by Pati Nagle
“And I will gladly plead my cause before them.”
Luruthin nodded. “That alone should go far toward reassuring the other realms of Fireshore’s goodwill.”
Eliani glanced at him, then looked back at Othanin. “Fireshore is not alone, Governor. It is not isolated, or should not be. This will be resolved.”
“Thank you.”
Othanin smiled, though the trouble did not leave his eyes. Perhaps it never would.
They fell silent. Luruthin thought Eliani looked tired and possibly upset. He turned to the governor.
“I think we should retire, perhaps.”
Eliani bestirred herself. “Yes. Thank you for your kind hospitality, Lord Othanin. We shall see you again in the morning.”
“Very well. Perhaps I will ride with you a little way toward Woodrun. Tenahran is forever urging me to get out of this gloomy manse, as he calls it.”
As they all rose from the table, Othanin offered his arm to Eliani, then to Luruthin. His clasp was light, almost hesitant, but Luruthin could feel strength in his flesh and in his khi.
“May you rest sweetly, my new friends. Thank you for the hope you have brought me.”
Bidding him good night, they left the hall and made their way to their chambers. Eliani was pensive, and Luruthin refrained from interrupting her thoughts. They would have plenty of time and more privacy to discuss Ghlanhras as they rode tomorrow. Meanwhile, a night beneath a solid roof would do them both good.
He bade Eliani rest well and retired to his room, glancing up at the narrow lattice-covered window that ran the width of the room at the top of the far wall. No glass, but a thin screen of tissue to mute the sun’s light and keep out insects and other unwanted visitors. Starlight now cast the faintest glow through it. He could feel the forest breathing beyond.
His saddle pack lay on a small darkwood table beside the bed. Folded neatly beside it were his clothes: two sets of tunic and legs, now clean and smelling faintly of sunfruit.
He stretched out on top of the bed in his borrowed silks, having no desire for more covering. Night in northern Fireshore was no cooler than day.
He closed his eyes, seeking to still his thoughts. He centered his awareness in his flesh, then slowly let it expand to the room and beyond, taking in the small sounds of night-biding creatures within and without the house. There were few, very few.
And that was wrong.
Suddenly alert, Luruthin opened his eyes, listening and seeking with khi for the sounds of a normal evening. Though this land was strange to him, there should not be silence.
He sat up slowly, preserving his own silence. His flesh prickled with tension. He stood and walked with noiseless steps to the door, laying hands and forehead against it. Cautiously he explored the corridor with khi, following it back to the center of the house. There he found movement. Silent movement, of many feet.
Recoiling from the door, he stared at it. Could Othanin have been deceiving them? He disbelieved it but dreaded what he thought was walking in the governor’s house.
He opened the door a crack and peered down the corridor. Nothing moved there, but beyond it he felt shadows stirring.
For a moment he was still, pondering what to do. He must warn Eliani; they should leave this place. By stealth? But what of Othanin? If he was innocent and unaware, did he not also deserve warning?
A scrape of leather against stone from down the corridor told him it was too late to reach the governor. They were coming.
“Eliani! Arm yourself!”
He ducked into his room and caught up his sword. The bow would have been better, but he had left it on his saddle and it had not been brought to his chamber.
Stepping back into the corridor, he saw a figure at the far end of it opening a door with cautious stealth. The figure was male, dressed in black leathers, with snowy hair caught back in a braid from a face paler than a Greenglen’s.
Luruthin’s breath came short and swift. No sign of movement from Eliani’s chamber. He could not now summon her without attracting the attention of the male in black. The best Luruthin could think of was to try to distract him while giving warning to Eliani. He gripped his sword and started forward, drawing a deep breath to shout both accusation and warning.
“Alben!”
Eliani sat up, startled by Luruthin’s cry. It took a moment to remember where she was, so deeply entwined with Turisan she had been.
Something is happening. I must go.
Let me follow.
