Swords Over Fireshore Page 12

  She wondered where they spent their days, for the sun must flood the meadow itself. Looking into the woods around it, she saw the shapes of rough shelters covered in evergreen boughs and had her answer.

  Inóran approached, carrying a battered metal urn and three mismatched cups, one of rough pottery, one of metal and one carved of wood. He set down the urn and handed the cups to Eliani and two of her party.

  “Tea.” He picked up the urn and offered to pour. “It is mint and tealeaf.”

  Eliani eagerly held out the pottery cup. “Tealeaf grows here?”

  Inóran nodded as he poured. “It grows in sheltered places on the eastern slopes. We cultivate a patch near each of our regular camps.”

  Eliani inhaled the fragrant steam, then sipped at the hot tea. A small luxury and a great comfort.

  “Ah, thank you!” She sighed with pleasure. “How many camps have you?”

  The sudden silence in the space around her, the stilling of the Lost's voices, told her this question had been a mistake. She had meant it conversationally, but even Inóran’s eyes shifted aside with discomfort.

  “Perhaps I should not say.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.”

  “We have learned to be distrustful, I fear.” He gave a small, rueful smile.

  “Have the alben troubled you?”

  “Not the alben, no. Not until now.” He glanced around the meadow. “This is usually a summer camp, but our winter camps are close to Ghlanhras. When we became aware that the alben had crossed the mountains, we decided to move.”

  Eliani gazed at him, wondering if it had been in the Lost's power to warn Ghlanhras. She decided that if it had been possible to send warning to Othanin, Kivhani would certainly have done so. Most likely, there had not been opportunity.

  She sipped her tea, and finding it cool enough, took a larger swallow. Remembering that there were only three cups, she drank as quickly as she could, then let Inóran fill the cup again and offered it to Vanorin, who was sitting beside her with shoulders bowed, staring into the fire. He started when she held the cup before him, as if his thoughts had been far away.

  Their khi brushed together as he took the cup. Eliani sensed his weariness and was quietly alarmed at how much his wound was affecting him. She must finish the healing she had begun. She felt an urge to do it at once, but she did not wish to engage in a healing in the midst of all the Lost. Best to stay by the fire until the party were all comfortably warm, then seek a quieter place.

  She watched Vanorin drink the tea in small, slow sips. Luruthin had another cup, and the two Stonereaches were sharing the third.

  A restless movement drew her attention to the approach of Kivhani and Othanin. Many of the Lost stood gathered outside the fire circle.

  Kivhani bowed, with unaccustomed formality. “Lady Eliani, I must beg your indulgence. I wish to consult with my people about the invitation you offered. May we make you comfortable at one of the smaller fires while we use this circle?”

  “Of course.” Eliani stood at once.

  Inóran rose, the urn in his hand. “I will take them to our fire.”

  Kivhani nodded. “Thank you.”

  Inóran led Eliani and her friends across the meadow, past two smaller fires to a third just at the edge of the wood. Here the log seats were much smaller, and Eliani and her companions nearly filled them as they sat and huddled toward the flames.

  Two Lost, male and female, came out of a shelter nearby, saw Eliani’s party and cast alarmed glances at Inóran. He told them of Kivhani’s counsel gathering, and they hastened away to the larger fire. Inóran poured the last of the tea into the three cups held eagerly out by Eliani’s party, and set about making more.

  “Do you not wish to join the discussion? We will be all right if you go.”

  Inóran glanced up at Eliani as he poured fresh water into the urn from a pitcher. “I think my opinion will be suspect, as I am kin to you. If I may call myself so.”

  “Of course you are my kindred! Inóran, who you are has not changed.”

  He paused and sat back on his heels, the urn in both hands. “I am glad to hear you say so. Not all would agree with you.”

  He gazed at her for a moment, then returned to his work, scraping some coals between two flat-topped stones and balancing the urn across them. He then stood up and added wood to the fire.

  “What happened, Inóran? If you care to tell of it.”

  He bent to check the water in the urn, then sat on the ground beside the fire, folding his legs beneath him. His face grew still. At last he spoke.

  “I was returning home from Ghlanhras. I did not find the glass I sought there—those who once made it had abandoned their forges on Firethroat. I came back on the trade road through Woodrun, hoping instead to find a small gift there for Davhri.”

