by Pati Nagle
Felisan produced a small box, which he opened to show Turisan the severed kobalen ear lying in a bed of salt. Turisan remembered Eliani cutting it from the creature's head with a single stroke—their shared dread as they realized that the alben must have made the ring. He nodded gravely as he accepted the box.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I can give you a horse for the first part of your journey, and an escort to your border if you desire it.”
“The horse I will gladly accept. I doubt the escort is necessary, though I thank you for offering it.”
“There could be more kobalen in the forests.”
“If so, I can evade them best alone.” Turisan smiled. “Thank you again for your hospitality. My father did not exaggerate your kindness.”
Felisan clasped arms with him, then drew him into a brief embrace. “In you I see him again, and all our old kinship is reawakened. I look forward most eagerly to our meeting at Glenhallow. Tell Jharan that if I could speak to him, he would tire of me before my arrival.”
Turisan frowned in confusion. “Tell him what?”
Felisan smiled. “An old jest between us. In our youth we strove to acquire mindspeech together.”
Turisan felt a shock, as if icy water had been dashed over him. “You did?”
“Yes, but it was all in vain, though we meditated for days on end and made many offerings to the ældar. I fear that gift may be lost to our kind at last.”
The fire snapped. Turisan glanced over at it.
“Not quite lost.” He had murmured the words half to himself, but when he looked up from the flames, he saw Felisan watching him. “L-Lord Rephanin is said to have the skill.”
“Rephanin, yes. It will be interesting to meet him again.” Felisan tilted his head. “Do you leave to night or in the morning?”
“To night is best, I think. No reason to delay.”
“The horse will be brought to your house at once, then, with provisions for your journey. Strength to the spirits who guard you, Turisan, and may they see you safely home.”
“I thank you.”
They left the room together, Felisan returning to the feast hall. Turisan caught the tapestry as it fell closed behind the governor and held it a little aside for a moment, searching the hall for Eliani.
She was standing by the vast hearth, firelight flickering in her hair as she talked with the two Steppegards who had stood witness to the handfasting. Turisan felt an urge to go to her. He might take formal leave of her, though what he truly wished to do was sweep her into his arms and carry her from the hall.
Did she know? Did she know what their fathers had prayed for? He doubted it, and guessed that to learn it from him would only make her angry.
More than ever he felt that he and Eliani were fated to be together. Their gift could be of enormous service to their people whether or not they faced war. He was so certain of it that he was willing to bind his very life to it, but how could he convince Eliani of his sincerity? How to assure her that she need not fear him? Heléri had said to give her time, and he trusted that lady's judgment better than his own.
He watched Eliani's eyes flash as she laughed at some jest. Though he yearned to be near her, he remained where he was. If he approached her now, even merely to bid her farewell, it would chase the smiles from her face.
Not now, then, but he would see her again. She would come with her father to the Council in Glen-hallow, and he would talk with her then. In the meantime, he would seek the right words to persuade her.
“Farewell, my lady. Spirits keep you safe.”
Even as he let the tapestry fall, she glanced toward him, though his words had been a whisper. He waited, not daring to breathe, feeling the heat of her gaze through the cloth, hoping she would speak to him. A moment's stillness, then he sensed her turn away.
He closed his eyes. Not yet, then. Not yet, but soon.
He strode down the private passage and out beneath the stars, needing action. He would ride at once for Glenhallow and try not to count the days until the Council convened.
“Departed?”
Eliani stared in surprise at her father, who was straightening an untidy stack of papers. He carried the pages to a shelf, and she followed him.
“Why did you not tell me Lord Turisan was leaving? I would have gone with his escort.”
“He chose to forgo the escort.” Felisan sat down by the last embers of his fire. “Ah, I am tired!”
Eliani stared at him in disbelief. “You let him ride alone?”
“Turisan can look after himself, Eliani. He came here alone and on foot and came to no harm.”
