Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  Thank you, Davharin. I—thank you.

  Warm amusement flowed around him. He thought he sensed an echo of the ælven shape Davharin had once worn. It sparked memories of a sober-eyed mountain lord whom Rephanin had never troubled to know. Regret swept through him—his own, for an opportunity lost—and was answered gently.

  Deferred. Not lost.

  Rephanin smiled at the promise of this thought, feeling his body relax, tension suddenly flowing away. Opening his eyes, he saw Heléri watching him and felt a rush of gratitude.

  Yet another gift you have given me.

  He brought her hand to his lips and on impulse began to kiss her fingertips one by one. She stiffened, and he glanced up, seeing shock in her eyes.

  Davharin used to do that.

  Did he?

  He bent his head to finish what he had begun, at the same time sending a wordless query toward Davharin and receiving instant confirmation. A sense of dizziness went through him as he became aware of a possibility he had never considered. He looked up at Heléri, who was gazing at him with an expression of wonder.

  Rephanin drew a deep breath. Davharin?

  His invitation was enthusiastically accepted, and a wave of powerful khi moved through him or, rather, into him. Bits of memory sparked past too quickly to be caught.

  He had shared his mind and his body with countless companions in flesh, but this differed. Davharin was overwhelming, and Rephanin could only trust that the spirit would not consume him completely.

  Even as that thought fleeted through his awareness, he knew he was himself, though also some small part of Davharin. Smiling at Heléri, he reached up to brush the concern from her face. His hand then slid to the back of her neck and drew her toward him, and he found himself gently kissing her forehead, then each of her eyelids, as Davharin’s voice whispered in his soul.

  She likes this, also.

  Shalár gazed at the black peak of the Great Sleeper rising sharply into the night. In the distance, the Ebon Mountains were a shaded wall. Beyond them lay Fireshore, calling to her.

  A faint clang of metal on metal reached her, rare enough on this field, for only a few of her hunters carried swords. She glanced down again at the dark forms surging amid the tall grasses below, clad in the full weight of their leathers. Their khi told her they were weary but not spent. They had improved much in the few days they had been here.

  She shifted her gaze to the farmhouse, thinking of the labor it had taken the farmers to clear the field where her warriors now practiced. It had been allowed to go fallow, there being insufficient hands to farm it. Doubtless the trampling feet of her army were doing it little good.

  Two other fields were given over to fleececod. A small orchard of no more than ten trees—apples and stonefruits—looked in reasonably good order, though tangles of brambles were encroaching on its edges. Such foods would not sustain her people, but they were necessary for the digestion of the blood that was their true food. They were also needed by the very young to whom the hunger had not yet come.

  Vashakh was at work harvesting fleececod, the sack over her shoulder bulging with the fluffy blooms. As Shalár watched, she emptied the sack into a cart that stood nearby. Her head turned toward Shalár, and she stood still for a moment, then went on with her work.

  Shalár looked away, back to her hunters. Perhaps she would send a few of them to assist Vashakh for a night or two, help her harvest the fleececod. Compensation for the damage to her field.

  Yaras called out an order, drawing her attention. At his command the hunters fell still, standing silent in the field, their weapons in hand. Their pale hair gleamed in the starlight. Shalár was moved by the sight: her people’s hope, their future. They must not fail.

  She left her vantage place and strode among the ranks of her warriors, looking at each face in turn, seeking any sign of weakness or fear. Some met her glance or nodded greeting as she passed. Many had been with her on the recent Grand Hunt, when they had rounded up kobalen to fill the pens in Nightsand so that her people would have food while she made her way to Fireshore.

  She permitted herself a slight smile, remembering the feast at that hunt’s conclusion and the wild coupling that had followed. That night had bound all those hunters more surely than any spoken oath.

  She glanced at Yaras, recalling the heat of his hands on her flesh. He had not been merely dutiful then. She walked to where he stood, catching his gaze.

  “A melee.”

