by Pati Nagle
Evennight Books
Cedar Crest, New Mexico
Swords Over Fireshore
copyright © 2012 by Pati Nagle
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
ISBN: 978-1-61138-166-5
Published by Evennight Books, Cedar Crest, New Mexico, an affiliate of Book View Café
Cover art by Lynne Whitehorn, based on a photo by Vasiliy Koval
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
for my brother, Darragh
Acknowledgments
Thanks to:
~ Chris Krohn (as always), my beloved partner and first reader
~ Plotbusters
~ Lynne Whitehorn for improving the cover
~ Peggy Whitmore, Pari Noskin, and Debbie Smith, for believing in me
~ My wonderful colleagues in Book View Café
Map of the Ælven Lands
Let all your actions enhance the well-being of others
Khi is a gift to be honored, respected, and served
Guard the world’s creatures, for they are the hope of your future
All living beings are kindred, deserving your care
—Creed of the Ælven, third stave
Swords Over Fireshore
I
Fireshore
Eliani paced back and forth across the road, gazing ever northward past the bridge she would soon cross, as if she could see all the way to Ghlanhras. She could not, for the darkwood forest, dense and high enough to obscure much of the sky, blocked her view. In her mind, though, she saw the city as she had fled it earlier that night: torn by sudden chaos; black-clad, snow-haired alben atop the stone wall that surrounded its graceful structures.
Come daylight, when the alben hid from the sun, she and her escort would return to the city to rescue her cousin Luruthin and Governor Othanin. Those two she felt certain would be held in Darkwood Hall. Any other ælven in the city must wait for aid until the army arrived from the south. She hoped they would not suffer too severely.
“My lady?”
Eliani turned to see Vanorin, the stern-faced captain of her escort, holding out a set of leather armor. “If you will.”
The leather was finely worked, traced with leaves and vines in ornate detail. Nothing like her own comparatively simple leathers, which she had left behind in her escape.
She frowned. “Whose are these?”
One of the escort—Revani, a fair-haired Greenglen female—stepped forward, dressed in only her soft tunic and legs. “Mine, my lady. Pray do me the honor of wearing them.”
“But—”
“Revani will remain by the gate, to carry word to Woodrun if we should fail.”
Revani smiled shyly. “May I assist you?”
Resigned, Eliani allowed the guardian to help her don the leathers. “Lovely work.”
“Thank you, my lady. It is my own.”
“Is it?”
“My family are leather workers.”
“Well, I shall have a commission for you when we get back to Glenhallow.”
“I would be honored to serve you, my lady.”
“Eliani, please. If we are sharing clothing, we need not be formal.”
Eliani offered an arm to Revani, who clasped it with a grateful smile. “Spirits watch over you, my lady. Eliani.”
“And over you.”
Eliani watched her walk away, then turned to Vanorin. “Thank you for reminding me that I am not indestructible.”
Vanorin grimaced. “If I thought I could convince you to stay behind, I would try.”
“You cannot.”
“Still, I ask that you not be at the fore when we reach Ghlanhras. Your gift must be preserved for the good of all ælvenkind.”
Eliani drew a sharp breath. Luruthin had said something much the same as he urged her to flee the alben. Now he was captive, all for the sake of her safety, her gift of mindspeech.
“I will take care.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Eliani, Vanorin. You have been forgetting of late.”
“I forget nothing.”
An unfamiliar tone in his voice made her glance up at him, but he was turning away. Eliani frowned, wondering if he was angry with her. She had thought she had set him at ease enough to make him treat her with friendliness. Lately, though, he had reverted to formality.
Perhaps the burden of commanding her escort had told on him. She was not easy company, she knew.
Not until the first flush of dawn had strengthened into full brightness would Vanorin allow the party to start northward. Eliani was dancing with impatience by the time he agreed to let them cross the bridge.
She carried her sword against her shoulder, for she had no sheath to it. The sword was the only possession she had brought out of Ghlanhras. As she walked, she turned her thoughts toward the challenge ahead.
Darkwood Hall was not as vast as the Southfæld governor's palace in Glenhallow, but it was much larger than her own home of Felisanin Hall, from which her father governed Alpinon. To find Othanin and Luruthin within its sprawling structure was her first concern, and she worried how to do this without alerting the alben to their presence. She had raised the question with Vanorin, and all they had been able to decide was to wait for daylight, then go quietly and listen in the hope of hearing something that would lead them to the captives.
That did not satisfy her. She frowned, pondering how else she might locate her cousin, and was startled by a sudden bloom of warmth upon her brow: her partner Turisan, signaling that he wished to speak with her.
We are moving, love. May I speak to you later?
Eliani, I beg you to reconsider this—
My escort will protect me.
Will you not wait until I can consult with Ehranan at Midrange?
For all you know Ehranan is still fighting. And I cannot afford to wait even one day. In that time the alben will consolidate their hold on Ghlanhras. They might move their captives.
