Swords Over Fireshore

by Pati Nagle

  Luruthin opened the door and saw Othanin in a robe the color of live coals, with his black hair loose across it. His dark eyes were clear and determined, more so than Luruthin had seen them before. He looked strong, and well, and Luruthin knew a pang of envy.

  “Come in.”

  Luruthin closed the door and gestured toward the beds. Othanin sat on that which had been Vanorin’s, and Luruthin sat facing him.

  “Thank you for coming. I have... I must ask...”

  “You wish to join the Lost.”

  Luruthin looked up sharply. “Eliani told you.”

  “No, she said nothing.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  Othanin’s eyes softened. “Kivhani and I suspected your condition by the time we reached the camp. I hope your realization was not too painful.”

  Luruthin sighed. “Why did you not tell me, if you knew?”

  “You must forgive us. It seems unkind, I know, but we did not wish to give you news that would likely anger you against us. It might have made you reluctant to return.”

  “Oh.”

  Luruthin looked down at his hands, which were tightly clenched. He pulled them apart, and found himself at a loss what to do with them. He laid them on his knees.

  “What must I do? Should I write to Kivhani?”

  “No, no. She is expecting you. I will take you to the camp tonight.”

  Relief rained through Luruthin. He had half feared being turned away, he realized.

  “You are fortunate that the clan is still nearby. They are planning to move their camp soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many outsiders know of their presence here.”

  Luruthin frowned. “We—Eliani and Vanorin—would never betray them.”

  “Not intentionally, but a chance word, a stray remark ... it is too great a risk. The Lost's ways are strict, but with good reason. Much thought and much bitter experience have gone into their making.” Othanin’s lips curved into a slight smile. “Even I do not know to which camp they will go.”

  Luruthin was surprised. “If they trust anyone it is you.”

  “They do trust me, but only to a point.” Othanin rose and made as if to go. “I will return this evening to take you up.”

  “Othanin?”

  “Yes?”

  The governor paused, looking back at him. Luruthin stood and stepped toward him.

  “When you and Kivhani depart for the Council in Highstone, I would like to accompany you.”

  Othanin’s brows twitched together. “Why?”

  “Eliani suggested that I would be a good advocate for the Lost, since many of the Council know me. She thought also that you might be glad to have a guide. If we wish to avoid other travelers we may have to leave the road. I know where to find water, and good camp sites. And I know where kobalen range.”

  Othanin’s face grew sober. “We can discuss it with Kivhani tonight.” He offered to clasp arms. “I am glad you returned, though sorry that it was needful. You will be glad as well, I believe.”

  Luruthin gazed at Othanin’s arm, knowing that to take it would tempt him again as he had been tempted with Vanorin. Knowing as well that Othanin would feel the difference in his khi. He should be grateful, he supposed, that Othanin offered the gesture in spite of it.

  He clasped arms briefly, then quickly let go. Othanin seemed to understand. He went to the door and Luruthin followed him.

  “Thank you, Othanin.”

  The governor turned, a gentle expression on his face. “A bitter path is easier when one walks it with friends. I will return after sunset.”

  Luruthin closed the door behind him and returned to his bed. Jhinani was in his thoughts now, and he could not evade the bitter truth that he must never see her again, that he must let her go.

  He knew so little of her, but he had spent long enough looking forward to knowing her better that the loss was as bitter as any he felt. She was his partner, though he had broken the bond. She carried his son. He had tied all his hopes up in her, and now they were never to be realized.

  He grieved now as he had not let himself grieve before, for Jhinani, for Clerestone, for all his friends and kindred. He knew he must leave them.

  From grief he drifted into a numbness, a kind of peace. All seemed grey to him, no spark of joy to hope for on the path ahead.

  He wondered what purpose could be served by his living on under this affliction. To talk to the Council, perhaps. He could not imagine that his words would have much effect, but Eliani wished it and so he would try.

