Ambassador (Conqueror of Isles Book 1)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  “Atan,” he said earnestly.

  Elias was reluctant to leave their side, but was too exhausted to argue. The elf didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons. But, even if he had been, Elias was hardly in a fit state to stop him from using them. He wanted—needed—rest. And if that meant entrusting his companions to an unknown elf, well, it wasn’t as though he had much of a choice.

  He tried to scale the rope but his limbs were too heavy to manage more than a weak shimmying ascent. The elf must have noticed since he called up to his comrades who promptly began pulling the rope up with Elias clinging to it. He was forced to use his legs to keep from being dragged against the rocks, but he’d taken only three such steps before a host of arms reached down to assist him.

  He accepted them gratefully, making no attempt to rise when the elves hauled him carefully onto solid ground. The grass beneath him was sparse and thin, but after what he’d endured for the last hour or two, he wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and sleep.

  And so, he did. He was distantly aware of hands shaking him and kneeling figures trying to rouse him, but the effort required to respond was too great.

  “Stop,” he mumbled. “Just let me rest.”

  Much to his relief, they did.

  When Elias woke, uncounted hours later, it was with the usual disorientation that comes from sleeping well into midday. He lurched upright, groaned in a fit of lightheadedness, and reached instinctively for his sword. It was gone, as was its scabbard and the majority of his clothes. His hands, however, were unbound. And so, when the first hand alighted gently on his shoulder, he spun with a fist ready.

  The girl flinched. Her reaction was so instinctive and recognizable that Elias noticed it well before he spotted her ears or the peculiarly dark hue of her skin. The next thing that occurred to him was her age. Though conversation with Rhona had made him skeptical of his skill at evaluating such things, the elf before him looked no older than fifteen. That fact, even more than her flinching, stopped him short with embarrassment.

  “Sorry,” he said hoarsely. His throat was surprisingly dry and he swallowed with difficulty. “Sorry, you just startled me.”

  She smiled and handed him a skin. The water inside had a strong, somewhat earthy taste to it, but Elias hardly even noticed. He drank greedily, following the girl with his eyes as she slipped from the tent.

  That was when he noticed the tent. He’d been so distracted, first by waking to unfamiliar surroundings and then by thirst, that he’d failed to notice he was no longer lying on the grassy cliffside. Instead, there was a pile of blankets between him and the ground, as well as several draped over his legs and stomach. Someone had erected a tent as well, though it was impossible to say whether it had been chosen to shield him from the elements or for some other purpose.

  He slid free of the blankets, grimacing at the pain caused by each small movement. It was not until he’d fully extracted himself that he discovered his wounds had been wrapped. The sheer quantity of the bandages made him pause. True, he’d had other things on his mind besides the pain, but from his feet to his hips, there was more gauze than skin visible. His stomach had been bound as well, though judging by the throbbing of his back, most of the injuries were there.

  He climbed to his feet with some difficulty, stooping slightly to avoid hitting the tent. Each step made him wince, as did the brightness of the day when he staggered out into the light. His eyes had only just begun to adjust when a startled cry made him whirl.

  Another elven woman bustled toward him, trailed by the younger female who’d given him water. From the latter’s expression, she had not expected him to rise and follow her out. Her alarm, however, paled in comparison to the other’s.

  “Eret!” the older elf shouted. “Stop, fool! What are you doing? You need rest! Why are you walking?”

  The sound of familiar words, and relatively unaccented ones at that, were so startling that Elias paused where he might otherwise have bristled.

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Where—”

  “You are not fine!” the elven woman snapped. Scowling, she planted herself uncomfortably close and stared heatedly into his eyes. “You can barely stand! Rest and be glad that the Marsski did not kill you!”

  “The what?”

  “Marsski,” she repeated. Baring her teeth, she gave an exaggerated hiss. “The big one. The mother that my anathki chased away.”