  He paused as his voice went taut with grief. Eliani waited. She knew that the others were also listening.

  “By the time I reached Woodrun I was unwell. I took a room at a public lodge and lay sick for three days, wracked with fever. By the end of them I knew something was very wrong.

  “I could not eat. My last meal lay heavy in my stomach, and eventually I brought it up. I felt a little better after that and thought I should try to go home, but when I went to the door of the house the sunlight blinded me. It burned my eyes, it was so bright. I could not step into it.”

  He turned to glance at the urn again, and adjusted its position. “The host, who had been all kindness, became suddenly cold. She told me to leave her house.”

  Eliani heard a sharp intake of breath from one of the guardians. Such inhospitality was not in keeping with the creed. If someone was troubled, he should be given help. That was the way they all lived, the way harmony was preserved among the ælven.

  “I begged to be allowed to stay until nightfall. She agreed, after some discussion and the gift of one of my best trade stones. When darkness came I left the house, but I knew I could not go home. Others would react the same way that my host had done.”

  Inóran paused to poke at the fire, frowning. “In fact, word of my affliction had spread through Woodrun and a small crowd had gathered in the public circle to see me go. They followed me to the edge of the town, all the way to the trade road. By the time I reached it I had made my choice. I turned north, back to Ghlanhras.

  “I knew that Othanin had helped others who had been stricken with the curse. I made my way back to the city, sheltering in the darkwood forest during the day. It was—an unpleasant journey.”

  He glanced up, meeting Eliani’s gaze for a moment. Her heart went out to him. How terrible it must have been, to realize he had suddenly lost all his former life, that he must walk away from everything he loved.

  “I sought a private audience with Othanin, and he heard me. He understood at once, and was all kindness. He gave me a few necessities and told me how to find the Lost. I owe him much gratitude. If I had been alone—”

  Inóran stopped abruptly and shook his head, then turned away and began fussing with the fire, adding more wood. Eliani thought she knew what he had been about to say. If he had been alone, he might have sought to end his life.

  All were silent. Inóran took the steaming urn off of the coals and added tea leaves from a small pouch. The fragrance of mint rose afresh. He set the urn aside to steep and looked at Eliani.

  “Tell me of Davhri. Is she well?”

  Eliani pursed her lips, composing her answer carefully. “She lives. She is not ill, but I would not say she is well.”

  He frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “There is no joy in her life, no gladness. She appears to have abandoned her work. Dejhonan is looking after her; he sends his daughter to help her about the house.”

  Inóran’s frown had deepened as Eliani spoke. She leaned toward him.

  “Davhri lives in despair but cannot give up hope. Inóran, you must end her misery. Send her word of your situation.”

  He sighed. “It would be better i
f she forgot me.”

  “That is foolish. Have you forgotten? Will you ever forget her?”

  He looked sharply up at Eliani, then shook his head. He looked almost as miserable as Davhri, she thought. She picked up the pottery cup and turned it in her hand, trying for a lighter tone.

  “Besides, you need some new cups. These are wretched. You should ask her to make you a set.”

  Inóran laughed in surprise, then dropped his face into his hands with a gasping sob. Eliani put down the cup and reached out to touch his shoulder.

  “You are partners.” She remembered the handfasting in Highstone, the ribbons hanging above Davhri’s door. “That has not changed, nor will it.”

  “But we cannot live as partners.” He looked up at Eliani, his face grave. “Some of us have been discussing this. I am not the only one here who is handfasted. We have thought that perhaps, in our case, the bond should be dissolved.”

  Eliani frowned. “A handfasting is for life.”

  “One might say this is a different life. What would you wish, if you were in my place? Would you wish your partner to be free?”

  Eliani glanced at the ribbons on her arm. “My situation is somewhat different.”

  “But surely you can imagine it. If you became afflicted, and could not return to your partner—”

  “Their situation is different.” Vanorin's voice was gruff. “They are mindspeakers.”

  Inóran turned a startled face to Eliani. “Mindspeakers?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  Inóran’s gaze became sharp and intent. “Have you told your partner you were coming here?”

  “I told him Kivhani had offered us shelter, yes.”

  “And he knows where you are?”

  “Not precisely. He knows we are near Bitterfield.”

