Swords Over Fireshore (33 page)

She wondered how often he had to hunt. He must have to descend the mountain to find kobalen, possibly on the western side. Perhaps he would take Luruthin with him, if they stayed a few days, and advise him. Eliani swallowed and reached for her teacup, not wanting to think about that.

“Is there more?”

“I can make more.” Ulithan reached for the jug.

Vanorin drained his own cup. “We have some tealeaf.”

Ulithan's face brightened. “I have not had leaf tea in ages!”

“It is in my pack.”

Eliani stood up. “I will get it.”

She went to their packs at the side of the cave and rummaged in Vanorin's for the tea. She took out the metal urn and cup they shared, thinking as she set them down that Ulithan might consider them rare treasures.

Such simple things, and she took them for granted, but he would not have the means for making or acquiring their like. She glanced at him, wanting to offer them to him, but her party needed them and perhaps he would be offended by what might seem like charity.

She found the tea, and from her own pack brought out a pouch of dried stonefruit and the last of the bread. Returning to the fire, she handed the pouch of tealeaf to Ulithan.

“Bread?”

“Yes. Would you like some?”

She tore off a quarter of the loaf and offered it to him, remembering that the Lost ate small amounts of regular food after hunting. He accepted it with a quaintly formal bow.

“Many thanks! This is a rare treat indeed.”

He set the bread aside, then opened the tea pouch, inhaling its scent with a smile of delight. The jug was filled with fresh water and sat upon the fire, but was not yet boiling. Ulithan set the pouch down carefully before him, then tore off a bit of the bread and ate it.

Eliani watched him close his eyes, savoring the food. She had spent enough patrols living on trail fare to know how one might relish a bit of fresh bread, but she could not imagine what it must be like to live for centuries without such comforts.

She glanced around the cave, looking for any object that could not have been made by Ulithan. She saw none, save for the long knife he had worn, which now hung from one of the pegs. No other metal was in view, nor any crafted thing save for the wooden bowls and the pottery, which he must have made himself.

The furs and skins must be his handiwork as well. She was impressed at the variety of skills he must have developed, but then, he had had plenty of time to hone them.

Her gaze fell upon the quiver of arrows hanging from a peg beside the knife. She glanced at Ulithan.

“May I look at your arrows?”

“Certainly, if I may look at yours.”

Smiling, she got up and fetched Ulithan's quiver and her own, bringing them back to the fire. She handed her quiver to Ulithan and drew an arrow from his, admiring the straightness of the shaft, the fletching of striped feathers perfectly aligned, and the wicked point of sharpened ebonglass.

“Glass points, like the kobalen use on their darts.”

Ulithan glanced at her, one of the Lost's arrows in his hands. “Yes. I have not the means to work metal. I make knives of glass as well, for everyday use.”

She held the arrow tip up and peered through the point at the firelight. It set up a smoky glow in the glass.

“How do you keep the points from breaking in the quiver?”

“A handful of fleececod in the bottom.”

Eliani handed the arrow to Vanorin, who was watching with interest. “Fleececod? That does not grow in the mountains.”

“No, I found it when I was traveling in the west. If it grew close by I would try my hand at weaving cloth, but it is too distant for that to be practical. Skins and furs are much easier to come by.”

She gazed at Ulithan. “You must know the Sleeper very well.”

He smiled. “Yes.”

The jug was now steaming, and Ulithan turned his attention to it, shifting it over the coals. When it boiled a moment later he took it off the fire and added tealeaf to it, carefully pouring a small amount of leaf into his hand first, then stirring it into the hot water, brushing the last bits from his palm.

“Ah.” He smiled as the fragrant steam arose. “How delightful. You brought this from Alpinon?”

“No, it was a gift from the Lost. They cultivate it near their camps.”

“In Fireshore? I would have thought it too warm.”

“Inóran said they find sheltered places to grow it.”

“Perhaps I could grow some on the lower slopes.”

“I am sure they would give you cuttings.”

Ulithan stirred the tea. He was silent for a moment, then looked up at her.

“You see, I am not certain I wish my presence to be known.”

She saw the depths of years in his dark eyes, and was reminded again of Heléri. Part of her wanted to protest, to point out the many advantages he would gain by associating with the Lost, not the least of which would be companionship. Yet, he could have sought companionship if he truly desired it.

Or perhaps he could not. It was unlikely that any ælven would welcome intimacy with one who suffered the alben's curse. Then, too, Ulithan seemed to hold no love for the alben. If he had been open to them, he would have sought their company west of the mountains.

“We will respect your wishes, of course, but we would be happy to carry a message to the Lost for you.”

“Thank you. I will think on that.”

The tea being ready, he filled all their cups, then held his own in both hands, savoring the steam before taking a sip. Eliani watched him, touched by the pleasure he took in a simple cup of tea, and resolved to be more grateful for her own blessings.

Vanorin reached for the bread, tore off a share for himself, and offered it to Luruthin, who gazed at it for a moment, then shook his head. Eliani wondered if he was beginning to be hungry again. He looked well enough, but the amount of blood they had given him was small. She had no idea how often he would need to hunt. The Lost had not hunted every day, though that might have been only because there were no kobalen nearby.

