by Pati Nagle
Dareth spilled himself into her. Shalár held him more tightly, savoring each hot pulse, hoping still to make her body do her will, though it was too late. They convulsed together, then slowly fell still.
“Close. So close.”
His arms tightened around her. She felt him throb again inside her.
“Do not leave me before we have a child.”
The air was heavy with his silence. At last he answered. “I will not leave while you are here.”
He wished to keep her away from Fireshore. He would not succeed, but she acknowledged the reasoning behind his cruelty. She understood.
She wanted more, wanted his promise to feed, to live, to join her as the rightful governors of Fireshore. She knew it would be folly to make such demands. He had given her a promise, and it was not in Dareth's nature to promise less than he intended, so she knew she must be content with it.
She laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes for now to the toil that lay ahead. She must capture Fireshore swiftly if she was not to rule it alone.
The night was old by the time Shalár set out along the trail to the pens. She shivered in the cold and rubbed her arms through the sleeves of her tunic, wishing for her cloak. It was warmer here than on the plains but not so warm that she could forget the coming winter.
She must strike soon, while the nights were longest and the climate on the northern coast at its mildest. She needed every possible advantage.
She paused outside the chamber of the Greenglen female, who lay listless, curled against the wall. Shalár tasted her khi, found it dark with despair, heavy with anguish both mental and physical.
She frowned. Evidently her male guards had been too eager to obey her command that the Greenglens be bred. She should have foreseen the problem, with only one female among the new captives. She would have to remind the guards that the ælven captives were not to be damaged, and give Nihlan instructions that this female be left alone for a while.
Moving on, she found the cave in which the lone Steppegard was housed. He, too, lay with his back to the door. A plate of food sat uneaten beside his pallet. He did not move, even at the sound of her key in the lock. That desperate spirit was beginning to weaken.
Shalár stepped inside and pushed the door closed, hearing the bolt click into the lock behind her. She put the keys into an inner pocket of her tunic, then walked toward the Steppegard and nudged him in the back with her toe.
He heaved a sigh. “I am spent. Try another.”
“Spent, my sweet? Then let us talk a while.”
He turned his head at the sound of her voice, looking up at her in mingled fear and hope. His eyes were sunken with weariness, his curling hair tangled and dull. He looked less well than she had expected.
“Bright Lady.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I thought you had forsaken me.”
“I have been away.”
“Have pity on me, lady. Let me go.”
“Come now, you know better than that.”
He struggled to raise himself, managed to sit up and lean against the wall. He seemed too weak for the short span of his imprisonment. Shalár glanced at the food, fearing he was deliberately starving himself. She picked up a dried apricot and held it to his mouth.
“Why have you not eaten?”
He made a face of disgust and turned his head away. “I cannot. I have tried. I am ill.”
Shalár put the fruit aside and frowned, kneeling to look at him more closely. She caught his jaw in her hand and pulled his head up while exploring his khi. What she found surprised her.
“Oh.” She released him. “Accept my commiserations.”
He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”
She smiled wryly and sat beside him on the blanketed pallet. “You have started down a dark path. Sadly, there is no turning back.”
He gazed at her in dull confusion. “What path?”
“The path of hunger. The path of my people, Steppegard. Your own clan will shun you if they see you again, not that they ever will.”
Understanding crossed his face like a cold wind, wiping away what color was left in it. “I will never follow your path!”
“I gather the ælven still believe there is a choice? It grieves me to tell you there is none.”
“No. No! It is unfair.”
Shalár chuckled. “Quite.”
She watched him, rethinking her plans for making him yield up what he knew. He would have to be tempted with blood, and before it would tempt him, he would have to learn that it was now his proper food. That could take time, and she had little to spare.
“Tell me what you know of Fireshore, and I will ease your pain.”
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I have told you all I know.”
“No, my sweet, you have not.”
