Her anguish was shattering. There was so much pain, so much fear. For him. For the Alliance.
And so much courage, to face this alone. Her heart broke not for herself but for him.
Talesin had been right, they would destroy her for what she wasn’t, not what she was.
Leaning across, Daran grabbed Goras’s arm in as tight a grip as he could manage on that massive, heavily muscled limb.
It was like grasping an oak branch. He couldn’t close his fingers around it.
“Listen to me,” he said, furiously, urgently.
Angry eyes turned to him.
“Listen to me. Exile. She offers it freely. To the borderlands. Where all manner of fell creature that fled the battle now lives. She won’t be a martyr to plague us as others take up her banner. And they will. The Hunters, Woodsmen, common soldiers, those who fought besides her will rise up. Elon and Jareth will make certain of it. Not all fear her, even among your own people. It’s a gift, Goras, a gift. We’ll appear merciful rather than fearful and vengeful.”
The black eyes beneath thick, overhanging brows sharpened as they looked at him.
“Yes. You see it, don’t you? If she goes mad out there, what can she harm? Thieves, bandits, drows and such. Look at her. She may be Otherling but in all other aspect she’s of my race. Short-lived. She’s High-born, her father a lesser King. What does she know of living in such wilderness?”
Goras turned his great head and for the first time, really looked upon the thing.
Otherling.
Small. Fragile. She didn’t look even as strong as a Dwarven child.
Abomination.
He remembered Amarok. Vividly. And the bodies, both of those who had and hadn’t died in the collapse. The shock and the horror of it. It stoked his rage but he choked it back.
There was something here. There was that about Daran, he was clever in the way his people were clever, with his schemes and his plots. Goras would give him his chance to explain.
Or take his axe and end this madness and this Alliance with it.
He looked at Daran.
“She’ll likely die,” Daran said, “or go mad from the isolation. Many of them do. Especially in the barren and unforgiving lands of the Escarpment, with no solace or companionship, alone among drows, goblins, drakes. If she doesn’t, one of those fell creatures will take her, magic or no. It won’t be of our doing.”
Grinding his teeth, Goras looked upon her again.
Just her presence affronted him.
Exile. Into the borderlands. Exile wasn’t a concept he recognized.
The mountains, caves, caverns and tunnels in which you were born were your place. You went nowhere else. Among his people, one left only to join the clan of one’s wife and then you became part of that. There was no concept of exile. It didn’t exist. If you killed another Dwarf, through mischance or accident – in a rage, perhaps, Dwarves being a hot-tempered Race – then you joined the clan you’d damaged, as its lowest member. It happened now and again.
You didn’t leave.
You were Dwarf, a member of your clan. You and everything in it belonged to that clan. If not there, where would you go? He couldn’t imagine it. It was inconceivable.
When Amarok had gone mad, he’d taken most of his family with him. Those that survived had submitted themselves to other clans and the name of that clan was no longer spoken.
Exile.
To not belong to a clan.
To be cast out beneath the vast sky into the borderlands where only fell things lived. Drows, goblins, things such as had boiled up out of the darkness of the deep earth to slaughter his people, such creatures as he’d seen in battle.
“Avila has crafted the pledge carefully. I’ve seen it. Trust me in this and you’ll be satisfied, I promise. Your people will be satisfied. Will you agree?”
After a moment, Goras drew a deep breath through his nostrils.
Exile.
Not of a clan. Cast out beneath the sky. To die or go mad. It wasn’t the axe and the blood. It would still be death and a miserable one.
He nodded. “It’s acceptable.”
With a sharp nod, Daran rose.
In an instant, silence fell.
Whatever was being said among the three on the landing was lost.
One look when Daran stood and Elon knew which way this would fall. He saw it in the satisfaction on Daran’s face. It had been foreordained. Daran had made sure of it. Had secured it, weaving his schemes behind the scenes.
In an odd way, Elon felt betrayed. By what he wasn’t sure. Daran? He knew that scheming King, knew how much he’d wanted Elon brought to heel.
By his hope in justice, in reason?
Among his own people there might have been a chance.
Among men, Dwarves? Or were there too many to know?
Not by Ailith. Never her. No.
He saw in her look a sure knowledge and a piercing resignation.
He swept a glance across the dais, taking in the expression on Daran’s face, the gratification and ferocity in Goras’s. Eliade had returned to her seat, her face still. One Elf could read another, however, and he saw the relief in her.
It was justice that had betrayed him. He’d wanted it, had counted on reason.
Reason had failed him, too.
Looking at the faces of those above him he knew then that Ailith’s assessment had been correct. Her fate had been decreed, no words of his could change have changed it or saved her, loath though he was to admit it.
She was merely a pawn in this game, a piece on a game-board to be sacrificed to strategy of the players.
The taste of that knowledge was like bitter herbs in his mouth.
In Avila’s glance he saw calculation.
She had no love for him as he had none for her. Where the source of the rumors?
There.
