Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  “You have handfasted.” Davhri looked in surprise at the ribbons on Eliani’s arm, as if she had just noticed them. “And lately. You still wear your ribbons.”

  Eliani’s heart skipped. Even now she reacted so to the thought that she was bound for life.

  “Yes. My partner remains in Southfæld.”

  “You left before you made your new home together?”

  Eliani took a sip of tea, swallowed wrong, and went into a fit of coughing. She glanced at Luruthin, who answered for her.

  “She left the morning after the handfasting.”

  “Only to visit me?”

  Davhri looked bewildered, but it was not the vague expression she had worn when they had first arrived. Eliani cleared her throat.

  “To visit you, yes. We also have other reasons for coming.”

  She did not want to distress Davhri by talking of the kobalen at Midrange or the disasters that had befallen those who had tried to bring messages to Fireshore.

  Mishri stood up from the hearth, came to the table, and addressed Eliani. “Dejhonan asked me to tell you there is a guest house ready for you both, as your friends have filled the lodge. It is on the public circle, the house with the firevines over the door.”

  “Thank you.” Eliani gestured to the tea and food. “Thank you for all this.”

  Mishri smiled, then went out. Davhri gazed after her sadly.

  “I should offer you my own house, but I fear I would be a poor hostess.”

  “Hush. That is what guest houses are for.”

  “You will stay a little longer, though?”

  Davhri turned anxious eyes toward her. Eliani felt a deep pity for her, an uncomfortable sensation when she had for so long looked up to Davhri as an example of strength and courage.

  “Of course we will stay.” Luruthin helped himself to bread and preserves. “We must do justice to this hospitality.”

  Grateful for the diversion, Eliani took a slice of sunfruit. The sweet, tangy juice filled her mouth.

  “Mmm. Delicious. Do sunfruit trees bear all year?”

  “Not in winter. Those that are on the trees are the last of this year’s fruit. They will rest during the rains. New fruits can be picked in late spring, though they are better come summer. Spring crops often go to making oil.”

  Eliani reached for another slice. “Sunfruit most of the year. It must be wonderful to live here.”

  “In some ways it is wonderful.”

  Luruthin reached for a slice. “This is more than wonderful. We are so weary of apples.”

  “Apples?” Davhri sat up, her face bright with interest. “You have been eating apples?”

  Eliani traded a glance with Luruthin, then swallowed a bite of fruit. “Yes, we got them in Althill. They had a very good crop this year.”

  “Mountain apples!” Davhri sighed. “Oh, what I would give for one! I have not tasted apples in so long.”

  Eliani wished she had brought her saddle packs, for there were apples tucked into them. She would fetch some for Davhri later on.

  “Do no traders bring them?” Luruthin asked.

  “Not for years. We see traders seldom enough, and mostly from the Steppes. Our darkwood harvests go to Woodrun. I have thought of going there myself, to see if I can learn anything …”

  “Davhri.” Eliani looked into Davhri’s eyes. “We are going on to Ghlanhras. We will seek Inóran there.”

  Davhri’s smile vanished, and she shook her head. “No. Do not go there.”

  “Well, we must go. I have messages for Governor Othanin.”

  “Oh. From your father.”

  “From the Ælven Council.”

  Davhri looked at Luruthin. “Can you not prevent her?”

  He shook his head. “I am pledged to go with her.”

  Davhri’s eyes, no longer vague, now filled with the threat of tears. “I beg you not to go.”

  Eliani had meant to comfort her by offering to seek Inóran. Seeing her so upset, Eliani turned the subject and very shortly afterward took her leave. Davhri was frail in spirit if not in flesh, and Eliani did not wish to distress her further. Pleading weariness and a desire to bathe, and promising to visit again in the morning, she and Luruthin departed.

  Their mood was sober as they walked to the public circle. Evening had fallen, and the darkwood houses seemed wreathed in shadow and suspicion, only narrow glimmers of light escaping through the cracked doors of their hearthrooms. The windows of the public lodge were alight, and a merry fire shone out from its welcoming hearth.

