Swords Over Fireshore (17 page)

Ebon Mountains 

 

E
liani held her arms across her chest as she walked behind Luruthin on the narrow game track through the woods. Exercise was not enough to keep her warm here. They were high in the Ebons, near the crest of the range. Oaks had given way entirely to tall pines and firs and occasional small stands of bare, white-trunked firespear. The air was thin and sharp with the smell of evergreens. These were comforts, much like the woodlands of her home.

They were far from Ghlanhras now, having crossed the faded track that led to the pass of Westgard. Eliani felt safer here in the mountain heights. Luruthin, before her on the path, walked slowly and steadily, weary but willing and strong enough after rest and food to keep up with the Lost who led the way.

As they topped a rise, the path they were following opened onto a flat, rocky ledge and the party paused there, gathering to look down the east slopes of the Ebons. Shadows traced the tops of the evergreens, and cold stars glinted overhead. Far below, a small scatter of warm, glimmering lights could be seen.

“Bitterfield.” Kivhani stepped up beside Eliani. “They have begun to keep a night watch.”

Eliani nodded. When her party had stopped there on their way northward, Bitterfield had not kept such a watch, but its people had been wary nevertheless. News of the fall of Ghlanhras, a city they already distrusted, must have prompted the change. If alben fell upon Bitterfield or any ælven town, it would happen at night.

The lights—distant windows, torches in the public circle perhaps—made Eliani yearn for a warm bed and a roof overhead. Instead, the party turned away and ascended another rise, leaving the glimmer of Bitterfield behind.

The path they followed was little more than a game trail, but soon it broadened and met a stream, and turned to follow the watercourse up another steady rise. Kivhani paused at the turning to let the party drink.

Eliani kept an anxious eye not only on Luruthin, but on Vanorin as well. He looked weary and grim, and was drinking one-handed.

“Your arm is troubling you?”

He glanced at her and shrugged. Eliani felt badly for not having offered him healing days ago, but in truth her courage had failed her. She did not wish to cause him grief, and had thought that a healing might do so, being of necessity an intimate contact of khi.

Now she regretted that choice. Vanorin needed healing, plainly, though he would not admit it. Perhaps the same reasons that had made her hesitate to offer had kept him from asking.

Well, no more. She drank another mouthful of water and rubbed her hands on her cloak, then stood and turned to Vanorin.

“Come.”

He looked up at her, questioning. She summoned him with a jerk of her head, and moved to a large pine a few paces from the stream. Kivhani caught her eye as she passed, and leaned toward Othanin to murmur something into his ear. Eliani noted that the governor looked weary, but well enough.

At the pine she turned and waited. Vanorin had stood but remained by the stream. She beckoned him with a gesture, then sat down with her back against the trunk. Slowly Vanorin approached.

“We have only a few moments, but it should help.” Eliani patted the ground beside her.

“My lady—”

“Hush. Sit down.”

She moved aside and made him sit with his back resting against the tree trunk. He stared straight ahead, not meeting her gaze, his face so stern it reminded her of Jharan, which of course reminded her of Turisan.

Eliani hid a wry smile. Peering at the scrap of cloth tied around Vanorin's arm, she frowned.

“This needs washing. It will have to wait until we reach the camp. May I touch you?”

He glanced at her and nodded, then looked forward again, blinking. Eliani first held her hands in the air just over the wound. Khi leapt in her palms, heat drawn toward the injury. Vanorin made a restless movement, then closed his eyes.

Drawing a deep breath, Eliani let herself sink into the absorption of healing. Slowly she brought her hands to rest lightly against the bandaged arm. A small tingle flooded up the backs of her hands as her khi and Vanorin's mingled. His was pleasant, its gentle tone surprising even though she had felt it before. He sat motionless, as if afraid even to breathe.

The cut on his arm was small but fairly deep, and suffered from neglect. Eliani sensed the beginning of a festering and frowned. If she had dealt with this at once the wound would now be well on the way to being healed.

She focused the warmth flowing through her hands on the point where the damage was worst. Healings began on a tiny level, Jhinani had told her, spreading and flowing outward from there. If she could find the source of the pain and festering, she could shift the flow of khi there to set the wound to healing. She let her thoughts follow the thread of dark dullness in Vanorin's khi, pursuing its origin.

Voices disturbed her. Withdrawing until she could comfortably open her eyes, she saw that the party were all standing again, waiting beside the stream.

“We will have to finish later.”

She took her hands away from Vanorin's arm, then sat back and watched him open his eyes, blinking in confusion. He glanced at her and color flooded into his cheeks.

“Thank you.”

Eliani nodded, then stood and offered him a hand. He hesitated, but then clasped her arm and let her help him to his feet. Yes, she could tell from his khi that the sickness in the wound was beginning to affect his strength. How foolish they had both been, avoiding this.

She let go his arm and smiled briefly, then turned away. What she wished to do was stay close to him, offering comfort, but that probably would aggrieve him. Vanorin was right; formality was their protection. It reminded them of how they stood to one another, which differed from how they felt.

She liked him, she thought as she fell into step behind Luruthin. At first she had thought him somewhat cold, interested only in his responsibilities as captain of her escort. As their acquaintance had grown she had found her admiration for him increasing. Perhaps missing Turisan had some part in it.

