by Pati Nagle
She had debated the very question Harangue had asked all day. It would be wise to confirm that Othanin would travel south and not try to reach Woodrun. Her heart, though, wished to be riding for the trade road.
Turisan was coming; he was in the Steppe Wilds now. If she missed him, reached the road after he had passed....
No, she could not even bear to think of it. She would ride as soon as she might.
She turned to the theyn. “No, but I will ask you to give him a message for me, and to talk to him yourself. Try to persuade him not to go to Woodrun.”
Harangue filled Eliani's cup with more of the sharp local wine. “I will try. I cannot promise success.”
“Has he named a nextkin since Ghlanhras fell?”
Saharan’s brows rose. “I do not know. That is an excellent question, and one I will put to him.”
“Thank you. I trust he will listen to you.”
“He may say that his nextkin is in Woodrun.”
“If that is the case, he should stay away, so that they are not both at risk.”
“Mm.”
“If all goes well, Turisan will be at Woodrun in a few days. Best he wait here for the news, if he does not leave at once for Highstone.”
Dejhonan smiled. “I will do my best, my lady. Our governor may seem soft, but he has much determination.”
“So I have discovered.”
Eliani sipped her wine and looked at her plate, but her appetite had fled, replaced by a knot in her gut. She wished she could leave now, which would be rude, or immediately after the meal, which would be unkind to her friends and to the horses.
She took a forkful of tender greens, knowing she might have no more for some days. They gave her no pleasure but she ate them, clearing her plate of them while she listened to her escort chatter.
They were a family now. The bonds they had made would go with them back to Alpinon and Southfæld, and perhaps assure that Clan Greenglen and Clan Stonereach were more than allies.
The thought increased her loneliness. Even as she sat resisting the urge to speak to Turisan—impolite, when she was in company—she felt the warming of her brow.
She took a swallow of wine. I am in company, love.
I will not distract you. We are halting for the night at Riversease.
A tingle went through her. Riversease was the last town in the Steppe Wilds before the trade road entered Fireshore.
It will be our last chance to resupply.
Eliani could summon no simple response. She should say something polite, but all she could think of was how soon she might be in Turisan's arms.
She closed her eyes, trying to control her thoughts. A leader did not let personal wishes interfere with the good of her people.
I miss you as well, my heart.
She gave a cough of laughter and opened her eyes. Vanorin was watching her; the others were listening to Sunahran describe Woodrun's condition. Eliani had already heard his report and shared it with Turisan. The city was sending its children and weaker folk to Bitterfield—some had already arrived—and preparing to defend itself with some two hundred armed citizens.
And she should be thinking of how to help them, not indulging in selfish thoughts of reunion with Turisan. She took another mouthful of wine.
This will be a long night.
She knew her tone was bitter and regretted it, but Turisan seemed not to notice.
For me as well. It may indeed be selfish, but I intend to find you on the road, my lady. So dismiss any noble thoughts you may be having.
Her heart leapt with delight. Lowering her gaze, she allowed herself a small smile.
Yes, my lord.
Waymeet
A sharp wind tossed Rephanin's hair as he stood with Ehranan and Filari in the public circle at the village of Waymeet. They were in the Steppes at last, a land less soft and bountiful than the western plains of Eastfæld they had left behind. Harsh bluffs of reddish rock had replaced the rolling hills deep in grass. Small pines, gnarled and twisted, clung to the bluffs in defiance of the wind.
The trade road continued north from this place, while a second road struck northeastward into the Steppes, leading eventually to Watersmeet. Filari would take that road henceforth. An escort of eight guardians waited a short distance away, ready to accompany her.
Rephanin was relieved in part that she was leaving, for the need for constant vigilance in her presence was tiring. Yet he was pleased with her, and proud of her courage. He doubted that most understood how much courage she had. Turisan, perhaps, but no other, not even Ehranan.
