Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  “You will have in your care not only these three hundred but also a mindspeaker.” Jharan turned to Rephanin, who had joined the gathering unbeknownst to Turisan.

  A mindspeaker? Rephanin, to come with the advance? It made no sense, and Turisan was about to protest when he saw that a guardian stood with the magelord—one of his force, if Turisan recalled correctly. His face shone with eagerness as he looked at Rephanin, and Turisan suddenly remembered the magelord’s attempts to find a mindspeaker among the recruits.

  Turisan’s heart began to race. Another mindspeaker!

  Rephanin laid his hands on the guardian’s shoulders. “Thorian shows great promise as a distance speaker. His presence with your command will give a double advantage, that of testing his gift and that of providing Governor Jharan continuing contact with you.”

  Turisan bowed slightly to Thorian. “This is joyous news. May your gift prove limitless.”

  Thorian returned the bow with reverence. “Thank you, Lord Turisan.”

  “Hail the new mindspeaker!”

  The assembly took up the cry, and Turisan watched Thorian’s cheeks redden with surprised pleasure. Rephanin murmured something to the guardian—his partner now, apparently—and then stepped back.

  Turisan’s feelings were mixed, and he quickly smote down a trace of jealousy. Absolute folly to wish himself unique; another mindspeaker was a boon to the ælven in every way. He wished Thorian complete success.

  He could not keep this news to himself. As the cheers continued, he queried Eliani.

  Yes, love? Are you leaving already?

  Not quite. Ceremonies.

  He felt her mirth. Dear Governor Jharan!

  Eliani, Rephanin has found another mindspeaker!

  A mindspeaker? Tell me!

  He gave her the details, such as he knew. The cheers dwindled meanwhile, and Jharan turned to address him again.

  I must go, love.

  Ceremonies. Speak to me when you are free; we are just now breaking fast.

  I will.

  Jharan offered his arm, and Turisan clasped it. “Lord Turisan, you take all our blessings with you. Ride swiftly and return swiftly.”

  “I will. Thank you, my lord governor.”

  Cheering rose again as Turisan made his way out of Hallowhall. Jharan, Thorian, and several others followed.

  Horses stood waiting in the public circle, along with a small crowd of citizens who had braved the morning chill to see them off. Word of Rephanin’s discovery must have already spread, for they called “Hail the mindspeakers!” and threw garlands of winterbloom to Thorian as well as to Turisan and Rephanin.

  Jharan came to stand with Turisan beside his horse. “I will not go with you to the gates; I would only delay you.”

  Turisan smiled ruefully. “I did not mean that—”

  “No, you were right. Jhinani has pointed out to me that when I do not wish to do something, I postpone it with speeches. I do not wish to bid you farewell, but I must.”

  He was frowning. Turisan knew it was a sign not of disapproval but of heartache. He offered his arm.

  “Thank you, Father, for permitting me this.”

  Jharan pulled him into a brief, firm embrace, voice husky with emotion. “Spirits see you safely there and home, my son.”

  Squeezing his father’s arms as they parted, Turisan could only hope that his smile said all that was in his heart. Here, in public, was not the place for lengthy demonstrations of affection.

  Jharan stepped back, his expression returning to the governor’s serene calm. Turisan mounted his horse, hoping his face was equally calm as he started toward the city gates, for his heart was full of thunder.

  Luruthin’s hopes rose as the party rounded a bend and the lights of Althill glimmered into view. Snow had fallen off and on all day, and now a heavy mist was gathering in the hollows and valleys. This high in the mountains the night promised a sharp freeze.

  Luruthin gazed at the back of Eliani’s cloak, its hood pulled up to keep the snow off her head. The pale green cloth seemed to shed water like a swan’s feathers. He glanced around at the Southfælders, all warm and dry beneath their Greenglen cloaks. His own blue cloak from Clerestone, sadly lacking in mage-crafted blessings, was saturated, and the cold was starting to seep through his leathers.

  Vanorin drew up beside him. “Does Althill have hot springs?”

  Luruthin gestured westward, where the mountains loomed in the dark, shrouded in wisps of fog. “Up toward the peak. Half a day’s ride.”