  Yaras stepped forward at once, shouting orders. The warriors divided into two forces and took up positions on either end of the field. At Yaras’s command, they rushed toward one another, crossing the flattened grass of the field like the wind, nearly silent until the first blows fell.

  Shalár watched and listened, tasting the khi that sang in the night air. Confidence was the dominant note. They were ready.

  A spark of khi approaching from the west drew her attention. She looked away from the melee, searching the woods for the intruder. It was not Vashakh. Shalár reached out with khi to sound the newcomer.

  A runner, come from the direction of Nightsand, but come from much farther. News from Ciris at last!

  The runner’s breath rasped slightly as he bowed before her. He must have left Nightsand at sunset and run all the way. It was Ranad, who had been a novice on the recent Grand Hunt.

  “Bright Lady, I bring you greeting from Midrange. Ciris and Welir send you their obedience.”

  He proffered a letter. Shalár broke open the seal and swiftly scanned the few lines.

  The news was good. More than three thousand kobalen had come to Midrange at her summons, and still more were arriving.

  Shalár smiled grimly. She would have to have additional rings made, small rings in the ear that marked the kobalen who wore them as protected from her hunters. Convincing the kobalen of her sincerity had been difficult, but now it appeared they wholeheartedly embraced the bargain. Fortunately, kobalen roamed the wastes in such numbers that her people would not go hungry even when a few hundred were held immune from the hunt.

  She glanced at Ranad, who stood waiting. “Come with me.”

  Yaras looked up sharply, and a frown drew his brows together. Shalár paused, staring at him.

  Jealous? No, disapproving. He thought she intended to drag poor Ranad into her bed, did he? She had not had such an intention, though she doubted Ranad would protest.

  She turned to the runner. “Are you hungry?”

  She could feel that he was. He swallowed and gave a single nod. Hiding a smile, she turned to Yaras.

  “Halt the melee and set them to single combat practice. And send a kobalen to the house.”

  She brushed past him without waiting for an answer. Let him think what he chose. She did not mind unsettling his exasperating state of calm.

  As they walked, she questioned Ranad about the kobalen at Midrange, as much to learn about his attitudes as to compare his information with that given by Ciris. He seemed enthusiastic about the effort to mold an army out of the kobalen and described to her his attempts at captaining them.

  Ciris had only a handful of hunters with him at Midrange, and Shalár’s greatest concern had been that the kobalen might turn on them. So far, though, the creatures had listened and obeyed to the best of their ability.

  She heard voices as she approached the farmhouse: Vashakh and Mehir, talking in low, urgent tones. A pebble grated beneath Shalár’s foot, and they stopped abruptly. She entered the house, nodding at the male farmer as she led Ranad through toward her room. At her gesture Ranad sat on the bed while she seated herself at the small table, took out paper and ink, then picked up a quill, mending it with a small bone-handled knife before dipping it in the ink.

  She wrote first to Farnath, the metalsmith in Nightsand who had created the kobalen earrings for her, telling him to make another thousand of them and send them at once to Ciris. As she was sealing the letter, a hunter sought admittance, bringing with her a kobalen.


  Shalár stood and took hold of the creature with khi, thanking the hunter, who glanced at Ranad with mild interest before retiring. Shalár went to the doorway and lowered the curtain, then turned to Ranad. He was staring fixedly at the kobalen. She made the creature sit on the floor and knelt beside it, drawing her knife.

  “Come here.”

  Ranad joined her on the floor. Palpable waves of hunger shook his khi. He had not fed in Fireshore, then.

  “Take hold of it.”

  Ranad was still fairly new as a hunter, but he showed no hesitation in seizing the kobalen’s khi. Shalár released it to him, then made a cut on the creature’s throat and leaned forward to take the first mouthful.

  The hot blood combined with the singing of Ranad’s hunger raised excitement in her, but she took only one swallow, then sat back and gave the kobalen to Ranad. He fell on it with a grunt. She left him feeding and went back to the table.

