Swords Over Fireshore Page 15

  They busied themselves with the fire, stirring the ashes and finding a few coals from which to kindle new flames. Eliani brought two logs forward to add to the fire, then sat and stretched her feet toward it.

  “Do we journey back to Alpinon now, my lady?”

  Eliani nodded to Felahran. “Yes, in a day or two. We have fulfilled our task.”

  Birani sighed. “I confess I will be glad to see Highstone again.”

  Eliani thought privately that she would be glad to see Althill, where she hoped to find some of her guardians who had fallen out of the party along the way. Others had returned to Clerestone. She would be glad to find them again as well, for too many had been lost.

  Costly, her errand to Fireshore. She had learned much of value, but it was hard to think that the information, however important, had been gained at the expense of ælven lives.

  Birani began braiding Onami’s hair for her, attempting a Greenglen braid with the aid of Onami’s advice. Eliani watched, smiling as they laughed together. Looking westward, she saw that the sun was already approaching the mountain peaks, glinting in the tops of the tall evergreens. Evening was not far away.

  Felahran went foraging up the hillside for downed wood. Eliani watched him for a few moments, then allowed her gaze to wander to where Vanorin sat gazing up at the sky, much as he had been that morning. Gathering her courage, she stood.

  “I will find some more kindling.”

  She walked away toward the woods, and soon found a pile of cut brush that looked to have been collected as kindling. Filling her arms, she started back toward the meadow, but did not go straight to the fire circle. Instead she walked to where Vanorin was half-lying, leaned back on his elbows, his face turned to the declining sun.

  “Vanorin.”

  He started and looked at her, then sat up. “My lady?”

  Eliani knelt and set down her load of kindling, brushing dust from her leathers. “I wanted to say—”

  “Please do not.”

  Surprised, she gazed at him. He smiled, a little uncomfortably.

  “Do not apologize for showing me your beauty. It was a pleasure, not a hardship.”

  “Oh. Vanorin—”

  “You need not fear me.”

  “I do not fear you.” She met his gaze. “I fear to hurt you.”

  He smiled again, this time seeming more at ease. “Well, I shall never be hurt by the chance to admire you.”

  Eliani closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and searched his face. She saw no pain there, only a gentle sadness. If he felt pain he hid it well.

  She swallowed. “I owe you much more than gratitude, Vanorin. More than respect. I care for you, as much as I may.”

  A slight flush of color rose into his cheeks. He blinked, glancing downward. “Thank you.”

  She watched him for a moment, then sighed. “Your hair is still damp, and we should bind your arm afresh.”

  “It does not trouble me.”

  “It will if you leave that wet bandage on it. Come and join us at the fire.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The wry note in his voice made her glance up sharply. She saw him smiling, laughter dancing in his eyes. She grimaced at him, but was silently pleased as she turned to collect her kindling.

  Vanorin’s wounds, whatever they might be, were not dangerous. He would be all right.

  Luruthin sat by Inóran’s fire near the edge of the meadow, watching the others prepare to depart. It was not yet dawn, though morning was not far off and the Lost had begun to move into their shelters for the day.

  Some brought meat and fruit to Eliani and the other guardians, helping them stow the supplies into deerskin packs. Luruthin had no possessions to manage, and Eliani had sternly bidden him to rest and not concern himself with the preparations.

  Resting was all he had done in the three nights they had spent here with the Lost, but he was not inclined to argue. He felt better, but his heart was yet numb.

  He had begun to think more of home, of Clerestone and Highstone, and of Jhinani. It now seemed possible that he might reach them. He yearned to feel safe again, to feel at peace. Perhaps that would come, in time. He could dare at least to hope for it now.

  Memories of Ghlanhras still intruded, but less often and with less intensity. He had a little more strength against them. He was not ready yet to talk of it, but the grip of terror and pain had eased somewhat.

  He shifted his seat on the log, moving a little closer to the fire. Inóran had lent him a blanket, which he pulled more closely about himself.

