Heart of the Exiled Read online

  Praise for the novels of

  Pati Nagle

  “For too long, Pati Nagle has been one of fantasy’s best-kept secrets. Heart of the Exiled should let the rest of the world know what some of us have known for a long time: Pati Nagle has an incredibly original voice. She takes us places that no one else can.”

  —KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH,

  bestselling author of Diving into the Wreck

  “In The Betrayal, Pati Nagle creates a magical world where the bright elves and their peaceful society are threatened by a darkly twisted new breed of elves who are as tragic as they are dangerous. Hope lies with a pair of young lovers joined by a powerful and unsettling magical bond. Lyrical and deeply romantic, The Betrayal is an enthralling read.”

  —MARY JO PUTNEY,

  author of A Distant Magic

  “An enticing, solid debut fantasy … a fast-paced read.”

  —Albuquerque Journal, on The Betrayal

  “Pati Nagle has created a world and culture that play with elvish and vampiric themes in a fresh way. That freshness, combined with interesting characters and a fast-paced story, makes The Betrayal an entertaining read.”

  —ANNE BISHOP,

  author of Tangled Webs

  “A rich, intriguing novel, The Betrayal presents a multifaceted tale loaded with everything a dedicated fantasy reader could desire. The complex political and social dynamic that binds the sylvan ælven to their tainted alben kin introduces a conflict of truly epic proportions.”

  —JANE LINDSKOLD

  bestselling author of Through Wolf’s Eyes

  “Readers of fantasy romance will love this new addition to the genre.”

  —Romance Reviews Today, on The Betrayal

  “Vivid … will complete any fantasy reader’s shelves.”

  —Coffee Time Romance, on The Betrayal

  By Pati Nagle

  BLOOD OF THE KINDRED

  Heart of the Exiled

  The Betrayal

  Heart of the Exiled is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Patricia G. Nagle

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52183-5

  www.delreybooks.com

  Cover illustration: © Gene Mollica

  v3.1

  To Jane and Jim

  faithful friends these many years

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thanks to all who helped bring the ælven to life: my editors Liz Scheier and Kaitlin Heller; Betsy Mitchell (ældar of publishing); readers Peggy Whitmore, Sally Gwylan, D. Lynn Smith, Pari Noskin Taichert, and Jerry Weinberg; my beloved spouse Chris; and all the folks who came to the ælven photo shoot. You are the magic.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Southfæld

  Small Sleeper Farm

  Glenhallow

  Willow Bend

  Magehall

  Magehall

  Small Sleeper Farm

  Glenhallow

  Highstone

  Magehall

  The Three Shades

  Glenhallow

  Westerlands

  Glenhallow

  Alpinon

  Glenhallow

  Glenhallow

  Alpinon

  Althill

  Midrange

  Ebon Mountains

  Bitterfield

  Fireshore

  The South Road

  Ghlanhras

  Darkwood Hall

  Fireshore

  Share with your kindred, for kindness serves also the giver.

  Always remember the power we hold in our hands.

  Keep to your path though the storm of disaster may threaten.

  Find your way back, when you falter, and seek to atone.

  —Creed of the Ælven, second stave

  Eliani gazed at the snow-capped peaks to the northwest, though she knew that one day’s travel was not enough to bring her within sight of Midrange Peak. Riding as swiftly as the horses could bear, they might hope to reach Midrange on the third or fourth day.

  Her thoughts flew to the pass there, where not long since she had stood looking down at an army of kobalen gathering on the plains west of the mountains. Remembered dread at that discovery filled her heart.

  Only once before had kobalen massed in such great numbers: the Midrange War, five centuries since. A battle loomed, one that Eliani must take care to avoid.

  She frowned, torn between a wish to raise her sword in defense of ælven lands and the knowledge that she had a more important task. Only she could perform it, and so she must avoid being caught in the fighting. She must hasten north as swiftly as possible, hoping to get beyond Midrange before the kobalen came through the pass.

  Her mare balked, catching her anxious mood. She stroked its neck to soothe it, then turned to the captain of her escort.

  “A gallop, Vanorin? Let them stretch their legs before nightfall?”

  The captain gazed back, his dark Greenglen eyes and pale hair reminding her of her newly handfasted partner, Turisan. “A brief gallop. These mounts must last us to Highstone.”

  Eliani’s mare tossed its head, and she tightened the rein a little to curb it. “The outpost at Midrange might be able to give us fresh horses.”

  “We cannot rely on that.”

  Eliani shrugged. “A gallop will not ruin them. It is not long until sunset.”

  The sun was indeed westering, and deep blue shadows were rising up the slopes of the Ebon Mountains to their left. The party would soon have to stop for the night.

  Having heard no outright objection from Vanorin, Eliani drew her mount to the outside of the road and with a loose rein invited it to run. The mare obliged eagerly, and the others followed.