  “Oh, right.” Elias was so distracted by the elf’s earnest display that he nearly turned back to reenter the tent before remembering himself. “Where’s—where are the others? The ones with me?”

  “They are resting—as you should be!”

  Elias shook his head and folded his arms, masking his wince in the process.

  “I want to see them,” he insisted. “Then, I’ll rest.”

  The elven woman sighed, muttered something unrecognizable under her breath, and gazed helplessly up at the sky. Whatever she’d said must have amused the younger elf since she laughed. Then, as if remembering her companion, the exasperated elf turned and dismissed her with a half-hearted shove. Still chuckling, the younger one went.

  “You will visit briefly,” the elf said, turning back to Elias. “Do not wake them, please.”

  “I won’t,” he promised. Glancing around, he was momentarily struck by the sheer number of tents arranged around them. There must have been at least fifty, with the one he’d slept in among the smallest.

  The elves had apparently chosen a small meadow to make their camp. There were dense thickets of white-barked trees in three directions, while the fourth was sparsely populated enough that he could just make out a glimpse of distant waves.

  “Where are they?” he asked again.

  The elf sighed again, folding her arms to mimic his. “Nearby,” she said. “Patience, please. My sister will return soon. Unless you wish to visit all three unclothed?”

  Elias glanced down. In all the excitement and thanks to the weight of his bandages, he’d completely forgotten that one essential fact. He was still wearing his tattered underclothes, but between the salt crusting them and the displacing bandages, there was very little left to the imagination.

  “Oh,” he said, reddening. “Thank you.”

  ***

  The shirt and trousers the elves provided him were simple, warm, and comfortable, if a bit tighter than the ones to which he was accustomed. He donned them quickly, nodding to the young elf maiden who’d brought them, and turned to the older of the pair. She said nothing but shook her head and gestured for him to follow.

  They visited Avans first and Elias had scarcely ducked inside the tent when he noticed the man’s injuries. They had been bandaged, of course, but unlike his, Avans’ wounds had already bled through the linen. The man slept fitfully, his chest rising and falling with laborious difficulty. And, at Elias’ glance, the elf flashed a crooked smile and nodded him out of the tent.

  “He bleeds much but the wounds are shallow,” she assured him, once the tent was closed. “He will bear many scars, more than the others, but his life is not in danger.”

  “Thank you,” Elias said. His own earnestness surprised him. “I—oh! I’m sorry, I haven’t asked your name.”

  “I haven’t offered it,” she replied. For a moment, she merely smiled at him, though Elias could sense her mind at work. “But, I suppose there is no harm in it. My name is Gilla. And my sister…” She looked around, frowned, and sighed. “Appears to have run off? But she’s called Lucasta after our mother.”

  “A pleasure to meet you both,” Elias said, bowing slightly. “Thank you for… for helping us. I’m sure the others would thank you as well, but—”

  “But there will be time once they’ve recovered,” Gilla finished for him. She indicated another nearby tent. “The female is here.”

  Kyra stirred as Elias entered. For just a moment, he thought she might wake. He went so far as to drop painfully to his knees and gently tak
e her hand. Instead of opening her eyes, however, Kyra merely whimpered as if trapped in a nightmare.

  “Come,” Gilla whispered, her fingers soft as a breath on his shoulder. “We should not disturb her.”

  Elias nodded but did not rise. He stroked the back of Kyra’s hand a moment longer, troubled and comforted both by the smoothness of her knuckles. Then, almost reluctantly, he tucked her arm beneath the blankets and crawled backward from the tent.

  “Can you guess how long until she wakes?” he asked, finding it hard to meet Gilla’s eyes. Thankfully, she seemed to understand.

  “No,” she said. “But I do not think it will be long. She spoke once while we treated her wounds. I assume you are Eli?”

  “Yes—well, Elias, actually.” He froze, stunned by both the thought that occurred to him and the time it had taken. “I’m sorry. I never gave you my name, did I?”

  “There was no need,” Gilla said, sounding amused. “The female called out for you. And you need not apologize. You fought a marsski. Few are able to give their names after such a thing.”

