by Pati Nagle
“What news?”
“I reached Woodrun, but could not enter it. They have set a watch at the road and another to patrol the edges of the town night and day.”
Shalár frowned and swept the letters she had been reading into a rough stack. “So they know we are here.”
“Undoubtedly they know. Three of the party that attacked our gates escaped thither—I heard the watchers talking of it.”
“What of Othanin? Is he there?”
“I heard no mention of him.”
Shalár bit her lip. Woodrun was alert, and so would not be easy to capture. She must rethink her plans.
“How many would you say are dwelling there?”
“Four or five hundreds, at least.”
“That many? Woodrun was the merest village....”
The merest village when she had dwelt here before, but that was centuries ago. Being here again, in her childhood home, sometimes made her forget how long it had been.
Torith leaned against her work table. “Woodrun is Fireshore’s main city now. All the darkwood trade has moved there, as have many of Ghlanhras’s people.”
Shalár nodded. After capturing Ghlanhras she had found that many of the houses here were long abandoned. She planned to fill them with her own people, when they arrived. Then she would have the strength to capture Woodrun. For now, she must hold off.
Ranad returned with goblets and two ewers. Torith declined the wine, but drank two cupfuls of water in quick succession. Shalár watched his face, thinking she saw a slight pinched look about it.
“Have you other news?”
He finished his second cup of water and set the goblet on the table. “No, Bright Lady. I spent a night listening to the watchers, but they talked mostly of the darkwood harvest. A new milling site has been made, close to Woodrun.”
A tremor shook the room. Shalár clutched at the edge of the table, then made herself relax.
There had been a number of tremors since their arrival; not unusual in Fireshore, though new to most of her people. She herself was unused to them, but she remembered them from early childhood.
The water ewer teetered slightly with a small, metallic sound, then was still. She gazed at Torith, who stared back, wide-eyed.
“Take your rest, then. You may share a kobalen with Gavál after I have seen him.”
“Thank you, Bright Lady.”
Torith stood up, bowed briefly, and left. Shalár reached for the wine and poured herself a cup.
The door opened again and Gavál came in. He had made the effort of grooming his hair before coming to her; it lay loose about his shoulders. He bowed deeply and scarcely met Shalár’s eye, looking apprehensive. Disappointing news, then.
“Be seated. Have some wine or some water.”
“Thank you, Bright Lady.” He sat, but did not reach for drink.
“What news?”
“Bright Lady, we could not catch the ælven attackers.”
“Why not?”
“They appear to have split up. Some left the road at a stream crossing. They must have followed it into the forest, but we could find no sign of their passing. We searched both east and west, as well as on the road.”
Shalár’s eyes narrowed. She took hold of his khi, swiftly so that he had no chance to hide his thoughts. He gave a small gasp.
She searched his mind and found no deceit. Going so far as to explore his recent memory, she saw that he had earnestly sought the ælven in the darkwood forest. She released him.
“Take your hunters and search eastward. If you find no sign of them in two nights, return.”
“Yes, Bright Lady.” His voice was a whisper.
Shalár reached for a scrap of parchment and dipped a pen in ink. “Go with Torith to the kobalen pens. He will choose a feeder. When he is finished with it you may share what remains with your hunters.”
She handed Gavál the written order. He stood as he took it, swallowing.
“Thank you, Bright Lady.”
“You had better hurry. The sun will soon rise.”
Fear crossed his face, and he hastily bowed and left the room. Shalár stared at the closed door, drumming her fingertips against the table.
So the ælven were most likely lost to her. Othanin, who would have been useful as a trade offering, now gone. This irked her, but not so much as the loss of the other, the Stonereach.
She had hoped to breed him again. One success offered hope of others.
She put a hand to her belly and opened her khi, hoping for a word or a sign from the spirit of her child. She sensed its presence, but distantly.
A year from now the child would be born. Born of winter, born of strife. Appropriate for a future leader of her people. Shalár smiled slightly, then reached for Othanin’s letters again.
Othanin’s correspondent was in the Ebons, west of Ghlanhras, not east. She frowned. Perhaps her guess was mistaken, and the ælven would not be fleeing to the Steppe Wilds. She almost called Ranad to summon back Gavál, but decided to wait. Gavál would not leave the city until nightfall.
She searched through the letters again, seeking reference to a place of shelter, but it seemed that the writer moved often, mentioning Firethroat in one message, the Great Sleeper in another. Unlikely, then, that Othanin would seek refuge with this friend, for he might not be able to find her.
Her, or him. No—her, Shalár decided, looking at the pages in her hands, seeking information in the whispers of khi that clung to them. It was mostly Othanin’s khi, but there was that hint of another, of the writer.
Her. Othanin’s lover. Shalár was certain of it.
“Ranad.”
He came in at once, face inquiring. Shalár gathered up the letters again, slipping them into the silver ribbon that had bound them.
“How many ælven were captured in the Hall?”
“Seventeen, Bright Lady, including the governor and—”
“Yes, yes. So fifteen remain?”
“Three of them have crossed, my lady.”
