Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  Turisan felt an echo of the feeling behind his father’s words. The burden of responsibility was writ all through Jharan’s khi. Ordinarily he did not let it show, but the care and worry in his face betrayed feelings he usually kept hidden.

  “You are safe now.” Jharan smiled softly. “At first light we shall start for Glenhallow.”

  “Not I, Father. I ride north.”

  Jharan’s smile faded. “Do not be foolish. You can do nothing at Midrange.”

  “Not to Midrange. To Fireshore. Eliani needs me.”

  “She has her escort—”

  “No, Father.”

  Turisan closed his eyes briefly to see where Eliani was. She had emerged from hiding and was once more prowling through Ghlanhras. He opened his eyes again and looked at his father, who was frowning. He frowned back.

  “She is alone. The escort—I have much to tell you. Let us take counsel together now, and in the morning I will ride. I need only a fresh horse and a satchel of food.”

  “My son—”

  “Hear what I have to say.”

  Jharan gazed at him, dark eyes troubled, frowning in concern. “What has happened?”

  Turisan glanced at the driver, who was waiting a few paces away. Beyond him the rest of the camp was also watching. He leaned close to his father, placing his good hand on Jharan’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear.

  “The alben have returned to Fireshore.”

  Rephanin had become the battle. His memories of himself were distant, vague, hidden beyond the barrier that kept him from feeling the anguish that churned in Midrange Valley. He had no thoughts save for the commands that passed through him and the occasional pleas for aid that came back from some desperate captain watching his warriors fall and die.

  Death was merely an ache to Rephanin now. The army was his body, and when Ehranan told him to move an arm, he did so. A hundred warriors shifting to fill a gap in the shield line. Two hundred rested guardians returning, taking the place of others who were spent.

  Some died, an ache, a discomfort to the body, but the body lived on. The constant shifting and reacting to the flow of the battle were natural to him now, easy to understand and even to anticipate. With the omniscience of khi he saw a weakness developing near the river, where water lapped at the feet of the ælven on the shield line.

  He had abandoned words—he now understood Davharin’s difficulty with them—but he focused a pulse of bright khi toward Ehranan and drew his attention to the trouble. Ehranan responded at once.

  Forunan, move your company to the right! Avhlorin, send some of your reserves to clear that blockage in the river—stop the flooding.

  Those blockages were made by heaps upon heaps of grisly corpses. Most were kobalen, but some were not.

  There was no time to grieve. Grief was a luxury, one that could not be afforded now. Later there would be leisure for grief.

  Often in the evening when the fighting slackened there was a danger of thinking too much about what was happening here, but tonight there had been no slackening. If anything, the fighting had intensified. Rephanin sensed the change but did not understand it. He saw little difference in the orders that Ehranan sent through him. They were the same as went out every evening, save that the warriors being taken off the line were not dismissed to rest but instead gathered south of the fighting, along the river’s edge.

  Rephanin felt whispers of their thoughts: weariness, curiosity, anticipation. Every ælven on the field was a part of his awareness, and the ripples of mood that washed through their ranks overbore his own feelings. They were his body, and he was their heart.

  Rephanin. Look at me.

  Look? How shall I look? With whose eyes?

  Rephanin.

  A shaking sensation, dimly felt. His own flesh, not the living mass of the army. Not the horse’s movements either; the horse had been dispensed with a day or two after his arrival, when it was found that he had no need to move about the field. His flesh lay in his tent, with his escort nearby to protect him.

  Rephanin, open your eyes.

  The shaking continued, drawing his presence back to his flesh. He shifted the focus of his thoughts there, away from the ælven army. Ah, yes, someone was shaking him by the shoulders. Enough of that.

  He opened his eyes, blinking at Ehranan as awareness of the army receded. Ehranan released his shoulders, letting him lie back against the jumble of packs and blankets that pillowed him.

  Crouched beside him in the tent, the commander looked the worse for several days’ fighting. A gash along Ehranan’s jaw told where a kobalen dart had just missed him.