  To hunt Kelevon and prevent him causing further harm. Luruthin felt a grim determination take hold inside him. That would be a service he would be glad to perform for his people. And when Kelevon was removed, perhaps he could turn his mind to removing Shalár.

  He sat up suddenly, gasping with fear at the thought of going near her again. He was not ready to face that, though in truth there was little more she could do to harm him.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to banish her from his thoughts. He could not get near her even if he wished to, entrenched as she was in Ghlanhras. He would not think of it.

  Deciding to meditate, he sat on the bed and breathed deeply, willing away the tension in his flesh, watching from a distance the stray thoughts that entered his mind and dismissing them as they came. When he was calm and no longer troubled by random thoughts, he hesitantly opened his awareness to the khi of his surroundings. He sensed Davhri at work in the room outside his door, the hot storm of the fire on her hearth, and the gentler glow of the sleeping garden beyond the window.

  Rain was still falling, a quiet, steady rain, blurring his awareness of all the living things nearby, though he could still feel them. Small creatures lay in their burrows, awaiting the sun’s return. Birds nestled patiently in the shelter of their nests in the forest beyond the village, the leaves of tree and bramble protecting them from the wet.

  Slowly he became aware that he was not alone. He wondered for a long while whether this should trouble him. He held back from seeking to know who it was who was near, for in not knowing he had no cause to be afraid.

  It was someone he knew. That understanding came unbidden, and with it woke curiosity. Before he could form an intention, he found himself opening his awareness further, seeking to identify the other.

  He became aware of a brilliant glow of love surrounding him. Surprised, he reached out to the source, and found it the familiar presence he had sensed.

  His daughter. Shiláni.

  Wonder and gratitude filled him, and also a wish to know why. Had she been drawn by his grief, or by his seeking peace in meditation? Before he could shape an inquiry, he was startled by a knock upon his door.

  “Luruthin?”

  He opened his eyes, blinking, disoriented. It was Davhri’s voice that had called.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

  “I have finished my work for the day. I thought you might like to come out and sit by the fire.”

  He took a couple of breaths to steady himself, then got up and went out into the main room. Davhri had draped her windows and the doorway to the hearthroom, though he could see glints of daylight at the edges of the tapestries. He went to the fire and sat gazing at it, thinking of Shiláni.

  This was not the first time she had come to him. Why her, and never his son?

  That was a selfish thought, he supposed. The answer might be as simple as that she was nearer, though he had heard it said that distance in the world of flesh was not a barrier to those in spirit.

  Davhri returned to the room, a folded mass of grey silk in her hands. “Your clothes are clean, but they are rather worn. Will you accept these in their stead?”

  Luruthin took the silks she offered, two tunics and two sets of legs in the soft grey so common in Bitterfield. He looked up at her.

  “Inóran’s?”

  “They were, yes. He will only keep two changes with him, though, and he has many more than that
here. I know he would be glad to have them go to use.”

  Luruthin rubbed the silk between his fingers. It was much newer than the tunic and legs he had been wearing ever since Ghlanhras. He would be glad to abandon those. Let them become rags, or paper, and so be given a new life.

  “Thank you, Davhri. Thank you for your endless generosity.”

  “This is but a small thing.” She flashed a sad smile. “I am glad to help. It makes up a little for my not having been able to help Inóran.”

  She stepped to the large table and brought back Luruthin’s leather tunic, neatly folded. “This is stained, I fear. I did my best, but could not get it all out.”

  Luruthin unfolded it and looked at the bloodstains down its front. Glancing at Davhri, he saw her watching warily.

  “I put on Birani’s leathers after she was killed. We were in a snowstorm, and I had no cloak.”

  Though it might as well have been the blood of the kobalen he had fed upon. Luruthin laid the tunic aside, and put the silks on top of it. He was feeling unwell, and in the next moment a cramp seized hold of him. He hugged himself, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Tea! I will fetch it.”

  Davhri hastened from the room, leaving him to struggle alone. He grimaced, breathing shallowly. He hoped this would pass, that he would have the strength to travel this night, for he must.

