Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  Lord Rephanin?

  Rephanin sat up suddenly, spilling a drop of tea on his robe. With a gesture he silenced Jholóran. He half thought he had imagined what he had heard and was cautious in response.

  Thorian?

  Yes, my lord.

  The answer was faint, but real. Rephanin felt his chest grow tense. He scarcely dared to breathe.

  Where are you?

  At the garrison. I have just been dismissed for the day. Shall I come to the magehall?

  The garrison. Not the public circle just outside the magehall but fully as far as the city’s inner gates. Rephanin glanced at the closed door of his chambers, his throat tightening.

  Yes. Please do.

  Jholóran looked at him, one brow raised in curiosity. “Are you all right?”

  Exhilaration sang through Rephanin’s veins. He drew a deep breath.

  “Yes. Please forgive me. You were saying?”

  “Laying focus into metal. I think you should give the circle another demonstration.”

  “Of course. Tell me, how did they respond to your guidance?”

  “Well enough.” Jholóran picked up a slice of bread thick with nuts and currants from a plate Tivhari had left on the table between their chairs and broke it in half with his fingers. “They spared no effort and accomplished a good deal. Everyone seems to work harder of late. I think they are anxious to please you.”

  “Their concern should be for the quality of their work, not for my opinion.”

  “So it should.”

  The mage calmly chewed his bread as he returned Rephanin’s regard. Though reluctant to yield the place he had held for so many centuries, Rephanin knew he must not delay.

  “Jholóran, I have a boon to ask of you. I expect to be called away from Glenhallow soon. Will you oversee the magehall in my absence? Guide the circles in their learning and their work?”

  Jholóran looked surprised and somewhat alarmed. “Called away? Where?”

  “To Midrange.”

  Rephanin explained briefly what had passed on the field that morning. Jholóran listened, frowning at the coals on the hearth.

  “You are more than capable of guiding the work of this hall. Will you take my burdens for a while?”

  Jholóran looked up to meet his gaze. “For how long?”

  “I cannot say.”

  The dark eyes regarded him for a long moment. Unspoken understanding passed between them. There was a chance that this change would be permanent if any ill befell Rephanin at Midrange. Jholóran nodded slowly.

  “Of course I will, if you ask it.”

  “Thank you. There are a few small matters of which you should be aware. Tivhari does an excellent job managing the magehall—”

  A quiet knock on the door interrupted him. Rephanin rose to answer it and found Tivhari and Thorian outside.

  A pang of excitement smote him at the sight of the guardian. Thorian smiled, an answering spark in his eye. Out in the corridor beyond, Rephanin heard voices. The new circle was gathering.

  “Thank you, Tivhari. Jholóran, will you guide the new circle in their practice tonight? Thorian and I have a matter to discuss.”

  Jholóran raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Thorian. “Of course.”

  He left with Tivhari, and Rephanin looked at Thorian. One unassuming, rather inexperienced guardian. A small vessel to hold Rephanin’s centuries-old hopes.

  “Please, be at home.” Rephanin gestured toward the hearth. “May I take your cloak?”

  Thorian undid the clasp on his guardian’s cloak and handed it to Rephanin with a shy smile. Rephanin found himself checking the quality of the blessings in the garment as he hung it up. Strong habit, born of the recent intensity of work in the magehall.

  The focuses in the cloak were well laid. Jholóran’s work, he thought.

  Thorian sat down rather gingerly in one of the chairs near the hearth, as if he felt out of place. Rephanin regarded him for a moment, thinking he must not be older than a century or two. He showed little of the reserve that came of a long lifetime of disappointments.

  Rephanin fought against the urge to question him through mindspeech. Thorian must be given the opportunity to choose this path himself, and he must first understand the consequences of that choice.

  Setting aside Jholóran’s cup, Rephanin took down a fresh one for Thorian. “I was surprised to hear you answer this morning. How long have you been in the Guard?”

