by Pati Nagle
“I sent her to the gardens. Go and find her.”
“It is nearly dawn.”
Shalár raised an eyebrow at him. “You had best hurry, then.”
He looked mildly alarmed, then turned and left, his stride quickening to a run. Shalár returned to her bedchamber and combed out her hair. She did not feel tired, so she returned to her workroom and made notes about the metal works on Firethroat, and about her observations of the mountain.
She pondered whether to wait before sending the coppersmith to the works. If the mountain erupted, he might be killed, and she was loathe to lose a skilled craftsman. Best to wait, she decided.
A knock on her door made her glance up. “Come.”
The door opened to admit one of the gate’s watchers, accompanied by the ælven Shalár had sent to Woodrun. The watcher pushed the ælven forward, then left at a nod from Shalár.
The ælven coughed. He looked winded, soaked and travel-weary. His hair hung damp and lank, and his legs and shoes were spattered with mud. Shalár leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised.
“Well. I had all but given up hope of seeing you again.”
The ælven’s eyes searched the chamber. “My daughter?”
“Give me your news and you have time to save her.”
A look of horror crossed his face, then he began to speak rapidly. “There are two Greenglens and two Stonereaches in Woodrun. The governor’s daughter is not with them. Another Greenglen rode for the Steppes. They have told the theyn to gather warriors, and she is doing so. I heard no mention of a plan to attack Ghlanhras.”
“How many warriors has she raised?”
“Some seventy as yet, I believe.”
“Does she expect to raise more?”
“That I do not know. They expect to be joined by a force from the south. A large force, from the way they speak of it.”
Shalár frowned. These were ill tidings, save only in that it seemed an immediate attack was not planned. The ælven would wait for their larger force to join them before moving against Ghlanhras.
“Please. My daughter?”
Shalár glanced toward the doorway. Ranad had been too long in fetching the ælven. She stood up, wondering if something had gone wrong, if the female had summoned more courage than Shalár expected, courage enough to attack Ranad.
A rumble of thunder sounded overhead. Shalár narrowed her eyes.
“Come with me.”
She led him down the corridor toward the back of the hall, to the garden’s entrance. She paused, knowing the sun had risen. Storm was some protection, but not complete protection, and she did not wish any risk to her child.
The door into the gardens faced north, so she could look out of it without risk of being touched by the sun. Shalár was just about to open it when a thump fell against it and the door swung inward.
Stepping back, she watched Ranad enter carrying the ælven female lewdly against his hips, her legs hanging limp to either side of him. She looked unconscious, and they were both drenched, the female’s gown clinging wetly to Ranad’s leathers. He leaned his back against the door to push it closed, and looked at Shalár.
“The sun is up.” He grinned.
The ælven stepped toward them. “Teshali!”
Shalár pushed him back, then glared at Ranad. “What are you doing, fool? Put her down.”
“Alas, Bright Lady, I cannot obey you.” Ranad’s grin widened and he cupped a hand beneath the female’s chin, raising her face to his. “We are bred even now, are we not, my sweet?”
“Teshali!”
The ælven male lunged toward them in greater earnest. Shalár stopped him with a backhanded blow that sent him sprawling. Rage was in his face as he looked at his daughter in Ranad’s embrace. He got up and rushed at them again.
Shalár threw him down, and when he made to rise she kicked him until he was still. He lay gasping for breath, then raised his head to glare at her.
“You promised she would not be harmed!”
“Well, she is sure to be untroubled now. Her honored state protects her.” She looked at the hunter. “Are you certain, Ranad?”
“Oh, yes. The child will be a male, he tells me.” He laughed drunkenly, and slid down against the door until he was sitting on the floor.
Torn between exasperation and admiration of his ability to get himself indoors while in such a condition, Shalár stared at Ranad, debating what to do. He and the female would be coupled for some while, yet. She did not wish to leave them where they were, but the only chambers nearby were her own.
“Walk a little farther, Ranad, and you may rest in my chambers.”
“You honor me, Bright Lady, yet I fear I cannot get up.”
“Help him.” Shalár prodded the ælven male, and bent to lend her own assistance.
Between them they hauled Ranad to his feet once more. The ælven touched his daughter’s face with tender concern, but she did not rouse. He hovered beside them, his expression shifting from grief to anger and back again, as Ranad staggered his way to Shalár’s chambers with the weight of the female on his chest.
They passed the kitchens and workrooms where curious attendants stood watching in the doorways. Shalár ignored them, and none dared to raise a question.
Shalár led Ranad to her bedchamber, where he collapsed backward onto the bed and heaved a great sigh. The ælven male made a small, anxious sound and darted forward to move one of his daughter’s legs from an awkward position. Shalár dragged him away, back out to her workroom, and made him sit across the table from her.
“You may not think it, but this is good fortune for your daughter.”
He glanced angrily at Shalár, but said nothing. She smiled.
“She is now certain to live for at least a year. I shall probably allow her to nurse the child. You should be glad, for Ghlanhras is sure to be attacked before then, and I would have kept my pledge to slay her.”
A swallow moved the ælven’s throat. His face was set in grief, but he made no protest. Wise of him, she thought.