  “And where is he?”

  Eliani misliked the cold suspicion in his voice. Beside her, Vanorin shifted slightly and she sensed his concern.

  “He is on his way here, to Fireshore.”

  With an army of ælven. Inóran would not have reacted well to that news, she thought. He was gazing at her, doubt writ over his face.

  “He would never wish you harm. He supports the idea of the Lost being recognized as a clan.”

  “An ælven clan?” Inóran’s eyes widened.

  “Yes. That is what Kivhani is discussing now. My father has summoned the Ælven Council to meet at Highstone, and he has invited Kivhani and Othanin to attend.”

  Inóran gazed raptly at her, his chest moving deeply with his breath. The idea of possible acceptance was new to him, it seemed. His eyes were sharp with sudden, painful hope.

  Eliani leaned toward him. “You live by the creed, yes?”

  He nodded. “With all our hearts, as far as we are able.”

  “Then you are still ælven. That is my view, at least. We need only convince the Council of it.”

  His face fell. “There are too many who despise us.”

  “That cannot be so.”

  “It is so. Here in Fireshore, we have been hunted by ælven.”

  “Hunted!”

  Inóran nodded. “In summer a group of us were gathering berries near Darkhollow. We strayed too near the town, and were seen. The townspeople assembled, armed with bows, and fell upon us. Two were slain.”

  Eliani caught her breath, aghast. “Did they give no warning?”

  “None.” Inóran shook his head sadly. “They thought we were alben.”

  Eliani sat up straighter. “That must not happen again. The ælven must be made to understand that you are not alben.”

  “It may not be easy to convince them. How are they to know an alben from one of us?”

  “Clan colors.” Vanorin shifted on his log. “If you became a clan, and always wore your colors—”

  “The alben would adopt them as well.”

  Eliani looked at Luruthin, who had hitherto been silent. She had not thought he was following the conversation. The bitterness in his voice troubled her.

  “The alben would learn of your clan, and wear your colors to deceive. They care nothing for the creed, only for their own advantage.”

  Stark silence followed his words. All knew they were true.

  Inóran picked up the urn and filled the pottery cup at Eliani’s feet, then moved on to pour tea for the others. Eliani sipped, feeling dejected. She could not think of a solution to the problem of differentiating the Lost from the alben. Luruthin was right, any sort of marking would quickly be adopted by the alben.

  Certain words of greeting, perhaps? Not as useful as something visual, and it was possible the alben would discover them as well. They could be changed from time to time, but getting word of the change out to all the ælven settlements would be problematic.

  Eliani sighed and drank her tea in silence, still puzzling at the problem. The Lost needed something that the alben could not, or would not, imitate. She could think of nothing.

  She filled the cup again and offered it to Vanorin, who shook his head. Handing the tea to Onami, she moved to the ground and leaned her back against the log, inviting Vanorin with a gesture to join her. He did so, and Eliani shifted her position so that she could reach his wound and place her hands over it once more.

  Vanorin’s eyes dropped shut and he sighed deeply as the warmth spread through her hands. She closed her eyes also and concentrated on finding the source of the pain and illness in the wound.

  “Inóran, can you bring some strips of clean cloth? I need to wash and bandage this wound.”

  “Yes. Hot water as well?”

  “If you have it. Otherwise the tea will serve.”

  She returned her attention to the healing and was lost for a time, delving into the depth of the wound, feeling a shadow of the pain it caused Vanorin, of the ache of sickness in the flesh. She brought light to it, heat and healing to banish the dark dull soreness. She remained so until a sharp crack from the fire startled her into drawing back.

  Blinking, disoriented, she saw Inóran sitting nearby, watching. Three small strips of cloth lay across his lap, and he had poured some of the tea into a small bowl. Eliani reached for the bowl, and held out her hand for the cloth.

  “You are a healer as well.”

  “A poor one. My gift is not trained.”

  She put a strip of cloth into the bowl and set it down while she carefully removed Vanorin’s leather arm piece and untied the old bandage from the wound on the underside of his arm. He winced as she pulled it away. He had tied it on just after leaving Ghlanhras, and ignored it thereafter. An unwholesome smell arose from the bandage. Eliani threw it into the fire.

  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.”

&nbs
p; 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

  Shalár 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.