The Betrayal

by Pati Nagle

  “I raise horses.”

  “Ah, yes. Winter pasture.”

  Shalár found the air in her chamber a trifle cold. She strolled to the hearth, added wood to the fire, and shut the screen once more. The Steppegard had not moved.

  “Come over here. It is warmer.”

  He obeyed after the slightest hesitation. Shalár sat down in a cushioned chair and regarded him.

  “Why were you traveling with Southfæld Guards?”

  “We met by chance, as I told you.”

  “Did they tell you of their errand?”

  He looked at her in surprise, then glanced downward. Deciding, no doubt, whether to answer her would be a betrayal of his chance companions.

  “They were messengers to the governor of Fireshore. I do not know the nature of the message.”

  “And your winter pastures are in Fireshore? For your paths lay the same way.”

  A reluctant smile pulled at a corner of his mouth. “One of them took an interest in a horse of mine. I hoped to trade it.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “I cannot tell you anything of their errand, Bright Lady. They did not speak of it to me.”

  “What can you tell me of Fireshore?”

  His brow creased with confusion. “Fireshore?”

  “When were you last there?”

  “In the summer.”

  “Selling horses?”

  He shook his head. “Managing a trade caravan. I provided the horses.”

  “You do so often?”

  “Now and again. How does this help you, Bright Lady?”

  “Poorly, so far.” Shalár shifted in her chair, leaning back. “How fared the folk in Ghlanhras when you were there in summer?”

  “We did not go to Ghlanhras. Only to Bitterfield.”

  Shalár suppressed impatience. “How fares Bitter-field, then?”

  “Prosperously enough. We traded hides and balm-leaf for sunfruit and darkwood.”

  “Does the city grow?”

  He tilted his head slightly as he gazed at her. “Yes. Slowly, but it grows.”

  Shalár stood up and moved toward the hearth, turning her back on him. It was a waste of effort, perhaps, to question him. He was unlikely to provide her with any useful knowledge. Unfortunate, for unlike the Greenglens, he seemed willing to answer questions. If he knew anything of importance, though, she guessed he would have offered to share it.

  “Do you travel to all the ælven realms?”

  “At one time or another, yes.”

  “Tell me something useful.”

  “Useful?”

  He was silent for a moment. Shalár turned around, expecting to see him defiant, and instead saw him frowning in thought.

  “One of Ælvanen's kin-clans is contemplating withdrawing from Eastfæld to create a colony on the southern coast. They are negotiating with Southfæld for a grant of land. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”

  “That sort of thing, yes.”

  She did not know how useful this particular bit of news would be beyond its indication that Eastfæld still prospered. No surprise, that.

  The Steppegard's eyes grew narrow. “The governor of Alpinon will have named his daughter his nextkin by now.”

  “You know Alpinon's governor?”

  “Somewhat.”

  The Steppegard's khi darkened as he stared unseeing toward the hearth. Shalár found this intriguing. The succession of Alpinon was of little interest to her, but it appeared to mean something to this captive. She moved up beside him, watching his face closely.

  “What is Alpinon to you, Steppegard?”

  His glance flicked toward her, then away again. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Shalár's lips curved in a sly smile. “I believe that is the first falsehood you have told me. How interesting.”

  He held silent. Shalár decided it was time to remind him of his position. She stepped to him and took hold of his collar with both hands, feeling the softness of the linen.

  “Yes, this is a very fine shirt. These are well made also.”

  She let her hand stray to the supple leather covering his legs. He started slightly as her fingers brushed his thighs, then drifted upward. The darkness in his khi bled away, replaced by wonder, anticipation, and a tinge of fear.

  Shalár smiled and pressed her hand against him, feeling the immediate response of his flesh. With her other hand she pulled loose the tie of her robe, allowing him a glimpse of her pale bosom.