“Of course, I will not hesitate to kill both her and the child if you disobey me.”
He raised his head, but did not meet her gaze. Instead he stared at the wall beyond her with dread-filled eyes.
Shalár straightened the papers on her table, setting aside the notes she had made earlier. She was well pleased with what she had learned this night, though some of the tidings were ill news.
She was pleased that the ælven spy had shown the wisdom to return from Woodrun, and pleased also with Ranad for siring a child. Shalár would not slay the mother and child, despite what she had told the female's father. She gazed at him, wondering if he had the wit to surmise as much. Even if he did, she doubted he would risk her wrath.
“Now, then. I understand there is a coppersmith among the ælven in the city. Tell me all you know about him.”
The Trade Road
Turisan’s gaze rose to the Ebons, where a few drifts of cloud played yet around the highest peaks. Fresh snow lay well down upon the mountains’ shoulders. He looked to the north, toward the Great Sleeper, where Eliani lay somewhere curled in the warmth of a stranger’s home. A cave, she had said. The most comfortable cave she had ever seen.
Impatience smote him. She should not lie anywhere without him. He knew it was senseless, but that was his feeling. He knew also that if they were to be useful as mindspeakers, they must often be apart.
Not like this, though. Not now. They had been parted long enough for now.
Though he had held off from speaking to Eliani, he was weary of waiting for her to explain. He sent her the signal requesting her attention, and after a moment she answered.
Yes? Is it morning?
It is, and we are marching. Are you still reading?
I finished a short while ago. I have been thinking.
Turisan waited, but she said no more. All manner of foolish feeling assailed him: jealousy, worry that he had lost her love, anger at the nameless friend who had so dis
tracted her. All nonsense, he knew. He closed his eyes, trying to release it all.
Turisan?
Yes.
Our host does not know that I am a mindspeaker, and so I cannot ask his permission to tell you about him. May I ask you to keep what I am about to say private for the nonce?
Turisan wanted to ask why, but he knew he must trust her. All right.
He has been living here a very long time, since the Bitter Wars, and he has not decided whether he wishes to be known. I have given him my pledge to respect his privacy. I ask you as my partner to honor this pledge as well.
Very well.
My love, I think he can influence the Council.
Turisan blinked in surprise. He had not expected the Council to figure in the conversation.
How so?
The scrolls I have been reading are a history. They are his work, his reminiscences of the Bitter Wars and how they began.
Turisan waited, certain there must be more. He had himself read several histories of the wars, some from citizens of Southfæld who had long since crossed, some copies that his father had commissioned of documents that rested in Hollirued.
Love, he was a member of Clan Darkshore.
Darkshore?
Yes. His history is of how they saw the crisis.
Clan Darkshore were traitors to the creed!
But he was not. He urged them to keep the creed, and was cast out of his clan for it. He lives by the creed now, I am certain of it.
Turisan was silent for a moment, absorbing the import of her words. If this unnamed elder had truly seen the wars, and could tell the tale as Darkshore saw it, he might well influence the Council, but to what purpose?
The most important part of it is the description of how the hunger swept through Darkshore. I consider it proof that it is an illness. The Councils at that time all assumed it was a choice, but truly those who were stricken had no choice. Ulithan’s history makes that painfully clear.
Ulithan. The name was unfamiliar, but Turisan would not forget it.
The only choice that was made, and it was a fateful one, was that of the Governor and head of Clan Darkshore to stand by those of his people who were stricken, to help them and try to live in harmony with them. That choice led to Clan Darkshore’s being cast out of the ælven. After all their struggles, to be chastised so made Darkshore deeply bitter. I wish you could read the history yourself, love. I am not expressing its depth.
Turisan gazed toward the Sleeper, wishing most intently that he could be there with her. He would read all the scrolls she wished if only he were beside her.
So, what will you? Take the scrolls to the Council?
I mean to ask him if I may take copies of the first five. I do not think he would send his only copies with me, nor should he. His history has been preserved so long, it should not be placed at risk of any accident.
Turisan had to smile. She meant that it should not be entrusted to her care. Anything Eliani possessed was immediately in danger. He laughed softly, remembering her contrition as she had told him of the loss of her cloak, as if such a thing mattered. Only she mattered to him. As long as she was safe, he cared for naught else.
The others are stirring, love. I must go. I will speak to you again today.
Please do. I have missed you.
She sent a wave of love that made him ache for her, then withdrew. Turisan gave his attention to the road ahead, the long weary leagues that lay between him and Eliani. He wanted to urge his horse to a gallop, to speed across the distance to her side, but his duty lay in Fireshore.
The Great Sleeper
Ulithan came in from the passage. “The storm has lifted.”
Eliani nodded, then sat back on her heels and looked at Vanorin, whose ankle she had been examining. “All the swelling is gone. You should be able to walk on it, if you take care.”
“I shall take care not to fall down another cliff.” He smiled wryly as he reached for his boots.
Eliani smiled back and stood. Stretching her arms toward the cave’s ceiling, she could just brush it with her fingertips.