There was a fierce resolve behind her look, a determination. She wanted wizards on the Council. A Council of Four, not three, with the wizards on equal footing. He would never accept that. First, he would never again bequeath such power to wizards. Second, the Council, especially the Three, represented the people, all of the people, and Avila had little care for the common folk. Be they Elf, Dwarf, or Man. And last? Her craving for power concerned him as well but not nearly as much as her tendency to take everything as if it were a personal affront.
This was only more proof of that, it was nothing other than petty revenge. With Ailith’s life at stake.
His resolve to deny her only hardened.
The Dwarves, though, moved restively and even their women looking grim, harsh and angry.
Elon knew how ingrained was their abhorrence for Otherlings.
There were many among these who had lived through that time. Unless he could convince them Ailith was no threat, her presence alone was anathema to them. That threatened their participation in the Alliance. They hadn’t wanted it, would have preferred to stay solitary and alone in their mountain fastnesses and mines but a few had seen the need.
That tenuous hold would falter under this threat.
Goras didn’t want it, had wanted either Agreement nor Alliance.
Daran was no friend, nor was he an enemy. Elon knew the man well, knew his ambitions and his plans.
His vision of the Alliance was his legacy, it would etch his place in history forever.
More than any other thing, that drove the man.
Binding the three races together for the common good of all, that was Daran’s vision.
And his own.
In that he and Daran were of like minds. That was Daran’s plan. Elon’s place as a member of the council was set but Daran wanted him among the Three in Eliade’s place. She didn’t share Daran’s view of the Alliance nor Elon’s. She sat for the Elves, not for all.
Still, she would support Elon’s elevation so long as he worked for the good of their people. And he would. That Elon knew.
Whether he willed it or not, Daran meant to hav
e him among the Three but Daran would sacrifice even him for his Alliance.
Without a second thought.
As he sacrificed Ailith now.
Below, the temper of the crowd was thin, the shifting of feet and the murmur of their voices ebbing and flowing through anger, rage, compassion and disappointment. A turn of phrase might perhaps sway them but the price would be high.
He was torn. It was out of his hands but it shouldn’t be.
This, though, was not what the Alliance had been meant to do, this hadn’t been his vision.
The Alliance had been formed to join the races, to provide a common rule, a voice and a defense for all the races and all of the people. He had been one of the architects of it, had set the virtues of knowledge, justice, compassion and reason above all else. That had been what the Alliance, what this place, this building, was supposed to represent.
A place of refuge. A place of justice. Someplace where the alone and powerless would have a champion.
How more alone than she, who couldn’t even claim a people?
There was no justice here.
Yet, if he demanded it, there would be no Alliance and then no justice either.
To have one he must sacrifice the other.
Then, too, he knew as well as all who had been on the battlefield that day that this war hadn’t been truly won, it wasn’t truly over. It had been a draw, at best, although in the battle itself they’d emerged victorious.
Elon was under no illusions. There would be a return.
Without the Alliance, each race would battle on its own, divided.
Ailith. His Ailith. The bond between them broke his heart and healed it at one and the same moment.
Her joy, that effervescent joy. The way her eyes lit when she saw him. He’d sworn to himself to protect and aid her. He couldn’t do either here. For the first time in his long life he was helpless.
He’d fought beside her, had set her at his back as he had Colath and trusted her to guard it without question. She had. As he’d guarded hers. Had said to her, do this, as he could say to Colath and she’d done it. She’d worn chains for him, had saved his life as he’d saved hers. How many times? He couldn’t count the number.
He trusted her and cared for her. Deeply. How deeply he’d dared not know. Especially in the face of this.
Elon closed his eyes. To know and then to have to let her go for the sake of all their people?
Fierce in battle and merry in peace, resolute in adversity and always true to herself, that was his Ailith. The pain of this loss was nearly more than he could bear, though he wouldn’t show it.
His foresight warned of nothing.
Would they meet again?
He didn’t know. He only knew this wasn’t over.
It offended him, it violated everything he believed in and all he’d fought for.
What had he fought for if not this? Why this Alliance, if not for this? For her. How could he forsake her? Ailith. His Ailith.
For a moment he considered it. Exile. To follow her there. He wanted it, desperately. There was Colath, though, and his honor. His responsibilities to the Kingdoms and Aerilann. His heart wanted to go. She could lift the weight of those responsibilities with a glance, a smile. How could he let her go? Or go with her?
His honor wouldn’t allow it, not in the aftermath of this war – the one she’d won for them – he was still needed here. And if she had any chance, any possibility to have her exile lifted, he must stay.
Parted from her, only to be separated again.
They had been going to do the forms, the two of them, he and she. It tore at him.
Yet he must. If only for the chance to convince Daran to lift this exile they had laid on her.
Though it take years, Elon would do it. He would bring her home, somehow. Fight this. But that was something he could only do here. If he left who would defend her, fight for her?
He couldn’t leave but he would have her back at his side. Someday. Somehow. And in the meantime, she would be alone out there, with no one at her back.
As if his gaze had weight, Ailith felt Elon’s eyes upon her. She wanted to look in them, to see the way they would light when he saw her, as they had. But now she saw the pain and felt it, too, through the bond but she saw the light, also, and the warmth.
