The Betrayal

by Pati Nagle

  She stood, tore the last bit of bread in half, and offered him a piece. Luruthin took it, thanking her with a nod, sorry their conversation had ended. He was no longer hungry, but he ate the bread as he watched Eliani walk away, not wanting to waste any gift from her, even the humblest. He took a last swallow of wine to clear his throat, and another to dull the ache in his heart, before rising to return to his horse.

  Eliani glanced back at the straggling column, restraining her impatience to press ahead. They were near the summit, but it had taken longer than she had expected to reach. She had hoped not to camp in these heights.

  She knew of a sheltered place on the western side of the pass, perhaps a league below the summit. Were she alone, she would reach it easily by nightfall, but not all of the horses were as hardy as her mountain-bred gelding. Eliani halted her horse, patted its neck, and waited for the scout to close up.

  A sharp wind blew constantly from the west, swirling around the peaks and filling the air with gusts of stinging ice. The wind scoured snow away from the heights and piled it into deep drifts elsewhere.

  Eliani noticed a conce protruding from the snow beside the trail. She did not know whose it was; some Southfælder. Lonely to die up here, even in clement weather, and the conce meant the death had not been peaceful.

  Vaniron reached her, his horse's sides heaving, breath icing in the bright sunshine. The Greenglen's fair cheeks were wind-reddened, and his hair whipped in his face.

  “You seem to know your way. Have you crossed this pass before?”

  She shook her head. “Not in two de cades. I recall a ledge some way below the summit on the western side. We might camp there to night.”

  “I know the place. There was a fall of rock over the summer that blocked the trail above it, but if kobalen came through, they must have cleared it.”

  “Or climbed over it.”

  Eliani frowned. A blocked trail would pose a problem. They might have to clear it themselves to get to shelter. She glanced back toward the scout, then looked at Vanorin.

  “I will ride ahead and see if the way is clear. Wait here until the others have come up, then bring them on.”

  Vaniron acknowledged this, pulling his hood up to protect his face from the wind. Eliani braced herself and turned into it, urging her horse forward through knee-deep snow.

  The trail leveled as she reached the summit, curving along the shoulder of a craggy peak. Two others loomed overhead, bright against the blue sky. One bore on its side the headwaters of the Silverwash, here an icy trickle against dark stone, its first cascade frozen in its fall. Eliani remembered how the stream danced in summer, tried to warm herself with thoughts of better weather.

  When the icefall was out of sight and the trail began to descend, she tightened her reins, holding her mount to a slow walk. She considered dismounting but found that as the slope steepened, the snow all but vanished except where the wind had driven it into crannies in the rocky western face of the mountains.

  Not far ahead the trail rounded a ridge, and from there she should be able to see whether the way was clear below. She dismounted after all, listening to an inner prompting whose source she could not identify, something in the wind, perhaps. She remembered Heléri's advice to trust such feelings. Whether they were spirits' guidance or merely instinct, she could not tell.

  Reins in hand, she reached the turn and paused, listening. No sound came to her save the wind's harsh breath. She laid the reins on the saddle, stepped forward, and looked down the westward trail.

  The sun, still high above the flat horizon, glinted harshly on the western cliffs, sharpening their edges. The trail below was clear of rock, but as her gaze followed it toward the camping place and beyond, she saw movement on the plain below, like the flickering of a firespear forest.

  Eliani gasped and leapt backward, nearly tripping in her haste to get behind the ridge. She flattened her back against the rock and stood panting, her breath icing before her, each wisp caught away by the wind.

  No forest, that. No greenleaf trees grew on the wind-scoured plains west of the Ebon Mountains. She had seen the glimmer of an army encampment.

  She held still and sought to control her breathing, wishing there were some living thing in these heights through which she might expand her sense of what lay below. Air and rock were all she had. She scented the wind for a trace of kobalen nearby but detected none.