  She looked up and saw his eyes widen. Sliding a hand around his elbow, she led him to her bed. There she turned him around, unlaced his leather legs, and pushed them down to his knees. Pressing her hands against his shoulders, she obliged him to sit down atop the furs.

  He gazed up at her, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. “I can better plea sure you with my hands free.”

  Shalár smiled as she removed her robe and set it aside. “It is not plea sure I want from you.”

  She pushed him onto his back and mounted him, settling herself upon him with care so as to urge her body to open completely. He squirmed beneath her, trying to make his arms comfortable.

  “Be still.” She set her hand to his neck to give him a warning pulse of khi.

  The startled look in his eyes told her he understood, and he fell still. She moved her hand up to touch his hair, feeling it curl around her fingers. Then she leaned both hands against his shoulders as she slowly rode him, willing herself with each stroke to open, open and receive a child.

  She closed her eyes, enjoying the richness and vitality of his khi, though she did not draw upon it. Nothing must interfere with her chance of conceiving.

  She had desired it for centuries, both for herself and for her people. If she could conceive a child, perhaps she would inspire them to hope for the same good fortune. Attitude played a great part in success, she was convinced.

  She thought of her parents, of her own conception, which she could not remember, for the soul left much of its spirit memory behind at birth when it took on flesh. She knew, though, from her mother's fond stories that their first meeting in thought had been joyous.

  The spirit of the child-to-be greeted its parents at the moment of conception, the one moment when every soul in flesh experienced mindspeech—the sharing of thought as though speaking aloud. Even Shalár, who was more skilled with khi than any other in the Westerlands, ordinarily could not do this.

  She ached for that moment, longed to hear her child's salutation. The sire would hear it also, of course. All at once she remembered that it was not Dareth beneath her but a stranger, an ælven.

  She would share deepest thought with an ælven if she conceived of his get. The reflection startled her into opening her eyes.

  The Steppegard was silent, unmoving, and had his eyes squeezed shut. A slight frown creased his brow. Shalár, curious to know if it was anger or grief, brushed her awareness against his.

  Not anger or grief but concentration. He was striving to withhold his seed until she was ready to receive it. He was trying to cooperate with her.

  She felt a strange rush of admiration and affection, and as she still was in close contact with his khi, he opened his eyes in surprise. Their gazes met, his mouth dropped open, then with a small gasp, he flooded her with hot seed.

  Disappointed, she slid off of him and stood up, reaching for her robe and for a cloth with which she dried herself. The smell of the stranger's seed rose into the chill air of her chamber, curiously pungent.

  Shalár dropped the cloth on the stone floor and walked to the hearth, her robe open to its warmth. She felt she had come close to succeeding and was annoyed with herself for interfering with the Steppegard's khi. Perhaps she would try him again in a night or two, for he was certainly strong.

  A soft sliding sound made her glance back toward him. He had sat up and was watching her. She looked away.

  “I tried.”

  Shalár turned to face him, her feelings a mix of irritation and disa
ppointment. He sat on her bed, looking at her with his leathers down around his knees and his member softening against his thighs.

  He was unafraid, unreproachful, unresentful. A strange creature, this Steppegard.

  “Please, either dress me or let me use my hands.”

  Shalár came toward him, closing her robe against the chill as she moved away from the hearth. She set a knee on the bed next to him and looked down into his face.

  “What is Alpinon to you?”

  There, at last, was consternation in his eyes. He glanced away. Shalár stepped back and turned toward the door.

  “Guard!”

  “Wait!”

  She walked away from the captive and, smiling to herself, went to the cupboard where she kept a decanter of the strong rough wine that was made in the river valley southeast of Nightsand. When she heard the door open, she turned, leaning against the cupboard and sipping her wine.

  “Take him back to the pens.”

  The captive's face was closed now. He did not look up, nor volunteer any movement. One of the guards kept his expression schooled to stone; the other betrayed himself by a slight look of disgust as they hauled the Steppegard to his feet and pulled up his leather legs, none too gently.