  Davhri returned with a steaming cup. “Shall I hold it for you?”

  Luruthin shook his head and took the cup in both hands, careful not to touch Davhri for fear he would draw upon her khi. He could feel it even so, bright enough to be almost painful.

  He brought the cup to his lips and sipped, burning his tongue on the hot liquid. Another small sip, then another. His hands were shaking. He clutched the cup and drank the tea little by little, and gradually felt the cramp begin to ease.

  “Thank you. It does help.”

  He sat back in the chair. The pain faded, leaving him feeling wrung.

  Davhri returned to the kitchen and came back with her own cup of tea and a bulging cloth pouch. The latter she laid atop the grey silks.

  “That is more of the tea. I promised it to Inóran, if you do not mind carrying it.”

  “I would be glad to.”

  “Would you take him a note from me as well?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. Othanin exchanges messages with them every few days, but I do not like to impose on him.”

  “I doubt he minds.”

  “Even so.” Davhri sipped her tea. “We are supposed to go each our own way, Inóran and I, but I cannot say goodbye to him. Not yet.”

  Luruthin understood her feelings only too well. He wondered if she knew that the Lost would soon leave their camp above Bitterfield. Not his place to tell her, he supposed.

  He felt adrift, his loyalties and obligations shifting. It would be better once he had formally joined the Lost, he thought. It meant relinquishing his clan, he realized with a stab of sadness.

  Glancing toward the window, he saw that the rain-gray daylight was fading. He put aside his cup, took up his clothing, and stood.

  “I had better put these on.”

  He went to the guest room and dressed swiftly, cinching his belt tight over his querulous gut. Putting the spare silks and Davhri's tea into his pack, he carried it out to the main room and set by the hearthroom door with his quiver and bow.

  Davhri was sitting at her table, writing. Luruthin put on Felahran's boots, which he hoped the guardian's family would not begrudge him, then gathered up Birani’s leathers and laid them against the wall with Felahran’s sword, where Vanorin would find them.

  Voices out in the hearthroom made him turn his head. Davhri rose and went to greet Eliani and Vanorin, who came in with raindrops glinting in their hair.

  “You found Sunahran?”

  Eliani smiled. “Yes, and three others. Hathranen made his way alone through the forest to Woodrun. I could not have done it!”

  “Good news.”

  “Yes. I have an escort once more, and Vanorin a command. He was beginning to miss it, were you not?” She cast a sly glance at Vanorin, who returned a quiet smile.

  “I was certainly missing the horses. It will be good to ride again.”

  Davhri brought tea for them. “I will start a stew.”

  “No, no, we are all asked to sup with Dejhonan and his family.” Eliani turned to Luruthin. “I wish you could join us. We shall miss you.”

  “And I you.”

  Eliani’s smile faded. “Cousin...”

  “We shall meet again at the Council.”

  The hearthroom chime sounded. Davhri went to answer it and brought Othanin back with her. He declined the tea she offered, and came to stand beside Luruthin, wearing a dark grey cloak over grey tunic and legs, and high boots of soft dark leather.

  “You are ready. Good, then let us begin. It is a long walk.”

  Luruthin stood. Eliani and Vanorin rose also, each murmuring words of farewell. Luruthin clasped their arms briefly, and held still when Eliani caught him in a tight hug.

  “Oh, Luruthin!”

  He stepped back from her, trying to smile. Tears were starting in her eyes, and he felt his own throat tightening.

  “Thank you for seeing me safely here.” He glanced from Eliani to Vanorin. “May spirits watch over your path.”

  Vanorin nodded. “And yours.”

  Eliani said no more, frowning up at him as a tear slid down her cheek. Without thinking he put a finger to her chin, lifting it. Her khi shone bright against his flesh.

  “Keep you safe, Kestrel.”