She decided to look outside and try to judge how much snow had fallen. If it was very deep they might have to wait another day or two to travel onward, though she hoped to avoid that. Though she enjoyed Ulithan’s company, she was sure he must be wishing to have his home to himself once more.
She pulled on her leathers for warmth, and walked out through the passage to the ledge outside the cave. Bright sunlight gleamed from a snow-laden landscape, setting her eyes to watering. Drifts of snow lay along the ledge and within the hollow that marked the entrance to Ulithan’s cave. Eliani stepped forward and shaded her eyes with a hand as she gazed northward, her breath fogging on the chill air.
She could not find the place where they had lit the pyre. Overcoming hesitance, she searched with khi for any sign of Kelevon in the wooded slopes below, and found none. Snow lay heavy for several leagues, at least a day’s travel in deep snow, if they left today.
Tonight, she amended. Luruthin could not travel in daylight. Well, perhaps the snow would melt a bit by nightfall.
She heard someone coming out of the cave. Vanorin, she thought, coming to see for himself the result of the storm. She waited, gazing across the snowy mountains.
“I am going to fetch water. Would you care to walk with me?”
Eliani turned, astonished. Ulithan stood smiling at her, a large water skin over his shoulder, his hair gleaming white against the snowy cliff behind. Fear seized her.
“Ulithan! The sun!”
His gaze flicked toward the sky, then back to her as he smiled in amusement. “It does not trouble me.”
“How can that be?”
His smile turned wistful. “When the alben’s curse, as you call it, came over my family, the only mark it made upon me is what you see.”
Eliani stared at him in disbelief. Without doubt he looked alben; the white hair and black eyes still gave her alarm at odd moments. Out here, in daylight, his skin seemed so pale as to be nearly white as well.
Yet he stood smiling at her in the sunshine, untroubled as he claimed. She remembered Luruthin’s distress after only an instant’s exposure to the sun.
“Then you—you do not have to hunt ...?”
Ulithan shook his head. “When I hunt it is for game, even as you do.”
“I misunderstood.”
As she gazed at him in amazement, she realized that his khi had no trace of the prickling she had come to associate with those who suffered the curse. She had not noted its absence before.
“Forgive me. I have never heard of such a....”
“Nor I of another such.” Ulithan smiled again, sadly. “I am alone in this, as far as I know.”
“And this is why Darkshore cast you out.”
He nodded. “Partly why.”
“And no other clan would have you.”
“None believed me. The war was underway. Everywhere I went I was met with fear and suspicion. My attempts at explanation were not heard. Some folk even drove me away with threats of violence. At last I gave up trying to find a place among my people.”
“Oh, Ulithan! How terrible.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I am content.” He shifted the water skin over his shoulder. “Will you walk with me to the spring?”
“Yes.”
He led the way northward along the ledge, his boots making deep tracks in the drifted snow. Eliani followed, stepping in his footprints, musing on his strange fate. How could it be that the curse had afflicted him, yet left him untouched save for his appearance?
She felt this was important, that if she could understand it, she might find a way of fighting the curse itself. She knew so little of such matters, though. She wished yet again that she could consult with Jhinani.
Ulithan stopped at a frozen pool no more than an armspan across. Water trickled over a cascade of ice that issued from a crack in the cliff wall a little above the pool. Ulithan k
nelt beside it and broke the tiny frozen waterfall with his fingers, setting the spring free to sparkle in the sun as it poured from the rock. He held the water skin beneath the flow.
Eliani squatted across the pool from him and tapped its surface with a finger to test how hard it had frozen. The sunshine would melt it by midday, she thought.
“Ulithan?”
He turned his head to look at her, black eyes inquiring. Eliani cleared her throat.
“My father is the head of my clan. He would welcome you to join us, I know.”
Ulithan’s eyes widened and color came into his cheeks. A look of astonishment crossed his face. In the few days she had known him, she had not seen him so moved.
“That is most kind of you. You honor me. Please do not be offended if I decline.” He glanced back at the spring and shifted the water skin, then laughed softly. “I have grown accustomed to my solitary ways. I no longer wish to live otherwise.”
Eliani nodded, unsurprised. After so long alone, he would likely find Clan Stonereach an unbearably boisterous company.
“The invitation stands. I know I can speak for my father in this.”
Ulithan gazed at her thoughtfully. “Your father is head of Stonereach?”
“And governor of Alpinon. I will make you another invitation on his behalf, which I know he will support. He has summoned the Ælven Council to meet at Highstone on the first day of spring. We would be greatly honored if you would attend.”
“The Ælven Council?” Ulithan looked bemused. “I am so far removed from ælven affairs, I cannot see how I could serve the Council.”
“Your presence would be of service. Your very existence proves we do not fully understand the alben’s curse. Ulithan, the Lost plan to seek clan status at this Council. I think your presence would be of great help to them.”
“The Lost.” He nodded as if recalling her words. “Those who live with the curse, but live by the creed. Their path must be hard.”
“It is.”
“And you think I can help them.” He gazed at her, frowning slightly. “I do not know.”
He looked away, back at the spring. The water skin was beginning to bulge and he shifted it again to let it fill more easily.