Slowly, patiently, she questioned him, demanding details of every place he had seen in Fireshore in the last year. How many dwelt in Bitterfield? In Woodrun? In Blackland? How much darkwood was traded? How many hunters had the usurpers of Clan Sunriding, and how armed? How often did foreigners like himself visit each town? When was he last in Ghlanhras, and what was its condition then?
She kept at him until he slumped against the wall and his voice became a raw whisper. His answers seemed truthful, and some might be useful. When she judged he was near exhaustion, she asked the question she had kept in reserve.
“What is Alpinon to you?”
His brow tightened in a feeble frown. “Nothing.”
“Untrue. You do not uphold the ælven creed, Steppegard.”
His eyes opened as he turned his head toward her, a flash of spirit kindling in his glance. “Nor do you!”
“Not for many centuries.”
He gazed at her hopelessly for a moment, then his head drooped in despair. She judged it time to offer an incentive.
She stood, leaving him there without a word. Going to the door, she let herself out and returned to Nihlan's antechamber.
“Hand me my chalice and knife.”
Nihlan rose hastily and fetched them down from the shelf. “Shall I assist you, Bright Lady?”
“No need.”
Shalár took the items, some dryleaf, and Nihlan's larger ring of keys, then went down the wide noisome passage to the pens where kobalen were kept. These large caves, a series of them, were accessed from the passage by short tunnels at intervals, each watched by a member of Darkshore's guard. Shalár went down the first, acknowledging the guard's salutation. She looked through the small grating set into the heavy darkwood door that secured the chamber.
Some fifty kobalen lay within, mostly sleeping. Shalár sought through their khi and found a strong one nearby. Taking hold of its mind, she made it stand and come to the door. One or two others showed curiosity; she took their minds as well and stilled them.
She made the kobalen step out, then stand still while she locked the door again. She drew her knife across its throat and filled her chalice, stopped the flow of blood with a bit of dryleaf, and returned the kobalen to the pen. Carefully carrying the brimming cup, she returned the keys to Nihlan and sought the Steppegard once more.
There was much strength left in him—she must not forget that—but just now he was sorely depleted. The food she had brought, if he accepted it, would change that.
He lay in a heap on the pallet. She knelt beside him, setting her chalice nearby, and raised him to sit against the wall once more. His eyes watched her dully.
Shalár reached for her cup and held it before his face, close so that he could smell the blood within. The Steppegard frowned, then looked at her.
“Try it.”
She moved the cup closer, held it to his lips. For a long moment he did not move, save the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathed, staring down at the fresh blood. At last he opened his lips and took a small sip.
He frowned at first, then swallowed and took a breath. Like a child trying a new food, he seemed to be deciding whet
her he cared for it.
Shalár waited, watching him. The smell of the blood was making her hungry, as was the Steppegard's distress. She should have taken some herself before bringing this to him.
Never mind. She could wait.
He shot her a resentful glance, then lowered his mouth to the cup again, taking a larger swallow, then another. His hand came up to grasp weakly at the stem. Shalár kept hold of it, tipping the chalice toward him as he drank, greedily now. He paused to breathe, and she pulled it back, his hand falling away. He had drunk nearly half.
He stared at her, blood on his lips, a look of wonder on his face. His gaze shifted to the cup and sharpened. He reached for it, but Shalár held it away.
“What is Alpinon to you?”
Anger filled his eyes even as fresh color flooded his sallow cheeks. Shalár stood up and stepped out of his reach. He was still weak but had taken enough to give him momentary strength.
“Tell me of Alpinon and you shall have the rest.”
He stared at her resentfully, then collapsed against the wall. “I have not been there in de cades. Last I knew there were some twelve hundreds in Highstone—”
“I know Highstone's condition, thank you. What does it mean to you?”
He let out a weary sigh. “Nothing, lady. There is nothing for me there. I have done all you required. For mercy's sake, let me go.”
