A blade flashed in the late afternoon sunlight as the second drove his sword down at her head. She took it on her own with both hands. The force of the blow made her hands sting but she didn’t drop the blade, only her shoulder as she slid out from beneath it and danced away. Even as she spun and turned she drew the sword after her and felt it bite into flesh as the man shouted in pain.
It was the movement of mass, the sudden beat of hooves that made her turn, spinning and ducking as the leader spurred his horse at her, grabbing for her hair.
He missed.
Setting his horse on his heels, the leader turned it and swung even as a third man charged toward her.
Her long hair flowing around her like liquid fire in the sunlight, Delae fended off one blow even as she arched to avoid another, the smith Dan swinging his mallet mightily, encircled by swordsmen.
As Dorovan rode toward the gate that was what he saw - he set heels to Charis’s ribs unnecessarily as the sound of battle rang in the air. Charis was stretched full out but the gallant Elven-bred reached farther.
His heart nearly stopped even as a part of him admired the wonder and beauty, the grace of Delae, her courage as she fought, always, against impossible odds.
Then his swords were in his hands. He spun the blades around them, bright Elven steel sending shards of light coruscating to splinter against the buildings.
It was that light that startled the raiders; it caught their attention, even as he shouted, “Delae!”
Hope against hope, Delae heard Dorovan’s familiar deep voice and cried, “Dorovan!” even as she spun away from the third raider, dodging the leader as he rode down on her.
The leader turned at the shout, his eyes widening as he looked up to see an Elven warrior bearing down on him.
In an instant, two of his men fell to the Elf’s swords as the Elf’s horse spun, its feet lashing out to send one of those battling the smith flying.
With a roar, the leader set his spurs to his horse and charged as his men scrambled to rally themselves.
At the last minute he threw himself off his horse - dodging the Elf’s blades - scrambling out of the way as his horse slammed into the huge Elven-bred.
Prepared for the impact, trained for it, Charis braced, staggering only a little as he drove the lesser beast off with teeth and hooves.
Dorovan was off the horse in one smooth motion, striding across the quadrangle as the bandit leader ducked behind the shelter of his men. They came at him.
Against swordsmen of such little skill as these, it was hardly a contest. Dorovan was Elf, Swordmaster for Talaena. These were bandits with no skill and less training.
Spinning in, dropping low, Dorovan ducked one sword and parried another effortlessly before his longsword took one even as he went beneath the other man’s guard. His shortsword took that one as he turned another’s blade with a flick of his wrist. One staggered back, mortally wounded. The other two were already dead.
He advanced on the leader.
“Dorovan,” Delae shouted, seeing a bandit behind him, preparing to throw his sword like a javelin.
It was like watching a dancer, Dorovan was so smooth as he spun and turned to avoid the thrown blade.
To Dorovan’s alarm, he saw the leader smile.
From the corner of his eye he saw one of the men charge Delae, catching her around the waist from behind, lifting her from the ground. But the man hadn’t caught her arms. Or the sword in them.
She arched backward, driving her sword back over her head to glance off that of the man who held her.
With a shriek, the man released her.
Dropped to her feet, she spun, cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders.
His swords at ready, Dorovan advanced slowly as Delae ran lightly but swiftly to join him, waiting until she had his back.
The leader of the bandits and the remainder of his men charged.
Dorovan wove a curtain of steel around them, moving and turning as blood flew and men screamed - Delae fighting at his back, keeping it safe.
These, unskilled and untrained, were nothing against an Elven Swordmaster and his friend-of-the-heart.
Then there was only the leader left and Delae stepped away, however much her heart was in her throat, even knowing Dorovan was Elf, to leave this for him to do.
Once more she was caught by the beauty and grace of him as the leader of the bandits screamed and charged, hammering blows on Dorovan’s swords.
Dorovan simply parried and then his blade flicked. The bandit leader staggered. Dorovan stepped cautiously away, sheathing his swords as he reached for Delae.
Blood gushed but the bandit appeared not to notice it as he toppled.
Delae went into Dorovan’s embrace with relief, pressing her face into his chest.
“How did you know?” she asked.
Looking down at her, Dorovan said “You are the friend-of-my-heart, my only bond and you are loved. You were hurt and so I came.”
A little frown crossed her face. “But it would’ve taken days…”
Her breath caught, remembering, knowing what it was he’d sensed and she pulled away, color draining from her face, shame and horror piercing her…
Dorovan caught her, seeing the stricken look in her eyes. “What is it? Tell me…”
“Kort was here,” she said, softly, raising her hand almost involuntarily to the bruise on her cheek. Her voice sank. “I couldn’t stop him...”
It took a second before Dorovan understood. This was a thing of men no Elf understood. How could one gain pleasure from such a thing, to turn something of such beauty into ugliness…?
Fury nearly hazed his vision. “He forced you…”
She closed her eyes.
“He’s my husband…,” she said, miserably, tears streaming.
Taking her chin in his hand, Dorovan tilted her face up so she could see his eyes.