  Thorian shifted in his chair. “I joined only recently, when the call for volunteers went out. I was one of the last to receive a cloak.” He glanced toward the pale garment now hanging by the door.

  Rephanin handed Thorian a cup of tea and drew his chair around to face his guest. “You have done well today. You heard me when no other did this morning, and you spoke to me from the garrison. I believe that you possess the gift of mindspeech, that you may possibly be a distance speaker.”

  Thorian blinked once. His hands gripped the carved arms of the chair, and his brown eyes opened rather wide.

  “What do you know of mindspeech, Thorian?”

  “Only what you have shown us in the circle. I have heard stories of Dejharin and Dironen.”

  “They were distance speakers. My gift differs from theirs. Do you understand how?”

  “I think so. Distance speakers can speak only to their partners, but across any distance. You can speak to anyone, but they must be in your presence.”

  “Yes. Physical barriers in particular interfere with my gift. Your being able to speak to me from the garrison is cause for hope that you are a distance speaker. If we work together to develop your ability, you and I may be able to speak regardless of barriers or distance.”

  Rephanin leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on its arms and folding his hands lightly as he watched Thorian’s face. The guardian seemed both excited and slightly apprehensive.

  “Before we pursue this, you should know that it will mean our becoming quite familiar with one another.”

  Thorian looked bewildered. “You mean we will know each other’s secrets?”

  “Not quite that. Mindspeech is … intimate. Those who use it to any great extent cannot help becoming close. You might not know what I am thinking, but it is possible you will know my feelings at times, and I yours.”

  “Oh.”

  Thorian gazed at the hearth, absorbing this. Rephanin watched traces of doubt flicker across his features. Classic Greenglen features: the high cheekbones, the long jaw. Already Rephanin felt drawn to him. He paused, choosing his next words carefully.

  “Take some time to think on this. If you decide not to pursue this path, I will understand.”

  Those had been hard words to say, and Rephanin was glad his voice had not wavered. He wanted, quite intently, to develop Thorian’s gift.

  The guardian looked up at him, his face serious. “If we do pursue it, will we be like Turisan and Eliani?”

  “Perhaps. We must determine whether your gift is limited by distance. We know that mine is.”

  A fire of excitement lit Thorian’s eyes, and he leaned forward in his chair. “I need no time to consider.”

  Rephanin could not help smiling but made an effort to subdue the answering emotion in his heart. He wanted nothing more than to speak to Thorian in thought at once, to embrace his khi. He drew a steadying breath.

  “Still, I ask you to do so. Go home tonight, talk of this with your family and friends. They may raise concerns that have not occurred to you.”

  And some may remember a time when I was less discriminating with mindspeech. A time when I ignored its risks or at least imperfectly understood them.

  A pang of remorse struck Rephanin as he thought of Soshari’s conce by the river. She had stumbled unwary into the seductive intimacy of mindspeech. He would never allow that to happen again. Thorian must understand the implications of this path before he chose to walk it.

  “If we do this, we will be opening our hearts to each other. Do you s
ee?”

  The guardian blinked, and a swallow moved the long muscles of his throat. He nodded slowly.

  “Yes. I will think on it.”

  “Take as long as you wish.”

  They sat in silence until Rephanin realized he was reluctant to see Thorian leave. He stood abruptly, breaking the moment, and went to fetch Thorian’s cloak. Thorian followed, frowning in abstraction as he accepted the garment.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You need not be so formal, Thorian. Call me by my name.”

  Thorian’s eyes widened, as if this were a great responsibility. His voice fell to a hushed whisper. “Rephanin.”

  Khi burned in the air between them. Rephanin nodded, then opened the door.

  “Good night, Thorian. Take good counsel and rest well.”

  “Good night.”

  He watched the guardian go down the corridor, at first with slow steps, then faster. The Greenglen cloak swirled about his shoulders just before the curve of the corridor hid him from view.

  It occurred to Rephanin only now that Thorian might have a lover and that she might be the one with the greatest objection to his pursuit of mindspeech. It would not be the first time Rephanin had been seen as a threat to such a relationship.

