by Pati Nagle
“Is this a friend of yours?”
She made the Stonereach look at it. He said nothing, but his eyes widened in dread. The Greenglen glanced at the head, then quickly looked down again.
Feeling she had made her point, Shalár led them back into the city and signaled for the gates to be closed. She turned to Gavál.
“Well done. Bring them to the audience hall.”
“Yes, Bright Lady.”
She released the Stonereach, who drew a gasping breath. Ignoring him, Shalár strode along the passage to Darkwood Hall.
She would visit Firethroat another night. She wanted to question these captives. They would not be kept with the other ælven, she decided. These were warriors, and might incite the more docile city folk to unrest. No, she would keep them where she had kept her Stonereach and Othanin, though she would make certain first that the rooms were secure.
Passing through the hall to her private chambers, she glanced around for her ælven chamber attendant. The female sat on the floor by the door between Shalár’s workroom and bedchamber, as Shalár had commanded. She was rather gaunt and wore an air of dejection. Her black hair was braided back severely, without ornament.
Shalár went into the bedchamber. “Help me out of these leathers.”
The female rose and silently obeyed, her fingers fumbling a little at the buckles. Shalár stood still, observing the attendant’s khi, watchful for any flare of resistance, but the female was submissive, as she had been since the first night of her service. Shalár had subdued her quickly then, with judicious application of khi and the threat of killing the female’s father should she disobey. She had not had to repeat the lesson.
“Boots.”
The attendant knelt and pulled off Shalár’s boots. The second came off with difficulty, and the female’s tugging nearly pulled Shalár off balance. Shalár thrust a heel against her chest in rebuke, pushing her backward. The ælven sprawled and lay still for a moment, then slowly sat up.
“Bring me the broidered robe, then put those away.”
The female obeyed, keeping her gaze averted as she got to her feet and went to the wardrobe. She returned with the robe and held it for Shalár. It was silk, scarlet with firevines finely wrought in silver thread, one of the finest of Shalár’s new garments. She donned it, then went out without another glance at the ælven.
Ranad was hovering idly at the door to the audience hall, and brightened at her approach. Shalár paused.
“Bring me that steward again, and bring a set of fresh clothes that will fit him.”
Ranad looked curious. “Yes, Bright Lady.”
She brushed past him into the hall, mounting the dais where her governor’s chair stood. Its cushion had been covered in red at her orders, and flames carved into the curling smoke of its darkwood back. Darkshore ruled in Ghlanhras again, and all who sought audience with her would remember it.
Gavál was waiting at the back of the hall with his hunters and the ælven captives. Shalár beckoned one of the hall guards to her and gave him orders for the preparation of the holding rooms. He hastened away and she summoned Gavál with a gesture. He brought his prizes forward and made them kneel before her.
Shalár gazed at them for a moment, debating what information to seek of them. She already knew who they were, as far as she cared to know. She knew why they had come to Ghlanhras—to rescue Othanin and the Stonereach.
She knew from questioning the ælven attendants of Darkwood Hall that the female Stonereach who had escaped during her capture of the city was the daughter of Alpinon’s governor, and she had found among Othanin’s letters the messages that female had brought from the Ælven Council and the governor of Southfæld. It had amused Shalár to learn that Kelevon had escaped from them; she had assumed they would kill him. Fatally softhearted, the ælven.
She leaned forward, brushing her khi against that of the Stonereach. He flinched as if she had slapped him.
“Whither is your governor’s daughter bound?”
He stared at the floor, blinking rapidly, silent. Shalár wrenched his khi and he cried out, but still did not answer. She twisted harder, until he fell into a faint. Releasing him, she turned her attention to the Greenglen, who hastily looked away from her gaze.
“Where is she bound?”
“I do not know.”
She felt her way into his khi, found the dull pain of an arrow wound in his thigh, and sent fire into it. The ælven gasped and collapsed forward, then rolled onto his side clasping his leg. She waited for a moment until she was sure he would hear her, then spoke again.
