax.
The male drew up short, then recovered. “What is your name?”
“Jharan.”
“You are kin to Maronin?”
His voice held an undertone of excitement. Jharan answered slowly, watching them both.
“No. Maronin chose me as his nextkin because of our service together. We have both been in the Guard for nigh on two centuries.“
“Can others attest that you are his nextkin?”
“Of course. Ask any of our—my—company. Most of them were present when he named me so.”
The official looked about to ask another question, but the female laid a hand on his arm. “Had we not best discuss this in private?”
Her companion gave her a startled glance, then nodded. He then bowed—actually bowed—to Jharan.
“Forgive me—we have been remiss. I am Lord Giradon, and this is Lady Surani, of the governor’s circle. Would you be so kind as to accompany us? We have matters of importance to discuss with you.”
Jharan frowned. “Concerning Maronin?”
Giradon hesitated an instant. “Yes.”
Jharan almost declined. He misliked the sudden intensity of the officials, and if he could have thought of a reason for refusing, he would have done so. Maronin’s affairs were now his responsibility, however, so he left word of where he was going with one of his guardians, and gestured to Giradon and Surani to lead on.
The two officials fell in beside him, one to either side, as they walked down the slope toward what had been Governor Turon’s camp. Skyruach loomed before them, causing Jharan’s pulse to quicken with remembered dread.
The great mass of stone that jutted up from the valley floor not far from the road and the river had been at the center of the fighting, and Jharan had been atop it when the battle had turned. He saw that the dead from there were being brought down at last; lowered with ropes, the climb being too arduous to allow their being carried.
The officials guided Jharan southward, to a gentle slope where the governor’s headquarters stood. The camp had been partly overrun by kobalen, and guardians were still clearing away the dead. The smell of the pyres burning on the battlefield—hot smoke waxy with the flesh of the fallen—reached them even here.
Jharan’s unease increased. What could be so urgent that it needed his immediate attention? Maronin’s closest kin dwelt in Glenhallow; perhaps one of them had sent for word of him, and Jharan must give them the sad news. But what concern could that be to these officials?
A tall pavilion of Southfæld’s sage and silver stood in the midst of the governor’s camp. As they neared this, they left the chaos of battle behind for a different kind of activity. The camp was full of horses, new arrivals, discussion. More government folk from Glenhallow were here, and some turned to watch as Jharan and the officials passed, their expressions speculative. Among all the fair-haired Greenglens, Jharan spied one soul of darker coloring—the russet hair of Clan Stonereach—and a familiar face.
“Felisan!”
He waved, and the Stonereach waved back, then said something to the folk he had been with and left them to join Jharan. Greatly relieved at finding a friend amidst all this strangeness—and one of influence, for Felisan was the governor-elect of Alpinon, the realm that neighbored Southfæld to the north—Jharan smiled. He and Felisan were longtime friends; they had fought side by side the previous day, and had fully expected to die together. That they lived was due to their having been on Skyruach when the Eastfælders had arrived.
Felisan grinned, his green eyes glinting as he joined them. “Jharan! What trouble have you gotten yourself into?”
Jharan ignored the jest, fearing there might be some truth in it, and replied formally. “These are Lord Giradon and Lady Surani, advisors to Governor Turon. Gentles, this is my friend Felisan.”
Surani bowed. “We are honored to meet you, Lord Felisan.”
“Indeed, though I fear we cannot stay. We have matters to discuss with Jharan.” Giradon accompanied these words with a slight bow.
Felisan smiled, one eyebrow twitching upward. “May I join you?”
“It is Southfæld business.”
Jharan looked to Surani, who seemed sympathetic. “Felisan is my good friend. May I not have his counsel?”
Surani glanced at Giradon. “We cannot call it inappropriate.”
Giradon’s brows drew together. “Very well. But we must ask your discretion, Lord Felisan.”
“Certainly.”
The slight curve of his lips betrayed Felisan’s amusement as he stepped between Giradon and Jharan. Though he did not see the situation so lightly, Jharan was relieved to have Felisan with him. No doubt these important matters would prove to be trivial, and Felisan would laugh at him later on.
Giradon led them to the governor’s pavilion The two guardians at its entrance cast curious glances at Jharan as they stepped aside. Several more officials were within, and they looked up sharply as Jharan and the others entered.
“Refreshment.” Giradon raised a hand and an attendant hastened away.
The walls of the pavilion muted the daylight. Inside was a large table spread with maps, a scatter of chairs and smaller camp tables, a brazier, and against the far wall a modest couch with a small trunk beside it. This was a point of organization for the army, not a lavish resting place for the governor as Jharan had thought, though none would have begrudged Governor Turon more comfort. His dedication to Southfæld was unquestioned, and now he had died in service to the realm. Jharan felt the loss as if the governor had been a friend.
A tall male in formal robes stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowing. Jharan recognized him: Lord Shilonan, Steward of Glenhallow. He was the governor’s closest supporter, who aided him in managing all the affairs of the city and the realm.
Several of the others looked familiar as well. They all moved toward Jharan, but it was Shilonan who spoke.
“Maronin?”
Surani answered. “Alas, my lord, Maronin was killed in the battle. This is his nextkin, Jharan.”
All eyes turned toward Jharan with an intensity that was becoming oddly familiar. He bowed.
Shilonan’s lips parted slightly, then he looked at Surani. “This has been confirmed?”
Felisan spoke before Surani could answer. “I can confirm it. I was present when Maronin named Jharan his nextkin. So were a number of guardians from both of their companies.”
Shilonan regarded Felisan for a moment, then bowed. “Lord Felisan. You honor us with your presence.”
Smiling, Felisan returned the courtesy. Shilonan turned to
Jharan and spoke in a quiet voice.
“You know, of course, that not only Governor Turon but his brother and nextkin fell in battle yesterday.”
Jharan nodded. Perhaps an expression of loss was expected, but he found he had no words for his own dismay.
“What you may not know, for it has taken us all night and much of today to discover it, is that five others in Turon’s succession also fell. Late this morning we learned that the sixth was Maronin.”
Jharan stared at the steward in the silence that followed. The words seemed to have little meaning at first; then they sank into his heart and he had trouble drawing breath.
“Maronin ... stood in succession to Turon?”
Shilonan nodded, his dark eyes grave. “It is unsurprising that you did not know. Several others stood between them. Only a calamity such as this battle could have taken them all at once.”
Jharan looked to Felisan, seeking help. Felisan looked as astonished as Jharan felt, then as was his wont, he suddenly laughed aloud.
“So in one moment you surpass me! Governor of Southfæld! Ha!”
Jharan felt none of his friend’s mirth. He gazed around the circle of Turon’s advisors.
“But I am only a guardian. I have no experience of governance. Surely one of you would be a better choice.”
Giradon gave him a sympathetic smile. “None would fault you if—”
“Giradon.” Shilonan’s voice was soft but commanding.
Giradon glanced at him, then seemed to become preoccupied with directing the attendant, who had returned with a tray of glasses and a decanter. The steward continued, his gaze never leaving Jharan.
“Your modesty is commendable. It is true that this circle is well versed in the details of governing, and as most of us are not warriors, we were not involved in yesterday’s battle and remain able to continue serving the realm. What Southfæld stands most in need of now is not one experienced in governance. What the realm needs is a hero.”