  She drew a page toward her, then sat pondering what to write to Ciris. It seemed the kobalen army was as ready as it could be, ready enough for her plans. She did not need that force to be honed to sharpness. Kobalen were limited in their understanding; they would never be a precise weapon.

  Soon winter would grip most of the ælven lands. Nightsand, lying well to the north, would merely be covered in cloud and rain, a respite from the punishing sun. And Fireshore would be as it ever was, lush and green, though the rains would cool it somewhat. A pang of homesickness smote her, longing for the once familiar forests of Fireshore, the looming presence of Firethroat by the sea.

  Now was the time to move. Ciris had reported that Midrange was still passable, but the snows had already begun. Soon the kobalen would not be able to get through.

  She dipped her pen and wrote a few brief lines of instruction, then set the quill down and gazed at the drying ink on the page. Once this message was sent, she could not turn back.

  She never asked for help or guidance, either from unseen spirits or from the ældar who the ælven believed watched over each form of life. Not since she had been driven from Fireshore. She did not ask it now, but she thought of Dareth.

  He had grown weary of life and especially of dependence on the blood of kobalen. He had given up, and that had wounded her. Toward the end he had seemed inclined to go back to the ways of the ælven, ways that she had deliberately abandoned.

  Was his spirit watching her now? Would he approve her actions? Her heart ached with those questions.

  Folly. Dareth was gone and no longer had a say in her life. She must rely upon her own wits.

  She glanced at the letter to Ciris; nearly dry now. The lives of many of her people hung on those lines. Gazing at the words without seeing them, she acknowledged that she had already committed to this course of action. The only question that had remained was when. The answer was now.

  A sigh behind her made her look at Ranad. He had finished feeding and was sitting up, turning eyes drunk with satisfaction toward her. The kobalen lay on the floor, the wound at its neck seeping a little, eyes glazed and staring sightless at the ceiling. Ranad had drained it. He must have been extremely hungry. Perhaps he had not taken time to hunt on his way here.

  “Are you ready to return to Ciris?”

  “As you will, Bright Lady. I thank you.” He gestured toward the kobalen.

  She nodded, then turned back to the table. Picking up the letter, she waved it to dry the last of the ink, then carefully folded it.

  On impulse, she took two small coils of precious ribbon from her writing box, one red and one black. They had been made in Eastfæld, taken by kobalen in a raid on a trade caravan some few decades since. Her watchers in the mountains observed such raids and went through what goods the kobalen left behind, culling treasures such as these.

  The ribbons were becoming fragile with age. She wound both once around her hand and cut them with her knife, then held them up.

  Clan Darkshore’s colors. Her colors. Colors that had once signified Fireshore and soon would again. She wrapped them tightly around the letter, poured heated wax over the ribbons’ ends, then pressed her ring into it.

  “Take this to Ciris.” She handed the letter to Ranad. “And this other goes to Farnath in Nightsand.”

  Ranad bowed and slipped both letters into his tunic. Shalár went to the doorway and pulled back the curtain, following Ranad out.

  Mehir glanced up from his place at the hearth. Shalár met the farmer’s anxious gaze with a small smile and jerked her head toward her room, inviting him to take what was left of the kobalen.

  Striding out to the field with Ranad, she felt her heart lifting. The decision made, its weight was no longer of concern.

  Yaras stood watching the warriors. He glanced up at her approach, frowning slightly as his gaze flicked to Ranad. Shalár murmured a farewell to the runner, who sprinted off westward, disappearing into the woods.

  “What do you think of them?” Shalár nodded toward the warriors. “Are they ready?”

  “They are, Bright Lady. As ready as they can be.”

  “Bring them to stand, then.”

  He stepped forward, shouting orders to halt the mock fighting. The hunter-warriors gathered again, looking toward Shalár, waiting for her command. She pushed back a fleeting, fearful doubt. Ranad was on his way to Ciris with her letter. There was no turning back.

  “You are fit.” Her voice rang across the field. “You are ready, and Fireshore is waiting. Break your camp, prepare to march, then return here.”

