Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  “Close the door, please, Tenahran.”

  The steward looked surprised, glanced at Eliani, then complied. Othanin put his elbows on the table, hands clasped before him.

  “What of this alben who posed as a messenger from me? What has been done with him?”

  Eliani’s pulse jumped with anxiety. She took another sip of wine before answering, then cleared her throat.

  “I regret to tell you that since then he has escaped. We suspect he will either head west of the mountains or seek refuge in the Steppes.”

  “And your first envoy, those with whom he was captured. Will you seek to free them?”

  Eliani’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She closed it, feeling color rise to her cheeks. “To be honest, we assumed they were lost to us.”

  “You are probably right. Even if they live, they may well have succumbed to the curse by now.”

  Eliani set her goblet on the table. “What can you tell us of this affliction? Have you learned its cause?”

  Othanin gave a slight shrug. “Would that we had. We know only that it most often befalls those who spend considerable time in the darkwood forest.”

  Eliani caught her breath and traded a glance with Luruthin. They had ridden through Fireshore’s forests for days.

  “That is why you walled the city?”

  Othanin nodded. “Though I cannot say whether it has made much difference. We must go into the forest to harvest darkwood. Those who go sometimes succumb.”

  “Bitterfield has not suffered this affliction, and they are surrounded by forest.”

  “True. They harvest darkwood near their village, as do the people of Woodrun. So far neither has suffered as Ghlanhras has. Our darkwood is taken from camps deep in the forest.”

  Luruthin shifted in his chair. “From the look of the city, I am surprised you are able to harvest.”

  Othanin glanced at him sharply but nodded. “I understand your thinking so. Many of our folk have left, though there are still enough to harvest darkwood. It is taken to Woodrun for trade.”

  “Why do you remain in Ghlanhras at all?”

  Othanin gazed at Eliani, his eyes deep wells of sadness. “Clan Sunriding was charged with holding Fireshore. Ghlanhras is Fireshore’s chief city.”

  Luruthin reached for the ewer and helped himself to more wine. “Ghlanhras is dying, by the looks of it.”

  “Yes. I have sought a remedy but found none. I will remain until the others have all left.”

  “That is folly.” Eliani set her cup on the table. “Forgive me, Lord Othanin, but it seems to me you should seek help from the Council.”

  He looked at her, a small, mirthless smile on his lips. “Summon a Council to Ghlanhras? They would not come.”

  “It need not be Ghlanhras.”

  “And what help could the Ælven Council give, when all its efforts are bent toward Midrange?” Othanin shook his head. “What help could they give in any case?”

  “Fireshore was repopulated after the Bitter Wars. It can be done again.”

  “I would not ask any of our kindred from other realms to come and dwell here. It would be to place themselves at risk. The good theyn is right: Ghlanhras as it once was is dying. I have thought, when enough are gone, that the city might be given to the exiles.”

  “What! To the alben?” Eliani could not conceal her outrage.

  “Not the alben.”

  Luruthin coughed slightly. “The Lost?”

  Othanin leaned back in his chair, and a wary look came into his eyes. “You have heard of the Lost?”

  “Bitterfield’s theyn and his lady told us.”

  Othanin nodded, his gaze growing distant. “My father made a decree when the hunger first returned. Those who suffered and did not choose to leave flesh were offered peaceful exile and given what they needed to survive. They send us word from time to time, messages for their kin. We have even traded with them.”

  Luruthin sat up and leaned forward, frowning. “You trade with those who will not keep the creed?”

  “They do keep the creed in all but the one respect, and even in that they follow our customs.”

  Eliani felt a flash of outrage. “Customs? We have no customs for the drinking of kobalen blood!”

  “We have customs for hunting. Practices according to the creed, to avoid cruelty and to offer atonement.”

  “That applies to game beasts, not to creatures of intelligence!”

  “Yet we slay those intelligent creatures outright.”

  Othanin’s voice remained calm. He spread the fingers of his hand upon the table and gazed at them. “The Lost cannot help the demands of their affliction.”