  “I suppose Eliani will not wish to take the time.”

  Vanorin looked disappointed, as well he might. The party had not had leisure to bathe in many days, though at Heahrued, Vanorin had stripped and plunged himself into the frigid Heahrindel to wash away the stench of death. He had then spent half the evening shivering by the fire.

  A light shone out as a doorway opened, and a voice was raised in a friendly hail. “Eliani? Is that you?”

  The party reined to a halt while a youth ran the short distance to meet them. Eliani grinned down at him from her saddle.

  “Ghithlaran! How you have grown!”

  Ghithlaran grinned back, brown hair tousled over the shoulders of his cloak, half of it caught beneath the garment. “My father says I may join the Guard next summer!”

  “Does he? What makes him think the Guard will have you?”

  Ghithlaran laughed, then peered at the party. A smile of recognition lit his lean face, and he poked a hand out of his cloak to wave to Luruthin, who waved back.

  “How many are you? We thought it was a patrol.”

  Eliani dismounted. “A bit larger than that. We are nineteen.”

  “Nineteen! We cannot house you all!”

  Luruthin slid from his saddle. “Is the meethall in use?”

  “N-no. It is rather full of barrels, though. We just finished pressing the last of the cider. You would be crowded.”

  “Crowded is better than wet.” Eliani assumed a formal tone, even sweeping a bow. “Pray tell Theyn Mirithan that I crave an audience with him.”

  Ghithlaran made no answer, his attention caught by the ribbons woven on Eliani’s right arm. “You are handfasted!”

  “Ah—yes.”

  “I thought you said you would never handfast!”

  “Did I? Well, I changed my mind.”

  “Who made your ribbon? It is beautiful!”

  “Heléri. You will be able to see the pictures better in the light.”

  Ghithlaran took the hint and dashed away to alert the village’s theyn of their arrival. The rest of the party began to dismount, and the horses sighed and shook themselves, knowing their work was done for the nonce.

  Vanorin glanced at Luruthin as he slid from his saddle. “Rather a formal gesture for Lady Eliani to stay waiting in the road.”

  Luruthin grinned. “She has good reason to flatter Mirithan’s authority.”

  Ghithlaran returned, slightly out of breath, and reached for Eliani’s reins. “Theyn Mirithan bids you welcome. You may visit him at his house if you wish.”

  Eliani cast a grimacing glance at Luruthin, then thanked the youth and walked toward the theyn’s house. Ghithlaran led her horse and the party across the circle to the meethall.

  The village’s largest building, it was perhaps half the size of the feast hall at Felisanin Hall in Highstone. More folk came to help with the horses, and the friendly exchange of news began as the party carried their packs into the meethall.

  Better than half of the meethall was crammed with barrels, as Ghithlaran had warned. They were stacked to the vaulted ceiling, with an aisle barely wide enough for passage between them. A dusty, fruity smell pervaded the hall as Luruthin edged his way through.

  Beyond the barrels was an open space where two villagers were kindling a fire in a wide hearth. Luruthin allowed himself a grateful sigh as he stacked his packs against the wall and stretched out his hands, though the flames were too new to have much warmth.


  One of the fire builders, a tall female with her rich red-brown hair caught in two long braids, stood up, brushing dust from her tunic and legs. Luruthin knew her well, for he had visited here on patrol and had once maintained a pleasant dalliance with Taeyani. A glint of laughter came into her green eyes as her gaze fell upon him.

  “Welcome, Luruthin! Did you bring stags?”

  He grinned. “Not this time. We have other business, I fear.”

  “Oh? What business?”

  “We are escorting Lady Eliani to Fireshore.” Vanorin’s tone was formal, even cold.

  Taeyani raised an eyebrow. Luruthin detected a bristling in her khi and hastened to make the introduction.

  “Taeyani, this is Vanorin, who commands our party and is a captain in the Southfæld Guard. Taeyani is steward in Althill.”

  Vanorin bowed. Taeyani’s brow remained high, but she returned the courtesy, then turned to Luruthin.

  “We are gathering a meal for you. I should go to oversee it; Diriani can never organize anything. Oh, you may open a barrel of apples. You may have all the apples you wish!”