“Where?” Shalár stepped away from the wall, moved in front of him, crouched with the chalice in her hands. “Where would you go, Steppegard? Your people will not have you.”
She watched his face sag with cold understanding. She had stopped trying to help the ælven who acquired the hunger in her keeping, but this one was more adaptable than most.
“You could have a place here. You could walk free under the stars.”
He looked up, his gaze fixing first on the chalice then on her face. The golden-brown eyes stared at her coldly.
“At what cost?”
Shalár smiled. An idea was beginning to grow in her mind. This Steppegard might be very useful, after all.
“A small service you can do me. An errand. I will think on the details and tell you when I have decided.”
As she began to stand, sudden panic flashed in his eyes and he lunged for the chalice. Shalár recoiled, but his hand caught at hers enough to tip the cup.
Blood spilled over her sleeve and across the stone floor. Shalár backed away from the Steppegard, who collapsed onto his hands and knees, staring at the spilled food.
Shalár licked the blood from her wrist, watching him as she caught her breath. “That was foolish, Steppegard. And wasteful. We cannot afford waste here.”
A little blood was left in the cup. Shalár tossed it off while he watched in mute dismay. She gazed at him for a long moment, then turned to leave the chamber, alert for signs of another attack in his khi. There were none.
She locked the door behind her and looked in at him through the grate. He was still staring at the pool of blood slowly cooling on the floor. As she watched, he lowered his head to it and began to lick it up. Not with the desperation of the starving, but with the determination of the wise.
Southfæld
Luruthin rode beside Eliani as he had since Midrange, watching her in silent concern. She had grown more grave the closer they came to Glenhallow. He had given up trying to converse with her; it seemed only to annoy her.
The kobalen army's presence had thrown a pall of apprehension over all the party, and changed what had been a pleasant journey to an urgent one. Felisan had hastened them onward as fast as the animals could go without suffering harm, and they had reached the valley of Glenhallow in only nine days.
The city was visible as soon as they crossed the last ridge, shimmering golden in the distance. Their approach led them between meadows of dry grass through which twined the Silverwash, grown wide and lazy here.
Luruthin gazed in awe at Glenhallow. Highstone was a mere village in comparison with the sprawling, graceful curves of Southfæld's seat of government. Built of golden-hued stone, the city rested between two large hills at the feet of the Ebon Mountains. The chain was less wide here than in Alpinon, but its peaks were higher and more forbidding, a dramatic background for the golden city.
A river flowed down from the mountains, passing to the north of Glenhallow and then curving around its outer wall, winding southward to join the Silverwash. Arcing bridges spanned the lesser river, connecting the city with the river road.
They reached the confluence of rivers and turned westward. On a broad plain below the city's outer wall, troops of guardians were practicing, three hundred or more by his count. Luruthin wondered if they were on alert because of the kobalen at Midrange. He glanced at Eliani, who ordinarily would have taken an interest, but she seemed lost in thought.
They crossed the centermost bridge and continued on a wide road paved in golden stone. A large gate in the city's wall stood open, flanked by six guardians in Southfæld green. A tall Greenglen lady waited at the gate, dressed richly in silver-hued robes and mounted on a gray horse. As the delegation halted, she raised a hand in greeting.
“Welcome, Lord Felisan.”
Felisan nodded. “Jhinani. Well met, my lady.”
“Lord Jharan asked me to greet you and give you his apologies for not doing so himself. He is in conference with the Eastfæld delegation and will see you as soon as they have adjourned.”
“Eastfæld arrived recently?”
“Yesterday. They had not yet heard of the kobalen massing at Midrange; that is what Jharan is discussing with them now. We are grateful to you for Lady Eliani's warning.”
Her gaze shifted to Eliani, a delicate eyebrow rising in inquiry. Felisan made a gesture of presentation.
“This is my daughter, Lady Eliani, and these are my kindred Lady Heléri, Theyn Luruthin, and Curunan.”
