by Pati Nagle
She listened to the night sounds: hunters rustling in the undergrowth, a bird calling to its mate, the murmur of the stream, and the quiet splashes of Yaras’s movements. A rushing sound told her he had stood, then the stream returned to its quiet flow.
Yaras joined her on the boulder. She looked at him but made no move to touch him. He waited, watching her with eyes darker than the rock on which they rested. At last he lay down beside her, gazing up at the sky.
Faithful, obedient Yaras, whose heart would never be hers. She took his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and felt a single hot tear slide down her cheek. She swallowed and pushed her selfish wishes aside. She would sacrifice them, and Yaras’s, and those of all the hunters in her army for the sake of bringing her people home to Fireshore.
Turisan sat in the shelter of a tumble of boulders, his arms folded across his updrawn knees, watching the sun rise. The fire beside which he had spent the night had gone to coals, still warm but fast fading. The other campfires were in the same state.
The little column of wounded had made its way slowly southward, taking a full day to cross the valley south of Midrange Valley, the next ridge of mountains, and the valley south of that. Their pace continued to be slow, a source of frustration to Turisan, though he kept it to himself. On the second day they had met the advance force of two hundred riders sent by Ehranan and watched them disappear northward.
Every evening they made camp in what shelter they could find, and those who were fit enough gathered wood for the fires. Every morning what wood remained unburnt went for pyres to burn the bodies of those who had died overnight. One of the wagons now held several forlorn bundles of possessions wrapped in their former owners’ cloaks.
The snow continued fitfully, sometimes making the journey difficult for the wagons, even on the road. There was but one wagon of food supplies, all that had been saved in the scramble to get away from High Holding, and it was dwindling. Turisan knew that the stores it carried were not enough to see them to Glenhallow, not at the pace they were making.
Never had he been in such a precarious position. Never had he led such a vulnerable company through such harsh conditions. He felt each death as a personal failure, yet he knew this was but a small trial compared with what others had suffered. He had only to think of his father and Skyruach to remember it.
My love?
Eliani.
He closed his eyes and laid his head on his arms. He was grateful but also sad and frightened.
Hard night?
I fear so. I have not yet gone to see.
I meant for you.
Her warmth enveloped him, tingling through his limbs. For a startled moment he wondered if he had been colder than he thought, but no. It was just that she knew what he needed and gave without reserve. He relaxed a little.
Are you riding?
Not yet. Eating sunfruit, then we will start.
Sunfruit. Turisan swallowed, hungry at the thought of the sweet, tangy fruit, the color of the summer sun and rich with juice. He had been tired and worried the previous night, and cold dried meat had not been enough to tempt him.
He should get up and talk to the drivers, have them cook the last of the barley from the supply wagon. A hot meal to get the little column moving, and perhaps in the evening those who were fit enough could hunt.
Snow could be melted for water; he did not care to take water from the Silverwash just now. The meal would raise everyone’s spirits, but it would require finding more wood.
He felt weary at the thought but made himself stand. Stiff from the cold, he stepped carefully over the cloak-bundled figures lying by the fire and walked toward the wagons.
He found the drivers huddled around a small, fitful fire. When they heard about the prospect of a hot meal, they went to work building it up again. Turisan returned to the camp, rousing the wounded and sending those who were fit enough to help gather wood.
The most severely wounded had been left in the wagons and covered over with tenting. With some dread he visited each one and found to his relief that none had died overnight. Some seemed unlikely to survive the entire journey, but at least this day they would have to build no pyres.
He was returning to the supply wagon when he heard a distant rumbling, as of many feet moving. His heart quickened with fear, and he looked northward across the valley toward the ridge they had crossed, dreading to see kobalen.
All was quiet to the north. Turning south, he saw a black horse at the head of a column of guardians in Southfæld cloaks. He let out a soft cry of relief. Ehranan and the Southfæld Guard had come.
He hurried to where the horses were picketed and found his little mare. Not bothering to saddle her, he rode her bareback down the slope to meet Ehranan, guiding her with his knees and his good hand in her mane, the other still in its sling.
Ehranan raised a hand to hail him but did not halt the column. Turisan fell in beside him.
“Greetings, Ehranan. Your coming is most welcome.”
The commander cast a grim look at him. “Midrange is fallen, then?”
“Not when I left the valley. Eastfæld’s riders arrived in time to make a stand there.”
“Eastfæld!” He smiled with pride. “They came quickly.”
“Yes.”
Ehranan frowned at the sling Turisan wore. “You are wounded?”
Turisan felt the heat of a flush sting his cold cheeks. “A dart to the arm. It is not serious.”
“Tell me.”
Turisan related all that had occurred while he was at Midrange. Ehranan listened, nodding now and then, his expression grave. When Turisan spoke of the retreating wounded under his command, Ehranan glanced up toward the little camp, then toward Midrange.
“You came only this far?”
“Alas, we cannot travel quickly.”
“You are but halfway to Glenhallow.”
Turisan nodded. “Thereabouts.”
“Are you supplied?”
Turisan shook his head. “We are almost out of stores. We can hunt, but we have few arrows.”
