Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  Shalár frowned. Kobalen did not make cloth; they would have no use for fleececod. Mayhap they had discovered it could stanch a wound.

  “Yaras.”

  He joined her, and she pointed toward the bushes. “Have you ever known kobalen to harvest fleececod?”

  “No, Bright Lady.”

  “Can you think of why Irith or Ciris might have done it? I assume you did not.”

  Yaras frowned, then shook his head. “We would have no reason.”

  Shalár took hold of a bare stem and closed her eyes, exploring the fleececod’s khi, searching for a hint of the harvester. Something whispered of an awareness greater than the plant’s, but beyond that she could detect nothing.

  Kobalen would not have picked fleececod. Her watchers had no reason to do so. Who, then?

  She shook her head. She had no leisure for such puzzles.

  “Onward.”

  Yaras nodded and strode forward, the army following. Shalár gazed at the bushes as she walked after him. Finding one that had not been picked, she snapped the dry stem of a cod and cupped the white, fibrous bloom in her hand as she walked on. A question with no answer, an ideal focus for meditation.

  Shalár heard the footfalls of a hunter running toward her, light sounds scarcely different from the patter of falling leaves. She frowned and glanced up at the setting moon, clearly visible through barren branches as it sank toward a gray wall of cloud in the west. She and her army were in a greenleaf wood, climbing the flank of the Great Sleeper toward evergreens that would shade them for the morrow. It was too soon for the army to seek shelter, though. Yaras must know that.

  “Why do you return now?”

  She pushed her way through a stand of scrub oak even as he appeared out of the brush before her. Her temper was short owing to the hunger that had begun to grip her. Yaras seemed not to notice, for he dipped a bow and grinned.

  “I have found something. Halt the pack.”

  Shalár glared at him, angered by his presumption. It was she who commanded here, not he. She felt an urge to strike him but mastered it. That was the hunger, and she would not let it rule her.

  She closed her eyes to signal the army, the expense of khi making her gut clench with sudden need. They halted.

  She glared at Yaras once more. He had his head up, listening and scenting. After a moment he looked at Shalár and smiled.

  “They are still asleep. Kobalen. A small band, no more than thirty.”

  Shalár could have wept with relief. Hunger roared in her ears at the thought of food so near. She should have sensed them, but she was tired—so tired.

  “Where?”

  Yaras nodded toward the slope behind him. “Half a league to the east. Camped in a hollow by a spring. Five hunters should be enough to capture them.”

  “Take ten.”

  She would take no risk of losing this catch, for there might not be another before they reached Fireshore. She ought to lead the hunt herself, but she was weary and weak from hunger. Yaras was not so afflicted yet, though she could sense his need. He had done right to come back, and she knew it must have cost him an effort to refrain from feeding at once.

  She closed her eyes again to summon the army to her. She had been walking ahead of them, and now they came up quietly, gathering in a clearing carpeted with fallen leaves. Some sat down at once, and a few sprawled on the ground.

  Shalár nodded to Yaras to choose his hunters. He quickly picked ten of those who seemed least weary and led them eastward up the slope, shadows fading into the scrub beneath the trees.

  Shalár sat on a rock to await their return, sighing as she looked up at the sullen moon now half-hidden by cloud. Her face tingled slightly from its reflected light, a sign of her weakened state.

  As she gazed westward, a dim glow of light seemed to shine through the brush beneath the trees. It was not moonlight, more like the flickering of a campfire, for it moved, glimmering, now shining out between branches, now fading almost to nothing. Shalár frowned as she watched it, the hair on her neck rising as she realized it was approaching.

  Torchlight? Someone coming to the army? But her own hunters would not have made a light, and they were all here save those Yaras had taken to hunt. There were none of her people living this far from Nightsand. Kobalen could command fire, but they would never approach the army. That left ælven, though she doubted they would come near her hunters, either, even if they had dared to venture this far into the Westerlands.

