by Pati Nagle
Eliani could not bear to be silent. “Forgive me, and I beg your pardon, Lord Turisan, but I do not see it as a boon.”
“Mindspeech ended the Bitter Wars, my child.”
Turisan stirred in his chair, glancing up at Heléri. He did not look at Eliani but nodded his agreement.
“The Battle of Westgard.”
Eliani frowned. “You mean the ballad? But that is just fanciful storytelling!”
“The ballad tells truth.” Heléri began to sing, her voice low and rich:
Dejharan and Dironen advanced their armies
westward, Divided by high mountains but one within their
hearts, The alben bore their blow upon sands where white
spray crested In Ghlanhras by the fiery shore.
“I remember their return to Hollirued after Westgard. The warrior brothers, victorious—they were much lauded. Some of the tales about them are fanciful, but it is true that they shared mindspeech. I heard them speak of the battle and how it was won by their ability to communicate across the mountains.”
“You knew them?”
Eliani was astonished. She had known that Heléri was the mistress of many years, but Westgard had been fought twenty-seven centuries before.
“I knew of them. I had just come to Eastfæld's court. Dejharan and Dironen were the light of the realm, and they were inseparable.”
Heléri smiled softly at her memories, then seemed to brush them aside. She fixed Eliani with a stern gaze, then looked from her to Turisan.
“The choice belongs to you both, how you will use this gift. You may even choose to deny it, though those who have gone that way before have ended sadly.”
She looked again at Eliani, and her voice grew softer. “Take time to understand it before you decide. Find its limits so that you may know how best it can be employed. It may be that you are able to speak to others. It may be that you must be close by to hear each other. All this should be explored.”
Eliani's heart sank. The last thing she wished was to explore what she was rapidly coming to consider a curse. Turisan's expression told her he understood too clearly how she felt. She would hurt him—had already hurt him, perhaps—and there would be arguments, recriminations …
He gazed at her in concern. “Lady Eliani—”
“Not now.” Eliani struggled to control her rising panic. “I am too tired to think of this now. Bid you good night.” She hurried to the hearthroom, catching her cloak from the hook, and escaped.
Turisan gazed after her, his feelings a mixture of regret and need. The urge to call out to her in thought was strong, but he knew that to do so would only worsen the problem.
“Give her time.”
He turned to look at Lady Heléri. Honored lady, elder of Stonereach, depths of wisdom in her blue gaze. She calmed him; she was still water, untroubled by the winds of change.
She returned to her work, and he watched for a while. The handfasting ribbon she wove was as intricate and delicate as any he had seen. His father's ribbon, which Turisan often had admired, was not finer.
Heléri's graceful hands managed the multiple threads with ease, blending the colors to create tiny beautiful images in the ribbon: stars and mountains for Alpinon, hills and open vistas that must represent the Steppe Wilds.
Heléri glanced toward the hearth. “Ah, the water is hot at last. Will you stay to drink tea with me?”
Turisan smiled. “Yes, thank you. May I be of help?”
“No, no. This will take but a moment, and you have much to think on.”
Instead of thinking he watched her bring out ewer and cups, measure dried herbs, and pour hot water over them. Fragrant steam rose from the ewer, which she set on the hearth to steep. Here was a scene he would never have imagined: Lady Heléri, Clan Stonereach's eldest member, who claimed to know figures out of legend, was making tea for him.
She returned to her chair and smiled. “You are very like your father. A bit more serious, if that is possible.”
“I am not quite my usual self to night.”
“I imagine not, indeed. A most extraordinary evening. I would apologize for my young relative except that I believe you had best sort this out for yourselves.”
“Yes.” He gazed at the fire. “I do not know what to do, though. I fear anything I say will only anger her.”
“She is not angry. She is afraid.”
Turisan gave a bitter laugh. “Am I such a monster?”
“It has nothing to do with you. She has been hurt.”
He looked up at her, startled.
“And that is more than I should have told you. Here, the tea is ready.”
He accepted a cup and inhaled the steam, enjoying scents of summer grass and sweet flowers. They sat in silence for some moments, sipping their tea.
“My lady, what can you tell me of mindspeech?”
“What do you wish to know?”
“Anything there is to know. What I should expect.”
Heléri smiled gently. “That I cannot tell you. It is different for each soul who finds it.”
Turisan rubbed the edge of his cup with a thumb. “I assume it is somehow related to khi.”
“I believe that is so, though the gift is so rare that there has been little chance to study it. My perception is that it is made possible by a resonance of khi between the speakers.”
“How will I know if I can speak to others?”
“By trying. Speak to me if you like.” She smiled again and sipped her tea.
Turisan set down his cup and drew a breath, then looked into her eyes. Lady, do you hear me? Will you answer?
Her smile did not change. He shook his head, saddened but not surprised.
“If you care to tell me, was there anything different when Eliani first heard you?”
Turisan thought back to the Shades, which could not but quicken his heart. “I was holding her hand.”
Heléri extended a hand to him. He took it, a bit surprised at the firmness of her grasp. Hesitantly, for it was an intrusion, he opened himself to the powerful depth of her khi.