She stood gazing at the Watersmeet road, squinting a little against the rising sun. Rephanin stepped toward her.
“I have a small gift for you, Filari. May I give it to you now?”
She frowned. “A gift? Why?”
“Merely a remembrance. We may not see each other again for some time.”
“Oh. I have nothing—”
“Please do not feel obligated to make a gift in return. It is I who wish to be remembered.”
He smiled, then withdrew a cord from his inner sleeve: white and gold, Eastfæld colors. The small coil glinted softly in the morning light. Filari held out her hand, and Rephanin pressed the cord into it
“There is khi in it.” She unwound the cord to look at it.
“Yes. Blessings for your safety.”
She glanced at him, uncertain but no longer frightened, he thought. “Thank you. This is kind of you.”
Rephanin spoke softly. “Whenever doubt assails you—and it will, that is certain—remember that you are not alone. Spirits are watching over you, and you have friends who wish you well. You are safe.”
She gave a cough of laughter. “I will try to believe it.”
Believe it.
With the contact he was suddenly aware of the dread that gripped her. She was eager to be away from the army, but she feared going to the Steppes, a fear so deep and irrational that Rephanin knew its source.
Kelevon is far away. He cannot touch you, nor would he dare approach Watersmeet.
I know that.
She was breathing rather sharply, and had twined the cord around her wrists. Rephanin placed his hands over it.
Filari.
Slowly he coaxed her to ease her grip. He unwound the cord and coiled it again, pressing it into her palm. She did not resist, and seemed to take comfort in his touch, so he prolonged it, gently holding her hand between his.
He wished he could banish her fears, but he did not know how. She needed healing that he could not give her.
Suddenly tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Rephanin’s hands instinctively tightened on hers.
“Oh, Filari. Child.”
I am not a child.
To me you are.
She pulled her hand from between his, stood swaying for a moment, then with a gasping sob threw her arms about his neck. Surprised, Rephanin held still at first, then gently embraced her. He smiled softly, sadly as he held her, allowing her to weep the tears she had denied for so long.
He heard Ehranan stepping away, giving them privacy. He felt a stab of heartache, but suppressed it. Ehranan understood, he hoped. Was it not obvious that his relationship with Filari was not intimate?
Gradually she calmed, then abruptly pulled away and wiped at her face. “Well, I should waste no more time. Thank you again for your kindness.”
She met his gaze with eyes that belied the gruffness of her voice. Rephanin smiled.
“Thank you, Filari.”
She glanced toward Ehranan, who was watching from a little distance. He strolled to her and held out a sealed letter.
“Give this to Governor Pashari, and tell her you come to serve the Steppe Wilds in this time of war.”
Rephanin raised an eyebrow. “Does not your letter explain that?”
“Yes, but Pashari is fond of ceremony.”
Filari slid the letter into her satchel. “I hope she will not refuse to see me.”
“You come from me. She will see you. Your escort will confirm this.”
Filari scowled. “I wish you would not make me take them.”
“No mindspeaker rides unescorted.”
Filari looked up sharply at that, as if still surprised to be called a mindspeaker. Rephanin smiled, then offered his arm. She clasped it, looking once more into his eyes, and he was glad to see that she was steadier. She exchanged a brief arm-clasp with Ehranan, then walked away to join her escort.
“Have you sought another mindspeaker?”
He turned to Ehranan, irritated by the question. “Every day. Every time we halt.”
Ehranan raised his hands, a gesture of yielding. “I thought you might have forgotten.”
“No. Shall I try again now?”
“I meant no offense.”
The weariness in his voice dispelled Rephanin's annoyance. His instinct was to offer unspoken reassurance, and he reached out without thought, opening his heart to Ehranan.
A moment’s stillness, a sense of a chasm before him, the sudden awareness of the expanse of Ehranan’s soul opened and waiting, familiar and unfamiliar. Not the simple openness to communication that was usual when Rephanin spoke to another, but the complete baring of a heart who knew what it was to unite in spirit.