He had sensed her fear. No time to argue; she leapt up from the bed, scrabbling her feet into borrowed slippers. The silk tunic and legs whispered softly as she moved.
There was noise in the corridor outside. Luruthin had shouted something—she had not quite caught it. She went to the door and stood listening.
“A sword!” The voice was unfamiliar. “This one is armed! Bring a sword!”
Eliani needed no more prompting. They wanted a sword? She would bring hers.
She drew it silently, then opened the door a crack and looked out. Luruthin stood a few paces down the passage with his back to her, sword in hand. Beyond him were three warriors in black leather, eyes black and wide, hair and flesh as white as sun-bleached bone.
Alben! That was what he had shouted!
A shiver of fear went through her. She inhaled, flung open the door, and strode forward.
One of the alben threw something toward her, a black shadow that spread as it flew. She parried with her sword. Torchlight flashed on metal, and a high-pitched ringing followed as her blade deflected the thing. She glimpsed a tangle of black cord and bits of metal—a net.
Poorly armed. She took heart as she joined Luruthin. The alben retreated before them, but she heard the voices of more beyond, in the heart of the manse.
Othanin! Spirits, were they here to capture him? Or could these be his Lost? No, they would have no reason to attack.
Luruthin glanced at her, green eyes bright beneath a frown of concentration. “Get out. I will hold them!”
“No! We stand together.”
Luruthin parried another net, and Eliani dodged clear of his blade. There really was not room for them both to swing in this passage.
“There are too many of them,” Luruthin gasped as he swung at an alben, who jumped back from the arc of his sword. “You must get away!”
“No, I—”
“Your gift!” He turned his head to glare at her. “Find a way out! I will follow.”
He was right, but she hated to run from a fight. She was no coward, though her heart was thundering.
More alben appeared, coming down the passage from the audience hall. That was the only way out that she knew of, but behind her the corridor extended toward the back of Darkwood Hall.
Luruthin stepped forward, menacing the nearest alben, who hastily drew back. Another net was thrown and tangled for a moment around Luruthin’s sword arm. He took the sword in his other hand and shook the net off.
“Go!”
He was right. Eliani stepped backward, felt a net beneath her foot, and flinched. Muttering a curse, she turned and ran down the passage.
Shouting pursued her. The passage turned right, toward the center of the hall. Eliani tried the nearest door and found that it opened on another bedchamber.
A shout of challenge sounded behind her, then the clash of sword blades. Glancing back around the corner, she saw Luruthin engaged with an alben, swords glinting in torchlight, feet scuffling. Beyond them, the passage was filled with more alben.
With a cry of frustration, she ran down the corridor. The doors on either side all looked the same. The passage ended in a smaller door; she wrenched it open to find a storage closet, no exit.
She started back, trying doors on either side, frantically searching for a way out. All led to bedchambers, those on the left with higher ceilings than those on the right. She gave up and ran back to the turning.
Luruthin had taken down the alben with the sword. She could see the
blade lying on the floor where he had kicked it out of his opponents’ reach. She would fight beside him, then, until they were both taken. There was no other choice.
She started forward just as a shout went up from the many alben. Suddenly the air between them and Luruthin was filled with flying nets. He dodged, but there were too many to evade. One tangled around his sword; another caught at his legs. He stumbled, and a third net wrapped itself around his head.
“No!”
Even as Eliani screamed, the alben shouted in triumph. More nets flew, and Luruthin disappeared beneath the tangle of black. Three alben fell upon him, and others scrambled past. One caught up the abandoned sword and started toward Eliani.
She turned and fled, sobbing with anger. She ran into a bedchamber, slammed the door behind her, and pushed a table against it. Not enough.
Her glance fell upon a tall wardrobe of darkwood. She tossed her sword onto the bedstead, then pulled at the wardrobe, tugging it away from the wall. Though empty, it was heavy. She toppled it and wedged it between the table and the bed.