“Where did you leave her?”
He gasped. “Outside the city. Oh, please stop!”
“She came here to deliver letters. Does she return to Southfæld?”
“I do not know. I do not know!”
“How many are with her?”
“T-ten? There were—twelve of us.”
“Including your friends at the gates, I presume.”
He made a gulping sound, but did not answer. Shalár let him go and he curled into himself, weeping and shivering.
She was annoyed at his lack of knowledge, but unsurprised. She did not share her plans with her own warriors. No doubt the Stonereach leader kept hers to herself.
Eight warriors with her, and they had all slipped through Shalár’s grasp. Disappointing. Most likely they were in Woodrun by now. In the Stonereach’s place, Shalár would be inciting the people of that town to fight, to arm and come against Ghlanhras. She needed to know if that was indeed coming to pass.
“Take them away, Gavál. Check the holding rooms yourself. If they make trouble, you will answer.”
“Yes, Bright Lady.”
Gavál bowed, then signaled his hunters to take the ælven out. Two of them carried the Stonereach, while the third prodded the Greenglen to his feet and made him limp from the hall. Shalár watched his slow progress, musing.
How quickly would an attack from Woodrun be organized? Several days had passed since the news must have reached the town. Shalár would need more kobalen before long, but if an attack was coming she could not spare the hunters from Ghlanhras.
Voices from the far end of the hall roused her. Ranad had returned with the steward, and was answering the hall guard’s challenge. The steward’s hands were bound behind him and a sack was slung across his shoulders, dangling at his back. Ranad shoved him to his knees at Shalár’s feet before sweeping a bow.
“Bright Lady, here is the ælven you wanted.”
“Thank you. Where are the clothes?”
“In that sack.”
“Unbind him and bring the sack.”
Shalár rose from her chair and waited for Ranad to obey her. He loosed the ælven’s bonds and glanced at her, then picked up the sack.
The ælven was staring at the hem of her robe, where the firevines twined in silver on the silk that had once been orange and was now red. His troubled frown told her he recognized the garment. She smiled in amusement, then led the way to her private chambers, with Ranad hastening the steward behind her. In the workroom she turned to Ranad.
“Put it by the door.”
The ælven steward’s face lit with relief as he caught sight of the chamber attendant.
“Teshali!” He took a step toward her, then caught Shalár’s eye and stopped, averting his gaze.
Shalár glanced at the attendant, whose face was alive with unaccustomed emotion. She, too, looked away.
Shalár watched them, trying to decide if their excitement would carry them to violence against her. She doubted it, but for the sake of her child’s safety, she decided to keep Ranad in the room. She looked at him.
“Close the door.”
Ranad obeyed, taking up a stance beside it. Shalár stepped up to the steward, who stood unmoving.
“You see? I have kept my pledge to you. Your daughter spends her days here, now, safe and doubtless bored out of her wits.”
The steward made no answer. His daught
er raised her eyes and a glance passed between them. Shalár sensed the intensity of their love in their khi. Useful, no doubt.
“I have a task for you.”
Both ælven looked at her. She glanced at the female, then turned her attention to the male.
“If you cherish your daughter’s safety, you will obey me exactly.”
His brow creased with worry. He gave a single nod.
“You will go to Woodrun. Take one of the horses in the stables. You should be able to go there, spend a night, and return in seven nights, if you hasten. If you do not return by the seventh night hence, she dies.”
The steward closed his eyes and nodded again. She saw a swallow move in his throat.
“I want information. You will spend one night and one day in Woodrun, visiting the market and every public lodge and tavern. You will listen, and ask questions only if you can do so without raising suspicion. You will say nothing of Ghlanhras, of me or my people. Do you know why I can trust you to say nothing?”
He glanced at her, surprise and confusion in his face. Shalár smiled.