  “I, uh, thank you?” Elias stammered, torn between a dozen different urges. He wanted to rest, to ply Gill with questions, and hurry to look in on Rhona. But the thought of Kyra calling out for him in fear and weakness made him want to dive back into the tent and sit by her side until she woke. She was only here because of him, after all.

  “You are welcome, Elias,” Gilla said, breaking through the cloud of his thoughts. “Before we visit your last companion, I have a question. How did you come to travel with a Gwydas?”

  Gilla’s voice was calm and even, much as it had been throughout most of their conversations. But there was a slight edge to her words, controlled and well-hidden though it was, that was enough to give him pause. Elias stared at her thoughtfully. A part of him felt as though he should lie. And yet, for the life of him, he couldn’t decide what sort of lie would be convincing, much less effective.

  “Let me see her,” he said at last. “And then I’ll tell you everything.”

  Gilla’s eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. Then, with a smooth, deliberate nod, she indicated the appropriate tent.

  Rhona’s sickbed lay on the outskirts of the small camp. Unlike the others, however, it was neither calm nor unguarded. A pair of elves stood outside the open flap, clutching spears. As Elias and Gilla approached, a sudden commotion erupted from within the somewhat larger tent. Both elves whirled, leveling their spears. Eyes widening, the nearest one roared something that set Gilla to sprinting.

  Elias didn’t recognize the words, but he knew the tone far too well. Setting his jaw and bracing against the pain of his injuries, he ran after her.

  Gilla was fast, far faster than Elias would have been uninjured, but he reached the tent mere moments after she did. No sooner had he glanced inside the tent than a curse leapt unbidden to his lips.

  Rhona knelt on an elven pallet, her teeth bared and her golden eyes wild. With one hand, she clutched a fistful of Lucasta’s hair. With the other, she held a knife to her throat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Rhona!” Elias called. He shoved his way forward, past the restraining arm Gill threw up to block him. “Rhona, what are you doing? Let her go!”

  Rhona’s gaze snapped to him, briefly, then immediately returned to the pair of spears pointed her way. She ground her teeth but did not lower the knife.

  “This is her knife,” she spat, nodding down at her trembling hostage. “I sleep! Why does she come with knife?”

  “Rhona,” Elias repeated in as soothing a voice as he could muster. Inching forward, he dropped gingerly to his knees. “No one is going to hurt you. Keep the knife. Just let the girl go.”

  Again, she looked at him. This time, however, she did not glance away. And the longer she stared, the more Elias recognized it was terror, not rage that moved her. Then, at last, she groaned, lowered her weapon, and shoved Lucasta away.

  Still trembling, the elf scrambled forward and practically hurled herself into Gilla’s arms. Murmuring reassurances, Gilla held her for a moment. Then, scowling, she turned her glare on Elias.

  “She must go,” she growled. “She is fortunate I do not kill her for this.”

  “She was just startled!” Elias protested. He started to rise, winced, and turned to face her from his knees instead. “Just give me a chance to explain things to her. It’ll be fine. It was just a misunderstanding.”

  Gilla’s brow furrowed but her expression did not soften. Elias knew immediately that she would refuse. Before she could do so, however, Lucasta pulled back and murmured something.

  Elias didn’t catch the words, but whatever they’d been must have accomplished what he could not. Gilla sighed and shook her head in disgust.

  “The Gwydas will not keep the knife,” she growled. “My mother is hunting but will return soon. She will decide if the Gwydas remains.”

  Elias nodded gratefully and turned back to Rhona. Though her command of the language was slightly weaker than Gilla, she had obviously understood her words. And, judging by the way she nervously cradled the knife to her breast, she was none too pleased by the thought of giving up the weapon.

  Sighing, Elias sank down into the grass and dust. He’d come here hoping to avert a war and now, instead, he was brokering truces between elves.

  Some Sha’nijur he’d turned out to be.

