Swords Over Fireshore (41 page)

“Sing that s-song, will you, Vanorin? The one about the shepherd's child?”

Vanorin began to sing softly. The tune calmed Luruthin, who had heard it often enough in Ulithan's cave that he could follow it and join in on some of the verses.

It was long and rambling, and very foolish, and it comforted him. By the time the song had ended, the sun was fully up. He could feel it in his bones. Staring apprehensively at the roof of his little shelter, he was able at last to convince himself that it was enough.

“Thank you, Vanorin.”

“Do want another?”

“Not now.”

As the morning progressed, Luruthin tried to rest, as he knew the others were doing. He had not the concentration required to meditate. He had not done that for a long time, spending his thoughts instead on dread of the new life he must lead, on regrets for all he must leave behind.

The air around him grew warmer as the day went on, and his thoughts moved away from the immediacy of his situation. For a long while, since Ghlanhras, he had thought only of surviving the present day. Now he was beginning to be able to think of a future, of a day when he would feel no suffering, or much less suffering at least.

A day when he could feel safe among others who shared his fate. Bitter a fate as it was, he was beginning to believe that he could bear it.

These musings carried him until the light began to fade and he knew the sun was westering. He sat listening as evening came on, as the birds and woodland creatures made ready for night.

He knew the moment the sun was down. Standing, he pushed against the boughs that covered his shelter and they slid in a jumble to the ground. He stepped over the heap of branches into the twilit evening.

Eliani and Vanorin were sitting nearby, their backs leaned against tree trunks. Eliani looked at Luruthin, then suddenly jumped up and threw her arms around him. He returned the embrace lightly before drawing back. A tear glinted on Eliani's cheek and she brushed it away.

“Are you all right?”

Luruthin nodded, smiling a little to reassure her, then turned to break his camp. Vanorin helped him, and soon they were ready to walk on. They followed the Varindel down its valley, which widened and became filled with the grey, leafless wraiths of greenleaf trees.

“This is the way we came from Twisted Pine Pass.”

Luruthin nodded. Eliani's comment had echoed his thoughts.

He thought of the shade he had seen in the falls near Highstone, and of his fear that she portended a dark fate for him. He did not think so now, or at least, not a death like to hers. He had passed through that trial, and though unsure of exactly where his path would lead him, he now saw it and had the strength to follow.

Ghlanhras

 

S
halár emerged from Darkwood Hall immediately after sunset, eager to inspect progress on the city's defenses. Kelev had assumed the task of overseeing construction of the network of sheltered paths that now gave access to all levels of the city.

The paths stretched from Darkwood Hall to the outer walls at the four watch platforms and the gates, and ran all along the inside of the city wall. Since Kelev had taken a hand, the work had gone more efficiently. Shalár could now walk to any part of Ghlanhras in daylight, if need be.

She found Kelev at the northwestern watch platform, revising its structure so that the access ladder could be withdrawn up into the platform at need. He had a small crew of ælven laborers at work, and seemed to have no trouble compelling them to work quickly and well.

He nodded in greeting at her approach. The white in his hair had spread, so that now it was the few remaining brown strands that seemed an intrusion. Curling white hair around a golden face, quite striking, though the golden skin was beginning to pale somewhat.

“An improvement.” She nodded toward the ladder. “Will you do this at each platform?”

“This is the last. The others are done.”

Shalár nodded again, impressed anew. She would have to think of something more for Kelev to do.

“I have a suggestion, Bright Lady.”

“Oh?”

“Let me make an inner yard at the front gates, a defensible enclosure. If the gates fall, the enemy will still have to fight to get into the city.”

“Interesting. I would want to see plans.”

“I have made some sketches. Shall I bring them to you?”

She gave him a guarded look. She did not wish to encourage him to think he might demand her attention whenever he wished it. He was one of her people now, but had no more consequence than any other. He seemed not to understand this. Natural arrogance, perhaps.

“You may bring them to the Hall later this evening, when I hold audience.”

Kelev made a slight bow. “Thank you, Bright Lady.”

She turned away and walked the covered path to the next watch platform, then visited the others in turn. Kelev's work was excellent.

Hungry now, she went to the kobalen pen, where some twenty newly-caught kobalen roamed restlessly. Ranad's hunting had kept the city well supplied, and Shalár had no hesitation in feeding whenever she wished. Such a change from the hardship of Nightsand. She smiled with pleasure at the thought of becoming soft, though she would never let herself lapse so far that she lost strength.

A rumbling underfoot made her glance northward. The sky was smudged with grey cloud hanging heavily about Firethroat's peak. Steam had been seeping from the volcano for several nights now. A relief, for it meant that some of the pressure beneath the mountain had eased.

