Swords Over Fireshore (35 page)

Shalár went into her bedchamber and took off her boots and leathers, leaving them heaped on the floor. By the time she was out of them, down to silken tunic and legs, her bath had arrived. While three attendants placed the tub and began to fill it she rummaged for a pot of soap she had found among Othanin's things, spicewood scented and rich with oil. She found it and brought it to the tub along with a comb.

“This is all the hot water that was ready, Bright Lady. More is being heated.”

She dismissed the attendants with a nod and glanced into the tub, no more than two handspans deep in water. Steam curled from its surface. Shalár set down her soap and comb on a low table that one of the attendants moved beside the tub, then sent them all away and pulled off her tunic and legs.

She stepped into the water and sighed with pleasure as its heat soaked into her feet. Sitting down in the tub, she cupped handfuls of water over herself, then began to spread the soap along her limbs and rub it into her flesh. Attendants returned with steaming pitchers, enough to fill the tub and enable her to wash her hair. By the time she had finished bathing and stepped out of the tub to dry herself with soft cloths, she had begun to wonder what had become of the ælven female.

She donned fresh clothing and looked out into the hallway. Ranad loitered there, and glanced up at her.

“Where is the ælven?”

Ranad shrugged. “I saw her going to the kitchens. I have not seen her since.”

“I sent her to the gardens. Go and find her.”

“It is nearly dawn.”

Shalár raised an eyebrow at him. “You had best hurry, then.”

He looked mildly alarmed, then turned and left, his stride quickening to a run. Shalár returned to her bedchamber and combed out her hair. She did not feel tired, so she returned to her workroom and made notes about the metal works on Firethroat, and about her observations of the mountain.

She pondered whether to wait before sending the coppersmith to the works. If the mountain erupted, he might be killed, and she was loathe to lose a skilled craftsman. Best to wait, she decided.

A knock on her door made her glance up. “Come.”

The door opened to admit one of the gate's watchers, accompanied by the ælven Shalár had sent to Woodrun. The watcher pushed the ælven forward, then left at a nod from Shalár.

The ælven coughed. He looked winded, soaked and travel-weary. His hair hung damp and lank, and his legs and shoes were spattered with mud. Shalár leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised.

“Well. I had all but given up hope of seeing you again.”

The ælven's eyes searched the chamber. “My daughter?”

“Give me your news and you have time to save her.”

A look of horror crossed his face, then he began to speak rapidly. “There are two Greenglens and two Stonereaches in Woodrun. The governor's daughter is not with them. Another Greenglen rode for the Steppes. They have told the theyn to gather warriors, and she is doing so. I heard no mention of a plan to attack Ghlanhras.”

“How many warriors has she raised?”

“Some seventy as yet, I believe.”

“Does she expect to raise more?”

“That I do not know. They expect to be joined by a force from the south. A large force, from the way they speak of it.”

Shalár frowned. These were ill tidings, save only in that it seemed an immediate attack was not planned. The ælven would wait for their larger force to join them before moving against Ghlanhras.

“Please. My daughter?”

Shalár glanced toward the doorway. Ranad had been too long in fetching the ælven. She stood up, wondering if something had gone wrong, if the female had summoned more courage than Shalár expected, courage enough to attack Ranad.

A rumble of thunder sounded overhead. Shalár narrowed her eyes.

“Come with me.”

She led him down the corridor toward the back of the hall, to the garden's entrance. She paused, knowing the sun had risen. Storm was some protection, but not complete protection, and she did not wish any risk to her child.

The door into the gardens faced north, so she could look out of it without risk of being touched by the sun. Shalár was just about to open it when a thump fell against it and the door swung inward.

Stepping back, she watched Ranad enter carrying the ælven female lewdly against his hips, her legs hanging limp to either side of him. She looked unconscious, and they were both drenched, the female's gown clinging wetly to Ranad's leathers. He leaned his back against the door to push it closed, and looked at Shalár.

“The sun is up.” He grinned.

The ælven stepped toward them. “Teshali!”

Shalár pushed him back, then glared at Ranad. “What are you doing, fool? Put her down.”

“Alas, Bright Lady, I cannot obey you.” Ranad's grin widened and he cupped a hand beneath the female's chin, raising her face to his. “We are bred even now, are we not, my sweet?”

“Teshali!”

The ælven male lunged toward them in greater earnest. Shalár stopped him with a backhanded blow that sent him sprawling. Rage was in his face as he looked at his daughter in Ranad's embrace. He got up and rushed at them again.

Shalár threw him down, and when he made to rise she kicked him until he was still. He lay gasping for breath, then raised his head to glare at her.

“You promised she would not be harmed!”

“Well, she is sure to be untroubled now. Her honored state protects her.” She looked at the hunter. “Are you certain, Ranad?”

“Oh, yes. The child will be a male, he tells me.” He laughed drunkenly, and slid down against the door until he was sitting on the floor.

Torn between exasperation and admiration of his ability to get himself indoors while in such a condition, Shalár stared at Ranad, debating what to do. He and the female would be coupled for some while, yet. She did not wish to leave them where they were, but the only chambers nearby were her own.