However much they wanted it, it couldn’t be.
Turning her gaze to the High King, Ailith’s heart thudded slowly in her chest.
Cold fear and dread of what she must do turned her muscles to water.
Exile. Into the borderlands.
Alone.
She must show no sign of her fear.
Meeting Daran’s eyes, she nodded.
“Accepted,” Daran, High King, intoned.
Elon’s heart seemed to stop. Beside him, Jareth went still.
Silence filled the Square, but only for a moment.
Daran wanted this over with and quickly, before there was another interruption.
He gestured.
“Master Avila.”
She glided out from among her people, stalked forward as a heron would stalk a fish, step by careful step. Her robes made it appear that she floated forward. Not tall, only of medium height for a woman of men, her brownish hair was cropped short and streaked lightly with gray. Neither pretty nor homely, she was known for her sharp mind and sharper tongue. In a crowd, she would go unremarked, only her magic set her apart. There was nothing otherwise that spoke of threat, of how very dangerous this seemingly average woman was.
In the back of Ailith’s mind she heard her father’s voice, that ancient promise.
‘Child, make no promises to any, not to myself or your mother, none, none and swear to it, none until and unless you have made clear judgment as to the repercussions of what you do. You have magic, child, use it carefully, cautiously and secretly. Don’t let any see. None. Don’t speak of it. Forget even that you have said this, until the day of your majority, when you will be free of it, but promise me, Ailith. Swear it to me.’
She had and it had held her.
It was ingrained in her.
Until the day Tolan had come and her father stopped asking.
From the first time she’d sworn to it in her fierce love for her father and her warm love for her mother, she’d been bound to it, bound as no other could be. Her father had known that. Wild magic decreed it. He’d known that promises and vows would be etched on her soul. By the magic that filled muscle, bone and blood, her word was, absolutely and literally her bond. Her father had known, had used it, had bound her with it to keep her safe. That one secret, the last one. The last curse of her gift. Did Avila know it?
“Ailith of Riverford,” Avila said and the taste of sweet satisfaction in her mouth was clear.
If she couldn’t control this magic then no one would. Certainly not Elon of Aerilann and definitely not Jareth. Though her shot had gone awry, there was a satisfaction in the pain both suffered in this.
Inwardly, Ailith shuddered as the woman stepped forward. Outwardly, she was calm.
The surge of pride in Ailith caught Jareth off guard even as he quailed inside.
Even he hadn’t known just how much Avila loathed Ailith until he saw the expression on Avila’s face. She hated any power she couldn’t control. He could see that clearly now. It wouldn’t have done to give Elon yet another reason to detest her, inasmuch as any Elf was capable of such, so Jareth hadn’t told him what he suspected. He’d disliked keeping secrets from Elon but this wouldn’t have helped.
Ailith knew. He could see she hadn’t mistaken it, she knew just how much Avila hated her yet she gave no sign of it. She was as still and serene as an Elf, her face expressionless.
That was the source of his pride, that she gave no sign of fear or trepidation as Avila stalked toward her. He’d grown as close to Ailith, nearly, as he was to Elon and Colath. Boon companion and dear friend.
The reality crashed over him, the crushing knowledge of her fate.
He could do no less than she, though, and stood straight and tall. He was glad now he’d worn his robes, to give this horrible occasion the bitter dignity it required.
“Do you swear to renounce all claim to your father’s lands, names and titles?”
There was a gasp from some of those in the crowd.
To men, name was paramount, you did honor to your family or not. Some among them may have known her father had already disowned her but now they demanded that she must also give up her name as well. No longer Ailith of Riverford. What then?
Another problem solved, Jareth thought bitterly, they would have a new heir for Riverford, and with no dispute.
That would suit Daran well. Those of Riverford had always been an independent lot, now he could choose someone more amenable. So, he had a two-fold justification for this. Plots within plots, that was Daran. In that he was much like Mornith. That isolation had left Riverford’s King vulnerable. The problem of Riverford was now solved. It would probably be someone from her mother’s family, as a sop to their wounded pride at discovering the father who’d raised her mother wasn’t the one who’d sired her. That they were also a more biddable clan would only stand in their favor. At the same time it would be a slap to those of her father’s family, punishment for having both a traitor and Otherling bearing their name.
Among Elves it wasn’t family for which you carried honor but yourself.
Home, however, was another matter. Not the land itself but the place itself, what had been made and carved there over the long centuries. The place of your people. Where you belonged and where you returned. It was part of your identity and precious to them. To be cast out from your Enclave was unthinkable. What worse punishment could be meted out upon an Elf than to be separated from their home. You could join another by choice or for soul-bond but the Enclave where you’d been born, in which you’d been raised, still had a place of reverence in every Elven heart.
Death was more merciful than exile.
In Elon’s memory he couldn’t remember a time when such a punishment had ever been set and only once in history. A moment in history of which no Elf had ever spoken, until Talesin had spoken of it.
Mornith.
This, this sent shudders through his soul. Did Ailith, with her Elven blood, feel it?
The Coming Storm Page 76