“That was before we knew kobalen had entered our woods!”
Eliani picked up a small log and poked the fire awake with it, then laid it on to burn. Yellow light flared, and she frowned at it, feeling restless.
“We should send a party to make certain he reaches the border safely.”
“It is very late.”
“There are some few yet talking in the hall. I will lead them myself.”
“Eliani—”
“I will be back before morning.”
In the feast hall she found Luruthin, two Steppegards, and Firthan, a cousin of her father. These four pledged to go with her and dispersed to make ready.
Eliani hurried to her chamber to strip off her finery and don her riding leathers. Perhaps she was being overcautious, but even a small possibility of Lord Turisan's coming to harm in Alpinon's woods was unthinkable. She would get no rest until she was assured he had crossed into Southfæld.
Into Southfæld and away from Alpinon. She smiled wryly as she pulled on her boots.
She met the others in the public circle and led them along the south road, then cut through the forest, retracing the path by which she had brought Turisan to Highstone. The full moon was westering, casting long tree shadows. They were nearing her old oak when at last she saw a lone mounted figure ahead.
Turisan had heard them. He turned, then halted and waited for them to come up.
“My lady?”
Though his words were formal, his gaze was intent. Eliani swallowed, suddenly nervous.
“I wished to be sure that you reached your border in safety, my lord.”
“That is kind of you. I would not have put you to such trouble.”
Eliani stared at him, wanting to say more, unable to find the words. He was leaving. She realized she did not know when she would meet him again.
Something in his face shifted, a warmth coming into his eyes. “Lady Eliani, will you walk a little way with me? I would speak—I would talk with you briefly.”
A shiver crossed her shoulders. She shrugged it away.
“Very well.”
She dismounted and left her horse to graze. Turisan joined her, and they walked down the gentle slope while the others waited. Behind them the moonlight grew golden as the orb approached the mountains.
He did not offer his arm, but Eliani felt Turisan's presence almost as if they touched. Her skin tingled all along the side nearest him. At last he stopped and turned to face her, his voice low and soft.
“I hope I do not err by telling you this. Your coming here has given me heart. Do not answer now, but hear me and then think on this as long as you will.”
He paused to draw a breath, his eyes near black in the fading moonlight. Eliani waited, wondering what arguments he would choose. He wanted her to accept the mindspeech, to yield her thoughts to him; that much she knew.
“I believe that our paths lie together, that we should use the gift we share to aid our people. I am willing to pledge my life to it, and to you.”
Eliani took a step back, fear leaping in her heart. She opened her mouth, but Turisan stayed her with a gesture.
“Please—please hear me first.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I will do anything I must to assure you of my commitment. I will handfast with you if you wish it.”
“Ah! No! Y-you speak without considering!�
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“I have considered, my lady, and know my heart.”
“But we are strangers!”
“We were strangers. Since that moment at the Shades, I feel I know you.”
He smiled slightly, a small shift but enough to make her feel the wind at her back, the drop beneath her feet. Her body ached to accept him, to embrace him this moment, but she dreaded what would follow, and her kindred were nearby, waiting …
“I will not speak of our people or the service we could give them. You know what is at stake. Only let me say this: I swear by all the spirits of Southfæld that I will never hurt you, not if I can help it.”
Eliani gazed at him, unable to sort a response from her jumbled feelings. A ray of dying moonlight lit the edge of his cheek and glinted in his fair hair. His face was controlled, the perfect courtier's. Only his eyes blazed with ardor as he bowed.
“I thank you for hearing me. Think on this as long as you will. You may send me your answer.” He gazed intently into her eyes and lowered his voice. “Or you may tell me yourself.”
Eliani glanced down at the forest floor. Panic cleaved her tongue to the roof of her mouth. He wished her to handfast? She, who had failed so miserably at a mere cup-bond? Surely he must realize how impossible was the suggestion. She heard him step away and looked up to see him waiting, ready to start back.