  “Wait,” he had called. At the last he had been willing to yield, but too late. Shalár watched him leave her chamber between the guards. Let him spend some time alone, thinking about what he would tell her when next they met. That conversation might yield something, though this night's had not.

  “Bright Lady, Yaras is returned to the city. He desires to speak with you. Urgently.”

  Galir made a nervous bow as he corrected himself. Shalár, who was seated at her worktable, was careful to conceal her excitement at the watcher's return.

  “Where is he?”

  “Waiting in your audience chamber, Bright Lady.”

  “Tell him I will be there shortly. Offer him refreshment.”

  Galir hesitated, mouth open as if to comment, then hastily bowed again and left. Shalár rose and went not to the audience hall but to her bedchamber. Dareth glanced up at her from the table, which was covered in scrolls of parchment, some so old that they were crumbling. He was carefully copying them anew.

  “Why do you bother with those? They are ælven.”

  “Ælven history is our history. It should not be lost.”

  She forbore to argue, though she saw no value in holding on to a past to which they could never return. She kissed his cheek, then left him to his work, glad that he was occupied, for she wanted to speak to Yaras alone.

  She found the watcher seated on the step to the dais that held her chair. The tapestries were open, and moonlight silvered the black stone floor and lit Yaras's pale hair.

  The youngest of her watchers, Yaras had proved himself through many hunts and in de cades of service watching the mountains to the east. He was quiet but capable and entirely trustworthy. That was why Shalár had chosen him to venture east of the Ebons with a small group of kobalen. From the frown he wore, the venture had not gone well.

  He rose at her approach and bowed deeply, then knelt upon one knee, his head bent low. “Bright Lady, I crave your forgiveness. The kobalen you sent with me were slain by the ælven.”

  Shalár swallowed a sharp breath of disappointment. She tried to be angry but found she was more worried. Though glad that Yaras had escaped the kobalens' fate, she was concerned at their loss.

  “How came they to be slain?”

  “I took them to a crest where we could watch the roads into Highstone. We watched for three days, the kobalen by day and I by night. I was bringing them back through the woodlands and sheltered for the day in a tall pine with the kobalen resting at its feet.”

  “Poor shelter.”

  “It was all there was to be had.”

  Shalár nodded. Exposure to the poisonous sun was a risk all hunters and watchers took at times.

  A quiet footfall made her glance up. Dareth had come into the chamber and leaned against a pillar at the far end of the gallery, his arms folded across his chest. Shalár let her gaze travel his lithe form, then returned her attention to the watcher, who still was speaking of his kobalen.

  “I allowed them to hunt their own food each day, never permitting them to stray beyond my control. One day they went into a firespear wood, chasing small game.”

  Yaras paused, swallowed, and cast a fearful glance up at her, then looked down again. “They came upon a party of ælven in the wood, and before I could prevent it, one of the kobalen flung a dart at them.”

  Shalár hissed in disapproval. Kobalen were stupid and often reacted without thought. They had slain themselves, then, by alerting the ælven to their presence.

  “Ælven hunters?”

  Yaras shook his head. “I do not think so. It seemed a party of plea sure, but they were well armed and made quick work of my kobalen. Forgive me, Bright Lady.”

  “Do not dwell on it. You are not at fault. I trust the ælven did not detect your presence?”

  From the tremor of fear that went through his khi, Shalár knew Yaras had been in terror of his life, alone in the ælven woodlands, with only a tree's boughs as shelter from their fury against Clan Darkshore. His voice fell to a hoarse whisper as he answered.

  “No. I kept still and blended my khi with that of my tree. When they had ridden away, I ran.”

  “In daylight?”

  Shalár took his jaw in her hand and made him raise his face. She saw the dry texture of his skin, which she had not noticed before. It was brittle beneath her touch, and it had cracked and bled in one place.