  Eliani cast her gaze around the circle, seeking something that could be described as firevine. She concluded it must be the bright scarlet flowers draping the door of one of the houses.

  This proved indeed to be their promised guest house, cozy and clean, filled with cheerful ornaments—mostly painted carvings of birds whose colors were unlike any Eliani and Luruthin had seen. Their saddle packs sat in the front room, and a note propped atop a basket of sunfruit on the table bade them come to visit Dejhonan, describing a house with a sheaf of grain carved into the door.

  Luruthin dug a comb from one of his packs and worked it through his hair. “Supper first? The smoke from the lodge’s kitchens smelled good.”

  “You just had bread and tea and a plate of sunfruit!”

  Luruthin grinned as he braided his hair. “That is not the same as supper.”

  Eliani frowned at him, then read quickly through the note again. “We had best honor Dejhonan’s request first. He may offer us a meal if you truly are hungry.”

  They found the door carved with wheat standing farther ajar than most, with firelight spilling out of it from the hearthroom. They stepped inside and rang the visitors’ chime, and Mishri came to welcome them, smiling as she held a tapestry aside for them to enter a spacious sitting room.

  Dejhonan’s house was as different as it could be from Davhri’s. Here there was light and color everywhere, set off against the darkwood walls. Paintings and weavings covered much of those walls, and the shelves were filled with ornaments. Luruthin smiled, and Eliani guessed he was reminded of the theyn’s house in Clerestone where he dwelt amid a similar wealth of gifts from the people of his village.

  Dejhonan came forward to welcome them. He had put on a robe of the same subtle gray that he had worn earlier, accented with a sash woven of darker gray and orange. His formality made Eliani wish that she had also troubled to comb her hair.

  A quiet female, fair-haired with large gray eyes, joined Dejhonan. He smiled as she made courtesy to the guests.

  “Welcome, Lady Eliani, Theyn Luruthin. This is Ghilari, my partner and Mishri’s mother.”

  Eliani returned the courtesy. “Well met.”

  “Come sit by the hearth and tell us of your journey.”

  Ghilari led them to wide chairs with thick cushions that felt decadent after so long in the saddle. Mishri poured honey wine for all of them and set a plate of shelled nuts on the table between Eliani and Luruthin’s chairs.

  “You will join us for supper, I hope?”

  Luruthin answered before Eliani could draw breath. “Thank you, yes!”

  Mishri smiled, then withdrew to an inner room. Eliani watched her go out.

  “She is a good host. Will she be theyn one day?”

  Ghilari laughed softly. “Just now her ambition is to become a trader in darkwood. She longs to see the rest of the world.”

  They talked of pleasantries for a while, then of the journey from Southfæld. Eliani told a hopeful version of their travels, which did not include discovering the slain messengers or being attacked by the catamount, or indeed any of the dire tidings she carried to Othanin. She was trying to gauge Fireshore’s mood by that of Bitterfield’s theyn, the first official from the realm whom she had met. This was, perhaps, unfair. At last she set down her cup and fixed her gaze on Dejhonan.

  “I must thank you for the help you have given Davhri.”

  He nodded. “She is a valued citizen. We all suffe
r hardship from time to time.”

  “Why has no one gone to Ghlanhras to look for Inóran?”

  Dejhonan turned his cup in his hands, gazing into it. “I have sent messages. As yet, there has been no reply.”

  “Messages.”

  Dejhonan looked up at her. “We do not go into Ghlanhras.”

  “Why?”

  A frown flickered across the theyn’s face. “There is much unhappiness there.”

  Luruthin sipped his wine. “Davhri told us she thinks the city is cursed.”

  Ghilari nodded. “So it is.”

  “In what way?”

  Dejhonan glanced sharply at his partner, then sat taller in his chair; a small movement, but it gave the sense of convening an audience. “I was not in flesh at the time of the Bitter Wars, but my mother was. She was Greenglen then and fought at Westgard. She told me the worst part of the war was after that battle, when the ælven armies marched on Ghlanhras and drove Clan Darkshore from the city. Many of the Darkshores pleaded to stay and claimed they did not share the alben’s hunger, but they were all driven out and across the Ebons.

