by Pati Nagle
He should do so, he knew. The needs of the flesh, the needs of the soul. He wondered, did his soul bear the weight of all these kobalen dead? If so, he could not see that he would ever be able to atone.
Turisan fretted as he rode across another of the valleys south of Midrange. Sunlight had broken through the clouds, turning the snow in the road to slush and then to mud. The sun should have cheered him, but his thoughts were far distant.
Eliani was safe, but something had upset her. Only the conviction that she was not in immediate danger kept him from speaking to her. They would talk when both were resting.
He rubbed at his aching shoulder. The wound, taken a few days since at Midrange, still troubled him. The kobalen's dart had gone deep.
Was the battle still underway? He heard no sound of it on the wind, but they were yet some distance from Midrange.
The sun's warmth was making him uncomfortable. He threw back his cloak from his shoulders, and rubbed a hand across his heated brow. At that moment, his party crossed the ridge into the next valley.
He recognized it; the last valley to the south of Midrange. He had camped on the north side of it the night after being wounded, along with other casualties of the battle.
Some of them had not lived the night. One in particular he remembered—a guardian who had been severely injured, and whose passing he had eased with Eliani's help. Dahlaran had been his name; a young recruit. Too young.
“My lord...”
Turisan shifted his gaze to the ridge, where Gothalan pointed. Beyond it rose a towering pillar of smoke.
He drew a sharp breath. The smoke was thick and black, so the fire must be new. High Holding had burned, but not like this.
“Let us hasten.”
The guardians were eager enough to comply. Likely they all had friends on the field at Midrange. To know their fate the sooner, whatever it might be, was easier than waiting.
The horses ran willingly, catching the anxiety of their riders. Even so, it was needful to stop halfway across the valley and rest the animals. Turisan bit back impatience as they slowed to a walk.
The smoke had begun to spread, flattening against the sky. Turisan could smell it now; a foul, unclean fume. He frowned, contemplating his choices.
If they crossed into Midrange Valley and discovered the battle was lost, they must retreat at once. He would like to reach Highstone, less than two days' ride from here, but if the enemy held the valley he would not be able to do so without crossing the Silverwash and swinging far to the east. Even then, he would be risking his life and those of his escort, circling around the enemy.
If the battle was still underway, though ... he would seek out Ehranan and deliver his message, then be sent to safety behind the lines, no doubt. Ehranan might even order him back to Glenhallow. He would have to compose a diplomatic refusal. He meant to continue north, whatever the situation at Midrange.
His gaze remained fixed on the smoke as they progressed. The sun grew warmer, intensifying the smell. Turisan considered getting out a cloth to tie over his mouth and nose, but that would require halting to search in his packs.
At last the horses were rested enough to trot again. The party crossed the valley floor swiftly, then slowed as the road began to climb the southern slope of the next ridge of mountains.
Turisan glanced westward, seeking the campsite, for it had been near a stream running down from the mountains. He spied the stream and called it to Gothalan's attention. Nodding, the guardian led the party off the trail, uphill toward the place where the wounded had camped. They paused to water the horses and fill their own flasks.
Turisan silently acknowledged those who had died in that place, promising anew that they would be remembered with a conce. As he looked up the hillside, his gaze fell upon the blackened patch of ground where the pyres had been lit the next morning.
He drew a sharp breath, and looked northward. The smoke, now half-hidden by the ridge, billowed and roiled as black as ever.
A pyre? His heart quailed at the thought. If so, it was a pyre larger than any he had ever known.
After a brief rest, Gothalan remounted and led them back to the road, which climbed steeply now through the pass that led into Midrange Valley. The horses labored even at a walk. When they reached the crest, Turisan urged his mount forward, beside Gothalan's, gazing over Midrange Valley.
Scattered all across the north side of the ridge, the southern edge of the valley, were the camps of the ælven forces. There was no clash of battle to be heard, only the tremendous roar and stench of the massive fire half a league away, at the center of what had been the battlefield.