  Laying a hand on the rock face of the ridge, she closed her eyes, feeling for a tremor of movement on the trail. Either there was none or her senses had been deadened by cold and wind. No khi, bright or dark, disturbed the thin air save that of her scout to the east and of their mounts. She drew a breath, left her horse, and dropped to her belly before edging around the turn.

  The sight of the encampment was less a shock this time, but no less frightening. A smear of darkness sprawled out onto the plain, seeming to writhe with movement: the glimmer of spear points, their glass edges catching the late sun. That was what she first had seen.

  Many kobalen were massed together below—hundreds, more than ten times the largest band she had ever heard of—far more than she had ever imagined seeing at once. As she watched, they rushed all at once to the south in a scattered, disorganized charge.

  Eliani cupped her hands about her eyes, squinting to make out the leaders of the charge. There seemed to be none. The kobalen stopped and began to wander back to their starting place.

  She shifted her gaze, taking in a vast scatter of rough camps and fire pits interspersed with the rubbish heaps that marked any place the kobalen dwelt. Judging from the size of these, the kobalen had not been there long. In fact, to the northwest across the wastes she saw what seemed to be a band of new arrivals approaching, some fifty or sixty strong.

  She wasted no time trying to guess why the kobalen had chosen this remote and barren place for a winter camp. This was not their ordinary behavior. There was some game in the wastes but not enough to feed such a horde, at least not for long.

  She crawled behind the ridge, then mounted her horse and returned through the pass. She saw Vanorin and Luruthin approaching at the head of the scout and signaled to them to halt, then rode forward to meet them.

  “There are kobalen encamped on the wastes below. A large army.”

  She led the two of them to see for themselves. They all crouched on the trail overlooking the kobalen camp.

  Luruthin frowned as he gazed at the masses of kobalen. “They could attack at any time. We must go back at once and inform Lord Felisan.”

  Vanorin nodded. “Southfæld must be warned as well.”

  “Yes.”

  With a shock, Eliani realized she had the means, perhaps, to warn Southfæld instantly. A slow dread poured through her veins.

  She did not wish to use mindspeech to contact Turisan. She had not decided yet whether to commit to the use of their gift, and the mere thought of speaking to him now, of letting him into her thoughts, set her trembling. It would end any choice she had about her future, she knew. The next time they spoke, she would fall from the precipice, and be lost.

  If she held off—if she sent Vanorin's folk galloping for Glenhallow instead—would she be placing her freedom above the safety of all Southfæld? She did not even know if she could speak to Turisan at this distance. The only way to know was to try.

  She looked at Vanorin. “How long will it take you to get word to Glenhallow?”

  “A message can be relayed along the guard posts in two days, three at most.”

  Two days, and another day to get down from the pass. If they traveled all night, they might reach the outpost by morning.

  Eliani swallowed. “Let us go, then.”

  Chagrin smote her even as she got to her feet. She strode hard for the horses, fighting a silent battle within herself, every moment weighing on her conscience.

  Surely the kobalen would not move in three days, not if they were still arriving, as the black column implied. She glanced skyward, seeing the fair
weather now as a curse rather than a blessing. If only a storm would close the pass …

  The ælven creed called for serving one's people. If her judgment proved wrong in this matter, lives could be lost—many lives, perhaps.

  It would be so simple to pass the news to Turisan. No need to hasten the scout down the mountain again.

  How much would three days' warning gain them, though? Time to raise a defense or even part of one? Would it matter at all?

  It mattered. To her, if to no one else. She reached her horse and swung into the saddle, calling out orders to the scout to return eastward.

  She could not bring herself to speak to Turisan. Despising herself, she urged her fellow guardians down the mountain, hoping she was not risking their very lives.

  Nightsand

  The sky over Nightsand was hazy, a hint of rain in the damp air, the night Shalár brought her catch home. She rode the weary catamount, and Yaras walked beside it.

  He had been her chosen at Hunt's Eve, but now they were returned to Nightsand. Dareth would be first with her here, always. Shalár felt a sharp impatience to see him, to give him the fresh, strong blood of a newly caught kobalen, to enjoy the strength it would give him.