  “Bitterfield escaped that fate. There had been no hunger here, and the citizens were given the choice of following their clan brothers across the mountains or changing their allegiance to the new clan that was forming to govern Fireshore. They chose to join Sunriding. My father said it was the hardest choice of his life.”

  Dejhonan paused to add another log to the fire. With an iron poker he arranged the coals, coaxing new flames to feed on the fresh fuel. He set the tool aside and turned to face Eliani.

  “We do not trade with Ghlanhras. Inóran was the first to go there in several years, and he has not returned. I advise you to keep away from it, my lady.”

  “I have no choice. I carry messages for Governor Othanin. Or has he removed to Woodrun?”

  Dejhonan looked from her to Luruthin. “No, he is still at Ghlanhras. But to go there is to place yourself at risk.”

  Eliani narrowed her eyes. She suspected what he meant and wanted him to be explicit. He said no more, though. She gazed steadily at him for a moment, then leaned back in her chair, fingers laced across her belly.

  “We have lately learned a little about the alben. We have come to believe that their … hunger … may be a sickness.”

  Dejhonan was still for a moment, then glanced at Ghilari. “We think so as well. How came you to that conclusion?”

  Eliani felt her cheeks grow warm but ignored it. “One Kelevon, a trader from the Steppes, came to the Council at Glenhallow, claiming to represent Fireshore. His claim was false.”

  Ghilari looked astounded. “Deliberate deception?”

  “Yes.”

  Eliani’s gut twisted, remembering the many ways in which Kelevon was false. She had made excuses for him at first, which only made her angrier now.

  Luruthin took up the tale. “After Kelevon’s deceit was revealed, we learned that he was afflicted with the alben’s hunger, though as yet his appearance gave no sign of it. He had been held captive by the alben in the west.”

  Dejhonan had resumed his seat and was listening intently, his brow creased. “And it was then that he acquired their hunger?”

  “So he told us. We learned much from him that was of value, about his affliction and about the alben.”

  Eliani scowled. “If he is to be believed.”

  Dejhonan leaned forward in his chair. “Did he tell you how he was afflicted?”

  Luruthin shook his head. “He had been in close contact with the alben. We thought, if it is indeed a sickness, it might be communicated.”

  Eliani shifted in her chair and took a few nuts from the dish, disliking this course of conversation. She had fought Kelevon and been cut, and Kelevon had drunk from the wound. Only for an instant, but it was an instant too long. So far she had shown no sign of the alben’s curse, but they did not know how long it might take such a sign to manifest.

  Dejhonan was silent for a long moment. Eliani glanced up and saw him frowning. At last he leaned back in his chair.

  “The alben’s affliction has returned to Ghlanhras. That is the curse of which Davhri told you, and that is why no one will venture to Ghlanhras.”

  Eliani let out her breath. “How long have you known?”

  “For several decades now, there have been new sufferers. We do not know why or how. No alben have come across the mountains that we know of.”

  She fixed Dejhonan with a hard stare. “Why have we not heard of this?”

  “Because the last thing we want, and I hope most sincerely that you share our aversion, is another Bitter War.”

  All were silent. Luruthin set down his wine cup, and the small click it made against the table seemed to echo.

  All at once, Eliani was sharply aware of every detail in the room: the vivid weavings and the black solidity of the darkwood walls behind them, the smell of wine, the small fluttering sound of the fire in the hearth, the strain on the faces of the others. She laced her fingers together, leaning forward, and spoke in a careful tone.

  “That decision is not in our hands.”

  “The decision to avoid it may be.” Dejhonan’s face was hard as he watched her. “What will you tell the Council?”

  “What is being done in Ghlanhras?” Eliani gestured toward the north. “Are those who suffer this curse allowed to feed as they will, in violation of the creed?”

  “As they must, not as they will.” Dejhonan’s words seemed angry, but it was grief that showed on his face.

  Ghilari turned to Eliani. “Now that the hunger has returned to Ghlanhras, we believe it was true that not all of Clan Darkshore was afflicted. Many souls who bore no stain were unjustly punished.”