  “What is it?” Rephanin’s voice came out a dry croak.

  “I want your counsel.”

  Ehranan handed him a half-filled water skin. Rephanin pushed himself upright and drank greedily, then gasped for air. His flesh was hungry, beginning to suffer from neglect.

  “What counsel can I give you here?” Rephanin gestured toward the battleground. “You know more of this than I.”

  “You know what they are feeling.” Ehranan set a wooden plate beside him. “Here, try to eat something.”

  Dried fruit, dried meat. Rephanin picked up a shriveled pear but could not bring himself to bite it. He let his hand drop into his lap and sat frowning, trying to overcome disorientation. His fingers turned the pear over and over.

  Ehranan spoke in a low, tense voice. “Have they the heart for a fight?”

  Rephanin met his gaze and knew he meant the army. “They will fight on.”

  “But will they attack if I ask it?”

  “Attack?”

  Rephanin stared at him, bewildered. What good would an attack do? They could not drive the kobalen back through the pass. The snow had blocked it, snow that continued intermittently, along with the persistent cold. In some places the flooding water had frozen into treacherous patches of ice. The only comfort in the weather was that the kobalen liked it even less than the ælven did.

  “I think we can end it if we make an attack tonight. It means no rest, though.”

  No rest until the task is done. Rephanin had resigned himself to that days ago.

  “They trust you. They will follow you.”

  Ehranan’s blue eyes gazed at him from beneath frowning brows. Ice eyes, black frown. Fearsome unless one knew the heart beneath, as Rephanin now did. They had been in close contact for so long that he could not help feeling kinship with Ehranan, who bore such a burden for his people.

  Kinship and more, like his feelings for Thorian. Rephanin wondered idly if the mindspeaker had tried to contact him. He doubted he would have heard.

  “I have one more thing to ask of you. Can you gauge the kobalen? Can you sense their mood?”

  Rephanin’s parched lips fell open. Ehranan was asking him to touch the kobalen, whom he had so carefully blocked from his awareness. Asking him to tear down one of his own defenses.

  “I need to know if they are losing heart. Have they any leaders, or do they fight only because they know no other choice? Can you tell me, Rephanin?”

  Rephanin swallowed. The difficulty of it reminded him of his thirst, and he reached for the water skin again.

  Enormous weariness descended on him. He knew it was in part a reluctance to do as Ehranan asked. He drank, feeling the cold pour down through his chest, into his belly. Setting the skin aside, he closed his eyes.

  I will try.

  Kobalen. He let the fear and repulsion that accompanied the thought echo away. Summoning calm in its place, he turned his attention to the barriers he had built against distraction.

  One held kobalen rage away. He moved toward it, then within it, a breath away from passing through. The barrier was strong but also fragile. It might shatter, and he did not know what he would do if that happened.

  Flesh moved, distracting. He paused to identify the change and felt a warm strength against his palm. Ehranan had taken hold of his hand.

  Gratitude. He let the sensation hang for a moment so
that Ehranan would perceive it. Then, encouraged by Ehranan’s support, he opened a thought toward the kobalen.

  Rage, fear, betrayal, dark and heavy anger. A promise made that could not now be kept. Pain, hunger; hunger a rage unto itself. No food here, no hunting! But the promise would not be kept, the reward would not be given, if they did not fight.

  Bewildered, Rephanin withdrew from the chaos, though he maintained a tenuous contact. What promise? Whose?

  A familiar gnawing sensation grew upon him, the deaths eating away at the body, only now it was kobalen deaths as well as ælven, and the kobalen died much more rapidly, much more often. Killing one another, dying together, souls fleeing flesh both kobalen and ælven. Confused and appalled, Rephanin curled into himself, seeking to escape the horror of mutual destruction.

  There was a line somewhere, a shelter, a place of safety, but he had lost it. He heard only the death cries of tens of ælven, hundreds of kobalen, more and more every moment. Felt their pain, rage, fear—

  Rephanin!

