Heart of the Exiled Page 5

  “I wished to consult you before the Council convenes.”

  Berephan’s mouth curved in a wry smile. He had been absent from the Council sessions for the most part. Southfæld’s Guard was several hundred strong, the demands of their daily operations would not wait, and Berephan, as he put it, preferred to leave planning and philosophizing to the governors.

  “Have you learned anything more from Kelevon?”

  Berephan shook his head. “He claims to have told you everything. You have the knack of questioning him, it seems.”

  Turisan joined him, frowning. He glanced down at a map of Midrange Pass on the warden’s worktable. “Have the recruits started arriving?”

  “We had sixty volunteers by sunset yesterday, and another thirty-odd were waiting at dawn. That is who you see practicing out there, with a few experienced guardians in among them to keep them from falling on their faces.”

  “All from Southfæld?”

  “All from the city, except one ardent Ælvanen who is here with Lady Rheneri’s delegation and volunteered on a wave of sentiment. He will likely regret it before the day is out.”

  “You are working them hard.”

  “I have no choice if they are to be ready to march in time to defend Midrange.”

  “How may I assist?”

  Berephan fixed him with a silent, steady gaze. Turisan bore it with a certain fondness, for Berephan had been his captain when he had served a term in the Guard. His service had been mostly border watch and had involved no more adventure than an occasional chase after a small band of kobalen who had wandered too close to Glenhallow.

  That was true of most of the Guard, even the most experienced. Every guardian skirmished with kobalen raiders sooner or later, but there were few among them who had ever seen a true battle. Berephan, who had been at Skyruach in the Midrange War, was one of those few.

  The warden tilted his head toward the window. “Go out to the field.”

  Turisan drew a breath. “I will be glad to help, but I have never trained others. I would need instruction.”

  “You will remember easily enough, and in any case, that is not why I want you to go.” A corner of Berephan’s mouth turned up in the suggestion of a smile. “Your presence will inspire them.”

  Turisan gave a surprised laugh. “I have no reputation as a warrior.”

  “You are already a legend, Turisan. A mindspeaker, something most have only heard of in stories.”

  Turisan shook his head. “Lord Rephanin—”

  “Rephanin keeps to his magehall. He is said to be a mindspeaker, but I know of no one who has seen him use the gift.”

  Turisan could not contradict him. Frowning, he let his fingers drift over the map, tracing the main ascent through Midrange Pass.

  “Even those who once served with you, and may be presumed to have few illusions about you, now speak reverently of your gift and of the sacrifice you and Lady Eliani have made. Little else is now talked of in the garrison or in the taverns.” Berephan paused to look out of the window. “Most of those recruits came because of you.”

  Startled by that thought, Turisan looked out at the guardians in training. He was not sure he could live up to such expectations, but it seemed his duty was to try.

  “Shall I go now, or do you wish me to make a more impressive appearance?”

  Berephan smiled. “Appearance is unimportant. You are cloaked as a guardian; that is enough.”

  “Do you ride with me?”

  “Beside you?” The commander’s eyebrows rose. “They would not even see me, and I have matters to attend to.”

  Turisan bit his lip. He was conscious of Berephan’s far greater experience, which he thought more deserving of the guardians’ reverence than his own chance-discovered gift.

  “What should I say to them?”

  Berephan gazed at him for a moment, then broke into a grin. “Lad, I don’t think it would matter if you recited cradle rhymes. Just show them your face.”

  Feeling his cheeks grow warm, Turisan turned to go. Berephan hastened to join him, walking with him to the door.

  “Captain Dirovon is training the recruits. You will remember him, I think. We have two other experienced companies in the garrison, Phaniron’s and—”

  We are riding out. Vanorin hopes to make Midrange by—

  Not now, love.

  Turisan abruptly stopped walking, disoriented. Looking up, he saw Berephan watching him with raised brows.

  “Forgive me—I was distracted for a moment. Phaniron’s company and—?”

  “Sivhani’s. I think you do not know her.”

  “No.”

  The warden gazed at him thoughtfully. “Come and break bread with me and my captains tonight, if you can stomach a discussion of tactics with your evening meal.”

  “Gladly.”

  Turisan clasped arms with him, then went out, two guardians accompanying him at Berephan’s insistence. They were purely for show, but Turisan accepted them, trusting that Berephan knew best how to make an impression on the recruits.

  The morning air was yet brisk, and the sun still low enough to make him squint as he rode out of the city and onto the plains. His escort showed no inclination to talk, so he sent a tentative thought toward his lady.

  Eliani?

  Yes. Did I interrupt something crucial?

  No harm was done. I was talking with our warden, Berephan. What were you telling me about Vanorin?

  Only that he hopes to make Midrange by nightfall.

  You are traveling swiftly.

  Yes.

  A sharp, raised voice reached him through the chill air as he and his escort approached the practice ground, though he could not distinguish the commands at that distance. He glanced up to see the company abandoning their drill.