  She swallowed, wondering whether to call out a challenge. Glancing around the clearing, she saw that none of the army had taken notice of the light. With growing unease, she looked back at it.

  It was closer. Not torchlight, too white for fire. It shimmered now, growing brighter as it came nearer. Shalár shifted, reaching for the knife at her hip, its solid hilt a comfort.

  The light was moving along the ground, approaching as if cast by lantern or torch. At first she had thought it was dancing, but now it merely shifted from side to side, as if someone was walking through the wood, stepping around obstacles, between trees. Shalár glanced up toward the moon, but it was gone now, sunk behind the clouds, the only hint of its presence the outline of golden fire it cast around the edges of the cloud.

  Cautiously, she reached out to taste the khi of the intruder. The moment she opened herself to it, she gasped at its brilliance and quickly pulled back, squeezing her eyes shut and closing all her senses.

  Whatever cast that light was powerful, both strange and familiar. She tasted fear, tried to breathe more steadily, tried to calm her thundering heart.

  After a moment she dared to look again and saw the glowing figure, now much closer. The army gave no sign of having noticed.

  Her fingers gripped the knife hilt convulsively, though she knew now the weapon was useless. Warily she watched the silvery light take shape as the walker emerged from the woods. Tall, male, robed in white and carrying something—a child? Suddenly she knew him, and her heart clenched with cold fear as she whispered his name.

  “Dareth?”

  But it could not be he. Dareth was gone, crossed into spirit many days since.

  Crossed into spirit. Shalár began to tremble.

  He stopped at the edge of the clearing, no more than a rod away from her. It was Dareth, looking strong as he had not looked for centuries, looking as he had in Fireshore, before the hunger. His long, pale hair was loose over the shoulders of his robe, falling down to the middle of his back, waking a longing in Shalár to run her fingers through its silkiness. He stood silently gazing at her, eyes rich with love tinged with sorrow.

  “What do you want?”

  Dareth bent to set the child he carried on its feet. Shalár could not see its face, for it glowed with a light even brighter than that surrounding Dareth. He held its hands to steady it for a moment, then released them.

  The child sped away at once, toward Shalár. Without thought she opened her arms, but the child spirit passed her by, so swiftly its brilliance sent a wave of tingling heat through her. There was no sound in its passing. She turned her head, but it had vanished.

  A few of the army were watching her, mildly curious. They saw nothing of Dareth or the child, she knew. Swallowing, she looked back at Dareth.

  “What does this mean?”

  He merely gazed at her, softly smiling, giving her sympathy but no answers. Was this the spirit of the child they had tried and failed to conceive together? Or a child she might yet bear? Heartache smote her at the thought. Should she have said something, offered something?

  She stood up and had to pause for a moment to steady herself. All the discomforts of her flesh returned to her attention: weariness, sore muscles, aching feet, weakness, and hunger. She turned resentful eyes toward Dareth.

  What good was such a vision if it offered no comfort? Dareth had left her, chosen to leave his suffering flesh. He had abandoned the struggle to regain what they had lost, leaving her to fight on alone. Why did he now taunt her?
r />   She took a step toward him, feeling her anger flare. As if her movement had disrupted his khi, the light around him rippled, distorting her perception of him, like a reflection on the surface of troubled water. She stopped, suddenly afraid of his departure. He was lost to her, yet she saw him now and wanted to see him still, wanted to gaze at him forever.

  The ripples continued, waves of shadow damping the light, which grew dimmer moment by moment. He was leaving.

  “Stay. Please stay.”

  He reached a hand toward her, his face now sad. Shalár gave a small gasp and stepped forward, reaching out to touch him. The light faded as her hand passed through the air where he had been.

  Slowly she moved to the spot where he had stood. With an effort she opened her awareness once more, seeking for a whisper of him on the wind. There was nothing but darkness and the hollow rustle of dry leaves.

  Her face was wet, she noticed. Wet with tears. She had not allowed herself that weakness in a very long time.