Rephanin hesitated, thinking a bird about to take wing must feel thus. He knew Ehranan’s soul—had shared it in the battle by necessity—but this was no battle. This was the lonely, frightened heart of one who bore a great burden.
The soul beyond Ehranan’s care-worn eyes was vast and rich. Rephanin embraced it, offering his own khi, feeling it mingle with Ehranan’s, flowing together as they had not done since Midrange.
Then, there had been distractions, obligations, the emergency of war. Now there was nothing to keep them from sharing all that was in their hearts. Ehranan’s anxiety over the many details he must manage, over the welfare of those who accepted his command, over what they would face in Fireshore, all the worries he felt he should keep from the army were revealed. Rephanin was overwhelmed, and could only offer sympathy, wordless comfort, understanding.
He heard Ehranan give a small gasp. The commander stepped toward him, and suddenly their embrace became physical as well. A new level of tension filled Rephanin’s awareness.
It is all right. It is all right.
“It was his own voice he heard, repeating the assurance over and again.
Gradually the agitation in Ehranan’s khi subsided, leaving them drifting together, sharing comfort, reaching a balance of peace.
They were together. Neither was alone. There was much solace each could give the other, much support, much affection.
Another possibility lay open to their exploration, one that Rephanin had tried to keep from his thoughts. This close, he could hide no thought from Ehranan, nor could he hide the rousing of his own flesh. He sensed Ehranan’s dawning understanding, the long moment of stillness while Ehranan paused to consider the possibilities.
Rephanin made no advance, no offer, no invitation. He was still, so still he scarcely breathed. He could not deny or hide the feelings building within him, the urgency in his flesh. He waited, and at last he sensed a flicker of response, a tiny stirring of curiosity.
Ehranan wrenched himself away, mind and body, stumbling. Rephanin nearly fell, disoriented by the sudden shift. He strove to catch his breath, to calm the thunder of his heart, to still all the frightened thoughts within him.
Ehranan stopped a few steps away, both hands bunched into fists. He stayed thus for several breaths. Rephanin could see the tension in his shoulders.
“Forgive me.” Ehranan's voice was rough.
“It is all right.” The assurance rose to Rephanin’s lips without volition.
“No. No, it is not. I apologize.”
Ehranan turned, unhappiness writ in his face. It made Rephanin angry with himself, for the carelessness that had turned comfort to something unwelcome.
He swallowed. “I should not—”
I am cup-bonded.
Taken aback, Rephanin blinked. Ehranan slowly came back and stood before him, an arm’s length between them.
I am cup-bonded until Midsummer.
His gaze was sharp, demanding, filled with need. He had resumed contact only on the lightest level, only enough to speak. Rephanin sought no more.
I see. A...a long-standing connection?
Ehranan let out an exasperated breath. We have been occasional lovers for some time. At last Midsummer’s feast we were carried away and made our pledge. I did not know then that I would be going to war in the next season. Mirlani was less than pleased when I departed.
Oh.
I have had but two letters from her since I left Hollirued. I doubt we shall renew our bond. However....
However. It was a solemn pledge, not as lasting as handfasting but every bit as serious. Rephanin closed his eyes, frightened anew at how near he had come to compromising that pledge.
I ask your pardon—
Do not. You need not. The fault was mine.
Ehranan’s tension echoed through the words. Rephanin wished he could offer comfort, but that was not possible now. He met the commander’s gaze, saw the hunger there and felt a shadow of the same revive in his own flesh.
Ehranan’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. I did not think to mention it to you. Forgive me.
Rephanin sighed and rubbed at his brow. I would like to say there was no reason you should think you need warn me you were pledged, but that is sadly untrue.
Ehranan chuckled. Oh, Rephanin. Have you not let that go?
Ehranan met his gaze and held it for a long moment. A whisper of the chasm’s breeze teased Rephanin. Finally Ehranan looked away and shook his head.
