Swords Over Fireshore (19 page)

As gently as she could, she bathed the wound. Vanorin held still, but she knew from his khi that she was hurting him. She knew also that she must clean the wound as thoroughly as possible, so she gritted her teeth, poured more tea over the cloth, and pressed it deep into the cut. Vanorin inhaled sharply.

“Forgive me. My clumsy fingers.”

He made no answer, nor any further sound as he stood her ministrations. At last she was satisfied that the wound was clean. She laid her hand over it, seeking the darkness that had festered there. The dull ache had turned to a brighter pain, but the darkness was gone.

She bound the wound with another strip of cloth. Inóran carefully folded the third strip and took it away. Cloth must be precious to the Lost, Eliani thought as she watched him go into a shelter. They would have no means of making it themselves. As often as they moved, they could keep nothing so large as a loom.

She placed her hands on Vanorin's arm again and sent healing into the wound. He sighed deeply. A flicker of something went through his khi—regret? Longing? It was gone at once, and Eliani chose to ignore it. She stayed as she was until the heat faded from her palms, then sat back and collected the bowl and the soiled cloth she had used to clean the wound. She was about to throw that on the fire also, then glanced at Inóran. He held out his hand.

“I will wash it.”

She handed it and the bowl to him, then took back the empty cup from Onami and poured fresh tea into it, offering it to Vanorin. He took it with a small smile.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“You are welcome.”

His gaze held hers over the cup, and Eliani felt a different kind of warmth in it, a warmth that brought heat into her cheeks. Vanorin looked away, down at the cup, and then sipped. Eliani gazed into the fire, reflecting that some wounds could never be healed.

Ghlanhras

 

S
halár sat at a long darkwood table in the chamber she had made her workroom. It had served the same function for Othanin, and she had spent some of the time since her arrival in reading through all of his correspondence. This had mostly to do with the governing of Fireshore, but she had found a cache of personal letters that raised most interesting questions, and they were scattered now before her.

They were cryptic, many of them, and unsigned, but all were in the same hand and all implied affection in their tone, even though the content might be as mundane as the numbers and location of kobalen roaming on the eastern slopes of the Ebons. Othanin's correspondent was a close friend, if not a lover.

Why, Shalár wondered, did this close companion never come to Ghlanhras? None of the letters made any mention of such a possibility.

A knock fell upon the door. Shalár glanced up.

“Come.”

Ranad entered. Shalár had made him her attendant for the nonce, until Galir should arrive from Nightsand. Ranad was a poor substitute, young and eager, impatient of such tedious tasks as guard duty, but at least he was untroubled by being sent on the most trivial of errands.

“Scouts to report to you, Bright Lady. Torith and Gavál.”

“Very well. Bring Torith first.”

He left and returned a moment later with Torith, whose faded black leathers were coated with dust. He had come to her straight from the road, then. She gestured to a chair.

“Be at ease. Ranad, bring water and wine.”

Ranad bowed briskly and left, quietly shutting the door behind him. Torith took the chair Shalár had offered, slouching into it with a sigh. He brushed loose wisps of hair back from his face.

“What news?”

“I reached Woodrun, but could not enter it. They have set a watch at the road and another to patrol the edges of the town night and day.”

Shalár frowned and swept the letters she had been reading into a rough stack. “So they know we are here.”

“Undoubtedly they know. Three of the party that attacked our gates escaped thither—I heard the watchers talking of it.”

“What of Othanin? Is he there?”

“I heard no mention of him.”

Shalár bit her lip. Woodrun was alert, and so would not be easy to capture. She must rethink her plans.

“How many would you say are dwelling there?”

“Four or five hundreds, at least.”

“That many? Woodrun was the merest village....”

The merest village when she had dwelt here before, but that was centuries ago. Being here again, in her childhood home, sometimes made her forget how long it had been.

Torith leaned against her work table. “Woodrun is Fireshore's main city now. All the darkwood trade has moved there, as have many of Ghlanhras's people.”

Shalár nodded. After capturing Ghlanhras she had found that many of the houses here were long abandoned. She planned to fill them with her own people, when they arrived. Then she would have the strength to capture Woodrun. For now, she must hold off.

Ranad returned with goblets and two ewers. Torith declined the wine, but drank two cupfuls of water in quick succession. Shalár watched his face, thinking she saw a slight pinched look about it.

“Have you other news?”

He finished his second cup of water and set the goblet on the table. “No, Bright Lady. I spent a night listening to the watchers, but they talked mostly of the darkwood harvest. A new milling site has been made, close to Woodrun.”

A tremor shook the room. Shalár clutched at the edge of the table, then made herself relax.

There had been a number of tremors since their arrival; not unusual in Fireshore, though new to most of her people. She herself was unused to them, but she remembered them from early childhood.

The water ewer teetered slightly with a small, metallic sound, then was still. She gazed at Torith, who stared back, wide-eyed.

“Take your rest, then. You may share a kobalen with Gavál after I have seen him.”

“Thank you, Bright Lady.”

Torith stood up, bowed briefly, and left. Shalár reached for the wine and poured herself a cup.

The door opened again and Gavál came in. He had made the effort of grooming his hair before coming to her; it lay loose about his shoulders. He bowed deeply and scarcely met Shalár's eye, looking apprehensive. Disappointing news, then.