  He closed the door and returned to the hearth. The choice was Thorian’s, and he would have to make his own peace with it.

  Heléri.

  She could not hear him; no one was near to hear him. How he wished he could share this news with her! He would have to wait. Another reason to look forward to his journey to Midrange.

  Turisan lay upon his bed, watching swirls of snow through the glass dome overhead. The dome was fashioned with magecraft and did not admit the winter’s cold. Heavy tapestries were drawn tight along the balustrades of the Star Tower, and fires burned in all the hearths, yet despite all, he felt chilled.

  The journey to Midrange—to which he eagerly looked forward—would soon begin. All that delayed them now was the lack of equipment, and another day or two should remedy that.

  Beyond that, the future was less certain. He wondered what might await Eliani in Fireshore and what course the war would take.

  His musings were interrupted by the visitor’s chime from below. He had sent his attendant away for the night, so he rose and hurried down the steps to the torchlit antechamber. When he opened the door, he saw his father outside, looking grim.

  “Kelevon has escaped. I came to inform you so that you may warn Eliani.”

  Turisan’s heart gave a thud of alarm. “Escaped?”

  Jharan nodded. “He wounded a guardian. I am going to the garrison to learn what happened.”

  “I will come with you.”

  Turisan fetched his cloak and followed his father down the spiral stair to the palace. The rotunda was softly lit by torches and strangely quiet in the absence of the Council and all the additional visitors it had attracted to Glenhallow. Alone in the vast hall, they hastened down the grand stair and out into the city.

  Turisan pulled his cloak tighter as a gust of snow blew into his face. “How long has the traitor been gone?”

  “Since early evening was Berephan’s best guess. The four guardians watching over him were changed at sundown, and the new guards were found dosed with essence of dreamflower.”

  “So he had help.”

  Jharan’s face went stony. “Yes. The guardian who was wounded.”

  As they reached the garrison near the city’s inner gate, Jharan turned toward Berephan’s house, where the guardians at the door admitted them at once. They were guided to a small chamber on the ground floor.

  Berephan joined them outside the door. “Her sister is with her, and a healer.”

  He knocked softly, and a moment later the door was opened by an anxious-looking female in a plain gown, her unbraided hair caught hastily back in a simple clasp. Her eyes widened as she stepped back to admit Jharan.

  Turisan followed him in, and Berephan came after, softly closing the door. The female hastened back to the hearth, where a newly kindled fire roared brightly. Seated on a bench beside it were two others, male and female.

  The male was lost in a trance of healing, his hands resting on one side of the female’s neck. She was the guardian, then, though she wore only tunic and legs at present. Turisan noticed her Southfæld Guard’s cloak on the floor nearby, bloodstained.

  Jharan spoke quietly to Berephan. “What has she told you?”

  “Little yet. I thought it best that she be tended first. Her sister arrived only a short time ago.”

  Turisan glanced at the sister, who had sat down beside the guardian and taken her hand. They were plainly kin, though the sister’s face was softer, rounder. The guardian’s was drawn with harsher lines, sharpened by care and weariness. She stared into the fire with dull, unseeing eyes.

  “How badly is she hurt?”

  “Two cuts, scraped hands, a few bruises. The wound to the throat is the worst.”

  Turisan looked at Berephan. “Knife wound?”

  Berephan nodded. Turisan exchanged a glance with his father and saw that they were pondering the same question: Had Kelevon fed from that wound?

  Berephan stepped toward the guardian. “Filari, Lord Jharan has come to see you.”

  The guardian’s eyes flickered and she looked up, mild surprise on her face. She nodded, hampered by the hands of the healer.

  “My lord governor.”

  Her words were a rough whisper. She cleared her throat, straightened her back, and gazed awkwardly at her visitors.

  Jharan sat on the bench opposite her, and Turisan joined him. The healer stirred and withdrew his hands. Turisan winced at the sight of the long, angry gash showing red through a light dressing. The healer stood, glanced at the newcomers with a mild frown, and retired from the room.