  Whose voice? The voice that commanded him. But there was no controlling this, no more control.

  Rephanin, stop. Come back. Now!

  Shaking again. Suddenly he was aware of his own flesh, very much alive as yet. He did not like being shaken in this way but could do nothing to stop it. The flight of souls all around had drained him of the will to act.

  No more!

  Sudden silence stunned him. The voices of the dying were gone. So, too, were the dark throngs of kobalen, the hundreds of heartbeats of the ælven. There was only one voice, one presence that filled his mind. Slowly he opened his eyes.

  Ehranan’s hands gripped his head on both sides, Ehranan’s eyes locked onto his. Somehow the commander had separated him from the battle. A trace of fear passed out of the blue eyes as Rephanin relaxed. How pleasant, this silence.

  “Forgive me.” Ehranan released him. “I should not have asked it of you.”

  Rephanin inhaled somewhat shakily. His body was curled almost into a ball, as if he had been trying to protect himself. He sat up and looked around vaguely but could not find the water skin. No matter.

  “My lords? Is all well?”

  The voice came from the tent’s door. Rephanin smiled wryly as Ehranan called back a reassurance. Could it be that they missed the voice of their leader in mindspeech, so constant in the past few days? How quickly one became accustomed to the strangest things.

  Rephanin coughed and drew a careful breath. His fleshly voice was ragged. “The kobalen are losing the will to fight, Ehranan. They were promised something and now begin to doubt they will receive it.”

  Ehranan frowned. “Promised something? In return for attacking us?”

  Rephanin nodded. “I do not know what or by whom. I—cannot try again.”

  “No!” Alarm crossed Ehranan’s face. “No, do not. I should not have asked it. You have given so much, and all I do is demand more.”

  Rephanin closed his eyes briefly, touched by this acknowledgment. In truth, he would willingly do whatever Ehranan asked.

  Oh.

  Looking at Ehranan again, his heart jumped with ecstatic hesitance. Was he fickle, or was it just that he saw so much to love in those close to him?

  Perhaps he was unable to separate admiration and affection. Perhaps the strain of this unspeakable situation and the constant contact with Ehranan had made him susceptible.

  I am a fool.

  “Rest now. You have gone far too long without proper rest and food. I will have something hot brought to you.”

  “Wait.”

  Ehranan paused on one knee, halfway to standing. Rephanin gazed at him, filled with admiration. If Ehranan had demanded much of him, the commander had demanded even more of himself. He risked his own flesh even as he guided the army and planned its movements. His courage was a banner for all to follow.

  “You think you can end this with an attack tonight?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then please do. I will be glad to have it finished.”

  Ehranan sat back, a frown of concern on his face. “Will you be all right?”

  Rephanin smiled and nodded. “Thanks to you.”

  “To me?” Ehranan scoffed. “I am the cause of your suffering. When we set out I did not realize the cost …”

  Ehranan looked at him with haunted eyes. It only made Rephanin love him more.

  “Let us finish this. Then we can move on.”

  Ehranan held his gaze for a long time, then nodded. He reached out his arm. Rephanin clasped it formally, briefly, ignoring the fire that even this small contact sent racing along his nerves. If Ehranan felt anything like it, he gave no sign. He let go and gazed abstractedly at the tent wall for a moment, then stood up.

  “When you are ready, Lord Rephanin.”

  Rephanin leaned back against his makeshift couch and closed his eyes. Drawing breath, he turned his thought to the ælven again. They were there, anxiously awaiting him. He paused to make certain it was only the ælven he touched now.

  The kobalen were shut away again behind the barrier that spared him their anguish. Though he could never forget it, it would not distract him now. Hesitantly, he opened his heart to the ælven army once more.

  I am here.

  His mind lit with awareness of them—hundreds of ælven, weary and frightened, yet filled with painful hope as he spoke to them. Ehranan joined him, addressing the army through mindspeech, and now the fire Rephanin had felt ran not only through his flesh but through his soul.