She chose her feeder and drank her fill, leaving the rest for the keeper. She toyed with the thought of sending it to Kelev as a reward for his excellent service, but decided his self-importance needed no encouragement. Let him ask, if he hungered.

Returning to the Hall, she went to her chambers to don a robe for her audience. Her ælven attendant silently brought out a robe of black silk with gray edges, silently took it back when Shalár demanded another. The female had been listless, entirely passive, since her conception with Ranad. She never spoke unless Shalár demanded an answer.

Shalár watched her closely as she moved about the chamber. Her face looked strained, a little gaunt. Shalár suspected she was not eating enough. That would not do. The child she carried, a Darkshore child, must be nourished.

“Yes, that will serve.” Shalár accepted a scarlet robe with swirls of gray smoke dancing along its hem. It was of Eastfæld make, and the smoke curls shifted with each movement. The orange silk had taken the scarlet dye without loss of this art. She could wish the smoke was black instead of gray, but its beauty consoled her for this lack.

“Go to the kitchens and fetch me some greens, and some cakes or bread. Whatever is at hand.”

The ælven left the chambers without a word. Shalár hoped the kitchens would tempt her to eat. She had already given orders that the ælven who served there should make whatever foods her attendant desired, and should always have something savory ready to be eaten.

A pity that the girl's father was no longer useful. His anger at her conception made sending him again to Woodrun too great a risk.

Shalár could not be certain he would obey her; his daughter's life was no longer a useful incentive, for he knew Shalár would protect her until the child was born. He might seek vengeance for what he perceived as a wrong done to his child—though in fact it was to her benefit—by passing information about Ghlanhras to the ælven.

Shalár donned the robe and brushed out her hair. She decided to leave it loose and merely catch it back from her face. She needed a scarf or a band for that.

She rummaged in the lowest drawer of the wardrobe, which still contained a jumble of Othanin's things. She found the pouch into which she'd stuffed his handfasting ribbon, and toyed with the thought of wearing it in her hair. That would be amusing, but she decided against it. The latent khi in the ribbon would be a distraction.

Looking further, she found a circlet of plain silver rubbed with a dark polish to make it gray. She held it in her hands, remembering a distant past. Her father had worn a circlet of state, when he was governor. This was rightfully hers.

She carried it to her mirror and put it on, tucking strands of her hair back from her face. She was governor of Fireshore, now. She had achieved her wish of resuming her father's place.

But the circlet was an ælven custom. She took it off and tossed it back into the drawer. Instead she chose a length of smoke-colored gauze heavy with glistening beads, all black and gray. She tied it over her brow, letting the long ends dangle down her shoulder.

A sound in the outer chamber drew her notice. The ælven, returning with a platter of fresh greens dressed with sunfruit oil and spices, and a dish of assorted cakes and sweetmeats. She set them on the table and retreated to her customary place on the floor by the door to the bedchamber.

Shalár ate most of the greens and two of the cakes, then turned to look at her attendant. “Have you tried these? They are quite good.”

The female shook her head. Shalár picked up the plate and carried it to her.

“Have one.”

Again, a shake of the head. Shalár felt a rising anger.

“Have one, or I shall make you eat them all.”

Alarm flashed through the ælven's eyes. She took the nearest cake off the plate and bit into it, then coughed, choking. Shalár put down the plate and hauled her to her feet.

Struggling for breath, the ælven coughed and retched, then drew a gasping breath and dropped to her knees, sobbing. Shalár stood gazing down at the wretched female with mingled annoyance and pity. This weeping was worse than the silence. She knelt and took hold of the ælven's shoulders, compelling her to look up.

“I am not trying to be cruel. I want you to be well.”

The female looked away, avoiding her gaze, but began to calm. Shalár fetched her own goblet and filled it with water.

“Drink.” She watched until the ælven had swallowed half the cup. The female still looked wretched. Shalár gazed at her with a critical eye.

“You have worn that same gown for many days now. Have you no other?”

“Not here.” The female's voice was a rasping whisper.

“Hm. I will send for your clothing. Meanwhile, bathe yourself. You may put on the black robe you took out earlier. That gown you have on is past mending, I think. Send it to be burnt.”

The gown was not so terribly worn, but as it was what the ælven had been wearing when Ranad had taken her, Shalár thought disposing of it might improve her mood. The ælven merely nodded, slipping back into silent obedience. Shalár picked up the plate of cakes and put it in her hands.

“Try to eat a little. Please.”

The female was still, silent. Shalár left her alone, though if she would not eat, Shalár would have to force her. No Darkshore child would be born a weakling.

Fireshore