Slowly she set one foot before the other, and Turisan followed. In silence they returned to where the others waited. Did he think her foolish to have brought them? Yet she truly had been concerned.
She cared for him, she realized. More than mere desire, which she was well-practiced at ignoring. She wanted to believe his vision of the future they might share, to believe they could find happiness together, but she knew her own failings. She had sought such a partnership before, and it had ended in ruin.
When they reached the horses, Turisan swept a formal bow. “I thank you, lady, for the hospitality of your house. Alpinon is a fair land, and I hope to visit it again.”
Eliani nodded, finding her voice. “You will be welcome whenever you return, Lord Turisan.”
“I will send a guardian back with the horse.”
“Have him turned loose at the edge of this wood, and he will find his way home.”
They mounted and rode forward all together. Eliani glanced up as they passed beneath her oak, and a flash of memory made her halt. She stared up at the dark, twining limbs, a cold tingle running down her spine.
“Stay a moment.”
She left her horse to climb the tree. At its top she looked up at the sky crowned with stars. The moon had gone, leaving the night deep dark.
From her treasure crook she claimed the scroll she had left there days before. She gazed at it a moment, then glanced skyward once more, wondering what spirits watched over her and in what strange ways they guided those who walked in the flesh-bound world.
Returning to the forest floor, she stepped toward Turisan's mount and handed the scroll up to him. He looked back at her as he accepted it, question in his eyes.
“That is what I was reading when I heard you come into the wood four days since.”
He unrolled it and glanced at the text, then looked sharply up at her. “‘The Battle of Westgard.’”
Eliani nodded. A look of wonder crossed Turisan's face, then was gone as he schooled his features to disinterest. He was well trained, this lord of Southfæld's high court. He offered the scroll to her, but she shook her head.
“Keep it.”
“Thank you.”
He slipped it into his tunic, and the party rode on. At the edge of the South Wood she and the others halted, watching from beneath the boughs while Turisan rode on toward Midrange. He turned and raised a hand in farewell.
Eliani returned the gesture, knowing she certainly would see him again. She owed him an answer, and if she chose to decline, she would not add to his pain by doing so at a distance.
Luruthin rode back to Highstone in silence, paying scant attention to the others' conversation. He was watching Eliani, who seemed lost in thought.
He longed to know what the Greenglen had said to her. He sensed that their formal farewell had concealed stronger feelings, and not altogether happy ones.
In his heart he made a silent pledge. If Lord Turisan showed any sign of hurting Eliani, he would intervene. It would likely lose him even the reserved friendship she now gave him, but he could not bear to see her suffer further.
He had long cherished the hope that patience and loyalty would win her back to him. She had been so very young when they were close—too young, he now knew—and then Kelevon had turned her head.
Dashing, hot-blooded, and wild as the Steppes that were his home, Kelevon had dazzled Eliani with tales of his travels and brought tumult and discord to her house. Within two seasons he had tired of her. He had not broken his cup-bond that Luruthin knew, but he had violated its intent, flirting publicly with others, dishonoring Eliani. Spirits knew what else had passed between them in private. As far as Luruthin was concerned, Kelevon had broken the creed, for he surely had harmed Eliani.
For a full year after Kelevon's departure Eliani had scarcely smiled or laughed. She had abandoned her music, cut her hair short, and gone into Alpinon's Guard, spending more time on patrol than at home. Luruthin had found her pale, wounded silence more heartbreaking than her initial rejection of him in Kelevon's favor.
She was just beginning to recover her spirits, and now this Greenglen had ruffled them again. Another Kelevon she did not need. If Turisan showed the slightest sign of following that path, Luruthin would pay any price to prevent it.
It was well past midday when Turisan arrived at Hallowhall, the governor's palace in Glenhallow. Though covered with the dust of four days' riding, he made his way straight to his father, finding him in the audience chamber.
