The Coming Storm (104 page)

To Ailith it was like the tolling of a deep and sonorous bell, a death knell, announcing her isolation, her banishment.

“You may not seek among any for succor, aid or comfort.”

Not seek aid? If she were hurt, hungry? Elon searched for the light of reason in this and couldn’t find it. Here was the exception. She couldn’t seek it but it could be offered. He grasped at straws and knew it.

It was for the Alliance that she did this, for those she had fought with, and for him and Jareth. For him and for Colath most of all. He nearly couldn’t bear it. It was a weight on his soul.

That she was right in doing it was almost more than he could stand.

What choice was there for her in any case?

The Dwarves would never let her live. They couldn’t seek vengeance on Amarok. Instead, they would find it in Ailith.

Elon wanted to speak, to protest this travesty but he couldn’t. It would put his people and theirs at odds and undo Ailith’s sacrifice.

He’d hoped to sway them with reason but unreason had won.

She’d known that and chosen anyway. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, tarnish her sacrifice.

He would, somehow, some way, bring her back.

Watching, almost, almost, Jareth spoke. The words were locked in this throat, choking him. He didn’t have Elon’s facility with language. He spoke plainly. By all the Gods his people had ever worshipped, he prayed that this wouldn’t be. No aid, no succor, no comfort.

Ailith looked up at Daran High King. His eyes were hooded. For all his words to her in the castle, he had always meant her to die, she knew that now. He’d hidden it from her amid his passion and his plots.

Did it make any difference, in the end?

The Alliance would still fall.

“Do you swear it?”

Green eyes seemed to bore into her as if Avila drove each word like a spike into her heart. In a way, she did, and into Elon and Jareth as well, knowing that this would wound them as well.

Looking into her eyes, Ailith knew it to be true.

Avila knew how the oath would bind her, how it would set those words like chains around her soul. Say them and she would bind herself to them for all time, for however long she lived, unless or until the Council released her. Looking at them, Ailith knew there was small chance of that. Not now. They didn’t mean her to live, certainly not long. It would be best for everyone if her life were short.

All but her and Elon. And Colath waiting above. Sweet Jareth, staring at her with his hang-dog eyes. And Jalila, standing still within Jareth’s house, perhaps at the wall, looking out at the endless rolling sea. Waiting to hear. She could see them all in the stars in her mind, and Elon and Jareth before her.

Her heart broke again and again looking at them.

If she didn’t say the words? Elon would be forced to prove his defense. It would be the undoing of him if Avila had any say in it. She would whisper, plot and scheme. As would Daran. There was Goras, as well. He wouldn’t let it rest. Thus dooming both Elon and Jareth. Whether or no, the Alliance would begin to falter. The Elves would be forced to defend Elon or abandon him. Something they would never do. He was one of their own.

But he wouldn’t sit on Council, he wouldn’t sit among the Three.

In that, Daran had been correct. Elon belonged on the Council.

And Jareth? He would never take the Mastery as some whispered.

There would also be those who still sought her head, here or in exile. Would it matter where?

All this went through her mind in mere moments.

It hurt to speak. To say the word with Elon’s and Jareth’s eyes upon her. Colath, too, somewhere up above.

In no overt way that men could tell did Elon reveal his anguish and yet she knew it through the bond, through their incomplete soul-bond. She would lift that pain from him if she could have. There was Colath, too, the bitter sorrow that he felt ran deep through their true-friend bond.

There was a plea in Jareth’s eyes and bitter resignation.

Say the words. End it.

Well, one word only. It was all that was needed.

So calm and so steadfast, she might have been Elven. Her eyes and face revealed nothing. How could they not see that and honor it, Elon wondered.

How could he?

Ailith.

As hard as nails, Avila drove the words at her. “Do you so swear?”

Her gaze direct, her voice steady, Ailith said only, “Yes.”

In the same moment she felt the words lock around her soul to bind her heart. It hurt so deeply she could barely credit it, nearly as much as when Tolan had laid the pain of the soul-eater on her.

It struck her, then, the force of that pledge. Her knees nearly buckled with the impact of it.

And yet she couldn’t give voice to the depth of that pain, nor let it show on her face.

“Take her,” Daran said. “Now.”

The swiftness of it caught them all by surprise as Daran had meant that it should. A force of guards appeared as if from nowhere, coming up from behind the dais to form around her. There would be no sudden rescue, no last-ditch attempt to save her, no more desperate pleas on her behalf.

Stunned, Ailith found herself surrounded, engulfed. These Guards towered above her, not a familiar or friendly face among them. Already, they moved  to herd her, force her away, giving her no moment for goodbyes or leave-taking, their expressions hard, their swords rattling in their scabbards.

Swords?!