“I will give you wagons with food enough to see you through the march and fifty arrows for each of you who is fit enough to hunt. Will that do?”
Hope woke in Turisan’s chest, but he hesitated. “I do not wish to deprive the Guard who are facing battle.”
Ehranan waved his reservations aside. “We have enough to spare and can send for more from Glenhallow. I will have Rephanin relay a request.”
“How does Rephanin?” Turisan glanced behind him but did not see the magelord. Guardians five abreast were crossing the ridge to the south.
“Well enough. You will wish to give him messages for Glenhallow. Ride back along the column and you will find him in our midst.”
“Thank you.”
Ehranan smiled. “You have done well, son of Jharan.”
Surprised and honored, Turisan bowed before turning to find Rephanin. He had almost reached the foot of the ridge when he saw a cluster of horses come over it, a figure cloaked in dull gold at its center. Rephanin rode with his hood pulled forward, obscuring his face, surrounded by guardians. Turisan hailed him.
“Good morrow, Lord Rephanin! I trust you are well.”
The hooded head lifted and turned his way, and he glimpsed Rephanin’s startled face. The guardians parted as Turisan rode up and fell in with Rephanin’s horse. The magelord gave a subdued nod of greeting.
“What happened to your arm?”
“A kobalen dart.”
“Thorian did not mention it when we met yesterday eve.”
“It happened after he left Midrange. Is Thorian well?”
Rephanin nodded. “Making better progress since the snow stopped. The road is clearer to the south.”
“Thank the spirits for that! We are moving at a crawl as it is.”
“ ‘We’?”
“A small group of wounded, bound for Glenhallow. Will you ask Thorian to tell my father?”
“Of course.
Should I mention your own wound?”
Turisan pressed his lips together. Best to inform Jharan of that at once rather than risk his hearing it by chance.
“Please tell him I am slightly wounded and in no danger.”
A wry smile twitched the magelord’s lips. “Poor Thorian. I would not wish to bring Jharan such news.”
“Give him my apologies and assure him that my father will not eat him.”
That drew a small laugh from Rephanin. He turned his head to look at Turisan, gray eyes glinting with humor.
“Very well.”
Turisan thanked him and left the column to return to his camp. The fires were burning brightly, and the drivers were moving among the wounded, dishing out hot barley into bowls or onto camp plates, whatever each guardian happened to have. Some shared plates, and most ate with their fingers. All seemed glad for the hot meal, simple as it was.
A driver looked up at Turisan as he dismounted. “Some barley, my lord?”
“Yes, in a moment.”
He turned the mare out with the other horses and went to the fire where his pack lay. The smell of the barley had awakened his hunger, and he hastened to dig his wooden plate out of the pack.
A driver spooned some food onto the plate for him. The barley steamed in the cold air.
“Thank you for cooking. I know it is not your usual duty.”
The driver glanced up. “Glad to be of service, especially to these. I saw …”
His face went grim, and he fell silent, eyes apologetic. Turisan smiled to reassure him.
“Thank you.”
He had forgotten his spoon, so he balanced the bowl on his right hand in the sling and scooped up hot pinches of barley with his fingers, eating as he strolled through the camp. Faces turned toward him, most with brave smiles. Some of the less seriously wounded had gone to the wagons to feed those who could not feed themselves. Turisan was moved by their courage and thankful for it. They would need it to reach Glenhallow.
Rephanin felt the battle before the column reached the outskirts of Midrange Valley. A deep discord echoed through the khi of all life ahead. He closed his awareness, guarding himself from the distressing sensation, and wondered how he would manage to serve as Ehranan demanded.
Thorian?
There was no answer. Rephanin tried the query signal as well, without result. As distance separated them, it had become apparent that it was Thorian who must speak first. Rephanin was, so far, unable to initiate contact, though he continued to try.
The day was well advanced, however, and they had agreed that they would always speak at sunset. Rephanin hoped Thorian would speak to him soon, for he expected that Midrange was about to engage his full attention.
The sun had retreated behind an overcast of cloud, becoming a sullen, misty globe. The mountain peaks were shrouded, the road muddy with snowmelt. Rephanin shivered, less from actual cold than from dread. The guardians around him became alert, watching the ridge they were approaching with wary eyes. The horses, more sensitive to khi in some ways than ælven, grew restless despite their weariness.
A bloom of warmth touched his brow. He drew a grateful breath.
Thorian.
Yes, my lord. We have halted for the night. Have you?
No. We are nearing Midrange. You remember all the messages for Jharan?
I have written them down.
How close are you to Glenhallow?
I am not quite certain, but I should be there tomorrow, I think.
Rephanin swallowed, wondering if he would ever return to the city that had become his home. He felt suddenly lonely for it, for the magehall and his circle. Most of all for Thorian.
He now understood as he had never done before the ballads that told of mindspeakers’ yearning. It was not simply that he and Thorian were separated—they were close in spirit, after all, and spoke daily—but that they were both close and far apart, which created a peculiar longing.
Give my best regards to the governor and to all at the magehall.
I shall. And I will speak to you again in the morning.
I may not be able to answer you. I think we are about to—to begin.