I ... it is useless to speculate. We do not know where either of us will be at Midsummer.
Roasting in a darkwood forest, perhaps.
Perhaps. A smile tugged at the corner of Ehranan’s mouth. Until then we had better forget we had this conversation.
I doubt I can manage that, but I will try not to remind you of it.
Ehranan gave a cough of laughter. You cannot help but remind me. His smile faded to a look of wistfulness.
Accept my thanks, Rephanin. You have given me—much comfort.
Bereft of words, Rephanin watched him walk away, slowly this time, toward the army's camp. Ehranan paused and looked back, his blue eyes piercing Rephanin’s soul. He smiled briefly, sadly, then went on.
Rephanin closed his eyes. Confused and conflicting feelings assailed him: desire, regret, sympathy, hope. After a long moment he shook himself, and slowly followed.
One must go on.
Darkwood Hall
Shalár peered at the map spread on her work table. If they marched swiftly—very swiftly—they would reach Woodrun in three nights. If her hunters could not capture the town at once, they would have to retreat and find shelter, and would be vulnerable to being hunted down and dragged out into the sun.
Shalár closed her eyes briefly at the surfacing of ancient memories of the Bitter Wars, of folk dragged from their homes in Ghlanhras into the poisonous light of day. Even centuries later she recalled the screams, the pleading that was wasted upon the unyielding ælven.
That must not happen to her people now. She had pledged to protect them, and that was one pledge she fully intended to keep.
So, the warriors must needs spend a third day sheltering in the forest, and be ready to sweep upon Woodrun at nightfall. They would then have a full night to subdue the town. That would be best.
She looked up at the hunters in the room, the best leaders she had. Torith, who had led all the hunts since their arrival and kept the pens in Ghlanhras well stocked with kobalen. Gavál, who had scouted several times to Woodrun and knew the forest trails as well as any. Gæleth, who had brought the second group of hunters to Ghlanhras.
None were strong leaders. Of all of them, Shalár trusted Torith the most, but she did not
feel comfortable entrusting this venture to him.
She wished for Ciris, Yaras, or even Irith. Bold hunters, all, able to foresee danger and make intelligent choices on their own. They had been watchers for her in the Ebons, tracking the ælven and reporting to her, even going into ælven settlements at night to bring her information. She would have trusted any of them to lead this foray, but they were not here.
Ciris she had sent to Midrange. If he lived yet, he would be making his way back to Nightsand. Irith remained in that city, recovering from sun poisoning. Yaras she had made her steward in Nightsand; she knew he would not return to Ghlanhras. He preferred to remain in the west, with his family.
She looked at Torith. He was competent enough leading a hunt or handling the watchers on the city wall, but would he be a strong leader in a battle? She tried to remember where he had been, what he had done, during the taking of Ghlanhras. She recalled no great accomplishments.
“Are the hunters ready?”
He nodded. “I bade them to assemble at the gates after sundown. They should be gathering now.”
“Have they all fed?”
Torith blinked. “I do not know, my lady Governor.”
“Have you spoken to Wahral about sending kobalen along?”
“No, Bright Lady.”
Shalár leaned back in her chair, resisting the urge to reprimand him. If he were to lead the advance against Woodrun she must not undermine the others’ respect for him. She rubbed her forehead, where a slight ache had begun to tease her, then lifted the raven quill from her inkstand and drew a slip of paper toward her.
“Take this to the pens and give it to Wahral. Select thirty kobalen for the journey, and as many as twenty more for those who need to feed before setting out. Make haste, Torith. They must march tonight, as early as may be.”
“Yes, my lady Governor.” He bowed as he accepted her note, and hurried from the room.
She should have reminded him that he would need to assign hunters to watch the kobalen and move them along. They would not keep up with Clan Darkshore, but they would arrive at Woodrun by the time they were needed.