  It took far longer than anticipated to coax Rhona into handing over the knife. She evidently feared that the moment she was unarmed, the elves stationed near the tent’s entrance would leap forward and run her through. Admittedly, Elias half-expected it himself. But no sooner had she placed the knife in his hand than the pair retreated.

  Strolling forward, Gilla plucked the weapon from his hand and passed it to her sister. Lucasta grimaced upon receiving it and swiftly returned it to a small, well-concealed sheath on her lower back. The sight was enough to give Elias pause. He hadn’t noticed Lucasta wearing the knife before. Now that he was conscious of it, the memory of the fist he’d nearly swung at her upon waking felt even more dangerous.

  “Now,” Gilla said, folding her arms. “Explain.”

  It took him a moment to realize she was referring to her earlier question. Shifting slightly to place himself between Rhona and Gilla, he began his rather clumsy accounting. He explained in a few short sentences, the mission that had brought him from Islesmark, his detour to Eh’kaavi, and their encounter with Cotora.

  Gilla listened attentively, nodding along at the appropriate moments, but tensed noticeably at the mention of Cotora. She didn’t interrupt, but Elias had scarcely finished when she leaned over and muttered something to Lucasta. The girl disappeared amongst the tents in an instant.

  “Cotora knows you are alive?” Gilla asked softly.

  Frowning, Elias shrugged. “I don’t know how she could,” he said. “She was close enough to see the nereids pull us from the cutter, but she probably assumes that we drowned. I mean, we very nearly did. And that big one, the, uh, marsski? She might have seen that if she followed us close to shore.”

  “Cotora will not leave such things a mystery,” Gilla said darkly. “Thankfully, I do not think she will risk her crew scaling the cliffs. It is a half-day’s sailing in either direction to reach safe waters for landing. This will give us time to withdraw.”

  “Wait—you mean she’s still hunting us?” Elias asked. He gawked at her, incredulous. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she bother?”

  Gilla started to reply then hesitated and shook her head.

  “My mother will explain,” she said. “She has met Cotora. I know her reputation, only. But yes, Cotora may pursue you still. I expect we must leave this place if we are to evade her. You should rest. It is not good to travel so far while injured and weary.”

  “We?” Elias asked. Then, when Gilla did not explain further, he leaned forward. “When would we leave? Where would we go?”

  Gilla mer
ely shrugged. “That is for my mother to decide. She is, well, a Gwydas of sorts. She will know what to do.”

  Elias tried to follow her advice. He returned to his tent, accompanied by Rhona who steadfastly refused to let him out of her sight, and did his best to lie down and rest. But between the ceaseless aching of his battered body and Rhona’s anxious murmuring, the mere thought of dozing was more exhausting than remaining awake. So, rather than force himself, he reclined—and whispered.

  “Why don’t you trust them?” he asked, after what felt like an hour. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhona stiffen. “They’re your people, aren’t they?”

  Rhona snorted as if he’d just voiced something utterly absurd.

  “They are not my people,” she whispered back. “They are trow. They are different from me; I am different from you. They serve wicked gods too.”

  “Really? I thought—”

  “You think wrong. Before your kind come here, my people and trow fight always. Not large wars, small ones only. We are not many and a strong primarch or sha’roath to unite a warband is rare. But we fight them many years more than we fight you.”

  Elias rolled onto his side, immediately regretted it, and shifted back to a more comfortable position. “That’s why you attacked her, isn’t it?” he asked. “Lucasta, I mean. You thought you’d been captured and she was coming to hurt you.”

  Rhona fidgeted then nodded and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. She was so obviously uncomfortable that Elias wanted to leave her be. But some part of him could not let the matter rest.

  “Have you encountered them before?” he asked, as gently as he could.

  Rhona glanced at him then looked sharply away.

  “Do not ask,” she said.

  Elias closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He knew the words he wanted to say, but the distance between his thoughts and tongue felt so vast it took several minutes before he finally managed them.