“Wait,” she cried and stepped aside so swiftly the last had taken a step past her before he realized their formation had been broken.

“My swords and my bow, my Lord High King.” Her eyes were intent upon Daran. She pitched her voice to carry above the startled murmur of the crowd. “What will you, my lord? Would you leave me defenseless in the borderlands, barehanded and weaponless? At the mercy of such creatures as live there? Surely not. I would have my swords and my bow, my lord.”

Her voice rang through the Square, breaking the spell that had held Jareth motionless. 

This he could do. Even though his heart broke, even though he felt heartsick and helpless, he could at least do this much for her. He’d done it before. He’d handled those blades once before under dire circumstances, he knew them well. Elven blades. Named swords. Since he’d touched them, he could conjure them as he had before, once upon a time. Remembering the when and why, his heart twisted ever the more tightly.

A gesture and her swords appeared in his hands, the finely tooled scabbards with their netting of silver-braided wire. The blades with their runes etched on them were unique, made only for her. Named swords.

Her bow appeared as well.

Jareth knew he’d pay for this, likely in ‘exile’ to the hinterlands, which was fine by him.

“I have them, my Lord King,” he announced, to Daran’s displeasure as a sharp spurt of spite flashed in Avila’s eyes.

He had no care for that.

Jareth carried them to Ailith with her swords upon his hands as if conferring an honor.

It was the most he could do. He couldn’t send her into exile unarmed. Wouldn’t.

Daran wanted to stop him but couldn’t, dared not, or risk the appearance of being malicious and vengeful. It rankled but he had to nod, to acquiesce.

Damn wizards, with their magic.

Looking at those swords, Lilianne froze. She recognized them. Elven swords, Named Swords, without a doubt. She knew that if she set her hand to the hilts and withdrew the blades she would find them etched with runes. Gifted swords, named swords.

Elon? Perhaps. Or another?

With those swords she could prove something, could name the one who’d committed this abomination, this atrocity. Her fingers itched to touch them and yet her face remained still. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, betray her race by revealing her desire, her fury. They were gone from her, in the hands of a wizard and the Otherling. Perhaps not forever. Her life was long and she had many years left, while the Otherling did not. Time might yet provide.

The oiled leather harness of Ailith’s longsword settled onto her shoulders like the comforting arm of an old friend. Perhaps it wasn’t so much of an illusion coming from where it did. Jareth couldn’t offer comfort, not here, not openly, but this was close. She set her short sword on her belt and fastened it firmly. At least the weight of these was familiar, known and somewhat reassuring. She felt a little less bereft.

She raised her eyes to Jareth’s, schooled herself not to feel the urge to weep. She could feel the pain, feel the desire but she couldn’t cry, however much she wished to. She was Elven and Dwarven and she couldn’t. Especially not at the raw look in his eyes. His face was set but she could see the pain and sorrow in his soft brown eyes. For a moment she looked up at him, fixing his familiar homely features in her mind, lest she forget in the years to come.

Now she understood the impassivity of the Elves and the need for the empathy.

“Jareth,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

They were the only words she could find to say. They seemed too little. Her mind seemed blank, lost, and then she recovered herself.

“You’ll be in my thoughts, always. Always, I’ll be watching and I’ll treasure my memories of you, my friend.”

“I will as well,” Jareth said. He couldn’t believe how great the pain was.

His throat tightened.

“Ailith.”

With a shake of her head, she said, gently, “Don’t or I shall wish to weep and it will show, whether I can or not. That would be undignified. I would do my forefathers proud and give no more cause to the Elves or Dwarves to disown me.”

“Or shame them,” he said.

She smiled a little. “Or that.”

Ailith looked beyond him to where Elon stood.

Their eyes met.

Elon couldn’t, dared not, go to her. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to let her go.

A whisper of foresight passed through him. They weren’t done he and she. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the end of it. None of this was over.

It was small comfort against the pain of what was to come, the loss, loneliness and isolation, and against the dangers of the borderlands that she would now face, alone. He knew better than any other that the future could change, could be changed. What had all this been about, after all, but a moment of clarity at that long ago moment, standing on his veranda in Aerilann?

She could still die.

They had been going to do the forms, just he and Ailith.

Suddenly, sharply and fiercely, Elon wanted that moment back again, as futile as that desire was. He wanted that moment of standing in the gardens with her doing the forms, going through the paces. Just the two of them.

He loved Colath as true-friend, that could never be changed, it was what they were and always would be.

But he wanted that moment with her. The chance at it. If he went to her now… He wouldn’t be able to let her go. Whatever their bond was, the moment it was set he would have to go with her, whatever the bond between them. True friends didn’t leave each other, not for long. Elon knew full well the torment Colath suffered as he was forced to choose between one true-friend and another, himself and Ailith. He also knew Ailith had released him, but were it not for that, for Colath’s existing bond with Elon, Colath would have followed her anyway.