  “You would welcome them back into Ghlanhras?”

  Othanin looked up at Eliani, his eyes hardening. “If others will not dwell here, they might as well do so. They could harvest darkwood. The forests around Ghlanhras are rich and produce the highest-quality wood in all the realm. If the Lost returned to work these stands, then none others need be at risk, and we would all benefit from the harvest.”

  “But that would be a reversal of the Council’s decree against Darkshore!”

  “We are not Clan Darkshore, nor are the Lost. They uphold the creed in every way they can.”

  Luruthin looked skeptical. “How can you be sure of that?”

  Othanin was silent for a long moment. “I know it because my lady is with them.”

  Eliani caught her breath. Othanin heard, for he turned to face her.

  “She has kept the creed faithfully all her life.” A tremor of grief crossed his face. “She almost chose to leave flesh when the hunger came over her. I begged her to stay. I could not bear to lose her as well.”

  “As well?”

  Othanin met Eliani’s gaze. “My father faced the same choice. A few years after he decreed the Lost must leave Fireshore, he fell victim to the hunger.”

  He lowered his gaze, seeing memories. His voice dropped so that Eliani had to lean forward to hear him.

  “There is a place not far from here, on the northern shore in the shadow of Firethroat. The currents there are swift and strong. It has become customary for those who are afflicted with the hunger and desire to cross into spirit to go there and give their flesh to the waters. My father handed the governorship of Fireshore to me, and the next day we went together to the shore. I watched him walk into the sea.”

  Eliani was stricken with pity. “I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Othanin smiled sadly. “It has been … very hard. I have walked to the shore with many of my friends and kindred. Every time I wonder if I shall someday take that path myself.”

  “I hope not.”

  Luruthin stirred. “What of your lady? You say she chose to remain in flesh?”

  “Yes. I have not seen her since she joined the Lost, but we have exchanged messages.” Othanin gave a small smile. “Most of those who still dwell in Ghlanhras remain because they have loved ones among the Lost.”

  Eliani closed her eyes, overwhelmed by sadness. She began to feel that Ghlanhras truly was a cursed place. Perhaps the ælven should never have settled there, but that could not be undone now.

  Luruthin’s voice roused her from these thoughts. “Eliani and I have kin in Bitterfield—Davhri, the potter. Her partner, Inóran, came to Ghlanhras this past spring and has not been heard of again.”

  Othanin frowned. “Inóran?”

  “Yes.” Eliani cleared her throat, reaching for her goblet. “He was seeking to trade for glass, she said.”

  “Oh. Yes, we have a master glassworker, Ranohran. One of the few skilled crafters who have remained in Ghlanhras.”

  Eliani met his gaze. “He has kin with the Lost?”

  Othanin nodded, smiling sadly. “I will send a message to him if you wish, asking if Inóran came to see him.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Eliani fell silent. What she had learned of Ghlanhras was disheartening, and she wished to consult Turisan about its troubles. Thinkin
g of him made her realize that her task was done; she might now return to him. A quiet shimmer of joy went through her.

  Othanin straightened in his chair. “Allow me to amend an omission. You have traveled long to reach me and must desire to refresh yourselves. May I offer you rooms and hot water? I would be honored to continue our discussion over dinner.”

  Eliani looked up at him with a grateful smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

  The governor stood and stepped to the door. Reaching outside it, he rang a sonorous chime, then returned to stand beside Eliani’s chair. By the time she and Luruthin had risen, Tenahran had come in answer to the chime.

  “Please show our guests to chambers.”

  The steward bowed and led them away, back through the audience chamber and the broad main corridor. The afternoon had passed while they had been closeted with Othanin, and the light filtering through the high windows was tinted with gold. Rush torches augmented it, casting an orange glow that did not quite illuminate all the main corridor. Eliani saw chandeliers hanging at intervals from the high ceiling, but they were dark.