  Eliani shook her head. “That cannot be undone. I am sorry for it, believe me, though not all the Council will feel so. There are those who would be willing to fight the Bitter Wars again.”

  “They would have no justification to make war upon Ghlanhras. The Lost do not remain in the city.”

  “The Lost?”

  Ghilari nodded. “Governor Minálan, Othanin’s predecessor, decreed that they must leave Ghlanhras. They are given supplies and tools with which to survive and sent away, westward.”

  “And they never return?”

  “I have not heard of them doing so.”

  Dejhonan smiled bitterly. “There have been fewer encroachments of kobalen in Fireshore in recent decades.”

  Luruthin shifted his feet. “Have the—Lost—joined the alben?”

  “I do not know.” Dejhonan looked wearily at Eliani. “What will you tell the Council, my lady?”

  She ran her hands through her hair, then sat up. “You need not fear retribution. We are already at war.”

  “What?”

  Dejhonan looked alarmed. Luruthin glanced at Eliani, then nodded.

  “Kobalen have crossed the mountains at Midrange.”

  “In force?”

  “Thousands. We had just put three hundred guardians into High Holding. More warriors are coming from Southfæld and Eastfæld, but even with their help we are greatly outnumbered.”

  Dejhonan paled. “This is the news you bring to Othanin.”

  Eliani nodded. “Two messages were sent to summon Othanin to the Council. Both were intercepted by the alben. It was their leader who sent Kelevon to deceive us into thinking Othanin had received the summons and merely chose not to attend Council.”

  Dejhonan frowned in bewilderment. “Why?”

  Luruthin shrugged. “Kelevon could not tell us why.”

  “Or would not.” Eliani’s voice was bitter.

  “Is it vengeance?” Dejhonan sounded mystified. “Do the alben seek to divide us from our kindred?”

  Eliani sat up abruptly. “Speculation is useless. We none of us want another Bitter War. Agreed?”

  Dejhonan nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Then we must carry out our duty, all of us. For myself and Luruthin, that means continuing to Ghlanhras, del
ivering our messages to Othanin, and learning what passes there.”

  “And for me, continuing to guard the interests of Bitterfield.” A faint smile crossed Dejhonan’s lips. “Accept my apologies for not telling you at once how things stand in Ghlanhras. Perhaps we both trusted each other too little.”

  Eliani gave a sudden laugh. “My father says trust is a quality in which all the ælven are sadly lacking.”

  “Does he?” Dejhonan’s face relaxed. “I believe I would like to meet Governor Felisan.”

  “No doubt he would enjoy that. Be assured, we have nothing against Bitterfield.”

  Luruthin glanced at Eliani, mouth widening in a smile. “In fact, we have a small token we might offer in return for your hospitality.”

  Eliani looked at him, eyebrows raised. Luruthin grinned, then turned to Dejhonan.

  “We understand it has been some time since your village has enjoyed apples.”

  Shalár sat with her back against a darkwood’s mighty trunk, gazing northward toward a landmark she remembered well. As the day’s light faded, Firethroat showed it still deserved its name. She could just see it through a gap in the trees to the north, its dull orange glow painting the evening sky.

  The great volcano on the northern shore was tall, higher than most of the Ebons, and each night the glow of lava lit its jagged, gaping mouth. Sometimes the lava poured down its broken side and into the sea, raising great clouds of steam that reached as far as Ghlanhras. The city lay in the volcano’s shadow, to the east a short way inland from the ocean shore.

  She had watched Firethroat often in her youth, fascinated by the mountain’s changing moods. It never slept, but it was quiet for great lengths of time, then might suddenly erupt without warning. Once when she was very young, Ghlanhras had been emptied in fear of the volcano’s violence. Shalár’s face hardened at the memory. That had been the first time she was torn unwilling from her home. The second had been after the Battle of Westgard.

  She stood up. It was well past sunset, time for her army to be moving. She went to where Yaras lay resting beneath another darkwood. For a moment she gazed down at him, a dull yearning rousing in her. She had not lain with him for some time. All her energy had gone toward the journey. She wanted Yaras, wanted with sudden sharp desire to relieve her lust, but it was night and she must travel.