  Twenty-one horses thundered northward behind her. Eliani grinned, reveling in the wind that whipped at her hair, the sharp chill of winter in her nostrils.

  For a short time she held the lead; then Vanorin and two others of the Southfæld Guard passed her. She felt an urge to race them, to fight her way to the fore again, but she knew they had moved ahead only to protect her.

  A roan gelding drew up beside her. She risked a glance at its rider, Luruthin: her clan-brother, onetime playfellow, first lover. His green eyes flashed at her in glee. She shifted her gaze back to the road ahead, her heart uneasy. She knew Luruthin had been disappointed by her handfasting with Turisan, though he seemed to bear it well. A part of her felt regret for ending his hopes. Granted, she had done nothing to encourage them for two decades, but Luruthin was her kin, and she still cared for him very much.

  Eliani, I am going—

  Startled, she jerked upright, unintentionally tightening her reins. Her mount reared, nearly colliding with Luruthin’s. Shouts of alarm rose behind them, and Eliani’s horse, nervous already, chose to bolt.

  Eliani?

  Wait!

  The mare left the road, running instead on the verge that banked the Silverwash, passing Vanorin and the other guardians as if fleeing from attack. The animal’s hooves flew over the dry grass. The river flashed by on her right, much too near for comfort.

  The horse had its neck stretched nearly f
lat, ignoring Eliani’s attempts to rein it in. She kept low over its withers, clinging with her knees.

  Khi. Use khi to calm it.

  She dared not loosen her hold on the reins but pressed her fisted hands against the horse’s neck and concentrated on blending her own khi with the animal’s. As she opened her awareness, she felt its terror, the blind fear that told it to run, and had to calm her own response.

  Focusing on her soul’s center, she brought her khi forward, filling her mind with a white-gold glow of peace. Gently, she sent this into the animal’s thoughts, turning them to comfort, to safety, warm pasture, and the company of other horses. Safe in the herd, no danger. The mare’s panic ebbed, and Eliani breathed relief as it slowed to an easier lope.

  Hoofbeats pounded behind her. She took the reins in one hand and held up the other hand in warning; she had no wish for the mare to be startled again. Vanorin’s voice called out, and the riders behind her dropped back, allowing her room to bring her wayward mount to a halt.

  “Easy, now. Gently, gently.”

  The mare slowed to a trot, then a walk, then stopped, its sides heaving. Eliani found she was breathing nearly as hard.

  She patted the animal’s neck. “That was a better run than I expected of you. I should enter you in the festival races next spring.”

  The horse blew and turned its head toward the river. Eliani dismounted, seeking the comfort of standing on the ground. Her hands shook a little as she drew the reins over the mare’s head. She stroked the satiny neck, feeling the heat beneath the mare’s golden coat.

  Vanorin and a handful of guardians rode up to her at a walk. The mare greeted the other horses with a whinny, then nuzzled one of them.

  “What happened?”

  The captain’s tone was not quite accusing. Eliani bit back a sharp reply.

  “I was distracted.”

  “My lady, you must be more cautious—”

  “It was not lack of caution.”

  “The Council has charged me with your safety, Lady Eliani. I dare not risk losing you to some accident—”

  “Yes, yes. I will make certain they know that you are all solicitude.”

  “—or to a raider’s dart. We do not know if there might be kobalen nearby.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Vanorin served in Southfæld’s Guard. He should know better than she how likely they were to encounter kobalen in this realm, but she was skeptical.

  In her own realm of Alpinon, attacks of kobalen against remote villages or travelers dropped sharply in winter. The creatures disliked the cold, so she ordinarily would assume that they were seen even less often in the south. Of course, these were not ordinary times.

  She drew a careful breath. “I will be more cautious.”

  When he did not answer at once, she turned and led her horse toward the river, as much to get away from the captain as to calm the animal. Vanorin did not deserve her temper—he was only performing his duty—but she chafed at the unfamiliar constraint of being escorted by twenty of Southfæld’s Guard. She was a guardian herself and accustomed to freedom of action.

  She found an eddy where the horse could drink safely and sat on the riverbank watching it, willing her pulse to slow. Greenleaf trees surrounded her, their gray branches all but bare in early winter. A few traces of green remained in the grass at the water’s edge, but the land was falling quiet.

  After a moment she ran a hand through her hair, then closed her eyes. She drew deep breaths, quelling the fear of her still-new gift that lingered in her heart. This was why she was here; it was who she now was. A mindspeaker.

  Turisan.

  Immediately his khi filled her mind, his presence, his love nearly overwhelming her.

  Eliani—I was worried. Why would you not speak to me?

  I was riding. You startled me, and my horse bolted.

  My love, forgive me!

  She felt his alarm and chagrin and wished she had been less abrupt. No harm done. What did you wish to tell me?

  She sensed hesitation on his part, a slight withdrawal. When he spoke, he seemed guarded.