“Because the longer it takes your ælven to learn about us, the longer it will be before they come against us. The next time ælven attack this city, your daughter dies.”
The steward gasped, dread coming into his eyes. He looked at his daughter, but said nothing.
“Find out how many of the ælven who attacked Ghlanhras are in Woodrun. Find out if their leader is there—she is a Stonereach, daughter of Alpinon’s governor—or any of her people, or Othanin. Find out if there is any movement to organize a force against us, and if so how many are raised. Do you understand?”
He nodded. Shalár gestured to Ranad to bring her the sack. He picked it up and strolled forward with it, lazily watching the ælven. Shalár took the sack and tossed it to the female.
“Help him bathe and dress.”
Turning away, she left the room, taking Ranad with her. Outside she told him to stay near her chambers and inform her when the steward had departed.
“Your pardon, Bright Lady, but is it wise to leave them alone together? They may scheme—”
“Let them have their touching moment. It will make him the more eager to return. They can make no scheme that will mar my plans.”
“Yes, Bright Lady.”
“Were there any others seeking audience tonight?”
“No, Bright Lady.”
“I will be in the gardens.”
Ranad bowed as she strolled away, down the corridor that led to the elaborate private gardens behind Darkwood Hall. Moonlight smote her face as she stepped outside, bright enough to tingle against her skin. She frowned up at the orb that blazed out amid drifting clouds, then stepped into the shade of a laceleaf tree.
These gardens had been her favorite haunt as a child. She had played here, hidden here, buried her treasures beneath the trees and bushes and vented her youthful woes to the silent statues. She wandered the paths of crushed black stone now as she had then, seeking respite from her cares.
A large house to one side of the garden had accommodated the attendants, cooks, and others who served in Darkwood Hall. Now it housed Shalár’s hunters. She glanced at it, then continued along the black path into the depths of the garden, where trees hid the buildings of Ghlanhras from view and one could pretend one was in a peaceful forest.
Water trickled in a stream alongside the path, chuckling now and again over small falls where the stones were carefully placed to create the most musical sounds. It masked the noises drifting to the gardens of the destruction of another vacant house and the work on the covered passages.
The moon did not show itself again to trouble Shalár, but remained cloaked in the gathering cloud. Shalár wandered the garden paths, discovering them anew, for this was the first night she had ventured here since her return. She frowned when she encountered some small change the ælven had made, and smiled with delight at finding others of her favorite places unaltered. At last she found herself in a glade she remembered all too well, standing before the statue of the fire maiden.
Carved from a single piece of ebonglass, the maiden stood atop a boulder of black rock taken from the mouth of Firethroat. She was fair and terrible, gazing sternly down at Shalár, evoking even now a whisper of the awe Shalár had felt as a child. The ælven who had long ago carved the statue had laid in subtle enchantments of khi, so that flickers of firelight seemed to dance in the maiden’s hair of flame. Shalár had wanted to be like her.
She scarcely remembered the legend. Some nonsense about the maiden giving herself to the flames to appease Firethroat’s wrath, as if the mountain were a living thing that cared in the least what its disgorgements destroyed, or could sense and appreciate the maiden’s sacrifice. Instead of dying in the volcano’s maw, the maiden was supposedly transformed and lived on as a spirit of flame, watching over the safety of Ghlanhras. Foolish as all ælven tales.
Not foolish.
The words were a whisper in her mind, and not her own. With a tingling in her flesh Shalár realized it was her daughter speaking to her. She held still, straining to hear more. She felt the child’s presence as she often did, and had a sense that the spirit was trying to tell her something of importance.
You are like her.
Shalár glanced up at the fire maiden’s face, smooth glass curving, cheeks gleaming as if wet with tears. She had given her life to the survival of her people, if that was what the spirit meant. It was the only way Shalár could think of in which she was at all like the fire maiden.
The tingling faded as her sense of the child diminished. No more would be said tonight. It must take a great effort to say even so much, Shalár concluded. She felt frustrated, and wondered if the child felt so as well.