  She stood a long while gazing into the empty wood, seeing Dareth in her mind’s eye, trying to remember every subtle shift of his expression.

  Why a child? Why here, now? She thought it through again and again but could find no answer.

  “Bright Lady?”

  She turned, surprised at the stiffness in her legs. One of the army, a female with a tattered armband over her leathers, a token of affection from some loved one, made a slight, hesitant bow.

  “Your pardon, Bright Lady. The hunters have returned.”

  Shalár looked past her, startled. It did not seem long enough, yet there they were, Yaras and the others, herding a small band of subdued kobalen into the clearing. Shalár smelled the creatures’ pungent scent, tasted their fear on the air. Her hunger woke anew, hot and angry.

  Yaras glanced up and saw her. His face was pinched now, exertion and hunger sharpening his features. He nodded in greeting and glanced at the catch.

  “One to every twelve hunters, by my reckoning. I wish there were more. We took them all; none escaped.”

  “You did well. Summon your captains.”

  Shalár laid a hand on his shoulder, a gesture meant to convey her approval. The shock of touching solid flesh surprised her. She gave herself a shake to dispel it.

  “This one was too small to feed twelve.” Yaras gestured toward a tiny kobalen sitting on the ground nearby. “I set it aside for you, Bright Lady.”

  A small, coarse face turned toward her, round eyes wide with fear and red-rimmed in contrast to the black fur. The kobalen was young, no more than a handful of years, though a child of Shalár’s people would not grow so large in twenty. Kobalen matured swiftly in their short lives. This one was yet a child.

  A child. Shalár frowned.

  Dareth could not have meant this creature. The child with him had shone with a light fiercer than his own—it must then have been something even mightier, not so feeble a thing as kobalen. She saw again the child running free, a flash of brilliance that burned her soul as it passed.

  What if she set this child free? What if she chose to be merciful—that ælven ambition—and spare this small life?

  The kobalen would die alone, then, of starvation most likely. Or if it had the good fortune to encounter another band of its kind, it would become a slave to them. It would warn them, also, of her army’s presence.

  “We are ready, Bright Lady.”

  She turned to look at Yaras, saw the captains beyond him waiting sharp-eyed with hunger. Yaras held a knife in his hand, which he offered to her. She shook her head, gesturing to him to begin sharing out the catch. He turned to the clustered kobalen and selected a large male.

  Shalár went to the kobalen child, ignoring the frightened sounds behind her. The child stared at her warily and moved to scramble away, but she caught its mind and stilled it, holding it gently with khi.

  There are other kinds of mercy. This creature shall not suffer.

  She spent a little more khi to cloud the kobalen’s mind, to blind it to the blade she raised to its throat, to numb the slight pain as she opened its vein. Gathering the small body to her, she fed gently, sending the creature into a dreamless sleep where no fear would ever trouble it again.

  Escorting Heléri to Glenhallow’s public circle, Rephanin saw a large crowd gathered to see the delegations off on their homeward journeys. An honor guard of twenty Southfæld guardians waited to accompany Governor Felisan’s small party northward. Rephanin kept his hood drawn well forward against the bright, cold dawn. He could feel the coming winter settling into his bones—a dull, lonely ache.

  Jharan kept his words of farewell brief and informal, for which Rephanin was silently grateful. The idle thought came to him that he could speak to all here assembled; he could enable Jharan to speak into their thoughts if the governor so wished. Such possibilities had not occurred to him before. In all his centuries of mindspeech, he had never thought of it as a tool for public use.

  He was changed—profoundly changed—from what he had been before this Council had commenced. He looked at Heléri, her own hood and veil deeply sheltering her from the biting sun.

  I cannot resist tormenting us both a little more.

  He felt her smile. I am glad.

  He handed her into the chariot that had brought her to Glenhallow and stood silently watching the small cavalcade’s departure. He could still feel the warmth of her in his heart. When she passed beyond the first gate, he expected to lose contact with her, but apparently the carriage wall was an insignificant barrier to him, or perhaps she had the window open.