  She looked up toward the Cliff Hollows and saw him standing in the gallery with the draperies open behind him. He must see her and Yaras walking beside her. He was neither blind nor a fool, and he would know she had favored Yaras.

  Well, he knew of all her couplings. She never hid them. She had too high a regard for Dareth to deceive him.

  In silence, Shalár rode through the city and up the long, steep trail to the Cliff Hollows, then on it toward the pens. She reached the entrance to the pens and paused to dismount. The catamount had no fight in it; she left it lying beside the entrance, needing only a feather touch of khi to control it. Let the kobalen believe, if they would, that the cat would stand guard over them, ready to devour any that tried to escape.

  None would escape the pens. None ever had.

  Shalár turned the catch over to Nihlan, selecting a strong kobalen to take with her to the Cliff Hollows. When they had left the pens behind, the creature attempted to break free and would have flung itself from the cliff had she not instead forced it to its knees. She made it crawl the rocky path until she became impatient to be at home. When at last she let it rise again, the scent of its blood filled the air.

  The guards at the entrance to the Cliff Hollows bowed in greeting, their khi flaring with sudden hunger. She swept past them and into the audience chamber, where she had seen Dareth standing.

  He was there, tall, clad in gray, gazing out at Night-sand below. The city blazed with light, welcoming the return of the hunters.

  “Dareth.”

  His head came up at the sound of her voice, though he did not turn at once. Shalár wavered between anger and concern that she had worn out his patience at last. She felt suddenly small and weary, wanted his arms around her.

  No weakness. She drew herself up and strode toward him.

  He turned at last and reached a hand up to brush against her cheek. “How strong you look.”

  “I have brought you a feeder.”

  His smile faded to a look of trouble. “Here?”

  “Yes, here! Why not here? Do you think it shameful? It is time you embraced the truth of our survival, Dareth.”

  He winced as if her words had cut him. Shalár felt regret, but would not take them back.

  She took his hand, felt the thinness of his khi against her flesh. He had not fed, perhaps not since she had left to hunt. She felt a flash of fear.

  “Come.”

  She pulled him away from the gallery, across the chamber, toward her private rooms. He came, as reluctantly as the kobalen at first. She urged them both on, impatient now that his hunger had enhanced her own.

  As they reached her bedchamber, she took his shoulders in her hands, leaning forward to kiss him. The kobalen tried feebly to escape her grasp. She bore it down instead, made it kneel, then lie on the cold stone floor. She pulled Dareth down with her onto the thick furs nearby and reached a hand to her knife.

  Dareth's hunger flared. “Shall I find a cup?”

  “No.”

  Shalár drew him close to the kobalen. Dareth's brow gathered into an anxious frown; his breaths came quick and short. She opened a vein behind the kobalen's ear with a flick of her blade, then bent to it and filled her mouth with the rich, khi-heavy blood.

  Tossing the knife aside, she reached for Dareth, twining her arms around his neck and sharing with him as she had with others on the hunt. He shuddered, then seemed to come afire, embracing her tightly, deepening the kiss. Laughing, she pulled away from him and urged him to feed on the blood that was seeping, hot and vital, from the feeder's neck.

  He was aflame with hunger now and needed no second invitation. While he bent to the feeder, she searched for her knife among the furs. She made a second cut for herself, wiped her knife and sheathed it, then curled around Dareth and abandoned herself to feeding.

  Later, much later, after they had drained the feeder and coupled frantically and unsuccessfully on the floor beside it, Shalár rose and shed the few pieces of clothing she yet wore. Dareth's robe had been much easier to dispose of than her hunting leathers. He lay naked on the furs, sated, dreamily watching her, his smile tinged with sadness.

  “I missed you.”

  Shalár knelt beside him. “And I you.”

  “So the hunt was successful.”

  “Very successful.”

  “I am glad.”