  He turned away before his own grief could spill out. Othanin followed him to the door, where he picked up his belongings. Davhri joined them, bringing a grey cloak which she put around Luruthin’s shoulders.

  “It is raining. I wished to send this to Inóran, so you might as well wear it.”

  “Thank you, Davhri. Thank you for all.”

  She smiled, pressed a letter into his hands, then held aside the tapestry. A bright fire crackled on the welcoming hearth. Beyond, the rain had darkened the sky to make the evening seem later than it was.

  Luruthin tucked the letter into his tunic, then stepped out, pulling the cloak’s hood up over his head. Grey, like the silks.

  He was all grey now, no color to him. He walked between colors, between lives. He stood in the silent garden, looking up at the rain, feeling it on his face. He needed no tears. The sky wept for him.

  Ghlanhras

  Kelev was in the audience hall, a roll of paper in his hands. Shalár ignored him, turning to the hall attendant whose duty was to record the business of petitioners as they arrived.

  Three others stood waiting, and it happened that two of them preceded Kelev. Shalár heard their reports and requests, and gave orders in response. When Kelev’s turn came, the attendant announced him as “Kelevon, supervisor of the walks.”

  Shalár turned a cold gaze on Kelev. “We do not use ælven names here.”

  “Your pardon, Bright Lady. I am yet unaccustomed to your ways.”

  “What is your request?”

  Kelev stepped to the hall attendant’s small work table and unrolled his papers atop it, causing the attendant to snatch up his inkwell in haste. Shalár disliked being compelled to go where Kelev directed, but it would be foolish to require him to spread his work on the floor at her feet, and inconvenient to view it there. She stood and went to the table.

  Kelev pointed to the drawing. “These are the city gates as they are now. I propose converting these houses—which are empty except this one, in use by the watch at the gate—to a walled court that can withstand attack should the enemy achieve the gates.”

  “The covered paths would allow them to pass around the walled court.”

  “I will alter the paths at either side of the gates, adding a lesser gate to each which may be barred from without. Here are my plans.”

  Shalár watched and listened with interest a
s he showed her several sketches. He had planned well, and thoroughly. Plainly he had given the idea much thought.

  Shalár tried to imagine an ælven attack on the city, the benefit that Kelev’s inner court might yield. Certainly it would give her more time to prepare and carry out her next plan, whatever that might be. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to make such a court at each of the watch platforms, since they might also be vulnerable to attack. She would have to think on that.

  “Very well. You may build this.”

  “I thank you, Bright Lady. May I make a small request in return?”

  She looked at him, watching his eyes. Golden eyes, though they were beginning to darken.

  “I would like an ælven to look after my house.”

  “You desire an attendant?”

  “For myself, no. But I have been directing all my energy to the tasks you have given me, and the house you were also so kind as to give me is in a state of neglect. I would ask for an ælven to set it to rights.”

  “Why an ælven?”

  Kelev looked surprised. “I did not suppose you would set one of your own people to such a menial task.”

  Shalár gazed at him, thinking there was more to his request than he claimed. Perhaps he wanted the use of an ælven for his pleasure. She would not deny him that, any more than she grudged it to any of her folk. She encouraged all attempts at breeding, but a perverse whim made her decide to thwart Kelev at this turn.

  “Very well. I shall send an ælven to attend to your neglected house.”

  She would send her own attendant’s father, who was otherwise fairly useless, and no pleasant company. Let Kelev make of that what he would.

  Kelev bowed, a smile of satisfaction on his lips. “Thank you, Bright Lady.”

  He withdrew, rolling up his plans again. Shalár turned her attention to the hall attendant, who called forth the next seeking audience. This was Torith, with a report of what scouts had lately learned of Woodrun. The most significant news he brought was that the Greenglens had all left the town, riding south.

  Shalár dared not hope that this portended a complete withdrawal. More likely, they were gone to rouse others to fall upon Ghlanhras and wrest it away from Clan Darkshore. She frowned as she listened, wondering how quickly Kelev could make his inner court.