  Rephanin began to breathe a little faster. Could it be that outdoors he was a distance speaker? Why had he never thought to test this?

  Are you with me, dear one?

  Heléri’s gentle laughter rippled through her response. Anxious, beloved?

  I am wondering how long I will be able to speak to you. I can no longer see you.

  Her silence bespoke her musing upon this question. Rephanin waited, straining to catch every whisper of her, every glimmer of her khi.

  The crowd around and between them made this difficult. He sorted through many random currents, seeking Heléri’s khi. Most of the others he could disregard, but he became aware of khi focused on himself from someone nearby. Glancing up, he saw Turisan beside him, watching him.

  Rephanin made a small gesture to stay him, then stepped away from the center of the circle, still focused on the retreating Alpinon party. Behind him he heard Jharan making further farewells, heard the jingle of the harness bells with which the Steppegards were wont to adorn their horses on ceremonial occasions.

  He walked to the circle’s edge, gazing eastward. The sunlight stung his eyes now. He blinked fiercely and pulled his hood as far forward as it would go but continued to stare into the morning, eyes fixed on a distant banner of violet and blue above the receding cavalcade.

  Heléri?

  Yes?

  You said you chose to remain in flesh because you had not done all you wished here. What did you stay to achieve?

  No answer came. For a long, agonized moment he thought he had lost contact with her; then a wave of warmth flooded through him, tender and loving, making him ache to touch her. He shivered, the morning cold against his flesh at odds with the heat in his soul. His heart seemed to melt within him, all fear vanishing in the fire of her love. He returned his own to her, sending his khi flying out to wrap her tenderly about.

  I—hope you mean to stay yet awhile.

  A while, yes.

  Of course, he thought in a small private corner of his mind. Like you, Rephanin, to assume you were her only reason for remaining.

  Still, he was pleased beyond expression. He stood watching her with his mind more than his eyes, heedless of his surroundings save for a dim awareness of successive departures. He could see the Steppe Wilds party on the plain now, but he kept his gaze fixed on Alpinon’s little column. The sun was well up by the time they neared the foothills, where the road
drew away from the Silverwash to climb through a shallow pass.

  The mountains may interfere between us.

  He nodded. The heartache was returning.

  I will come to Alpinon. Wait for me.

  Warmth, a smile. Loving tenderness. He closed his eyes briefly, treasuring it, then opened them to catch a last glimpse of the banner as the column started into the pass.

  I love you, Heléri. I love you, I love you, I love you—

  A touch on his arm startled him. Reluctantly he gave part of his attention to his flesh, turning to look at Turisan.

  Jharan’s son smiled gently back at him, then tilted his head toward the magehall. Rephanin became aware that the gathered crowd was dispersing, taking up their daily business. The councillors who were leaving this day had all departed.

  Rephanin looked back toward the foothills. Alpinon’s banner had passed from view.

  Heléri?

  Gone. He swallowed, feeling emptiness soak into him, widening in his soul like a cold pool. His flesh was numb from standing overlong.

  He inhaled slowly, turning to Turisan with a small nod of agreement. He took a step and was surprised at his unsteadiness. Turisan moved swiftly to help, grasping his upper arm. Normally this would have made Rephanin indignant, but just now he felt battered, bruised. Had Turisan felt so, he wondered, when Eliani had left?

  No, for they could still speak. He swallowed a moment’s bitter envy, knowing it was unworthy of him.

  Turisan’s khi hummed against his arm, muted by the sleeve of his robe. He withdrew from it, wanting to remember the tone of Heléri’s khi, wanting only that in his mind.

  He did allow Turisan to guide him to the magehall and sighed with relief when they entered the shelter of the hearthroom. Flames flickered overhead in two small hanging lanterns of golden glass, and the warmth from the banked coals on the welcoming hearth eased into his chilled flesh. He put back his hood and looked at Turisan.