She stepped on an unseen pebble and stumbled, twisting her ankle slightly. Next to her, Vanorin flung out an arm to prevent her falling. She glanced at him, embarrassed and grateful.
“May we pause for a moment?”
A flicker darkened Vanorin's eyes, then he nodded and turned away. Eliani leaned against a tree at the side of the road, rubbing her ankle, while her escort moved to the opposite side. They talked in quiet voices and cast curious glances at her, even as they gave her distance. After all their journeys together, they were still fascinated by her gift. She closed her eyes, the only means of privacy she had.
My love, we discussed this. I thought we had agreed.
Yes, but I am worried for you.
She sensed Turisan's desire for her, and it sharpened her own. A fleeting memory of their one night together in the Star Tower smote her. She suppressed an urge to moan.
Then ask the spirits of your elders to watch over me.
I do. Every day, even as I pray that we shall be reunited.
Eliani drew a sharp breath. She had lost count of the days since their parting, but with all that had passed it must be close to Midwinter. She had hoped to be back in Glenhallow by now, not marching northward again.
We shall. “She swallowed, hoping the longing she felt was not obvious to Turisan. I must go, love.
Speak to me when you reach Ghlanhras. Before...
Yes.
She sent a flood of love toward him, then withdrew. Opening her eyes, she blinked at the brightness of the day. The sun was not visible overhead—that would
not occur until midday—but already its heat washed through the forest. Her guardians glanced at her, then gathered to move once more.
Strange, she thought as she started forward, to be in so warm a place at Midwinter. Her own realm would be deep in snow by now.
An old Midwinter song came into her mind, a tune she had learned as a child. A song of snow and cold, of hope for the return of light. She laughed under her breath. Fireshore had no lack of light. No doubt the folk who dwelt here did not sing such songs.
A tingle poured through her veins. That was it! Would that she could sing, but her voice was fit only for bawdy guardian's camp songs, at best.
“Vanorin?”
The captain, who had fallen into step beside her, glanced her way. “My lady?”
“Do they sing 'The Winter Star' in Southfæld?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know it? Well enough to sing it?”
“I believe so. Why?”
“You may need to.”
Eliani hummed softly. Snow and the hope of light. A good tune to carry into the enemy's holding.
“Your pardon, Bright Lady. You asked to be brought the escaped female’s things.”
Shalár nodded to Torith, one of her better hunters, to come into her new chamber. New as hers; it had been her father's many centuries ago.
She scarcely remembered that time. She glanced at the walls, at the minimal ornaments placed there by the ælven governor, who was now her captive.
The hunter stepped into the front room and paused uncertainly. He carried a leather saddle pack, a pale green cloak, and a set of leather armor, blue in color.
“Put them on the table.”
She watched him lay them down, noting the suppleness of his movements. He seemed unwearied by the night's work. Capturing Ghlanhras had been surprisingly easy. Shalár flipped open the saddle pack and began to explore its contents.
“It is time we all fed. You will organize a hunt, Torith. Take twenty hunters and bring back at least fifty kobalen.” She glanced up at him. “You may have to cross the mountains.”
Torith’s eyes brightened with interest. He was hungry, no doubt, and would probably be happier on a hunt than idle in Ghlanhras.
“Yes, Bright Lady.”
“Have the Stonereach sent in to me before you go.”
Torith bowed and departed. Shalár watched him out, then reached for the leather armor that had been found in the escaped female’s room. That one, too, was a Stonereach, according to Othanin. The daughter of Alpinon’s governor. Kin to the male now being held under guard.
Shalár ran a hand along the armor. Blue, a Stonereach color, and there was a leather belt stained violet. She could smell the dye. No adornments, other than the color. Alpinon was a young realm, and had fewer artisans than the older realms of Southfæld and Eastfæld. Even the Steppes were older than Alpinon and had their own specialized crafts. Only Fireshore was newer.
Shalár picked up the cloak, a fine light wool dyed pale green and lined with silver silk. Greenglen colors. Othanin had said the female Stonereach was handfasted to a Greenglen, so that would now be her clan.
Holding the cloak in her hands, Shalár felt the tingle of khi in it. Mage-blessed, she realized with delight. Such a cloak would protect its wearer well. Hers now.
She put it down and returned to the saddle pack, which contained little of interest. A small packet of dried meat and another of dried sunfruit. A spare tunic and legs, in need of washing. A comb and other grooming tools. A small reed flute.
Shalár took the flute up and felt a whisper of khi in it as well; not the strong, laid-in khi of mage-work, but the resonant khi of an object long used and well loved. It was the only item among the Stonereach female’s possessions that was not strictly necessary for travel.
A knock on the door made her turn, flute in hand. “Come.”
The door opened and the Stonereach male was brought in, his hands bound behind him, his gaze lowered. The three hunters who brought him watched him warily. Shalár thanked them and indicated they should leave.
“He is not to be trusted, Bright Lady. He tried to flee us.”
“Ah, is that how he got this?” She touched the ælven’s cheek just beneath a cut. He flinched away.