  There was no hiding it, not in this strange union to which they had become so accustomed. Ehranan must be aware but again showed no sign. He gave orders, and through Rephanin they went out to all the ælven.

  Ehranan the mind, Rephanin the heart, and hundreds of ælven the body. Together they were one being moving with a single purpose, and that purpose now shifted. No longer did they merely stand and hold at bay the reckless, disorganized attacks of the kobalen. Now they moved as one to end the agony of this conflict.

  The new force continued to form behind the shield line. All the ælven not currently holding the line joined it. Ehranan went there in flesh as well and was met with cheering.

  Rephanin shut away the dread he felt for Ehranan’s personal safety. A leader must lead, and Ehranan knew how best to inspire his weary army.

  We will cross the river. Strike north along the far bank, then cross again at the north ford.

  Most of the kobalen were south of there now, hurling themselves against the shield line. Rephanin slowly realized that their numbers were not infinite. What had seemed an incalculable swarm of kobalen had dwindled, if that word could be applied to a force that was yet many times larger than the ælven army.

  The kobalen are leaderless. When we fall upon them from behind, they will scatter and flee. They will cross the snowbound mountains or die trying, and we will hunt them down until Midrange is free again and the Silverwash flows clear.

  Cheers rose again into the night. As Ehranan led his force across the Silverwash, its bitter cold stinging their flesh, the sky seemed to clear.

  Through hundreds of eyes, Rephanin saw stars glimmering in a dome of cold velvet, bright almost beyond bearing. Some of the stars seemed alive.

  He knew, even before the warriors had finished crossing the river, that Ehranan was right. This would break the kobalen, shatter what was left of their will. Whatever they had been promised would not keep them fighting against the determination of the ælven army. He knew, and as the battle began to take new shape, he smiled.

  Darkwood Hall was hers. Ghlanhras was hers. Before long, if all went well, the rest of Fireshore would be hers. Clan Darkshore had reclaimed its own.

  Shalár glowed with satisfaction as she looked over the audience hall, where a steady stream of captive ælven was being brought before her. She sat in a chair that had been pulled forward from the wall and hastily draped in black to cover the usurpers’ orange. Very little red was to be found in Ghlanhras
, but she would soon amend that.

  She was pleased with her army’s success in capturing the city. It had to be admitted that the ease of the seizure was due in part to the surprising lack of numbers dwelling in Ghlanhras, but those few had resisted, and the pack had dealt efficiently with some challenging situations.

  Three of her hunters had been killed and seven wounded by the sword-wielding Stonereach who had been taken in the guest quarters. The so-called governor had submitted without resistance in his chambers, chambers that were even now being prepared for Shalár’s residence. The worst loss had been at a house on the public circle, which had proved to be filled with Stonereaches and Greenglens, all armed. Some of them had escaped, but some had not. Shalár expected to find them a source of useful information.

  Yaras approached and paused a few paces from her chair to bow. Shalár smiled, knowing this gesture was largely for the benefit of the captives, for Yaras was not ordinarily so formal. He came closer and knelt before her, resting a knee on the cushion placed for that purpose.

  “Bright Lady. You sent for me.”

  “Yes. What is your progress?”

  “We have searched more than half of the city and are going through the outermost rows now. Those seem to be entirely unoccupied. Many of the houses are empty.”

  “What of the female with the sword?”

  Yaras’s eyes flicked downward. “No sign of her. Yet.” He raised his head. “She will not pass the gate.”

  Shalár regarded him in silence, then decided not to remark. If the female was not found when all the city had been searched, then would be the time for reprimands.

  “Have you found any more swords? Other weapons? Tools?”

  Yaras shook his head. “Not in the outer parts of the city. All that were found have been brought here.”

  Twenty-two swords had been captured, along with a number of bows. Shalár had hoped for more, but at least she could now arm more of her army. She frowned.

  “Make careful note of any useful supplies.”