  She showed them which barrels held apples and which cider, invited them to partake of both, then started toward the entrance, beckoning Luruthin to follow with a glance. Seeing Vanorin busy with an apple barrel, Luruthin walked after her down the narrow aisle. She paused inside the hearthroom, where a chill breeze from outside lifted sparks from the fire.

  “Your captain is very formal. Are all Southfælders like that?”

  “He has many cares.”

  “Hm.” She glanced back into the meethall and spoke in a softer, warmer voice. “Your party will be crowded. You might be more comfortable in a bed.”

  A slight tingle went through Luruthin. He knew whose bed she meant.

  “Thank you, but I am cup-bonded.”

  Her brows rose again, and for a moment she looked disappointed, then her eyes narrowed. “Do not tell me—a Southfælder?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  She laughed. “They must not all be rigid, then. Well, joy to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She brushed a kiss against his cheek and went out through the hearthroom. Luruthin returned to the back of the meethall, where by this time the fire was burning briskly. Taeyani was right; the party would be crowded. They would have to lie close tonight.

  Eliani came in, looking as if she had just finished an unpleasant task. Luruthin ladled a cup of cider for her and grinned as he handed it to her.

  “How does our good theyn?”

  She pushed back her hood and grimaced. “Stiff as a board of darkwood. He is still offended. Made certain I was aware of the magnitude of his generosity in allowing us to sleep in their meethall.”

  Luruthin laughed. “Oh, dear.”

  “I should have sent you to talk to him, theyn to theyn.”

  “I would have fared no better.”

  Vanorin joined them, looking curious. “Perhaps Theyn Mirithan is not aware of your standing, Eliani.”

  “Oh, he is aware. It is not that.”

  Luruthin grinned. “We should have sent Vanorin to ask his charity and hidden ourselves among the trees.”

  Eliani cocked an eye at Vanorin, her lips twitching in a smile. “That might have served. But Ghithlaran had already seen me.”

  Vanorin looked bewildered. Luruthin chuckled, taking pity on him.

  “We wasted a day of the villagers’ time in running stag races some years ago. Mirithan had a cold supper and has not forgiven us since.”

  Eliani shook her head as she moved closer to the fire. “He never will forgive us.”

  Whether by chance or by design, the supper that was brought to the meethall was also cold. They did not mind, as it included buttery cheeses and soft bread along with the apples, wine, and ale, as well as a basket of carrots hastily pulled from winter beds. A cold haunch of roasted venison was also offered, and though there was only enough meat for a mouthful apiece, the guardians expressed their gratitude for their hosts’ generosity.

  The meethall became crowded with villagers as well as guardians. They milled together, everyone standing for lack of room, talking and eating from platters propped atop barrels and along the wide stone mantel of the hearth.

  Taeyani came up to where Eliani, Luruthin, and Vanorin stood beside a cider barrel, offering a platter of cheese. “Accept my belated congratulations on your majority, Lady Eliani.”

  Eliani smiled as she helped herself to the cheese. “Thank you, Taeyani. You look well. Your brother is wonderfully grown.”

  “Next summer will mark his thirtieth year.”

  “Already? Spirits!”

  Luruthin took a slice of cheese. “What news from the Steppes?”

  “Very little. We have not seen a trade caravan since before Evennight. We did hear there was to be a Council in Glenhallow.”

  Vanorin nodded. “It was the Council that sent us. Have you heard any news from Fireshore?”

  Taeyani regarded him thoughtfully. “We almost never hear from Fireshore. It is a thirty-day journey by caravan to the border, ten of them across a waterless plain, and we have little to offer in trade that they cannot make or grow themselves.”

  Luruthin nodded in sympathy. Althill’s disadvantage was that it lay off the common trade route, the easier road that crossed the plains just east of the Ebons. They saw traders from the Steppes, mostly, horse breeders who valued the village’s mountain wines and meads.

  Vanorin frowned. “Thirty days by caravan. Twelve riding quickly, and that is only to the border. Ghlanhras is at least another six days beyond that. We are behind our pace.”