Turisan swallowed, his nostrils contracting at the heavy smell of death. It was indeed a pyre, though not for ælven. Even at this distance he could see that the burning heap was not shaped in the way of his people's custom. Ælven had surely made the pyre, but not for their own. They were burning the enemy's dead.
“It is over.” Gothalan sounded oddly disappointed.
Turisan looked away from the fire, scanning the camp. “Where is Ehranan?”
“Those tents?”
There were few tents on the field, and most were makeshift, from blankets. Two large pavilions stood out among the rest, well up the slope. Turisan followed Gothalan toward them, with the rest of his escort coming after.
“Hail, Mindspeaker!”
The shout startled Turisan; he glanced toward the sound, but could not identify the source. Others took up the cry, and suddenly he saw cheer in the faces that had been gloomy a moment before.
If they knew the tidings he brought, they would not be so welcoming. Keeping that thought to himself, he made an effort to smile and wave, returning their greeting as he rode toward the commander's camp.
Voices, real voices of the flesh, intruded on Rephanin's awareness. Someone was near his resting place, and the knowledge brought him back to it.
The vague ache he had felt for so long now came into focus, and it was a hundred aches, complaints of his neglected flesh. He was almost too weary to reclaim it, but he did so, opening caked eyelids just as Ehranan came into the tent.
A cold gust followed before the flap fell again. Rephanin shuddered, and realized that cold was one of the many troubles of his flesh.
Ehranan came over to where he lay, frowning down at him. The ælven commander was from Eastfæld, hailing from Clan Ælvanen as Rephanin did himself. The warrior’s long black hair was caught back from his face in a hunter’s braid. His sharp blue eyes sought Rephanin’s, dark with concern.
“How long has it been since you have eaten?”
Helpless to answer, Rephanin merely shook his head, the slight movement seeming to require a great effort. Ehranan’s frown deepened. He turned away and strode to the tent door again, and for a moment Rephanin feared he would be abandoned.
“Bring some hot liquid. Tea, or broth, and bread. Quickly!”
The cold breeze came again, setting Rephanin shaking this time. Ehranan returned and knelt beside him, pulling Rephanin’s dark gold cloak up over him, taking his hand. Khi flooded through his hand into Rephanin’s flesh, breathtaking in its brilliance.
“Forgive me.” Ehranan's voice was low and pleading. “This is my doing. I should have—”
No blame. You had one or two other concerns.
Ehranan’s eyes searched his face. I have demanded too much of you.
Not more than I was willing to give.
Rephanin remembered how to smile, and did so as he gazed wearily at Ehranan. The warrior’s frown eased a little. He held Rephanin’s hand in both of his, the warmth of his flesh a comfort as much as the light of his khi.
Rephanin felt a small stirring of desire, and willed it away. They had been in close contact for so long it was inevitable that a bond had formed between them. He never had been able to engage in extended mindspeech without being drawn to his partners, male or female, young or old. Ehranan must be aware, but showed no sign of it. Perhaps it was best ignored.
/>
“Lord Ehranan?”
“Come.”
The cold breeze came again as a guardian entered bearing a wooden bowl and a half-loaf of bread. Steam rose from the bowl. Rephanin’s stomach clenched with sudden need, so sharply he drew a surprised breath.
“Vishani is making some tea.” The young guardian cast a frightened glance at Rephanin. “We brought food during the battle, but he did not rouse—”
“Yes, yes.” Ehranan summoned him with a gesture. “No blame. Bring it here.”
The guardian, a Greenglen, hastened to where Rephanin lay, eyes growing wide as he looked down at the magelord. Rephanin idly wondered what he saw to make him so alarmed, then was distracted by Ehranan’s hand beneath his shoulder.
“Can you sit up? Let me help you.”