  Tenahran took one of the torches in hand to light their way as he turned into a lesser hallway. Save for the fading daylight coming through the latticed windows, this passage was unlit. He turned a corner and after a short distance threw open two adjacent doors, revealing guest chambers that had plainly not been used in some time. Though clean, they were still and silent, hushed with the absence of khi.

  “Water will be brought you.” He kindled a lamp in the first chamber from his torch. The smell of spice-scented oil arose as he turned to Eliani. “Is there aught else you need?”

  “Our saddle packs.”

  “Ah, yes. My apologies for not having them here.”

  “Tenahran, how many attendants are there in Darkwood Hall at present?”

  He hesitated. “Only myself and my daughter at present, my lady. Governor Othanin’s demands are few.”

  “He has no kindred, no counselors dwelling here?”

  Tenahran shook his head, then turned to Luruthin. “This next chamber is yours, Theyn Luruthin.”

  They stepped out into the passage, leaving Eliani to look about at the ornate hangings in her room and on the bed, similar in style to the latticework and the rugs she had seen. Intricate knotwork seemed to be the fashion in Fireshore. Oddly appropriate, for matters here were certainly in a tangle.

  Shalár stood just within the forest’s edge at the end of the road from Westgard, gazing at the high wall of basalt that surrounded Ghlanhras. The damp warmth made her uncomfortable and the tickle of hunger still plagued her, but she paid no heed to either.

  The musty smell of wet darkwood sparked memories, many disturbing, unhappy. She put them aside as well. She was here at last, though her home looked nothing like she remembered and, to her surprise, she felt no pleasure in returning. The pleasure would come later, perhaps, when she walked in the hall that had been her father’s.

  She turned to Yaras. “I want a volunteer to scale the wall. Someone small, less likely to be seen.”

  “Yes, Bright Lady.”

  She listened to his receding footfalls, confident in the plan she was already weaving. Depending on what the hunter who scaled the wall saw, she would send one or more of the pack down into the city near the gate. If it was guarded, they would capture or kill the guards. If not, they would simply open the gate to the rest of the army. It seemed almost too easy.

  Yaras returned, bringing with him Benavh, a female who had gone on the recent Grand Hunt. It seemed long ago, though only one turn of seasons had passed since then. Shalár quickly told Benavh her wishes, and she nodded.

  “Yes, Bright Lady.”

  “Do not let yourself be seen or heard.”

  The hunter flashed a grin, then crossed the space between the forest and the wall in five silent strides. Shalár watched her climb, clinging to the rocks. She hauled herself onto the top of the wall and lay flat upon it, still and silent, peering down into the city.

  Shalár’s skin tingled in anticipation of fighting. She almost wished she had scaled the wall herself.

  Benavh crawled along the wall toward the gate, then rose onto her elbows, peering toward the city’s center. At last she slid toward the outside of the wall again, carefully lowering herself to the ground. She darted back to Shalár, grinning.

  “There is a light in one house by the gate. All the others near the wall are dark, as far as I could see. The only other lights are in the middle of the city.”

  “Around the public circle. Well done.” Shalár looked to Yaras. “Five will go in. Choose the swiftest and lightest of foot.”

  “May I go?” Benavh’s eyes shone with excitement.

  “Are you prepared to kill ælven?”

  She looked shocked for a fleeting moment, then set her chin. “Yes, Bright Lady. I will slay any who stand in your way.”

  Shalár glanced at Yaras and gave a tiny shrug, leaving the decision to him. Yaras looked at Benavh.

  “Very well. Wait here while I bring the others.”

  He slipped away into the forest. Shalár stood gazing at the gate. Benavh fidgeted beside her, clearly looking forward to scaling the wall again.

  “Soon.” Shalár’s whisper was only partly to Benavh. “Very soon.”

  Luruthin picked up his wine goblet and leaned back in his chair of ornately carved darkwood, sated as he had not been for days. He and Eliani were both dressed in borrowed silks provided by Tenahran, who had taken away their travel clothing to be washed. Luruthin reveled in the luxury of being clean and well fed.