  Taeyani tilted her head. “You are in haste?”

  Eliani traded a glance with Luruthin before answering in a lowered voice. “Governor Othanin never replied to Jharan’s summons to the Council. A second envoy was sent but never reached him—we found them slain south of Heahrued.”

  “Slain!”

  “Please do not speak of it other than to Mirithan. There is no sense in alarming your people. If you should see Kelevon, though, beware of him. He is a traitor. That much you should tell all your citizens.”

  Taeyani nodded, eyes wide. Kelevon had been known in Althill.

  “So you ride to Fireshore. Do you plan to cross Twisted Pine Pass?”

  Luruthin glanced at Eliani. The pass had not occurred to him. The last time any expedition of note had gone through it was before the Battle of Westgard many centuries ago.

  Eliani looked as if she had not thought of it, either. “How many days would it save us?”

  “With your horses you could cross the pass in four days and be in Fireshore in six or seven.”

  “Six days instead of twelve.”

  Eliani glanced at Luruthin, plainly weighing the risks. A harder path, and it meant going west of the Ebons, though only slightly. In this cold, there was little likelihood that kobalen would trouble them.

  Luruthin turned to Taeyani. “Could you spare us a guide?”

  “To the trailhead or all the way to the pass?”

  “Whatever you can manage.”

  Taeyani smiled wryly, a glint of laughter in her eyes. “I imagine Ghithlaran would be thrilled to miss a few days of chores around the village.”

  Eliani looked surprised. “Mirithan will not object?”

  “Oh, no. He finds Ghithlaran almost as annoying as he finds you.”

  Luruthin stifled his laughter. Vanorin cast him a disapproving look, then shook his head.

  “I do not like crossing the Ebons.”

  Luruthin turned a lazy glance upon Taeyani. “The trail runs near the peak, does it not?”

  “Yes, past the hot springs.”

  Vanorin’s eyes lit with interest. Luruthin hid a smile as Eliani reached for the cider ladle.

  “We shall take the pass.”

  Eliani peered westward into the fog, toward the pale glowing ghost of the sun. Shreds of thicker cloud, troubled by wind but not banished by it,
curled around the feeble orb. She looked over her shoulder at her escort, strung out single file as they led their horses over the narrow, rocky track.

  A loose stone lay in her path of a size and sharpness to threaten the horses’ hooves. She kicked it off the trail. It clattered as it fell down the steep slope.

  The barren rock of the Ebons’ western face was depressing. What few plants grew there were weedy and gnarled, clinging stubbornly to the rock against the constant assault of bitter winds.

  Eliani called to their guide, who walked before Vanorin a few paces ahead. “Ghithlaran—should we not begin to look for a camp?”

  The youth paused and looked back at her. “It is only a little farther to the crest of the pass. There are springs beyond it; we can reach them by dusk, I think.”

  Springs. Yes, that comfort was worth trudging on a bit farther.

  Thinking of it made Eliani thirsty. She shook the water skin at her hip, misliking the lightness of it. She left it closed and swallowed with a dry tongue. Her fingers were cold despite her gloves. She felt despair creeping into her heart, and to fight it she signaled Turisan.

  Yes, my heart?

  Where are you? Have you halted for the night?

  Not yet. We are crossing one more ridge before we make camp. How goes your journey? Have you seen any kobalen?

  Eliani scoffed aloud. No kobalen with a scrap of wit would come near this place.

  She glanced up and saw that the sky above her head was shredding, drifts of mist swirling counter to one another. The wind rose in a sharp rush, shrieking around the rocks. Surprised, Eliani halted and leaned against her mount, turning her face from the sudden frigid blast. When the wind subsided, she looked up again and caught her breath.

  The fog had broken, the last wisps of it twining away from sharp crags of gray rock. To the northwest a giant mountain towered high above the rest of the range, its peak bare, its slopes streaked with dark stands of pine and rivers of golden firespear. The sun emerged from its shroud to set them ablaze, and Eliani stood rapt. She heard Vanorin exclaim in wonder.

  “What is that mountain, Ghithlaran?”

  “The Great Sleeper. You can see the Small Sleeper off to the west.”