“Walk a little farther, Ranad, and you may rest in my chambers.”

“You honor me, Bright Lady, yet I fear I cannot get up.”

“Help him.” Shalár prodded the ælven male, and bent to lend her own assistance.

Between them they hauled Ranad to his feet once more. The ælven touched his daughter's face with tender concern, but she did not rouse. He hovered beside them, his expression shifting from grief to anger and back again, as Ranad staggered his way to Shalár's chambers with the weight of the female on his chest.

They passed the kitchens and workrooms where curious attendants stood watching in the doorways. Shalár ignored them, and none dared to raise a question.

Shalár led Ranad to her bedchamber, where he collapsed backward onto the bed and heaved a great sigh. The ælven male made a small, anxious sound and darted forward to move one of his daughter's legs from an awkward position. Shalár dragged him away, back out to her workroom, and made him sit across the table from her.

“You may not think it, but this is good fortune for your daughter.”

He glanced angrily at Shalár, but said nothing. She smiled.

“She is now certain to live for at least a year. I shall probably allow her to nurse the child. You should be glad, for Ghlanhras is sure to be attacked before then, and I would have kept my pledge to slay her.”

A swallow moved the ælven's throat. His face was set in grief, but he made no protest. Wise of him, she thought.

“Of course, I will not hesitate to kill both her and the child if you disobey me.”

He raised his head, but did not meet her gaze. Instead he stared at the wall beyond her with dread-filled eyes.

Shalár straightened the papers on her table, setting aside the notes she had made earlier. She was well pleased with what she had learned this night, though some of the tidings were ill news.

She was pleased that the ælven spy had shown the wisdom to return from Woodrun, and pleased also with Ranad for siring a child. Shalár would not slay the mother and child, despite what she had told the female's father. She gazed at him, wondering if he had the wit to surmise as much. Even if he did, she doubted he would risk her wrath.

“Now, then. I understand there is a coppersmith among the ælven in the city. Tell me all you know about him.”

The Trade Road

 

T
urisan's gaze rose to the Ebons, where a few drifts of cloud played yet around the highest peaks. Fresh snow lay well down upon the mountains' shoulders. He looked to the north, toward the Great Sleeper, where Eliani lay somewhere curled in the warmth of a stranger's home. A cave, she had said. The most comfortable cave she had ever seen.

Impatience smote him. She should not lie anywhere without him. He knew it was senseless, but that was his feeling. He knew also that if they were to be useful as mindspeakers, they must often be apart.

Not like this, though. Not now. They had been parted long enough for now.

Though he had held off from speaking to Eliani, he was weary of waiting for her to explain. He sent her the signal requesting her attention, and after a moment she answered.

Yes? Is it morning?

It is, and we are marching. Are you still reading?

I finished a short while ago. I have been thinking.

Turisan waited, but she said no more. All manner of foolish feeling assailed him: jealousy, worry that he had lost her love, anger at the nameless friend who had so distracted her. All nonsense, he knew. He closed his eyes, trying to release it all.

Turisan?

Yes.

Our host does not know that I am a mindspeaker, and so I cannot ask his permission to tell you about him. May I ask you to keep what I am about to say private for the nonce?

Turisan wanted to ask why, but he knew he must trust her. All right.

He has been living here a very long time, since the Bitter Wars, and he has not decided whether he wishes to be known. I have given him my pledge to respect his privacy. I ask you as my partner to honor this pledge as well.

Very well.

My love, I think he can influence the Council.

Turisan blinked in surprise. He had not expected the Council to figure in the conversation.

How so?

The scrolls I have been reading are a history. They are his work, his reminiscences of the Bitter Wars and how they began.

Turisan waited, certain there must be more. He had himself read several histories of the wars, some from citizens of Southfæld who had long since crossed, some copies that his father had commissioned of documents that rested in Hollirued.

Love, he was a member of Clan Darkshore.

Darkshore?

Yes. His history is of how they saw the crisis.

Clan Darkshore were traitors to the creed!

But he was not. He urged them to keep the creed, and was cast out of his clan for it. He lives by the creed now, I am certain of it.

Turisan was silent for a moment, absorbing the import of her words. If this unnamed elder had truly seen the wars, and could tell the tale as Darkshore saw it, he might well influence the Council, but to what purpose?

The most important part of it is the description of how the hunger swept through Darkshore. I consider it proof that it is an illness. The Councils at that time all assumed it was a choice, but truly those who were stricken had no choice. Ulithan's history makes that painfully clear.

Ulithan. The name was unfamiliar, but Turisan would not forget it.

The only choice that was made, and it was a fateful one, was that of the Governor and head of Clan Darkshore to stand by those of his people who were stricken, to help them and try to live in harmony with them. That choice led to Clan Darkshore's being cast out of the ælven. After all their struggles, to be chastised so made Darkshore deeply bitter. I wish you could read the history yourself, love. I am not expressing its depth.

Turisan gazed toward the Sleeper, wishing most intently that he could be there with her. He would read all the scrolls she wished if only he were beside her.

So, what will you? Take the scrolls to the Council?