Now do you hear me?
They stayed thus for a moment, gazes locked and hands clasped. He knew it was useless, though. He looked away, whereupon she pressed his hand and let it go.
“Do not be disappointed. From what I have seen, those who can speak to many can rarely speak over distance. The closer, personal bonds are those which can cross leagues, and that is a powerful gift.”
He smiled grimly. “I am sorry to say it, but I think we may soon have need of such a gift.”
“Yes. Eliani told me of the kobalen in the wood.”
“Did she tell you of the ring in its ear?”
“She did. I have been pondering the reason for doing such a thing.”
“The alben. They are returning.” His voice was tight with anger. The alben were hated for their betrayal of the creed, their cruel torment of kobalen.
She bent down to pick up the ewer. “It is well that your father has summoned the Council. May I fill your cup?”
Turisan straightened in his chair. “No. Thank you, I believe I should retire. I am preventing you from finishing that fine ribbon, and it will be needed tomorrow, yes?”
“It will be finished in time.”
He lifted a coil of the ribbon, the silky substance sliding through his fingers. He felt a tingling of khi where it touched his skin.
“Your work is exquisite.”
“Thank you. You are welcome to stay; you will not hinder me.”
“That is kind, but as you said, I have much to think on.” He rose and made a deep bow. “Thank you, Lady Heléri. I hope to visit you again.”
“I hope you will, child. Good night.”
He walked slowly down to his house, crossing the circle in starlight. The voice of the Shades was a restless whisper on the night air. He paused outside his door to gaze up at the sky, thinking of Eliani and of mindspeech.
Imagine being able to pass commands from
one side of a battlefield to another with merely a thought, as Dejharan and Dironen had done! It would give the ælven commanders an enormous advantage. There had been no battles since the Midrange War, but the recent increase of kobalen activity implied that the possibility was increasing. That had been part of the reason for his coming here.
He did not wish for war, but if it came, he would stand forth and do his part. As Jharan's son he could do no less, and in fact he would be glad to prove himself.
He had no trouble picturing Eliani in the midst of battle. She would be entirely at home. A smile grew on his face at the thought. She would be magnificent!
Assuming that he could convince her to accept their gift. What a difficult creature she was. He seemed destined to reap her displeasure no matter what he did. Had he discovered he shared this gift with any maiden of Jharan's court, that lady would have been in raptures.
Eliani was not in raptures. She was frightened, Heléri had said. He wanted to fold her in his arms and kiss her fears away. He had felt so ever since the moment their thoughts had met.
Nightsand
Shalár heard a commotion outside her audience chamber. Voices of her guards challenged someone who demanded admittance. Dareth went to the entrance and a moment later returned with a tall, hard-featured male in hunter's garb, travel-weary but sharp-eyed.
“Irith!”
By the look of him, he had come to her straight from his journey. Shalár was glad, for she was eager to know the state of things east of the mountains.
“Welcome back, Watcher! What news of Fireshore?”
“I have no news of Fireshore, Bright Lady. I have something better, but your guards would not let me bring them in.”
“What have you brought? Kobalen?”
“No, Bright Lady.” Irith's eyes narrowed as he smiled. “Ælven.”
Shalár drew a swift breath, then strode at once to the chamber entrance. A glance through the archway showed her that Irith spoke true: A small group of ælven stood huddled together under the watchful gaze of five guards.
“Bring them in.”
Shalár nodded to the guards to let them pass, then returned to the chamber and mounted the step to her chair. Irith followed as his five hunters escorted the captives into the audience chamber.
“Where did you take them? In Fireshore?”
Irith shook his head. “We were on our way there and had just crossed the Ebons when we came upon these encamped near Hunter's Pass. Their horses took fright and bolted.”
The ælven were somewhat battered by their journey but all in good health. Shalár could taste their khi in the air, so vital it was. Five were Greenglens and bore the gear of Southfæld Guards save for the weapons of which they had been relieved. A sixth wore simple riding leathers and had the wild hair and sun-gilt skin of a Steppegard.
Irith brought forward their swords and bowed as he presented them to Shalár. The swords alone were of high value, for none among her people could make them. She had metal-smiths but no sword-smiths, and these blades were mountain-forged.
She walked around the small cluster of ælven, observing them. “What have you learned from them?”
“Very little, Bright Lady. They are reluctant to talk, but we found this on one of them.”
He handed her a folded and sealed parchment. Shalár turned it over in her hands, keeping half an eye on the captives to see their reaction. They seemed dispirited but not alarmed. Either the missive was not precious or they were resigned to its loss.
She tore open the seal and read a formal invitation from the governor of Southfæld to the governor of Fireshore to attend a meeting of the Ælven Council in Glenhallow. For a moment she was tempted to turn to her table and pen a response, sending back an acceptance under her signature as the true governor of Fireshore. She relished the thought briefly, then dismissed it. That would be a foolish waste of this interesting message.