Stiff muscles complained as Ehranan helped him rise a little from the makeshift couch of packs and blankets. Ehranan pushed spare blankets behind him to prop him up while the Greenglen stood watching, pale beside the dark Ælvanen commander.
Ehranan took the bowl and nodded to the guardian to give the bread to Rephanin. The Greenglen leaned forward and gently laid it by Rephanin’s hand. Rephanin smiled his thanks and moved his hand to hold the bread, though he doubted he had strength to lift it.
“Thank you. Bring the tea when it is ready.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The guardian made haste to withdraw. Ehranan held the bowl closer and brought a spoonful of broth to Rephanin’s lips.
Rephanin’s parched mouth tried to water at the smell of salt and stewed meat. Venison, he thought. He opened his lips to let Ehranan tip the spoonful into his mouth. Its warmth moistened his tongue, then slid down his throat to waken his empty belly. He drew a grateful breath as the small spot of heat began to spread through him.
Another spoonful. He took it, then paused to feel his senses awaken, some painfully. He looked at Ehranan, who patiently offered the spoon again.
“Thank you.” Rephanin's voice was a croaking whisper.
“Drink.” Ehranan frowned, though his eyes showed concern.
You must have more pressing tasks.
Than keeping you alive? I think not.
Rephanin made no more protest. He was grateful to have Ehranan’s help, and took several more spoonfuls of broth before he paused to let his flesh cope with the sudden nourishment.
You were not planning to leave us, I hope.
Ehranan’s eyes were sharp with care, dark with a shade of dread. Rephanin managed another smile.
No.
Good. I have more demands to make of you. This is not the end of it.
Rephanin read his meaning in his eyes. More battle. More death.
I know, but I cannot... not now...
No, no. I did not mean now.
Rephanin closed his eyes. A shudder went through him. He heard the click of the spoon against the bowl, then felt Ehranan’s hand cover his again.
Forgive me. I did not know it would hurt you so.
None of us knew.
I—sensed an echo of it, I think, while the battle was on. It was too late by then.
Yes.
Rephanin did not want to talk of the battle, or to think of it. He wanted to rest in the strange, odd silence that now enveloped him, silence in the absence of the army’s thoughts. He felt alone, now, save for Ehranan’s presence. Alone for the first time in many days, and he reveled in it.
The cold gust of the tent door’s came again. Rephanin opened his eyes to see two guardians: the one who had brought the broth, and the commander of the twenty guardians posted outside to protect him—a female—some Greenglen whose name Rephanin should remember but could not find just now. She bore a brazier of coals, which she set on the ground near Rephanin’s feet. She bowed stiffly.
“I crave pardon, my lords. I have been remiss.”
“No.” Ehranan shook his head. “You were ordered not to disturb him.”
Ehranan’s voice was curt from long habit of command, but the Greenglen might not know that. Rephanin tried to comfort her with a smile. Her own lips curved for a fleeting moment, then returned to a grim line.
She glanced at the other guardian, who bore a steaming ewer and a slender pottery cup. He brought them forward and set them at Ehranan’s side, then returned to his captain. Both moved to go.
“Thank you.” Rephanin's voice was still feeble, and he gave up, resorting to mindspeech.
Thank you for all you have done. For watching over my safety. I am grateful. I could not have done this without your help.
The captain seemed to take heart at this. She made another small, stiff bow, then departed along with the other guardian. Rephanin felt the echo of her relief as she walked away from the tent. Ehranan glanced after her.
You have a good understanding of a warrior’s needs.
Of these warriors’ needs, yes. I have been in close contact with them for some time now. These few set to guard me feel they have not done all they should, since they were not on the field.
Nonsense. Their task was of vital importance.
Ehranan’s frown had returned. Rephanin watched him, knowing the frown betokened concern, not disapproval. So many concerns he had, being in command of two armies, of hundreds of warriors from three ælven realms and a dozen different clans. It was a vast responsibility.
Reclaiming this valley was a feat that would be lauded as much as the first Midrange War. A part of Rephanin was horrified, another found it richly amusing.