“He broke his oath to you a thousand times, Delae, yet you have never broken your faith to him. He married you to this duty, not for love or honor. You have done it and still do it. In honor you owe him nothing. Nothing! Do you hear me?”
Brushing her hair back from her face, he said, “Know this, Delae. What we have is a faith of the heart. It can be broken only by death and nothing else. We could not have it if you were faithless. As the friend-of-my-heart, I love you. I don’t care what he does or what the laws of men say. In your heart, you know honor and keep it. As I can, I will always come, as quickly as I may.”
Delae bowed her head against his chest.
Chapter Nine
It would be three months later before Dorovan could come again. Spring was in the air, the breezes had warmed and yet through their bond Delae knew he was coming and she came to meet him, walking through the long grasses and the early spring flowers.
She looked beautiful, her brilliant hair streaming in the breeze and he watched her face glow as she caught sight of him. Her feet were bare, as always. He smiled to see them. There was a picnic basket in her hand.
As selfish as it was, Dorovan couldn’t help being glad no other of men could love her and so he had this to himself. Had she had a true love, a soul-bond other than him, he would still have been her friend-of-the-heart but without this deep joy.
He knew she loved him - deeply and truly - but she didn’t pain for the day he might find his soul-bond, even knowing it would end this that they shared between them. She loved him enough to wish it for him, to see him happy. Parted as they must be, their love forbidden, if this was all they could have, then it would enough and more than enough.
It was risk enough to come here, an Elf alone. There were some of men who would kill him just to see him. Millennia of war between their two races carried its scars and its hatreds, although it hadn’t been his people who started those wars.
There was also this, his was the longer-lived race and so he wouldn’t age as quickly as she. Delae burned so brightly but she would burn so very briefly compared to him, while he would
live on long after she was gone. He hated to think it, to consider a world without bright Delae in it.
Without needing to think about it, Dorovan reached an arm down to swing her up onto the saddle before him as her mouth lifted to his for a kiss, the picnic basket across her thighs.
Delae looked at him. “I have a thing to show you. A place.”
“All right,” he said, a little mystified, but looking in her eyes to see he saw the light of mischief there.
“Will Charis mind if I guide him?”
“The reins are yours,” Dorovan said, content simply to be in her presence.
She had a quiet soul, full of warmth and energy, but content with her place, her life.
The deep woods that nearly surrounded her homestead closed around them, close and secret, so like Talaena and all the other Enclaves it was almost like home, save there were no Veils, no verandas, no homes and walkways among the trees.
Here only the birds moved among the tree tops, not his people.
Dorovan knew the great Gorge wasn’t so far away, but far enough.
Then the trees parted to reveal a little glade brilliant with sunlight and spangled with the little white flowers that grew in neat circles that men called Fairy rings. Such flowers grew over the graves of Elves who’d died in truth, who hadn’t passed on to the Summerlands.
Not here, though, here was just a place of warmth and beauty, of flowers and sunlight, bright green mosses and the thick green grasses.
It stood on a little rise. Through a break in the trees they could see Delae’s homestead in the near distance, framed by the hills around it.
Here in this little glade, though, the sun was warm and there was no one but themselves.
He felt an odd sense of familiarity with this place. For a moment, Dorovan went still. He’d seen this place before…then he smiled as it came to him.
“The tapestry?”
She nodded. “I know you’ve worried about my people seeing you come here or someone spotting you by chance. But we can meet here safely and I can still watch over my people.”
It had been a concern, a risk he was willing to take to see her but it was better without it. With a laugh Dorovan caught her up in his arms, wrapping them around her hips to lift her into the air with a smile.
Here he didn’t have to worry about betraying himself or his people and they could share their pleasure in each other freely. In the wintertime, closed in by the snows, there was less concern…
Although he could only stay a short while, it was enough.
The sudden sense of pain was shocking, surprising and yet oddly not alarming. What Dorovan sensed through their friend-of-the-heart bond from Delae was joy. It was puzzling and a shock to realize it had been six months or more as men measured such things since he’d seen her last. Summer waned and fall was nearly upon them. It was so easy to forget how brief their time together might be when you lived so long, especially when she was so much a part of his heart, so he knew her joys and sorrows, as now.
Suddenly the need to see her was sharp, intense. He missed her deeply.
It might not be a soul-bond but it still brought them both much joy.
Charis waited, his ears pricked, eager to be on their way, not just racing around the vale with the other horses. Like Dorovan himself, the horse had a restless soul.
Dorovan could sense Delae long before he saw her as he and Charis picked their way through the trees of the forest, already anticipating the time to be spent with her.
The last time they’d talked of many things, eaten what Delae had brought in the picnic basket, made love on the sweet grass and simply basked with each other in the sunlight. It had eased the longing and the loneliness for them both.
He stepped into the glade to find her sitting there, her glorious hair tumbling around her shoulders, so brilliant in the sunlight.
There was something different about her, a glow, and then he stepped closer.
For a moment his heart both lifted and stopped, looking at what she held in her arms. A part of him longed for what he saw even as another part feared.