“Be seated. Have some wine or some water.”

“Thank you, Bright Lady.” He sat, but did not reach for drink.

“What news?”

“Bright Lady, we could not catch the ælven attackers.”

“Why not?”

“They appear to have split up. Some left the road at a stream crossing. They must have followed it into the forest, but we could find no sign of their passing. We searched both east and west, as well as on the road.”

Shalár's eyes narrowed. She took hold of his khi, swiftly so that he had no chance to hide his thoughts. He gave a small gasp.

She searched his mind and found no deceit. Going so far as to explore his recent memory, she saw that he had earnestly sought the ælven in the darkwood forest. She released him.

“Take your hunters and search eastward. If you find no sign of them in two nights, return.”

“Yes, Bright Lady.” His voice was a whisper.

Shalár reached for a scrap of parchment and dipped a pen in ink. “Go with Torith to the kobalen pens. He will choose a feeder. When he is finished with it you may share what remains with your hunters.”

She handed Gavál the written order. He stood as he took it, swallowing.

“Thank you, Bright Lady.”

“You had better hurry. The sun will soon rise.”

Fear crossed his face, and he hastily bowed and left the room. Shalár stared at the closed door, drumming her fingertips against the table.

So the ælven were most likely lost to her. Othanin, who would have been useful as a trade offering, now gone. This irked her, but not so much as the loss of the other, the Stonereach.

She had hoped to breed him again. One success offered hope of others.

She put a hand to her belly and opened her khi, hoping for a word or a sign from the spirit of her child. She sensed its presence, but distantly.

A year from now the child would be born. Born of winter, born of strife. Appropriate for a future leader of her people. Shalár smiled slightly, then reached for Othanin's letters again.

Othanin's correspondent was in the Ebons, west of Ghlanhras, not east. She frowned. Perhaps her guess was mistaken, and the ælven would not be fleeing to the Steppe Wilds. She almost called Ranad to summon back Gavál, but decided to wait. Gavál would not leave the city until nightfall.

She searched through the letters again, seeking reference to a place of shelter, but it seemed that the writer moved often, mentioning Firethroat in one message, the Great Sleeper in another. Unlikely, then, that Othanin would seek refuge with this friend, for he might not be able to find her.

Her, or him. No—her, Shalár decided, looking at the pages in her hands, seeking information in the whispers of khi that clung to them. It was mostly Othanin's khi, but there was that hint of another, of the writer.

Her. Othanin's lover. Shalár was certain of it.

“Ranad.”

He came in at once, face inquiring. Shalár gathered up the letters again, slipping them into the silver ribbon that had bound them.

“How many ælven were captured in the Hall?”

“Seventeen, Bright Lady, including the governor and—”

“Yes, yes. So fifteen remain?”

“Three of them have crossed, my lady.”

She frowned. “Go to the house where they are kept, and bring back whichever of them attended most closely on Othanin. Hurry, I want you back before daylight.”

“Yes, Bright Lady.” He bowed and swiftly left.

Three crossed. Yielding their flesh in their despair. They gave up too easily, these ælven. Shalár wondered how she might prevent their seeking death, but apart from giving them more comforts, she could think of nothing.

She stood and left the chamber, passing down the hallway to her private rooms. A memory was tickling at her, something she had glimpsed among Othanin's belongings. She could not recall it exactly. She went into the bedchamber and threw open the darkwood wardrobe that had held Othanin's clothing and now contained hers.

Her new leathers hung here, with her cloak and three of the robes that had been Othanin's, dyed with the superior dyes available here in Fireshore. The leathers and the grey garments had been dyed to black, the orange to blood red. The cloak had resisted dying and was now a dullish green-gray, its falcon-head clasp replaced with one of iron in the shape of flames. Shalár stared at the clothes, frowning.

Not these, but something close. She pulled open the three inner drawers of the wardrobe one by one. The first two held silken tunics and legs, also recently dyed to Darkshore's colors. The third held a clutter of small items she had not yet sorted: a jumble of pouches, sashes, and ornaments, mostly grey and orange. A flash of dark green showed among them, though, and Shalár caught at it.

A ribbon. She pulled it free of the tangle. It was three ells long, a thumb's width, and beautifully woven. Orange and gray entwined with the russet and dark yellowy green of the Steppegard clan, interspersed with images of darkwood trees and scrub pines, running horses and Firethroat.

A handfasting ribbon.

Shalár repressed a sneer. Othanin was handfasted, to a Steppegard it appeared. She searched in the drawer but found no second ribbon. His partner had taken it with her, then.

Shalár frowned. She had found no sign of a second occupant in Othanin's chambers, nor any room that appeared to house a partner. The guest chambers were plainly that alone, and the household attendants had their own separate dwelling behind Darkwood Hall.

Othanin's partner had not resided here, then, or at least not recently. Shalár held the ribbon in both hands and sought through it with khi. The exploration was unpleasant, for the blessings that had been laid into the ribbon by its maker rang against her own khi.

Ælven held great store by pledges, and the handfasting pledge was the most binding of all. Shalár, who made no promises, detested those who revered them. A pledge was a limitation, and she accepted none such.