  Jharan leaned forward. “Do you feel able to tell us what happened?”

  Filari gazed at him for a long moment, her face showing nothing. A slight crease between the brows was all the sign of distress she gave.

  “It was my doing.” Her voice was hard. “I helped him go free.”

  Jharan’s lips pressed together briefly. “Were you compelled?”

  She blinked, gazing at the fire. “No.”

  “Why, then?”

  “He did not deserve to be held captive, nor to be killed.”

  Turisan’s anger flared. “You do not know what he deserves!”

  Jharan glanced at him in silent warning. Turisan gritted his teeth and was still.

  He regretted his leniency with Kelevon, but despite his resentment, deep in his heart he knew that Filari was right. Kelevon’s ill deeds—even the latest, his abuse of her—did not justify his being slain or kept confined indefinitely. Nothing justified such fates according to the creed, because the creed made no provision for the sort of behavior Kelevon had shown. An ælven living by the creed would have died before doing such harm.

  “Did he feed upon you?” Jharan gestured to Filari’s wound.

  Pain clouded her eyes—the pain of affection betrayed. Impatient with Jharan’s gentle questioning, Turisan caught her gaze and held it.

  “How did he leave the city?”

  “By the grottoes.” Her voice fell to a whisper; her eyes pleaded that no pursuit be sent. Turisan could not help grimacing.

  “Which trail did he take?”

  “I do not know. West, perhaps. He asked about the pass.”

  Berephan stirred, shifting his feet. “It is snowing.”

  Jharan glanced at him, then nodded. “Send out trackers. No fewer than three together.”

  Berephan nodded and started toward the door. Filari stood up suddenly.

  “Why can you not leave him alone? Let him cross the mountains and be away. He wishes no harm to any of us!”

  “He is a danger to all of us, whether he wishes it or no.” Jharan nodded at Berephan to go.

  The warden left, and Filari slowly sat down again, looking bereft. A log popp
ed on the hearth, sending a spark skittering across the stone floor. Jharan spoke gently once more, though his eyes were stern.

  “What you have done has placed others in danger. Do you see that?”

  Filari nodded, gazing at the floor. “I will atone.”

  Misliking the flatness of her voice, Turisan hastened to speak. “You are an experienced guardian. You cannot be spared.”

  He glanced at Jharan before continuing, wondering if his father’s thoughts followed his own. Filari could not continue to serve in the garrison at Glenhallow. There were four guardians there, at least, who would never trust her again.

  “Come and serve in my command. We march for Midrange soon, and more than half of my guardians are raw. I need help training them. Let that be your atonement.”

  Filari was still for a moment, then looked up at him with hopeless eyes. “If that is your wish, my lord.”

  “It is.”

  Turisan held Filari’s gaze until she bowed her head, closing her eyes with a small sigh. Her sister threw an arm around her shoulders and glared at him.

  “She should rest.”

  Turisan nodded. “Go home now. Report to me on the field at dawn.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I am your captain now.”

  Her gaze flickered to his face. “Yes, Captain.”

  A warmth bloomed on Turisan’s brow; he returned the signal asking Eliani to wait. He watched as Filari allowed her sister to urge her to her feet. When the door was shut behind them, Jharan looked up.

  “She is at risk of the alben’s curse.”

  Turisan nodded. “I will observe her closely.”

  “Not too closely.”

  “Father, we are all at risk to some degree.”

  Jharan was silent. After a moment he nodded. He looked weary as he stood.

  “Come. Let us take what rest we can.”

  They met Berephan in the hearthroom. He stamped his feet, leaving tracks of hardened snow upon the rug, and shook the snow from his cloak.

  “Four teams have gone out, though they will have a difficult task in this weather.”

  Jharan made a small, formal bow. “Thank you, Lord Berephan. Send word to Hallowhall when you have news.”

  “Aye.” Berephan glanced at Turisan. “Keep warm. It grows bitter out.”