The door handle moved, then the door banged against the table. Eliani gave a small, startled cry. She was trapped, cornered like a cat in its lair. They would take her, but not without a fight. She retrieved her sword and held it before her in trembling hands, watching as the door shook beneath repeated blows.
A small sob escaped her. She wondered if they had killed Luruthin. The thought tore at her heart, and she gasped.
“Oh, spirits!”
Eliani!
Oh, love! Alben—
I know. Do not give up. I am with you.
Warmth flooded her, Turisan’s love, lending her strength. It steadied her. Wiping at her eyes, she looked desperately around the room for something, anything to give her an advantage. There was nothing in it but the table, a chair, the bed, and the wardrobe. Nothing hanging on the walls and only a small unlit lamp suspended from the ceiling by a slender chain.
She could make a weapon of that, perhaps. If there was oil in it, maybe she could set a fire. Only if she got out to the passage and could reach one of the torches.
The door shuddered as heavier, regular blows began to hammer against it. Eliani scrambled onto the wardrobe and caught at the lamp’s chain. She tugged, but it was hung from a metal loop embedded in the darkwood ceiling. She pulled harder, sobbing with anger and frustration. The chain broke, and the lamp fell to the floor with a clatter.
Useless. It was useless. She had only her sword and could not stand against the many alben now shouting outside the door.
Gasping, she looked wildly around. Her gaze fell on the filigree latticework covering the high window. The panel was narrow, but she might be able to squeeze through.
Yes. Try it.
She jumped down from the wardrobe and dragged the chair over to the wall beneath the window. Standing on the chair, she could just reach the panel and saw that it was hinged at the bottom and secured by two small latches at its top edge. She pushed them aside, and the top of the panel dropped toward her, a small chain at either side supporting it.
It was carved into filigree, but it was still darkwood. She hoped that it was yet strong enough to support her and that the hinges would not give beneath her weight.
A loud splintering told her the table was breaking. The door opened a crack, and the shouting beyond it grew louder.
Eliani fetched her sword, shoved it through the open panel onto the roof, and grabbed at the carved wood, her fingers breaking through the fragile fabric behind it. She hauled herself up, scrabbling to get a leg onto the panel. It creaked with her weight.
The hammering at the door increased. Eliani’s foot slipped on the darkwood. She kicked off her slipper and tried again, bare toes clinging to the wood. Pulling with both arms and one leg, she managed to scramble onto the panel and then roll out of the window and onto the roof.
She stood on a strange terraced landscape of gentle slopes and filigreed panels. Many were dark, but some glowed with light, and uneven torchlight flickered behind others.
The shouts and hammering below her were strangely muted. Over them she could hear the furtive sounds of the forest.
Hurry, love. They will not be far behind.
Yes.
She caught up her sword, kicked off her remaining slipper, and ran lightly along the roof. Slate tiles were cool underfoot despite the warm night. She followed the row of filigreed panels that defined the bedchamber she had escaped from and its neighbors. Above, a higher row of larger panels glowed with light. She slowed, remembering the shape of the audience hall. Someone was there now, and she doubted it was Othanin.
“Oh, spirits.”
Eliani—
I have to see.
She climbed onto the next tier of the roof and silently approached the nearest large panel. She put her ear to it to listen and heard many voices, murmuring here rather than shouting. Slowly, cautiously, she worked at the silk covering, which time and exposure had made fragile, making a small hole through which she could see the chamber below. What she saw chilled her blood, and she almost cried out.
The chamber was now lit by bright torchlight, and alben stood within, a hundred or more, with their hair glowing pale against the darkwood. Near the five chairs of state stood a female cloaked in black and red, Darkshore colors.
Shalár!
What?
The alben leader. Kelevon told me of her.
Eliani gazed down at the female, whose face was cold and stern. Her white hair was pulled back into a hunter’s braid. At her feet, bound with black nets, were several ælven.
Luruthin! Oh, spirits!