She frowned. “Go to the house where they are kept, and bring back whichever of them attended most closely on Othanin. Hurry, I want you back before daylight.”
“Yes, Bright Lady.” He bowed and swiftly left.
Three crossed. Yielding their flesh in their despair. They gave up too easily, these ælven. Shalár wondered how she might prevent their seeking death, but apart from giving them more comforts, she could think of nothing.
She stood and left the chamber, passing down the hallway to her private rooms. A memory was tickling at her, something she had glimpsed among Othanin’s belongings. She could not recall it exactly. She went into the bedchamber and threw open the darkwood wardrobe that had held Othanin’s clothing and now contained hers.
Her new leathers hung here, with her cloak and three of the robes that had been Othanin’s, dyed with the superior dyes available here in Fireshore. The leathers and the grey garments had been dyed to black, the orange to blood red. The cloak had resisted dying and was now a dullish green-gray, its falcon-head clasp replaced with one of iron in the shape of flames. Shalár stared at the clothes, frowning.
Not these, but something close. She pulled open the three inner drawers of the wardrobe one by one. The first two held silken tunics and legs, also recently dyed to Darkshore’s colors. The third held a clutter of small items she had not yet sorted: a jumble of pouches, sashes, and ornaments, mostly grey and orange. A flash of dark green showed among them, though, and Shalár caught at it.
A ribbon. She pulled it free of the tangle. It was three ells long, a thumb’s width, and beautifully woven. Orange and gray entwined with the russet and dark yellowy green of the Steppegard clan, interspersed with images of darkwood trees and scrub pines, running horses and Firethroat.
A handfasting ribbon.
Shalár repressed a sneer. Othanin was handfasted, to a Steppegard it appeared. She searched in the drawer but found no second ribbon. His partner had taken it with her, then.
>
Shalár frowned. She had found no sign of a second occupant in Othanin’s chambers, nor any room that appeared to house a partner. The guest chambers were plainly that alone, and the household attendants had their own separate dwelling behind Darkwood Hall.
Othanin’s partner had not resided here, then, or at least not recently. Shalár held the ribbon in both hands and sought through it with khi. The exploration was unpleasant, for the blessings that had been laid into the ribbon by its maker rang against her own khi.
Ælven held great store by pledges, and the handfasting pledge was the most binding of all. Shalár, who made no promises, detested those who revered them. A pledge was a limitation, and she accepted none such.
Deep within the weave, an echo of the handfasting ceremony whispered. Shalár sensed a female, sensed Othanin’s delight in her, a hint of her scent, the brush against skin of a long swath of waving bronze hair. Deep, abiding love.
Angered, Shalár threw the ribbon from her. She opened her eyes and stood staring at it. It lay crumpled on the floor, a snake, a tether, but only a symbol of the pledge that was the greater object of repugnance.
Fools, to bind themselves so! Where were they now? Not together, she knew.
Othanin’s correspondent was his partner. She was sure of it now. Handfasted, but dwelling apart. What did it mean?
She picked up the ribbon again and searched its length. Sometimes the couple’s names were woven into their handfasting ribbons, along with the images and blessings. Shalár found no names here, but the initials “O” and “K” adorned each end of the ribbon, entwined with firevine.
Slowly she coiled the ribbon, then chose a plain grey pouch from the drawer in which to store it. Pulling the strings tight, she cast the pouch behind her boots and closed the wardrobe.
She returned to her workroom and found Ranad there, standing over a black-haired ælven male who was on his knees, head bowed, hands bound behind him. She gazed at the ælven for a long moment, then gestured to Ranad to loose his bonds. Ranad gave her a doubtful look, but knelt to obey.
The ælven came out of his stupor as his hands were untied. He glanced up at Shalár, blue eyes startled, then quickly looked away. His face was strained and somewhat gaunt.
Shalár gazed at him. “Are you not given enough to eat?”
He rubbed at his wrists but did not meet her gaze. “We are given enough.”
Starving themselves, perhaps. That might be how they were dying. She would inquire about it later, of those who guarded the houses where the ælven were held. One housed those captured in Darkwood Hall, three others the rest of the ælven taken in Ghlanhras.
Ranad stepped back, the ropes dangling from his hand. Shalár gestured to him to leave the room. He opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again and obeyed.
“Come, sit here.” Shalár waved at the chair before her table. “There is wine if you wish it.”
The ælven cast a wary glance at her, then got to his feet and sat in the chair. He stared at the tabletop and made no move to take wine.
Shalár returned to her own chair and gazed at him. “You were Othanin’s attendant?”
“Steward of the hall.”
“For how long?”
“Two decades and more.”
“Othanin must have been pleased with your service.”
He made no answer. Shalár watched him, wondering how best to approach him. She could wrest what she wanted to know from his mind, but that was taxing and sometimes inspired greater resistance. Ælven were not easy to control, and she wished to conserve her strength for the building of her child’s body. She would try first to coax what she wanted from him.
“You must know Othanin’s lady, then.”
His startled expression told her she had guessed aright. After the first glance he returned his gaze to the table, frowning.