“We had to knock him down. He is dangerous.”
“Not to me.”
She smiled and sent a pulse of khi toward the hunters, a warning and a reminder. One of them winced slightly. All started toward the door.
“Stay a moment. Take these.” Shalár indicated the cloak and the armor. “Have them dyed black, with the good dye that was found at the crafthall. These, too.” She tossed the Stonereach female’s spare clothing to one of the hunters.
“Yes, Bright Lady.”
They gathered up the escaped female’s things, and Shalár saw that the Stonereach male watched them furtively, looking dismayed. The hunters hastened to leave, closing the door behind them.
Shalár strolled toward the ælven, looking him over with interest. His features were classic Stonereach, russet hair and green eyes, which flicked to the flute in her hands, then away.
“Your friend will not get far.”
He said nothing, but she saw the eyes narrow, the lines of the face tense. He was preparing to strike. Shalár smiled, then summoned her khi and wrapped it around his.
A small grunt of surprise was all the sound he made, but in silence he struggled. He was strong. Shalár had to use all her own strength to subdue him, and it cost her.
The hunger that whispered in her flesh sharpened. She ignored it, concentrating her will on the ælven, who slowly sank to his knees on the thick carpet of the governor’s chamber.
His breath came in labored gasps, yet still he resisted. Losing patience, she gave that part of his khi under her control a twist, a technique she had developed herself, one that caused pain. She took no particular pleasure in giving pain, but it was useful.
The ælven let out a small groan. She released him suddenly and he dropped forward, gasping for breath.
“You look uncomfortable. Perhaps you should get up.”
He glanced at her, green eyes full of outrage, shadowed with fear. She smiled.
“You would do well to comply. You will spare yourself much unpleasantness.”
He looked away again and made no answer. Shalár felt a stab of annoyance.
“Get up.”
He gave no sign of having heard, merely stayed there on his knees, head down, staring at the floor. Shalár pushed him onto his back with a bare foot, then straddled him. Alarm filled his eyes and flashed through his khi.
Shalár’s smile widened as she made herself comfortable. Clothing still separated them, but that was easily amended. She wanted to enjoy his discomfort first, as he realized the use she would make of him—though it would not be for pleasure, but for her people's future.
She wished for a child, and though the ælven were her enemies, she knew that they also represented the best hope of conception. Capturing Ghlanhras had meant that she had also captured new breeding stock for her people. She would waste no time making use of it.
She took hold of the Stonereach's khi again, and this time he was distracted enough that she got a firm grip on him. He closed his eyes and turned his face away, small and futile gestures.
“This must be uncomfortable for you, with your arms bound so. It really would be better if we moved to the bed.”
She got up and stepped back to give him room to rise. When he failed to move, she sent him a warning with khi. He made a small, strangled sound, then slowly rolled onto his knees once more.
“Good. Now stand up.”
It took two more warnings to make him obey. By then his eyes had gone dull with the knowledge that she could make him do absolutely anything she wished. Shalár smiled.
She nudged him through the doorway into the bedchamber behind the front room, and made him climb onto the bed and recline against the extravagant heap of pillows. She left his h
ands bound, not because she feared he would overpower her, but to remind him of his position.
He wore the clothes he had been taken in, an undertunic and legs of good silk, feet bare. Shalár pulled off the legs, marveling again that the ælven all seemed to have silk. True, it was the most durable and comfortable fabric to wear beneath leather. Clan Darkshore had to make do with fleececod, having failed to find silkworms anywhere west of the Ebon Mountains.
She touched him and he flinched, then squeezed his eyes shut. Shalár laughed softly as she began lazily caressing his flesh into arousal.
“I want a child, my Stonereach friend. If you are lucky enough to oblige me, you shall be rewarded. Tell me, have you ever conceived?”
His eyes opened in a glance of startled surprise, then he shut them again and turned his head away. Shalár’s heart leapt with excitement.
“Show me!”
She took hold of his khi, searching it for his memories. She could sense such from one who was willing, but from this resistant Stonereach she felt only hints, enough to know that he had indeed conceived, and recently.
Her closest attempts had been with Yaras, while he had openly shared with her his own memories of conception. His child had been conceived and born almost fifty years ago, though, and was nearly grown, now. This Stonereach had memories that were far more fresh.
Shalár straddled him again, lifting her silk robe to bring them flesh to flesh. He made a small sound of distress, then was still. Thrilled not by this but by the chance of conception—a better chance than she had known in centuries, perhaps ever—Shalár mounted him. She inhaled with pleasure as she sank onto his flesh, feeling it push against her inner self, the self that must open for her to conceive.
“Show me!”
“No.”
His whisper was a plea, not a denial. He could not deny her. No one could. Shalár smiled as she reached deeper into his thoughts.
Luruthin tried to hide, tried to curl himself into a small, hard ball of anger. It was no use. The alben’s khi filled him, tainted with a strange tang, like metal on the tongue.