He was there, on his knees, alive if somewhat battered. His head was bowed, and his arms were bound behind him. Sprawled beside him, apparently unconscious, was Othanin.
Eliani bit her lip to keep from calling out to them. She wanted to scream with frustration.
You cannot help them. Not alone.
I will not leave them!
Get to Vanorin. He and the others will help you.
Eliani stifled a sob. The alben leader, Shalár, reached down and caught Luruthin’s chin in her hand, forcing his head up. A cruel smile formed on her lips, and Eliani could scarcely contain her rage.
Get away, Eliani. Get to safety.
She gasped as she tore herself away from the window. She could hear shouting again from the wing where she had crawled onto the roof and more somewhere out in the city. Slinking low, she darted east, away from the guest chambers and from the exposed public circle. She dropped down one tier of the roof, then another.
Reaching the eastern edge of the hall, she saw that an avenue ran between it and the nearest houses. The distance was too great for her to jump across. There were gardens, though. One house had its private garden bordered with trellises of grapevines and berry canes. She glanced behind her, hearing sounds of pursuit on the roof.
She tossed her sword down into the garden, then leapt after it, landing hard and rolling to lessen the impact. She got to her feet and picked up the sword, then hurried toward a small archway between the house and its neighbor. She passed through and out into the street beyond.
There were no lighted windows that she could see. She had no time to wonder if Vanorin, too, had been captured or to search for citizens who might have escaped the alben. She had to get out of the city at once. She paused, struggling to catch her breath and to think through the panic that gripped her.
Get away from there, Eliani. I will come to you.
She laughed under her breath. It is a trifle far, my love.
I will come.
The devotion behind that ludicrous pledge steadied her. She looked up and down the street, and when certain it was empty she ran across and between the next row of houses. The city gate was likely to be watched, but perhaps the alben had not had time to set a guard all along the wall.
Anger and sorrow welled within her. She fought them back, striving to think clearly. A pity she had no idea w
here Othanin’s stables were. She pressed on, crossing street after street on her way toward the black wall.
Turisan watched helplessly through Eliani’s eyes as she darted through the streets of Ghlanhras. His face was molded in a scowl of concentration, and he scarcely dared to breathe. So present was he in Ghlanhras that the sensations of his own flesh were muted, distant. It was some moments before he came to the hazy realization that someone was talking to him.
“Please, my lord!”
Turisan opened his eyes, blinking at the wavering firelight of the camp. The nearest fire had fallen to coals, its heat barely reaching him as he leaned against the cliff wall. Willow Bend was a haven his little column had been glad to reach. It meant they were but three or four days from Glenhallow.
“Not now.”
“But my lord, the wagons have come!”
“Wagons?”
Eliani had ducked behind a large building, a crafthall, perhaps. She must have seen or heard something and gone into hiding. Turisan wanted to stay with her, but the driver would not leave him alone.
“—from Glenhallow, my lord! Please, I was sent to bring you at once.”
“Where is he?” A more strident voice reached them from downhill.
Turisan looked up. “Father?”
He let Eliani go for the moment. Jharan came striding toward him, dressed for riding, eyes intense and his hasty footsteps grinding against the sandy packed earth of the camp. Turisan struggled to his feet, just in time to be caught in his father’s tight embrace.
“W-what are you doing here?”
Jharan held him at arm’s length, gazing at him with eyes filled with concern. “I have brought wagons to carry your wounded back to Glenhallow.”
“But—”
“When I heard you were wounded, I could no longer stay.” Jharan lowered his voice. “I could not wait patiently in Hallowhall while you struggled homeward.”
“It is only a scratch. Thorian was to tell you so.”
“He did.” Jharan lifted his hand from Turisan’s right shoulder, laid it gently over the sling for a moment, then touched Turisan’s cheek. “I used to rail against Turon for risking himself and all his nextkin at Skyruach instead of staying in Glenhallow. Now I know why he did it. Staying behind is much harder.”