So Southfæld was summoning a Council? That had not occurred in several centuries so far as she knew. Interesting, and possibly troublesome. She must think on how to turn it to her advantage.
Leaving the letter on the arm of her chair, she descended to inspect the captives. The Steppegard and four of the Greenglens were male. The one female was somewhat weather-worn but looked healthy. She might breed well.
“Which of them bore the letter?”
Irith indicated one of the Greenglen males. Shalár walked up to the ælven and took his chin in one hand. He pulled away, and the flash of defiance in his eyes moved her to punish him.
She struck out with khi, and the Greenglen flinched, crying out in surprise and pain. Shalár let his response ripple through the khi of the others in the chamber, then put her hand to the Greenglen male's throat and enwrapped him with her own khi, cutting him off from the others.
His eyes went wide with dismay as she began to drink of his khi, drawing it through her palm. She took her time, slowly savoring his strength, aware that the others were watching intently.
When the Greenglen's legs would no longer support him, she released him. He dropped to his knees, gasping.
Much refreshed, Shalár stepped toward the next captive, who cringed away from her. She merely smiled at him and walked on.
She would try the males, each in turn, and if they were all unsuccessful, she would give them over to the females in her guard and thereafter make them available to any female citizen of Nightsand desiring to breed out to an ælven. Perhaps she would even offer an incentive for conception, as she had just done with that poor starving farmer.
The female she would breed more selectively, sending Dareth to her before any others. Perhaps Irith would be next.
If these six all bred successfully—highly unlikely but possible—six more children would be born in the next year. Not enough to reverse Darkshore's decline, but a beginning. It would be more important as a means of inspiring hope, a herald of greater changes to come. If even one child were conceived—
“Bright Lady?”
She glanced up at the ælven who had dared to speak to her. It was the Steppegard. He tossed his head in an effort to get his wildly curling hair out of his eyes.
Shalár came toward him and reached up to push the curls behind his ears. He did not draw back. Impressive after the demonstration she had just made with his comrade, who was still on his knees. The Steppegard's skin felt warm and smooth, his curling golden-brown hair silky, his khi sharp with the tang of danger, but with only a hint of fear's bitterness. He actually leaned toward her to whisper.
“I have no allegiance with these others, nor any importance in my homeland. I can be no use to you. Let me go free.”
Shalár was amused at his daring. “Why were you traveling with Southfæld Guards?”
“We fell in together by chance on the trade road.”
“You were going to Fireshore?”
“Bringing horses down to winter pasture.”
“Ah.”
His golden eyes pleaded along with his words. “I am useless to you, but if you free me, I will act in your ser -vice.”
Shalár gave a soft laugh. “Be of use to me, and perchance I will set you free.”
A spark of hope lit his eyes, and he took a half step toward her. “How?”
“Get a child on a female of my people. I will even offer you several to choose from.”
His face fell into a frown. “That is a jest in poor taste.”
“It is no jest.”
This new group of ælven, though small, represented the best new hope for children that her people had known in centuries. Perhaps she would try this one first, with his wild hair and desperation to be free.
She would not free him, of course, even if he did conceive. Especially if he conceived, for if he was fruitful, he would be all the more valuable to her.
A small movement at the side of the chamber drew her attention. Dareth had returned. She glanced over at him, saw the look of resignation on his face.
No doubt he guessed
her intentions. He disliked her frequent attempts to conceive with anyone who might prove potent, but as he himself had failed her in that effort, he had no grounds for complaint. Silent and patient but jealous, her Dareth. She wondered how long he had been standing there.
She looked back at the captive before her. “Why should I trust you, Steppegard?”
“I have a name.”
“You do not need it here.”
He might never need it again. She had not bothered to learn the names of her other captives. Laughing softly at his annoyance, she turned away.
“Take them to the pens.”
Shalár returned to her chair, lounging back in it as she watched the captives being taken away. The Steppegard would not move at first and continued to stare at her as the hunters pushed him ungently toward the entrance.
Yes, she would try him first, she decided. But let him have a taste of the pens before she bedded him in more comfortable circumstances. It might make him more willing to talk about Fireshore.
Some nights later, Shalár raised her head at the sound of a knock on her chamber door. She slid off her bed and flipped the folds of her robe to cover her legs.
“Enter.”
Two guards came in with the Steppegard captive between them. His hands again were bound behind his back, though he had been given the freedom of them in his cell in the pens and had taken advantage of the opportunity to wash himself. He wore the legs of his leathers but only a linen shirt above them. No doubt the walk from the pens had made him cold.
“Leave him.”
“As you will, Bright Lady. We shall be within call.”
She watched the Steppegard from where she stood until they withdrew. He gazed back at her silently, seeming unafraid, waiting.
When the door was shut, she came toward him, looking him over appraisingly. She fingered the cloth of his shirt and found that it was finely woven, more finely than anything Nightsand's weavers could produce.
“You are not so poor a creature as you would have me think. This is no herder's clothing.”
“I never claimed poverty. I did not speak of my fortunes when I told you I was insignificant.”
“Speak of them now, then. What are you?”