  Inóran had befriended him, remembering that Luruthin had been at his handfasting. Luruthin’s memories of that distant day were vague—he had been preoccupied with pursuing a comely Stonereach maiden at the time—but he did recall chasing his young cousin Eliani, then a child and in a particularly mischievous mood on the occasion of Davhri’s handfasting, into a creek and returning with her to Felisanin Hall quite thoroughly muddied. Inóran quietly teased him for it, and Luruthin had no choice but to smile.

  Two nights since, Inóran had taken him to the warm spring that Eliani had praised. There beneath the blanket of a clouded sky Inóran had talked a little more of Davhri, of their life together in Bitterfield, of his love for her and her work. He expressed worry that she had abandoned her pottery, and Luruthin listened with sympathy, oddly relieved to think about another’s troubles instead of his own. He offered what encouragement he could, and supported Inóran’s hope that Davhri would send him an answer through Othanin.

  Kivhani had now gone to meet Othanin, leaving just after sunset to journey to a meeting place she and her lord had agreed upon near Bitterfield. She had not yet returned, and Eliani had begun to cast anxious glances toward the way to Bitterfield.

  “Luruthin.” Inóran’s voice, beside him.

  Luruthin opened his eyes. The Lost was standing before him, offering a steaming cup.

  “Have some tea. 'Tis a chill morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  Luruthin took the cup, wrapping his cold fingers around it and sipping cautiously. Inóran sat beside him.

  “I shall miss your company. It has been pleasant to remember Highstone.”

  “You were there for all of a day.” Luruthin grinned.

  “And two nights. The happiest of my life.”

  Luruthin watched the wistful smile fade from Inóran’s lips. A voice raised in greeting drew his attention.

  Kivhani was coming down the hillside, accompanied by two of her folk, each burdened with a large pack. They approached Eliani, and Luruthin stood up, drawn by curiosity away from the fire.

  “Othanin sends his greetings.” Kivhani smiled as she took off her pack and threw it open. “He and Dejhonan send you best wishes and a few small gifts for your journey.”

  “Blankets!” Eliani pounced on them. “Oh, thank you!”

  “There is wine as well, and bread and cheese. Also soap and other small comforts.”

  “Oh!” Eliani dug through the pack as eagerly as a child opening a name-day gift. She looked up, smiling, at Kivhani. “Give them our heartfelt thanks, when next you see Othanin.”

  “I shall.”

  Kivhani reached into her tunic and brought out a handful of letters. Most of them she handed to Eliani.

  “From Davhri, Dejhonan, and Othanin, and this is for Felisan from Othanin. I have a letter for him as well, I will fetch it anon.”

  Kivhani turned toward where Luruthin and Inóran were standing. With a quiet smile she offered a last letter to Inóran.

  “This is for you.”

  Inóran’s eyes lit with joy and painful hope. He took the letter, said a strangled word of thanks, and with a glance at Luruthin hastened away to sit by the fire, bending over the letter and devouring it with hungry eyes. Luruthin smiled, glad for him, and looked back at Eliani. She had one of her own letters open and was perusing it.

  “Ah! Our wounded sent a message to Dejhonan from Woodrun.”

  Lur
uthin nodded. “Good news.”

  “Yes.” She glanced up. “Kivhani? May I impose upon you for another piece of paper?”

  “Of course.”

  They went away together to Kivhani’s lodge. Vanorin and the others were distributing the additional supplies among their packs. Luruthin watched for a little while, drinking his tea. When it was gone he returned to the fire and set the cup down beside the log where he sat.

  Inóran was still absorbed in his letter. It was several pages long, and he went through them twice while Luruthin watched. At last he looked up.

  “She wants to see me.”

  Luruthin smiled. “Did I not tell you she would?”

  Inóran laughed with sheer happiness. “She scolds me for failing to bring her the glass I promised! She demands compensation!”

  “Ah. So she loves you still.”

  Inóran laughed again, and wiped at his eye. “A lapse in judgment. At least, her father always thought so.”

  “Did he? Yet he sanctioned your handfasting.”

  “Davhri gave him no choice. You are right about her strength of will.” His face went grim. “Her father did not want her to come to Fireshore.”