Hundreds could gather in this hall, but just then only two sat at its high table, a long piece of white-wood carved in an arc matching that of the chamber walls. Seated at the center of its curve were Lord Jharan and Lord Rephanin. Jharan wore one of the formal long tunics he commonly wore in the palace, the magelord a simply-cut robe of velvet the dark gold of tarnished bronze.
“Turisan!”
Lord Jharan rose and, abandoning his customary formality, embraced his son across the table. Turisan smiled, glad to feel the familiar comfort of his father's khi. When they parted, he made a slight bow to Rephanin.
“Lord Rephanin.”
Rephanin nodded. Turisan had always been somewhat uncomfortable near the magelord; since his early youth he had carried the unsettling feeling that Rephanin was dangerous. It might have been the strangeness of Rephanin's foreign appearance—he had the black hair of an Ælvanen and still claimed allegiance to that clan though he had presided over Glenhallow's magehall for centuries. Unlike the blue eyes that were common to Ælvanen, his eyes were gray and piercing. Turisan had never been able to bear their gaze for long.
A mindspeaker, or so he claimed. Turisan wondered if he should ask Rephanin about mindspeech but was hesitant. Eliani would not thank him for mentioning it to another. Best to wait for her answer.
Jharan beckoned him to come around the table. “Come, join us. You look as if you just arrived.”
“I did. I have—news to bring you.”
Turisan glanced a silent question to his father, uncertain to what degree he should be candid in Rephanin's presence. With the slightest of nods, Lord Jharan gave him permission to speak freely.
Turisan opened his satchel. “Lord Felisan thought you should see this.”
He withdrew the small box Felisan had given him, set it on the table before his father, and opened it, brushing the salt away from the desiccated kobalen ear within. Rephanin leaned forward to peer at it. Jharan's nostrils flared slightly.
“Well. That is something never before seen in Hallowhall.”
“I have seen its like before. The ring, that is.” Rephanin's deep voice echoed in the chamber despite th
e heavy tapestries on its walls. He glanced at Turisan, then at Jharan. “I know this work. If I may examine it more closely?”
Jharan nodded, and Rephanin picked up the kobalen ear, brushing away grains of salt as he peered at the tiny silver ring that pierced it. Turisan watched him, waiting uneasily, conscious now as he had not been before of the many discomforts of long travel.
Rephanin turned the ear over, frowning as he rotated the ring within it. “Yes. This is the craft of Farnathin. I saw his early work when we both dwelt in Hollirued. He came there from Glenhallow to study smithcraft.”
Jharan tilted his head, frowning. “I have never heard of him.”
Rephanin glanced at him before replacing the ear in its box. “He left long ago to join his kindred in Fireshore.”
Turisan felt a wave of dread. “Clan Darkshore.”
“Yes. Darkshore.”
Jharan drew himself up and reached forward to close the box. Its lid fell shut with a small click.
“So this ring was made by alben.”
“It was made by Farnathin. If he is yet in flesh, he may well be alben.”
Such statements were uncomfortably in conflict with the concept that the alben were not ælven. An artisan who once had been ælven had become a member of a separate race because of a war? Turisan wondered, not for the first time, what the spirits must think of this attitude. Were there ældar who watched over the alben, as there were for every other creature? Were they different from the ældar of the ælven?
Jharan looked at Turisan, a shadow of concern in his face. “Only one of them bore this mark?”
Turisan nodded. “It may have been their leader.”
Jharan glanced down at the box before him. “Perhaps the alben are securing the loyalty of kobalen leaders with gifts.”
Rephanin shook his head. “I think there is more to it than that. Remember, ‘preserve.’”
Turisan regarded him, then spoke quietly: “What if we brought you a kobalen to question? You could find the reason in its mind.”
Gray eyes met his, narrowing. “And if the kobalen you select from the thousands that roam the western wastes happens to have no knowledge of such a ring? A futile effort.”