  On the table between himself, Othanin, and Eliani lay the remains of a feast that would have made even Lord Jharan proud. Pheasants roasted and glazed with a sweet sunfruit sauce; myriad vegetables, some of which he had never before encountered; rice flavored with delicate spices; rich sauces; and breads light and moist, hot from the oven.

  Luruthin raised his goblet in salute. “A most excellent meal. Thank you, Governor.”

  “I am glad to be able to offer my hospitality, and I may tell you that Ghenari, our cook, was overjoyed. She rarely has the chance to exercise her talent nowadays.”

  “And a rare talent it is. May she always prosper.”

  Othanin smiled, though trouble never quite left his face. “Were things not as they are, I would ask you to stay a few days. I suspect you will want to leave tomorrow, though.”

  Eliani nodded. “Yes. I am anxious to return—to Glenhallow.”

  She had been about to say “home,” Luruthin thought. Except just now, where was her home? Highstone, but also Glenhallow. Her home was wherever Turisan was.

  Feeling a sudden sharp pang of longing for Jhinani, Luruthin nodded. “I, too.”

  Othanin poured more wine into their goblets. “I will write letters for Jharan and Felisan tonight. The Council has disbanded, you said?”

  “Yes. They plan to reconvene on the first of spring, in Highstone.”

  Luruthin drained his cup and set it down. “If the fighting at Midrange is not over by then, there will likely be no Council at all.”

  The others were silent. Perhaps that was too grim a prediction.

  Othanin shifted in his chair. “You—you did not encounter one of our exiles on your way here, did you? She would have resembled an alben.”

  “No.” Eliani shook her head. “We have seen no alben.”

  “It is just that she has not returned—from hunting—for some days now. My lady is becoming concerned.”

  “Do the Lost never choose to leave flesh?” Eliani asked quietly.

  “None have done so. That choice was made when they left Ghlanhras. They are dedicated to surviving, to continuing to dwell in harmony and mutual support, and to living by the creed as much as their affliction allows.”

  Eliani frowned, as if she still doubted the feasibility of this. Luruthin looked at Othanin.

  “Have they made a village?”

  “Not so far, but that is under discuss
ion. Some of them are growing weary of living as wanderers. Kobalen prefer it, but the ælven want a home.”

  The ælven. Luruthin returned a half smile to show he did not disapprove, though he was not sure he agreed that Ghlanhras’s Lost were still ælven. By the Council’s ruling, they were alben, but that Council had met centuries ago, at a time when fear was high and no one understood the nature of this affliction. It was poorly understood now, but at least they were making an effort to learn about it instead of merely slaying or banishing those unfortunate enough to suffer it.

  Eliani spoke softly. “I hope they find a home. I hope we can come to a better understanding of this hunger. If it is indeed a sickness, perhaps it can be healed.”

  Othanin leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. “There are records—letters and journals—from before the Bitter Wars. Many were burned in the purging of Fireshore, but a few were preserved. They mention efforts at healing, none of which were successful.”

  “But it is worth pursuing. They may not have had sufficient skill or sufficient time for a healing to be effective.”

  “All avenues of hope are worth pursuing.” Othanin gazed at Eliani. “You are correct, my lady, when you say that to give Ghlanhras to the Lost would, in essence, reverse the decree that followed the Bitter Wars. I believe that would be a boon to us all.”

  Eliani looked up at him, plainly dismayed by his words. Othanin seemed to wish to embrace those who fed upon kobalen, to welcome them back as brethren of the ælven. Luruthin’s instinct was to object, for he knew the Council would take strong exception to this proposal, but he held his peace.

  Othanin looked from Eliani to him, then back. “Would it not be better to admit that decree was a mistake than to compound it by continuing to punish our own kindred for what cannot be helped?”

  Eliani’s brow knit in a worried frown. “This is a matter for the current Council to decide.”