  Luruthin had no answer. Fireshore had certainly brought misfortune to them. It had brought misfortune to many, himself included.

  Turning away from that grief, Luruthin sought to encourage Inóran. “Othanin and Kivhani have found a balance. You and Davhri will do the same.”

  Inóran nodded. “Yes. Even if we must remain apart.” He held the letter to his bosom, closed his eyes and whispered. “I am so grateful.”

  Grateful despite the curse under which he lived. Luruthin was moved. He, too, had cause for gratitude. He had a son coming. He allowed himself to dwell on that for the first time since Ghlanhras, thinking how it would be to hold his child in his arms. How it would be to teach him, watch him grow. Show him how to make a bow, and take him hunting. Teach him the benisons and tokens of respect to offer in thanks for the prosperous hunt. Teach him the creed.

  These pleasant thoughts occupied him until Eliani emerged again from Kivhani’s lodge. Vanorin and the others were finished with the packs. With a start, Luruthin realized their departure was near. The sky above the treetops at the meadow’s east side glowed with the first blue hint of dawn.

  Eliani held a scrap of paper in her hand, and she showed it to Vanorin and the others. Luruthin got up to join them. The page was a map.

  Eliani displayed it for them. “There are no trails, but this is the easiest way to the headwaters of the Basarindel. They have marked hazards and springs for us. We can stay off the road.”

  “Springs!” Jhathali's face lit with delight. “Thank the Spirits!”

  “Thank the Lost.” Felahran looked amused as he peered at the map. “This should take us no more than twenty days, if the weather holds.”

  “Less than twenty, I hope.” Eliani glanced up at Luruthin and smiled. “But we shall see. Are you all ready?”

  “In a moment.”

  Luruthin turned to go back to the fire. Inóran was reading Davhri’s letter yet again, but he glanced up at Luruthin’s approach.

  “Your blanket.” Luruthin took it off and folded it. “Thank you.”

  Inóran stood up, folding the letter and tucking it into his tunic. “Ah, yes! Stay a moment.”

  He accepted the blanket and hurried into his lodge. Luruthin edged nearer the fire, already feeling chilled. He had only the tunic and legs he had been wearing when he was captured—clean, now, at least, but beginning to be tattered at the edges.

  Inóran returned holding the deerskin he had been working over the past days. Luruthin had seen him stitching it, though he had paid little attention. Inóran now held it up, and Luruthin saw that it was made into a simple tunic. It had no sleeves, but the shoulders were wide and would drape downward a little.

  “Not a cloak, but it will guard you a little from the cold.”

  Touched, Luruthin accepted the gift. The skin was soft and supple. His throat tightened with gratitude.

  “Th-thank you. I did not expect this.”

  Inóran smiled. “Put it on. You are shivering.”

  Luruthin slipped the tunic over his head and settled it on his shoulders. It was not a cloak, true, but it made him feel warmer at once.

  “Thank you, Inóran. It is a fine gift.”

  Inóran smiled and offered an arm. “Spirits guard your path.”

  “And yours.”

  Luruthin clasped arms. The warmth of friendship shone through Inóran’s khi.

  “You are welcome here, for my part.”

  “Thank you.” Luruthin smiled as they let go, thinking privately that despite the generosity of the welcome, he hoped never to avail himself of it. He would be glad if he could be assured he need never return to Fireshore.

  Rejoining the others, he saw Eliani raise an eyebrow at his tunic. Luruthin smiled.

  “A gift from Inóran.”

  “Kind of him.”

  She glanced toward Inóran and waved a hand in farewell. Luruthin did the same, and Inóran waved back before returning to his lodge. At the same moment, Kivhani came out of the woods with another of the Lost, each carrying bows and quivers full of arrows fletched in white. Kivhani stopped before Eliani.

  “Please accept these, Lady Eliani, with our wishes for your safety as you journey homeward.”

  Eliani looked astonished as she took one of the bows and ran her hands along the arched wood. “Thank you! These are fine work. You honor us.”

  “As you have honored us, with your understanding and friendship.”