These moments were gifts, however fleeting. She closed her eyes, treasuring it up as a memory.
Like the fire maiden, am I? Well, the ælven shall soon see that it is so. While I breathe, I will fight to keep Fireshore for my people.
A whisper troubled the leaves of the trees, and a moment later she felt the gentle brush of raindrops on her face. She opened her eyes and gazed upward into the gray sky. A distant rumble, felt underfoot as much as heard, told of Firethroat’s restlessness.
“Even you. I will fight even you.”
She stayed a moment, as if waiting for an answer from the uncaring mountain. None came, of course. She looked at the fire maiden again, real drops sliding down the statue’s face now. The flickers in her hair had gone dark.
Turning her back, Shalár walked away, back to the hall where she oversaw her people’s well-being.
Ebon Mountains
By the time the sun rose, Luruthin was starting to be weary. The track they followed was little more than a game trail, and at times it disappeared altogether as they crossed rocky outcrops and ridges. They were traveling nearly straight south, with the winter sun behind their shoulders.
Ahead, rising into the cold blue sky, was the towering shape of the Great Sleeper, its upper shoulders dusted in snow, its peak shrouded in cloud. They would skirt its eastern flanks and continue along the mountains as they passed into the Steppes. Though it was harder going than the trade roads, Luruthin was in complete agreement with Eliani’s wish to avoid the roads until they were well out of Fireshore.
Shalár’s face came unbidden to mind and he shuddered, shaking his head to rid himself of the memory. He had no breath to spare, but he could think through a song in his mind, and he did so to keep other thoughts away.
He chose a humorous tune, long and repetitive, of the sort he and Eliani and other guardians had often sung around campfires at night while on patrol. Setting his steps to its rhythm, he was able to keep pace with Eliani, and the foolish story staved off unwelcome memories.
At midday they crossed a small stream and Vanorin called a halt to let the party rest and eat a little. They filled their skins with the frigid water and sat in spots of sunshine that broke through the evergreens here and there
.
Luruthin found the sun too bright and moved into the shade of a cluster of fir trees. He took a strip of dried venison from his pack and chewed at it without enthusiasm. Eliani came to sit nearby, glancing at him with concern.
“Are you tired?”
“Yes, but I can continue.”
“You will tell us if you need to stop.”
“Well, I hope you will notice if I fall on my face.”
Eliani smiled, but the concern yet creased her brow. He found the pitying looks she turned toward him upsetting, so he closed his eyes until Vanorin called them back to the march.
The captain gave him a hard look as he got to his feet. “Are you fit?”
Luruthin slung his pack, which indeed seemed heavy now, over his shoulder. “Fit enough.”
Vanorin gazed sharply at him, then gave a nod and started forward, leading them upward. Soon the trail disappeared and they had to push through the forest, slowed by heavy undergrowth and uncertain footing.
The sky clouded over with a thin veil of gray, and the sun when they glimpsed it was a pale, shrouded light. The air was still, cold but not sharp. Luruthin was glad to be moving, for the walking kept him warm.
Late in the afternoon Vanorin called another halt, and left the party waiting while he climbed a tree to get a view of their progress. Luruthin sat down at once, wincing as dry needles pricked him through the thin cloth of his legs. He could wish for a pair of deerskin legs to go with his tunic. Ungrateful, he knew.
He shrugged out of his pack and lay down with it pillowing his head. Above, the clouds seemed to be thickening. The forest was quiet, its creatures watching, waiting for the onset of a storm.
Luruthin realized that he had withdrawn his khi from any awareness of the living woodlands. He was holding himself closed, a state he had assumed as defense in Ghlanhras. There was no need for it now, and he sought to alter it, reaching out experimentally toward the nearest tree, an ancient fir. He felt its life, slow, silent and powerful in roots that spread deep into the earth. It gave him heart with an intensity that surprised him.