“Tell me about her. What is her name?”
He was silent. She could taste fear in his khi, see it in his breathing. Knowing her power, she smiled and leaned toward him.
“I can find it out easily enough. Spare me the trouble of fetching others.” She wrapped her khi around his, let him feel it. “Her name.”
His eyes widened, breath shortened. “Kivhani.”
“A Steppegard.”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“Why did she leave Ghlanhras?”
For a moment he did not answer. “Many have left. They fear the hunger.”
“Why did she leave?”
She saw him swallow, knew he was debating what to say. He glanced up at her.
“Why should I tell you? What will it gain me?”
She twisted his khi and he cringed, making a small, strangled sound. When she released him he fell forward, catching himself against the table. Slowly he pushed himself upright.
“Spare yourself. Tell me why Kivhani left her lord.”
“The hunger.”
Shalár frowned in impatience. “She did not leave him for fear of the hunger.” She tightened her hold on the ælven’s khi.
“No! She left when she was struck with the hunger.”
Surprised, Shalár gazed at him. “But she did not seek death.”
“I do not know.”
“She wrote to Othanin.”
“I do not know.”
Shalár took up the bundled letters and held them before his face. “As steward of the house all messages passed through your hands. Have you not seen these before?”
He stared at them, then glanced at her fearfully and shook his head. “No.”
She shoved the bundle toward him. “Is it her hand?”
He turned his head to look at the writing. “Yes.”
Shalár set the letters aside. “What did Othanin say of her?”
“He did not speak of her after she left. He mourned her absence.”
The ælven fell silent and stared at nothing, as if lost in memory. Shalár doubted he knew much more that would be of use. She sat back in her chair.
“Ranad!”
The ælven looked up. “Wait.”
The door opened and Ranad looked in. Shalár held up a hand to stay him. “In a moment.”
Ranad glanced at the ælven, then withdrew. Shalár looked expectantly at the male before her. His dark hair hung lank about his face, and a look of hunger had come into his eyes.
“If I tell you something you will be glad to know, will you reward me?”
“I do not bargain with captives.”
“You will be glad to know this. It could save you from a danger.”
Shalár peered at him. Extracting information whose nature was unknown would be difficult. When she entered another’s mind it was best to know what she was seeking. She tilted her head.
“What reward do you desire?”
He met her gaze. “Free my daughter.”
“No.”
To set any of her ælven captives free would be to send information about her people and her position in Ghlanhras to her enemies. There was no question of it, and the ælven looked as if he knew it.
“Then ... spare her from being used to breed.”
His face went hard with the words. Shalár felt a ripple of anger in his khi.
Her custom always had been to encourage her hunters to breed with ælven captives. She would reward any of her people who bred successfully, as they well knew. Here in Ghlanhras there were far more ælven available than she had ever had at a time in Nightsand, so she doubted any one of the captives was overused. Still, she understood their hatred of such treatment. Interesting that this ælven did not ask to be spared himself, but made the request only on behalf of his child.
“What is your daughter’s name?”
He looked up at her, fearful and hopeful at once. “Teshali.”
“Very well. If I find your information useful, Teshali will be spared.”
“Your word on it?”
Fool. He expected her to behave as an ælven.
“You have my word.”
<
br /> Shalár smiled. Perhaps she actually would spare the daughter—once. Just to torment the father with the fact that she had quite literally kept her so-valued word.
Or perhaps such strong concern for his daughter might be used to make him do Shalár’s bidding. A cooperative ælven might well be of use. He could be sent into Woodrun to gather information. He would not be suspected, and he would certainly return, knowing that to fail would be to doom his daughter to unimagined torments.
He was watching her, searching her face. Shalár raised an eyebrow. Her patience was not infinite.
He licked his lips. “Kivhani is not alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are others—many have been cursed with the hunger. Not all seek death.”
Shalár leaned forward. “What do they seek?”
“They go into voluntary exile.”
“Where?”
“West. At first they were sent away. Governor Minálan would not allow them to remain in Fireshore. He sent them across the Ebons.”
Shalár knew of ælven who had occasionally wandered into her lands. Once in a great while such a one was taken captive, and if they showed sign of the hunger, was offered a place among her people, which was usually refused. More often they were found dead of sun poisoning or starvation, pathetic bodies discovered by her hunters, shriveled in lonely death on the rugged western slopes of the Ebons. It had been some decades since any such had been found.
“Governor Othanin was more lenient. He gave them help, tools and supplies to make some kind of life, when he sent them west.”
Shalár's eyes narrowed. “How generous.”
“He never spoke of them afterward, but everyone knew....”
Shalár coiled her khi a little tighter around the ælven’s. He closed his eyes.
“Knew what?”
“That they were together. They had made a life, together.”
She knew nothing of this. A community of ælven who suffered the hunger, yet did not seek refuge with Clan Darkshore?
“How many are they?”
“I do not know.”
“Where are they?”
“I do not know.”
Shalár brought pressure to bear on his khi. He winced, and his breath came short, but he shook his head.