  An excited murmur rose as the hunters dispersed. Shalár turned to Yaras, who was about to follow them to the camp.

  “Bring the kobalen to this field.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “All of them?”

  “All that are left. There are not many, are there?”

  “Perhaps fifty.”

  “We cannot march them with us; they will slow us down. Nor can Vashakh and Mehir make use of them all.”

  Yaras nodded his understanding. “As you will, Bright Lady.”

  She watched him go, then walked over to the rock outcrop from which she had often watched the training. Climbing it one last time, she sat hugging her knees and gazing at the night sky.

  A shred of cloud drifted past, floating eastward toward the Great Sleeper. Soon the rains would arrive. It was well that she had decided to march before then. Perhaps they could reach Fireshore by the time winter set in.

  A small thrill lifted her heart at the thought. Fireshore at last. After all these lonely centuries.

  The warriors began to gather in the field again, leaving their packs at its edge. Yaras returned along with those who had been set to guard the kobalen, bringing the huddled, shuffling mass of creatures with them. The hunters surrounded them, their quick exchange of sharp glances indicating they had guessed Shalár’s purpose. Part of it, at any rate.

  Shalár came down from the rock and strode into the field, joining Yaras near the kobalen. Her nostrils twitched at the powerful stench given off by fifty of the creatures together. She waited until all the warriors had returned, then turned to Yaras.

  “Summon your captains.”

  He called them forward, a male and two females, each in command of a hundred warriors. They bowed before Shalár and stood waiting. She acknowledged them, then addressed all the army once more.

  “You have done well here. You have honed yourselves into a weapon to pierce the heart of Fireshore. Tonight we march, but first we feast. From this night on we are a pack, and our prey is the city of Ghlanhras!”

  A cheer rose up from the hunters, an eerie keening that made the kobalen tremble where they stood. Shalár felt deeply moved, and to hide it she turned to the kobalen. Selecting a large male, she took hold of its khi and moved it forward from the rest. With her knife she opened its throat and took a mouthful of blood, then handed it on to Yaras. He took a mouthful and gave it to one of the captains, who in turn would give it to three warriors to share. Shalár hoped this feast would last them well on th
eir way to Fireshore.

  She kept back one small kobalen, scarcely grown, for herself and Yaras. When all the warriors were feeding, she came to stand beside him.

  “I have been thinking of your future.”

  Yaras looked surprised. “Mine, Bright Lady?”

  “Yes.” She reached out a hand to smooth a stray strand of hair back from his face. A tremor went through his khi and rippled out through the army. Some who were feeding paused to look up.

  “I am in need of a new steward. Nihlan is managing for now, but the pens alone are plenty of work for her.”

  A flash of dismay crossed Yaras’s face. He glanced down, not meeting her gaze. She smiled softly, eyes narrowed.

  “Serve me well on this venture and you shall be steward in Nightsand.”

  His face was blank. Shalár admired his self-control and was also amused by it, for it did not extend to his khi. She could feel his consternation in the air between them.

  “But Islir—”

  “She may join you in Nightsand. You may both reside in the Cliff Hollows.”

  He swallowed, brows twitching into a slight frown. No doubt he thought Islir would dislike the suggestion. Shalár was enjoying herself but deemed it time to relent.

  “After all, you will want company there, as I will be in Ghlanhras.”

  The relief that flooded his face nearly made her laugh. He looked up at her, then fell to his knees.

  “Bright Lady! I thank you.”

  “Thank me when you are in Nightsand.” She reached a hand down to him. “First we must win Fireshore.”

  He took her hand and stood. Smiling, she brought the young kobalen forward and opened cuts on either side of its throat.

  “Feed with me.”

  Neither of them was acutely hungry, having fed recently together, but Shalár enjoyed the sensation of sharing the kobalen. She let her khi mingle with Yaras’s and with that of the creature whose life they were consuming. The strength that flowed into her brought a hint of arousal, and she fed it, reaching out to touch Yaras.