She opened her pouch of stonefruits and offered them first to Ulithan, who took three, then to the others. Luruthin accepted one and nibbled at it, though he seemed to take no pleasure in it.

Vanorin took three of the fruits. “All we need is a song to make this a regular feast.”

Ulithan glanced up, smiling. “Yes, a song! You must know many that I have not heard.” He turned to look at Eliani. “Will you sing?”

She laughed. “Not I! My voice is as sweet as a jay's.”

“Truth.” Luruthin glanced sidelong at her with a grin, his first contribution to the conversation in some while.

Relieved, Eliani grinned back, then looked at the captain. “Vanorin has a pleasant voice. Will you sing for us?”

Vanorin nodded, finished chewing a mouthful of bread, then drank some tea. He sat thinking for a moment, then set down his cup and drew breath.

 

The shepherd's fair daughter to market did carry her fleece,

All on the fairest of midsummer mornings,

And there she did meet with the woodworker's comely young son,

Dally, heigh dally till midsummer moon.

 

Eliani sat back, enjoying the tune, which she had heard often around the Guard's campfires, and had even sung herself when the wine was flowing and the company was uncritical. Ulithan listened with evident delight to the frivolous tale, laughing at the clever parts, and applauding when Vanorin had finished.

“That is wonderful! May I note it down? I would like to remember it.”

Vanorin nodded, and Ulithan got up and went to a shelf, returning with one of the small, rolled skins, a quill-cut feather, a small bowl and a tiny gourd. He poured some dark powder from the gourd into the bowl and added water, stirring it to make ink, then unrolled the skin.

“A parchment skin.” Eliani admired the beautiful, thin and supple skin. “I never learned how to make them.”

“All it takes is patience.” Ulithan smiled as he dipped his quill.

Eliani looked up at the shelf that held many of the skins. She had not realized at first what they were.

“Have you written on all of those?”

Ulithan followed her gaze. “Yes. Most are about the events leading up to the wars. I thought I should record them. It was a way of occupying myself, and I wished not to forget the causes of those troubled times.”

Eliani gazed in wonder at the shelf laden with history, history so ancient that it was little more than legend now. Events leading up to the Bitter Wars, as seen through the eyes of a member of Clan Darkshore.

What a treasure to find in the cave of a recluse high in the mountains! Nothing like it had been known among the ælven. She glanced at Luruthin, who seemed as awed as she.

“Ulithan, may I read them?”

He glanced up at her, looking slightly surprised, then at the shelf. “If you wish. They are numbered. The first ones are at the left.” He turned his attention to Vanorin. “It begins, ‘The shepherd's fair daughter'?”

As he and Vanorin murmured together, Eliani stood and went to the shelf full of scrolls. She hesitated to touch them, wondering how old they must be.

Ulithan must have recopied them from time to time as the parchments began to crumble, for as she looked at them more closely the scrolls seemed relatively new. She reached for the topmost scroll at the left end of the shelf, taking it down carefully. The number “1” was written on an outside corner. Smiling with quiet pleasure, she carried it back to the fire and settled down to lose herself in reading.

Ghlanhras

 

W
hen she felt night descend, Shalár arose from her rest. She poured water into her basin and splashed it onto her face, then donned the tunic and legs and the robe laid out for her. Silken slippers, once orange, now red, sat near her bed. Stepping into them, she sighed with deep appreciation. She had not forgotten the lean times in Nightsand, when such luxuries as these were unknown even to her.

“Come and comb my hair.”

The ælven female who waited on her came into the chamber and took up brush and comb from her dressing table. Shalár sat in a cushioned chair by the table and closed her eyes. The brush felt good against her scalp.

“Your father has not returned.”

The female said nothing. Shalár had expected no answer, but she smiled.

“He may be on his way. For your sake I hope so. I will give him until the morning.”

No answer still, though the brushing slowed. Shalár observed the ælven's khi, watchful for any sign of rebellious intent. There was none. The ælven was not stupid. If she intended anything, it was escape.

Shalár knew how unlikely the female was to succeed at that venture. She need not trouble herself to discourage it, for if the ælven tried to escape she would be stopped by Shalár's hunters, either within the palace or at the city gates, or if the female was more adventurous than Shalár thought, at the wall.

Dismissing the matter, Shalár turned her thoughts to the night ahead. No word yet from the west. Too soon still. Woodrun must wait.

Tonight she would venture to the foot of Firethroat. The volcano had fallen silent, which troubled her far more than the frequent tremors had done. No tremor had been felt in Ghlanhras for the past three nights.

The ælven put down her brush and began to separate strands of Shalár's hair with the comb, preparing to braid it. Shalár brushed her hands away.

“No, leave it. I will have it braided later.”

Standing up, Shalár went out to her workroom. She picked up a handful of notes—her own, and messages from her subordinates. All writ on beautiful paper that was made here in Ghlanhras. Another luxury, and one she intended never to forgo again. Some of the ælven captives had already been put to work making more, using tools left behind by their fellows.

Paper. Cloth. All manner of wooden things, crafted of darkwood. These products were already in train. When her people arrived from the west, they would take up these crafts, which their forebears had abandoned in the struggle to survive.