If he went to her, he would do the same and then there would be no one to fight this. Free her from this. And he would have her free again. Somehow. He knew that she would know that and understand. Through the bond that bound them.

Looking into his dark eyes, Ailith looked at him and she did understand even as she locked his face in memory.

Elon.

His eyes, those dark eyes she loved so well. Through the bond she felt his pain and wished it wasn’t she that brought it to him.

Yes, she knew and understood.

It still took every ounce of courage she had in her not to run to him, to fling herself into his arms and hold onto him. She couldn’t.

“Tell him,” she said to Jareth softly, and knew that Jareth knew of whom she spoke. He’d seen who she sought with her gaze. “That I know, that I understand. Tell him to remember the music of the swords. Tell him I’ll always watch over him and Colath with the stars in my mind. Always. And you, Jareth, my friend. All of you. Always.”

Mutely, Jareth offered her his arm and she took it, her fingers closing around his wrist tightly.

Their eyes met, held, hers were so bright.

Jareth thought he could never have felt such pain again. He’d been wrong. It was like losing the sister he’d loved so much all over again.

“I will,” he promised, his throat tight.

“I love you, too, Jareth.”

His heart nearly shattered. His voice was a choked whisper. “I know, Ailith.”

For a moment, he nearly couldn’t say the words he needed to say.  “I love you, too, my friend.”

She smiled.

At an abrupt impatient gesture from Daran, the Guards closed in on her once again.

Desperately, Ailith chanced one last glance backwards between them as their small party stepped through another gate to a stair she hadn’t known was there. She caught a glimpse of Elon and Jareth standing close together, Jareth talking, his eyes on hers. As were Elon’s.

It was enough. It had to be.

One glance at that tall, dark familiar figure. Holding it in her mind.

One last glance.

The guards led her quickly down a long set of winding stairs carved into the cliff at the back of the plaza.

Horses waited there. The horses of men.

For the first time Ailith was grateful Smoke had died in the battle.

There had only been that one last sight and then the guards had closed off Elon’s view.

Staring across the plaza as it emptied, Elon echoed Jareth’s words, “Do them proud.”

His voice was toneless but Jareth knew him well and could see the terrible pain, the bitter sorrow. And the pride.

“They should be proud, she carried herself as befitted her blood, no matter where it came from.”

With a sigh, Jareth said, “She did that.”

He couldn’t imagine the pain Elon felt, especially knowing what he knew of it. It was hard enough to bear his own. Seeing it reflected in Elon’s dark eyes, in the tightness of his mouth, he knew now they’d been right to keep the truth secret.

Elon kept his pain locked deep.

The message from Ailith brought him both relief and incredible sorrow.

He closed his eyes against it.

She knew, she understood and she would watch over him. She knew what they planned, knew also that he would fight for her. And she would watch over him. Always. As she had for so many nights, watching the stars in her mind. Saving him from an assassin.

The music of the swords. The forms, he and she and Colath, their swords ringing together, that glorious moment when they chimed like one bell.

The pain was nearly more than he could bear.

Around them the crowd in the square dispersed quietly. Few spoke.

To one side stood a small group of soldiers, the last of the army that had gathered here upon the plains, near the shores of the sea. They stood staring at the dais. Their look was bitter.

They, too, wondered what it was they’d fought for, if not for this, for what should have passed here but hadn’t.

Justice.

For a moment the crowds parted. Talesin stood there, his face like stone and his eyes full of sorrow. Then the crowd closed around him and the ancient Elven wizard was gone.

Perhaps Elon had only imagined he’d been there.

“Isn’t there anything we can do for her?,” Jareth asked, helplessly.

Raising his head, Elon’s gaze sharpened. “Perhaps. Come.”

To his surprise Eliade stepped into his path. “Don’t.”

Elon stopped and Jareth with him.

Her gaze went to Jareth and there was a pause before she spoke as she considered her words carefully before speaking around someone not Elven.

“Don’t, Elon,” she said. Her tone was light but her eyes were not. “There are those who wonder at your defense of the Otherling. They whisper of your attachment to her. To one not an Elf. Some say you’ve been enchanted, that her magic has affected you. Others wonder other things.”

Elon went cold and still.

Now even Jareth watched her warily. “What are you saying?”

Her eyes didn’t move, Eliade didn’t even acknowledge Jareth’s question. “Only your reputation saves you, Elon.”

It took a moment for both of them to catch the implication.

Some thought Elon was Ailith’s father.

That was ludicrous. It sickened them both. If the truth were known…