The ache of missing her partner intensified. They had not discussed it, but she knew they were both calculating how many days it would be until they might be reunited. Twenty at least. Likely more.

A shift in the khi of those ahead of her made Eliani glance up. They had topped a small rise and were descending its gentle slope toward an open meadow ahead. She could see the lights of campfires between the trunks of the pines. As one, the party quickened their steps, and a moment later she heard the hail of a watcher greeting Kivhani.

There were others in the woods, many others, all with the same white hair and deep dark eyes. Eliani had to shake off the nervousness roused by their appearance, and remind herself that these folk kept the Ælven creed.

The party reached the meadow, which was wide and mostly level. A lone pine stood a little way into the clearing with a large fire circle nearby. Several smaller fires were scattered around the meadow's edges. The main fire was surrounded by huge logs that served as benches, and the Lost who had been sitting there all stood to greet the newcomers. Others gathered, coming from the other fires or out of the woods.

“Othanin!” A white-haired male hurried forward.

Eliani watched the two of them clasp arms. The Lost quickly surrounded the governor, asking anxious questions about friends and loved ones in Ghlanhras. Eliani looked away, knowing the answers would not be happy.

Kivhani's voice rose above the chatter, demanding attention. The Lost fell quiet, all looking to her.

“We have guests.” Her voice was not overloud but would reach the edges of the meadow. “Distinguished visitors. Lady Eliani of Felisanin, from Alpinon, and her companions. Please make them welcome.”

Faces now turned toward Eliani, who quailed under the gaze of so many black eyes. Think of them as Greenglens, she told herself, and summoned a smile.

“Thank you, Lady Kivhani. We are grateful for your hospitality.”

A murmur rumbled through the meadow. The Lost were no more comfortable with her presence here than she, Eliani realized. Perhaps she and her escort were the first ælven to visit the Lost in their camp. Kivhani had not said so, but plainly their arrival was a surprise to many.

A tall male approached and paused a few paces away from Eliani. He was dressed in undyed leather, as were all the Lost. He gazed at her intently, then made a formal bow

“Lady Eliani, I am Inóran. Dare I hope that you remember me?”

“Inóran!”

She had not remembered his face, but then she had been a child the one time that she had seen him, and his appearance was much changed. The hair that was now white had been golden, then, on the day he had handfasted with her father's sister.

She took two quick steps toward him, extending her arm without thinking. He hesitated an instant, glancing at her handfasting ribbons, then smiled shyly and clasped arms. Eliani felt again the strange prickle that she had noticed in Kivhani's khi.

“I saw Davhri some days since. She is sorely concerned for you.”

Pain crossed Inóran's face. “I have wanted to send a message to her, but have not known how to tell her....”

“Tell her you are alive, at least. She grieves.”

His brow tightened in a frown and his mouth curved downward in bitterness. “My news would not cheer her.”

“Of course it would cheer her to know that you live!”

Eliani thought of Davhri, living a barren existence in Bitterfield, a shadow of her former self. During her brief stay there, Eliani had sought to cheer her, but Davhri's despair at the loss of her partner could not be lifted.

“We have no communication with Bitterfield. We dare not approach it, or any ælven town.”

She could not bear the thought of Davhri's continuing to suffer, not when she might at least be comforted. Inóran's news might not be happy, but it was better than knowing nothing of his fate.

“I could go to Bitterfield. One of my party is ill.” She glanced behind her at the escort. Luruthin and Vanorin had both sat on the ground. The other guardians, Onami, Birani, and Felahran, stood close by, looking nervous. “Two, actually. They could rest here while I go to the village.”

Kivhani frowned. “You do not know what welcome you may find there.”

“I was just lately there. I am certain Dejhonan will welcome me. I have kindred in the village.” She glanced at Inóran.

Othanin, coming to stand beside Kivhani. “Your offer is generous, Lady Eliani, but we need not impose on you so. I will go to Bitterfield. I must consult with Theyn Dejhonan, and tell him what passed at Ghlanhras.”

Eliani shrugged. “He will know by now.”

“He will not know all.”

She met his stern gaze, then nodded. He was still governor, in name if nothing else, and she was encouraged by his willingness to see his duties through.

Kivhani turned to Eliani with a small, kindly smile. “Thus you may rest here a day or two as well. You are welcome for as long as you care to stay.”

Eliani accepted this with a nod. She would have liked to see Davhri again, but there were others here who needed her attention as much if not more. Turning away, she went to Luruthin and Vanorin.

“Come closer to the fire.”

She led them into the main fire circle, where the Lost hastily moved away, leaving room for them on one of the log benches. Eliani was beginning to feel annoyed at their avoidance, as if she and her party were the ones who were afflicted.

The fire's warmth felt good against her face, and as it began to penetrate her borrowed leathers, she felt a sense of relief. The fire was large, as big as a feast-day fire. The Lost must have no fear of discovery here in this sheltered meadow.

She wondered where they spent their days, for the sun must flood the meadow itself. Looking into the woods around it, she saw the shapes of rough shelters covered in evergreen boughs and had her answer.

Inóran approached, carrying a battered metal urn and three mismatched cups, one of rough pottery, one of metal and one carved of wood. He set down the urn and handed the cups to Eliani and two of her party.