  That I am going to the garrison before the Council convenes. Does Vanorin have any message for Berephan?

  I am not near him at the moment. I will ask him shortly.

  She waited, but Turisan said no more. She could still feel him at the edges of her mind, the tingle of his khi blending with her own. Amazing that she sensed him as though they were together, when he had remained in Glenhallow. So far their gift had not diminished with distance. It seemed their mindspeech would prove as powerful as the Ælven Council had hoped.

  Silence stretched between them, more awkward by the moment. Eliani could think of nothing to say. They were still strangers in some ways. Lovers, yes, but only newly so. Handfasted a night ago and now parted because of the gift that had brought them together.

  She rode north, carrying urgent messages to the governor of Fireshore. Their mindspeech would allow the answer to be returned in an instant instead of in another thirty-odd days of riding.

  This was but the first day of her journey. The first day, also, of her formal partnership with Turisan. Not the most comfortable beginning.

  She opened her eyes and saw her horse standing by the riverbank, nibbling at the long grasses that overhung it. Rising, she caught its reins and coaxed it out of the water, leading it to where Vanorin and the others waited.

  Luruthin was beside the captain, his nut-brown hair standing out against the sea of pale-haired Greenglens. He crooked an eyebrow at her but said nothing. Eliani gave him a brief smile, then went to Vanorin.

  “Turisan is on his way to the garrison in Glenhallow. He asks if you have any message for Lord Berephan.”

  Vanorin blinked, then shook his head. “No, my lady. Please give him my thanks, though.”

  She nodded, then turned away to gaze toward the river. Turisan—Vanorin thanks you, but he has no message for Berephan.

  Very well. Will you be riding on?

  Until nightfall, I expect. We are anxious to make good progress.

  I will not disturb you again, then. Speak to me when you have halted for the night, if you would.

  I will.

  She caught herself nodding and glanced over her shoulder, self-conscious. No one seemed to be watching, though. Luruthin was searching for something in his saddle packs.

  Turisan …

  Yes?

  Nothing.

  She flinched, angry with herself. She was behaving like a moonstruck child.

  A gentle warmth filled her: Turisan’s love, easing her heart and making it ache at the same time. Spirits watch over you, my love.

  Thank you.

  He was gone. The warmth, the delicious disturbance of his khi, withdrawn. Suddenly she felt colder.

  She turned and mounted her horse. The guardians made haste to do likewise. Eliani guided her mount toward Vanorin’s.

  “Do we ride on?”

  He swung easily into his own saddle and bowed slightly. “If my lady is not tired.”

  She stifled a laugh and gravely returned his bow. “Lead on, then.”

  Shalár paced in the small bedroom of a stone farmhouse, awaiting Yaras, her subcaptain, whom she had sent to fetch a kobalen. The farmhouse was poor accommodation by comparison to her home in the Cliff Hollows at Nightsand but better than the trees and makeshift shelters where her hunters, now training as warriors, rested by day.

  Neither farmhouse nor Cliff Hollows could compare with Darkwood Hall. The governor’s manse in Fireshore was a sprawling palace, built all of darkwood, the most coveted wood in all the ælven realms. Shalár’s youth had been spent playing in the hall’s extensive gardens. Soon she would reclaim it as her home.

  She looked southward, as if she could see through the stone wall and across the leagues to Midrange. For several days now she had expected word from Ciris, another of her captains, who was there at her behest. Until she knew that her plans had gone forward at Midrange, she could not str
ike for Fireshore. She chafed at the delay, though the additional practice was honing her small army’s skill.

  She had brought her hunters here so that they might be a little closer to Fireshore when they were ready to march, and also so that the comforts of Nightsand would not distract them. Some of them had never lived without shelter, and she was teaching them how to survive in the woods and avoid being sun-poisoned, as well as training them to fight.

  While Shalár trained her small army, Ciris was training the kobalen she had summoned to Midrange, over a thousand of the creatures at last word. They had agreed to fight for Shalár in exchange for her promise of immunity from being hunted, a promise she could make only because kobalen bred so swiftly and easily, unlike her own people.

  The kobalen force was not nearly as skilled as the elite army she was training here, but then, it need not be. The kobalen need only pour themselves across the Ebons in sufficient numbers to hold the ælven’s attention at Midrange while Shalár moved upon Fireshore.

  She stepped to the drapery covering the doorway that separated the bedroom from the main room of the farmhouse. Mehir and Vashakh, the farmers, glanced up from a pallet near the hearth. Mehir smiled slightly; Vashakh looked away.

  Seeing them together made her heart ache of a sudden. Her own consort and steward, Dareth, had yielded up his flesh and gone back to the spirit realm but a few nights since. She shut away the pain of it; she had too much else to do, too many others to oversee.

  Shalár tapped her fingers along her thigh, frowning as she watched Mehir murmur something to his partner and Vashakh shake her head in response. The female looked up, casting a sullen glance at Shalár.