Jhinani nodded to them all. “Welcome to Glenhallow.”
She turned her mount to lead them through a wide street lined with houses and guild halls. After some distance they came to a second gate through which they passed into the city's heart. Luruthin knew that the two walls together comprised the extent of Glenhallow's defenses; they had been built on Jharan's order after the Midrange War; before when the city had no defense at all, nor need of it.
With a grim smile, Luruthin reflected that High-stone was not much better protected. Only its difficult approach would deter attackers; it had no fortifications at all. Ælven cities were not designed with defense in consideration, for there had been no need before the Bitter Wars. Kobalen stayed away from larger settlements, ordinarily.
Within the inner wall Glenhallow formed a great half circle with its back against the foothills, curving streets crossed by wide avenues of golden stone. The main avenue sloped gently upward toward an immense public circle and a large building of the same stone, three-storied, with a central dome behind which rose a high tower. Luruthin stared in amazement at this structure as they reached the public circle.
Jhinani reined her mount to a halt. “Hallowhall, palace of the governors of Southfæld.” Luruthin glanced at her and saw her smiling; probably she found his reaction amusing.
“What is the spire, my lady?”
“The Star Tower. It is reserved for honored guests.”
“Who bides there now?”
She looked at him, her smile widening. “None, for we do not favor one realm above another at this Council gathering.”
Jhinani led them across the public circle toward the palace. All of Highstone would have fit easily within the circle. They passed a statue at its center—a silvered falcon with wings upraised, taller than a horse—then crossed a wide greensward separating the circle from the buildings around it. It was planted with greenleaf trees that still bore a few leaves painted in autumn hues.
Attendants came to take their horses. The guardians went with them, leaving only Luruthin and the four from House Felisanin to follow Lady Jhinani into the palace, whose front w
as graced with arched colonnades. An entrance hall as big as Felisanin Hall gave into a huge round room beneath a sky-colored dome. Jhinani paused there.
“This is the great hall, where public assemblies are held.”
She looked at Eliani, who was gazing at the floor. Luruthin sought to cover his cousin's inattention.
“It is magnificent. We have nothing like this in Alpinon.”
Jhinani smiled, then led them to a wide staircase that rose to a gallery circling the chamber. Stone arches carved as trees surrounded it, their branches reaching upward to support the dome. From there they could see the great hall's floor, an elaborate mosaic medallion of leaves and vines in shades of green stone, polished and circled with a band of silver a handspan in width.
Luruthin felt overpowered by all this grandeur. Here was the difference in age and population between Southfæld and Alpinon; his homeland was young in years compared with this realm. Its artisans might be as talented as Southfæld's, but they were not as numerous, nor had they the resources for works of this scope.
He looked away from the chamber and found Lady Jhinani patiently waiting while her guests admired their surroundings. Noting his gaze, she smiled, dark eyes gentle and warm.
“This is your first visit to our city.”
“Yes.” Luruthin glanced toward Eliani, who still stared down at the floor below.
“If you are not overtired, I would be pleased to show you the fountain court. It is our most celebrated place.”
“Ah, the fountains!” Lord Felisan nodded. “Yes, they are a wonder. Jharan has not yet added his own, I suppose?”
Jhinani's smile faded slightly. “Not yet.”
“He has been building other things.” Felisan glanced at his kin. “By all means, show us the fountains, though I think Lady Heléri might prefer to rest.”
“The way runs past your allotted chambers. I will take you there first.”
Jhinani led them out onto an arcade as broad as an avenue, bounded on the west by a colonnade of more carven trees between which the mountains seemed to loom suddenly larger. Drawn by the sound of running water, Luruthin stepped to the parapet and caught his breath at the sight below: a vast circular courtyard filled with the motion and glimmer of myriad fountains. Behind it a gigantic frieze of ornate trees had been carved into the mountainside, and by its golden hue Luruthin realized this must be where stone for the city had been quarried.