  She looked at him, admiring the line of his throat beneath the pale hair, watching the shadows at the back of his eyes. Glad of what? Glad she was back? Glad it was over?

  “I have sent Ciris and Welir to gather an army of kobalen.”

  Dareth's brow creased, and he closed his eyes. “Another war? It will fail, just as before.”

  “No. This time I have a way to make the kobalen stand.”

  She told him how she had gathered the most sharp-witted kobalen from the hunt's catch, told him of the bargain she had made with them and how she planned to enforce it. Dareth listened in silence. She watched him, eager for a sign of his approval. He seemed only to sink deeper in concern.

  “They need not defeat the ælven. They need only hold their attention long enough for us to recapture Fireshore.”

  At that Dareth raised his head and met her gaze. He said nothing, though his eyes told of hopelessness.

  “We can win it back. Now is the time. We will never be stronger.”

  “And what of those who have dwelt there these many centuries?”

  Shalár stood and went to a shelf for a pitcher of wine. She poured herself a glass, then glanced at Dareth, who shook his head.

  “If they are wise, they will flee whence they came.”

  “And those who were born there in the meantime?”

  Dareth's voice was quiet but unrelenting. Shalár took a mouthful of wine, savoring it before she swallowed.

  “They may remain if they will give allegiance to Darkshore.”

  Dareth closed his eyes, shaking his head. Annoyed, Shalár tossed off the wine in her cup and poured more.

  “Do you not wish to return to your home?”

  He looked at her, a slight, sad smile touching his lips. “This is my home.” He reached out to brush his fingers along her leg. “You are my home.”

  She sank down beside him again. “Fireshore is my home.”

  It was Darkshore's home, home to all of them, though they were beginning to forget it. Shalár clung fiercely to the memory of their true home, but others had begun to accept less. Nightsand had its pleasures. She felt a wave of despair at the thought that her folk might give up the fight for their rightful lands.

  “I will take a force of hunters north within the season.”

  Dareth's throat moved in a swallow. He said nothing, made no sign of acknowledgment.

  “Promise me you will feed while I am gone.
”

  He gave a startled blink. His lips parted, then he looked away. Shalár moved closer.

  “Dareth.” She touched his face, frightened by the weariness in his eyes. “How can you have lost the desire to live?”

  “I dislike the cost of living as we do.”

  “You liked it well enough just now.”

  He cast a resentful glance at her and sat up, moving away. The dead kobalen lay within arm's reach.

  “Dare to tell me you did not enjoy it!”

  “Yes, I enjoyed it. That does not change my belief that it is wrong.”

  “Wrong to survive in the only way we can? We have no choice, Dareth!”

  He was silent. Cursing herself for falling into their ancient dispute, Shalár stood and went to her wardrobe, pulling out a robe. When she returned, Dareth had not moved. He sat watching her, his fair brow drawn into a frown.

  Shalár moved toward him, fear, love, and anger warring in her heart. She knelt beside him, reached for him, wrapped herself around him. His body responded, sliding into her easily as his arms enfolded her. She clung to him, not moving, savoring the near completeness of their embrace. Only a little distance and they would be irrevocably joined, bonded in the making of a new life.

  Shalár's heart leapt with hope. Would a child inspire Dareth to live on despite his misgivings? She needed no further reason to seek conception, yet here it was.

  Moaning, she pushed herself against him. He pushed back gently. Slowly, gently, her silken robe caressing them both as they moved. No anxious rush. Perhaps this was the way. She reached for his khi, gathering it to her like petals of a fragile blossom scattered by the wind.

  She whispered his name, feeling the heat of their coupling intensify. She arched her back, leaning into him with her hips.

  “Come inside me, Dareth.”

  “Let me in.” He pressed back.

  She grasped at a shred of Yaras's memory, a moment's confusion of passion and swirling khi. Felt herself start to yield, then even as her heart leapt she was swept with a shuddering climax. She cried out in frustration and joy.