Clearly, seeing the look in her eyes, he wasn’t alone in that.
Delae looked up at Dorovan and her own heart caught to see him.
“Her name is Selah,” she said, softly.
Amazed, Dorovan reached out to touch the baby’s soft cheek, the downy hair. She was beautiful, perfect, with her pretty little pursed mouth.
There was no sign of Elven ears.
Her eyes uncertain, unsure, Delae said, in answer to the question he couldn’t ask, “I don’t know.”
As much as she wished the baby to have been Dorovan’s, there had been Kort that one night…and Elves weren’t a fertile race. It was unlikely.
Dorovan looked at the wonder that was the child. Among his people any child was a gift and a joy.
“It doesn’t matter, Delae. For us or for her. My people have so few children we would welcome another if she proves to be of my race.”
Some would be concerned but if Selah were Elven she would be taken into Talaena when she was old enough. It might be awkward but he was Elf, it was the way of his people.
“Mine or not,” Dorovan said, “she is yours and for that alone I love her.”
Something inside Delae eased and she closed her eyes with relief.
Touching her cheek, Dorovan said, “Will you never learn? You are loved, Delae. And she is, too. Can I hold her?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
With the wide-eyed wonder of all babies, Selah looked up at him, her arms and legs kicking as he held her.
Children were such a joy to his folk - so rare, so precious.
For a time they simply played with the baby and talked before Delae put her to her breast to feed.
That, too, was a wonder, the simple magic of mother and child together.
Lifting her eyes, Delae met Dorovan’s gaze and they shared the pleasure, Dorovan brushing her hair back, feeling the connection through the bond they shared.
They made love while the baby slept.
Kort returned only briefly to see the child but he did so only at sword point, Delae adamant. She wouldn’t let that drunken reprobate touch her baby, however much she might be his, too. Dorovan had given her more lessons. Never again would she be forced against her will to anything. She would defend her home and family to the death.
As the years passed it never became possible to tell if Selah was Elven or not. She gave no sign of it although she was an unusually healthy baby and child. Her ears were shaped a little differently but not with the distinctive Elven points. There was no sign of the magic with which Elves were born. In every way she was her mother’s daughter, save her hair was straighter and darker and her eyes were as brown as a doe’s, as Delae’s mother’s had been. She would be taller than her mother but Kort was tall. In the shape of her face, though, the set of her eyes, her mouth, she was Delae’s.
To Kort’s disgust.
Dorovan was more father to Selah than Kort ever was, whether in body or presence.
If she was Elven, they wouldn’t know it for years as she failed to age as men did. The only other sign was her gift for working with plants and herbs as his folk did, but some men had a touch of that gift as well. She had no hand with a sword nor did she desire one.
Delae loved watching them together, Selah with her head slightly bent, her brown eyes turned up to look at Dorovan.
After a time, they simply forgot to think about it, Dorovan loved sweet quiet Selah as if she were his own, for herself, and she loved him as well with her gentle warmth. Many was the time they would work together side by side among the herbs she’d grown, Dorovan instructing her in the uses of them. Or the three of them would sit in the sun, Selah having inherited her mother’s skill with a needle, Delae talking of the changes in the homestead or Dorovan of what went on in the wider world.
Delae aged but as far as Dorovan was concerned she only became more refined as silver th
readed through the fire of her beautiful hair.
Chapter Ten
Word of the Progress had been sent around to all the homesteaders - a celebration of Geric’s coming of age, of his naming as Heir to the Kingdom of Riverford and Delae’s holding wasn’t to be neglected. She’d done well over the years.
The courtyard was abustle with the preparations. Baskets of flowers hung from the posts of the archways of the east and west wings.
Delae had had Kort’s rooms cleared and prepared for the arrival of the King and Queen, the guest chamber for the newly named Heir.
Word had come only the year before that Kort had been found dead in an alley. Oddly some part of Delae grieved for him… more for the fact and manner of his death. She actually mourned for Kort himself very little and grieved because she felt so little for his passing. Any more than she’d grieved at the loss of his parents. She’d wept more and harder when Petra had died and then Hallis had followed her shortly after.
The homestead seemed far emptier for the loss of those two than it did for the loss of those whose blood had once owned it.
Even so, she never slept in Kort’s rooms and never would.
Sighing, she put those thoughts aside, smiling as she watched Selah gently instruct sweet Lucie and Lucie’s daughter Keran in the preparations.
The great room had been swept clean of every grain of the old rushes, the wood floor had been washed, oiled and new rushes put down over it before the precious carpets had been restored to their proper places. All the shutters were open to allow fresh air inside, the light falling brilliantly over the chairs Delae had made, each seat cushion carefully decorated in her own tapestry.
All of the bedrooms and bed linens had been aired and freshened - the straw ticking replaced and the straps on the beds tightened.
Tables had been set out under the trees of the courtyard for feasting in the open - in the air and sun. A great pit had been dug, a side of beef and another of mutton roasted over a fire. There were platters of roasted vegetables and all manner of delicacies.
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