  “I dared not stay for fear they would return. I found a gully and hid among its rocks until nightfall, then made my way to the pass. I—could not travel as quickly as I wished …”

  Shalár released him, feeling horror and pity at what he had suffered. “Go to the pens and feed. Stay; I will give you my command for Nihlan.”

  She strode to the writing table near her chair and scrawled a note on a slip of parchment, telling the keeper of the pens to give Yaras a kobalen to feed on as much as he desired. She returned and handed it to him, putting a hand beneath his elbow to help him rise.

  “Stay in the city until you have recovered your strength. Come to me a night or two hence.”

  “Thank you, Bright Lady.” He glanced toward Dareth, then met her gaze and added softly, “It would have worked, I believe. It was going well until then.”

  “Yes, we shall talk of it when you are better. Go now.”

  Yaras bowed again, paused to steady himself, and left. Shalár watched him walk wearily out, aware of Dareth's gaze upon her. When Yaras was gone, Dareth came to her.

  “So you sent him across the Ebons. Have you sent many other watchers into this danger?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why did you send kobalen with him? Not merely so that he could feed himself.”

  “Not that at all.”

  She turned away, not deigning to elaborate further. She would tell Dareth of her plans in time.

  She paced before the gallery, musing. The ælven probably had taken note of the mark she had put on the kobalen band's leader. Well, so be it. She could not alter what had occurred, and the time was coming when her plans would be plain to all, or at least seem so.

  “Shalár?”

  Dareth's voice was quiet, almost entreating. She turned and saw the hurt on his face. Hurt at being excluded—he knew it was so. She might hide her plans from him but could not hide that she was making them. He knew her too well.

  She reached out a hand toward him, and he hastened to kiss it. She slid her fingers across his wrist and up his arm, a tingle of khi accompanying the touch.

  “I am not ready to tell you yet, but I will.”

  She moved closer and softly kissed him to reassure him of his place in her favor. He gave a reluctant smile and slid his hands around her waist. She leaned into him, deepening the embrace, aware of the differences that kept the
m both lonely no matter how closely they touched.

  Dusk rose chilly and damp on the night the grand hunt was to set out from Nightsand. Shalár, garbed in leathers and her cloak of Darkshore black and red, stood upon the ledge before the Cliff Hollows, watching the hunters gather on the bay shore below.

  Dareth joined her on the ledge, clad in pale robes that glowed faintly in the early starlight, eyes dark and liquid, khi humming with an undertone of desire, for she had denied him her bed these ten days. She wished her own nerves to be afire for the hunt and would satisfy her lust after the victory, perhaps with Dareth if she cared to wait so long. If not, with someone among her hunters who had distinguished himself. She would choose when the moment arrived.

  She gave Dareth her hand, and he bowed low to kiss it, the touch of his lips against her flesh making her tingle. “Success to you, Bright Lady.”

  “Are you sure you mean that, Dareth?”

  His eyes slid away from her gaze, glancing toward the pens. A slight frown creased his pale brow.

  “They are intelligent creatures. They have language. They are the closest to our kindred that walk in flesh.”

  “Which is what makes them the best suited for our sustenance.”

  She had danced this argument with him many times and was ready to dance it again, but he yielded. He bowed his head and spoke in a dull voice.

  “I wish you success in your hunting.”

  “Thank you.” She pressed his fingers, then withdrew her hand. “Watch over my people.”

  He nodded. “As ever.”

  By the bay a large pale creature was being controlled by three keepers. The hunters gathering on the shore gave the animal a wide berth, and though its jaws were confined by a leather muzzle, the keepers stood well back from its powerful limbs. A catamount was never to be trusted.

  Shalár smiled. Only she among her folk ever rode one of the huge cats. Only she dared to divide her attention between hunting and controlling such a dangerous creature. She had caught this one but three days earlier on a foray toward the Ebons.

  She looked back at Dareth, put a hand at the back of his neck, and drew him to her for a swift, hard kiss. Releasing him, she turned to descend to the city.