  Kivhani came to Luruthin with a bow and quiver, smiling as she offered them. Accepting them, he felt a wash of gratitude. He had not had a weapon since his capture, and the sense of safety it gave him was surprising in its power. He bowed.

  “Thank you, Lady Kivhani.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  She offered an arm and Luruthin clasped it. Her grip was firm, her khi stronger than he expected. She smiled again briefly.

  “If ever we may be of service to you, call upon us.”

  “You and Othanin are welcome to break your journey in Clerestone, if you wish. It is a day’s travel from Highstone.”

  Kivhani gazed at him. “If that will not trouble the people of Clerestone.”

  Luruthin lifted his chin slightly. “My house is open to you. My people will welcome my honored guests.”

  “Thank you, Theyn Luruthin.” She held his gaze for a long moment, then glanced eastward. “I must retire. Fare you well, and may spirits watch over you.”

  Vanorin distributed the deerskin packs of supplies. The one he handed to Luruthin looked less full than the others. Luruthin glanced inside it, found a blanket, two pouches of dried food, and a water skin. He looked at Vanorin, wanting to protest that he could carry more, but he suspected that even this light burden would become a trial before long.

  He settled the bow and pack at his back and started off after Eliani, who was already walking up the hillside toward the trail that had led them hither. As the trees closed in around them and the path became a narrow track, Vanorin took the lead, followed by Birani, Eliani, Luruthin, and the other two guardians.

  Luruthin glanced back, but the meadow was already hidden by trees. Wishing the best to Inóran and the others, he turned his thoughts toward home.

  Ghlanhras

  Shalár stood with Torith on a high platform beside the city gates, gazing over Ghlanhras. Work on the enclosures was progressing. The way from the gates to Darkwood Hall was now completely covered, and passages to the platforms overlooking the north road and the other guarded points along the walls were roofed and partially enclosed.

  The darkwood used on these passages was salvaged from vacant houses on the west side of the city. Shalár had ordered their destruction to make way for a holding pen for kobalen. She could see the pen from where she stood, some hundred or more kobalen huddled within it. Another hu
nt would be needed before long.

  Shalár’s blood stirred at the thought, though she knew she could not lead the hunt. She must consider the safety of her child, and too many matters required her attention for her to leave Ghlanhras just now. Nor would she care to be absent when her people arrived from Nightsand.

  Her gaze rose to the peak of Firethroat visible above the darkwood forest, steaming sullenly in the night. A flash of orange light told of some small disturbance within the volcano’s maw.

  Shalár frowned. She would have to observe Firethroat more closely. The night was young enough yet for a walk to the shore.

  “Thank you, Torith. Carry on.”

  He bowed. “Bright Lady.”

  Shalár climbed down from the platform and started back to the hall, but a hail from outside the gate made her pause. She listened to Torith exchange words with the newcomers, and recognized Gavál’s voice. Interested, she turned to await the opening of the gates.

  The massive darkwood gates swung inward, passing beneath the roof of the enclosure, which had been built high at the gates to accommodate them. Gavál and three other hunters came in, pushing before them two bound ælven, a Stonereach and a Greenglen, both male. The Greenglen limped. All came to a halt before Shalár.

  A moment’s hope was extinguished—the Stonereach was not the one she had conceived with. Still, she examined both captives with interest, walking all around them. The ælven did not look at her. She turned to Gavál, who appeared pleased with himself as he bowed deeply before her.

  “Bright Lady, we found these by the Lanarindel. They were fashioning a raft.”

  “Were there others with them?”

  He shook his head. “No sign of any others.”

  Disappointing, but she could not blame Gavál for their absence. He had at least caught two of the ælven who had attacked the city.

  She stepped toward the gate and addressed the Stonereach. “Come here.”

  When he did not respond she took hold of his khi and compelled him. He gave a strangled cry, then shuffled after her.

  Shalár glanced at the Greenglen, who hastened to follow. She led them just outside the gates, to where the head of an ælven attacker killed in the fighting, another Stonereach, was impaled on a spear set at the side of the road.