“Can you take a little more broth, or do you want the tea?”
“Broth.”
Rephanin gripped the bread on his lap and tried to pull off a piece. His hands were too weak, though. They shook with the effort.
Ehranan set down the bowl, tore off a few morsels of the bread and dropped them in the broth, then offered one, sopping, in the spoon. Rephanin took it and slowly chewed. He was relieved to feel his strength returning, and somewhat abashed that he had neglected his flesh so badly. Another time he must take care to be more watchful.
Another time. He closed his eyes and swallowed. How could he bear another battle? He wanted to weep, but the tears would not come.
So many dead.
“Rephanin, you saved lives. Hundreds of ælven lives. This would have been much worse without you.”
Would it?
That was a dreadful thought. He had no desire to imagine worse.
“Eat a little more.”
Rephanin managed two more bites of broth-soaked bread, then leaned his head back. Ehranan set the bowl aside and poured tea into the pottery cup, wrapped Rephanin’s hands around it, then helped him guide it to his lips.
The tea was simple, a blend of gentle flowers, the sort brewed for comfort. The warmth of it spread through his fingers, the fragrance filled his senses.
“Lord Ehranan? ”
The commander turned toward the door. “What is it?”
“Lord Turisan is here, and desires a word with you.”
“Turisan?” Ehranan glanced at Rephanin. “May I leave you for a little while?”
“Of course.” Rephanin was pleased to find that his voice had improved to a hoarse whisper.
“Do you want someone to stay with you?”
Rephanin shook his head and smiled to assure Ehranan that he need not be watched so carefully. He would not slip away. He welcomed solitude.
The commander stood and went out, and his voice sounded at once outside the tent, consulting with Avhlórin, who commanded the forces from Eastfæld. Their voices faded to a murmur as they walked away, leaving Rephanin in silence.
Silence at last. He had never thought he would cherish it so. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh of relief.
Fireshore
Eliani was beginning to hate the darkwood forest. It closed in all around them, filled with unfamiliar khi, strange smells, and the calls of birds that never flew in the pine forests of her homeland. Instinct told her that danger dwelt be
neath the darkwoods, but she had chosen to follow Othanin and would not now turn back.
They walked close to the stream, from which the undergrowth had been cleared to make a passageway. The Lost kept this way, which began a few rods into the forest from the road. After struggling through that dense growth, Othanin urging them all the while to leave no sign of their passing, this small cleared path had seemed wonderfully spacious, but that feeling had long since given way to a sense of confinement.
Sunlight did not reach the floor of the forest. Instead a greenish glow surrounded them, and steamy heat dulled their senses. Eliani wondered if it was dark enough here that alben would risk coming into the forest during the day. She hoped not.
Luruthin, ahead of her on the path, stopped walking. Eliani held up her hand to signal the halt to those behind her.
Othanin was in the lead, with Vanorin behind him for his protection should they be attacked. Vanorin disliked having the party strung out single file on the path, Eliani knew, but there was no help for it.
Luruthin knelt to scoop water from the stream with his hands. Eliani joined him, glancing anxiously at him. He looked so drawn and weak, and there was a haunted fear in his eyes, but he had made no complaint during the journey.
Whenever they stopped to rest, which was often, he drank from the stream and then sat with eyes closed. Eliani had not spoken to him, sensing his need to conserve his strength for the march. She ached for him, though. He had plainly suffered as a captive of the alben, and she feared his suffering went beyond what could be seen.
She had regretted leaving him behind from the moment she had done so. Now she saw in part what it had cost him, what he had suffered for her sake. She did not think she could ever repay him.
Her brow grew warm. She sat back and closed her eyes.
Yes, love?
Where are you now?
In the forest, west of the road. Othanin is leading us.
Does he know his way?
He seems to.
Turisan’s concern crossed the silence. It comforted her, wrapping her like a warm, soft cloak.