Thorian was silent briefly and subdued when he spoke again. Be careful, Rephanin.
The magelord smiled. Have no fear. I was not made to be heroic.
He did not want to end his conversation with Thorian, but a change of movement ahead drew his attention to a rider trotting back along the column. Rephanin knew there could only be one reason. His heart sank.
I must leave you now. I expect I will not be at liberty to speak to you for a while. Try in the morning, though.
Spirits guard you.
And you.
The rider reached Rephanin’s escort and bowed in the saddle. “Lord Rephanin, the commander desires your presence at the head of the column.”
Unable to make himself answer, Rephanin nodded. Still surrounding him, his mounted escort moved off the road, leaving it to the companies that were on foot.
Rephanin clung to the saddle unashamed as they hastened forward. He was no expert rider and had nothing to prove. Were it not that he knew he was fated for this service, he would have preferred to be elsewhere.
The head of the column had paused at a rise where the road crossed the foot of another ridge. Though he had never traveled this road before, Rephanin knew that beyond that ridge lay Midrange. The darkness he felt from there must be affecting everyone in the column, but still they marched on.
Ehranan hailed him as he drew near. Rephanin acknowledged the commander with a nod, seeing in his face a strange mixture of grim determination and excitement. Could he actually be looking forward to this conflict? Rephanin could not pretend to understand a warrior’s feelings and had no desire to.
“Midrange Valley lies ahead. Would it be best for you to speak to the Guard before we enter it?”
“That might be best, yes.” Rephanin was dismayed to hear a tremor in his own voice.
“Please do so, then. When you are ready, I will give them greeting.”
Rephanin glanced at the ridge to the west. “The mountains may prevent me from being heard once we move forward. I could speak now but lose contact as we pass this ridge.”
Ehranan frowned up at the mass of stone. “Even in the open air?”
“Possibly. I think it likely.”
“Well, speak now and I will greet the army, then speak again when all have crossed this narrow.”
“Very well. I need a moment.”
Rephanin closed his eyes and cautiously opened his awareness. Dark turmoil to the north filled his mind, and he had to fight not to recoil from it. He faced it and saw that it ran on two levels: a high, clear flow of khi that came from hundreds of ælven and the dark, heavy, and much greater mass of khi from countless kobalen.
A third and much weaker element was the khi of all other living things in the valley, trees and plants and the few animals that had not fled, mostly carrion eaters. Rephanin shuddered.
He began building barriers in his mind, as he had lately learned so well to do. First he blocked all the lower, denser khi: the kobalen and lesser beings. That alone relieved him to a great extent. Next he divided himself and the Southfæld Guard from the other ælven ahead in the valley. Ehranan might wish him to speak to them all eventually, but for now he would touch only those who were prepared for it.
Finally, he made a shield around his own awareness, a cloud to filter out the feelings of the hundreds of ælven around him. His escort of guardians, assigned by Ehranan to the sole duty of protecting him, would keep his flesh safe, but it was for him to guard his own heart.
Thus sheltered, he opened his eyes and gazed back southward. The Guard had gathered in the valley, waiting to cross into Midrange. He swallowed and, though he did not need it to speak, drew a deep breath.
Guardians of Southfæld, pray attend to your commander.
The khi of hundreds smote him; a bright confusion of eagerness, dread, and courage.
He shifted his mental shield to block it, then looked to Ehranan. The commander nodded in silent thanks, then faced the army.
We are at the threshold of battle. For your pledge of service, I thank you on behalf of all ælven realms. Remember that you stand between your loved ones and this threat.
Rephanin retreated to the shelter he had made for himself, not needing to hear Ehranan’s words of encouragement. They were meant not for him but for those who were about to risk their lives.
A corner of his awareness he reserved to tend to his flesh, to keep himself from falling off his horse. Beyond that his escort would see to his safety.
He turned his private thoughts away from the madness ahead. He thought of Thorian, Glenhallow, and his magehall, all of which increased his longing but at least distracted him from Midrange.
Heléri came sudden into his thoughts. Heléri, for whom he also yearned though he had lately had little leisure to think of her. He was close to her now and also impossibly distant; she was a short ride away, but Midrange lay between them. He felt a sudden surge of desire that manifested itself most intensely in his flesh. That seemed to him incongruous with his surroundings, and the thought brought his awareness forward.
The column was moving. He had crossed the ridge and was now descending into Midrange Valley. As he had expected, he sensed interference from the mountains, but the guardians who were nearby could still hear Ehranan through him. The commander’s voice in thought was ceaseless, giving guidance and encouragement.
It was cold here. Rephanin’s fingers pulled numbly at his cloak, drawing it closer around him. His hood was drawn forward as was his custom, and it blocked the sight of the battlefield, but he could hear the fighting, a constant crashing, growling sound of mingled anger and despair. He recoiled, instinct urging him to block all of it, everything, and for a moment he could not help but do so.
Ehranan’s face turned toward him, questioning, alarmed. Rephanin regained his balance and opened to Ehranan again, though it cost him unexpected effort. The instinct to preserve himself against the chaos flowing through this valley was much stronger than he had anticipated.