  I will be in Council later this morning. Speak to me when you make a halt.

  Yes.

  She sent wordless love roaring through his being, then withdrew. Turisan beat back the sudden physical longing he felt and turned his attention to the recruits.

  By the time he reached them, the company stood formed and silent, awaiting him. He rode up to the holder of the pennanted commander’s spear and dismounted, handing his reins to one of his escorts. The commander dipped his spear in salute, and Turisan recognized him as Dirovon, with whom he had stood border guard a time or two.

  Dirovon had continued service in the Guard, which had evidently resulted in his promotion to captain. His fair hair was caught back from his face in a hunter’s braid. A few strands had escaped to whip about his cheeks in the morning breeze, even as the pennant whipped about his spear.

  Turisan stepped toward him, acknowledging their past association with a nod and a small smile. “How do they look?”

  “Rough, of course, but they will improve.”

  Dirovon’s eyes glinted with a hint of humor that sent Turisan’s memory back to congenial campfires. The captain gestured to his two subordinates, who in unison shouted the command for a sword salute, which the guardians executed with more enthusiasm than precision. Dirovon’s gaze dropped briefly toward the ground at his feet and the corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

  Turisan looked at the recruits, a small sea of pale-haired heads and the one dark-haired Ælvanen Berephan had mentioned. He saw inexperience in the faces turned to him. He drew a deep breath.

  “In forty days or thereabouts, you will march north to Midrange. That is little time to prepare. We must turn all our efforts toward making ourselves ready. We have much to learn—all of us. I as well as you.”

  They stood silent, but he sensed a shifting, saw a nod here and there. They watched him intently, eager to be inspired.

  “My father stood at Skyruach. Lord Felisan, my lady’s father, did as well.”

  He paused, for something like a sigh had swept through the ranks. So it was true: He and Eliani had become a legend to them. He felt unremarkable alone, but his bond with Eliani was wondrous—indeed, he still
marveled at it himself.

  “We have not the benefit of their experience, but we have their wisdom and guidance. My lady, Eliani, and I have pledged ourselves to the defense of Southfæld, of Alpinon, and of all ælven lands. We ask that you serve in this effort as well, that you add your devotion to ours.”

  A couple of voices shouted agreement. The guardians stirred.

  “Though Eliani rides north, she is with me in my thoughts and in my heart, and so she is also with you. Both of us have pledged all our strength to opposing the enemies of our people.”

  This time the shouts grew into a cheer that rolled through the company. A strong male voice cut through the noise.

  “All hail Turisan and Eliani!”

  “All hail! All hail!”

  He glanced at Dirovon, whose face was still, though his eyes seemed a bit wide. Turisan doubted he could improve on what he had said. Inside, he was almost inclined to laugh, so unlike a hero he felt. He would not so dishonor the guardians’ admiration, though.

  Summoning his father’s most dignified manner, he clasped arms with Dirovon, relinquishing the company’s attention to him, and returned to his borrowed horse. His escorts bowed to him, and he had to stifle another laugh.

  He mounted, raising a hand to the guardians in farewell. The handfasting ribbon on his arm glinted in the sun, and the guardians’ cheers increased as he turned toward the city.

  He returned his horse to the garrison, bade his escort a friendly and relieved farewell, and pulled his cloak closer as he made his way back to Hallowhall through a flurry of snow. The peaks above the city were already capped with white, the passes already closed by deep drifts. He wondered if storms would affect the kobalen at Midrange. They did not love cold weather and generally migrated to warmer northern regions in winter. He supposed it too much to hope that weather would prevent them from crossing the pass.

  He wished suddenly that he was riding with Eliani. Folly; he must stay here or her journey was for nought.

  Hallowhall’s great front doors stood open, the warmth from the massive fire in its welcoming hearth reaching out into the public circle. Turisan hastened to the council chamber and reached it just as the Council was gathering. He took his place beside his father and soon found himself listening to a lengthy discussion of plans to establish a network of couriers linking all the seats of government of the ælven realms: Glenhallow, Hollirued, Highstone, and Watersmeet.

  And what of Ghlanhras? No mention was made of Fireshore’s greatest city. Until Eliani sent them news of it, the Council seemed to be ignoring its existence.

  At last, impatient with the lack of progress, Turisan showed his hand to indicate his wish to speak. Jharan acknowledged him, and he stood.

  “I understand the desire to improve our communications, but I believe that High Holding is equally crucial. We must send a force to occupy it in advance of the army and to make it ready to hold.”

  Jharan responded quietly. “That is not in question, but we do not have the resources ready.”

  “There are new recruits pouring into the garrison. Surely a company of guardians and a handful of stonemasons can be spared now.”

  Parishan, Pashani’s son, responded. “The masons, yes, but I question that the guardians can be spared. Perhaps some of the recruits—”

  Turisan shook his head. “To stand in defense of the pass we need experienced guardians. The recruits would be better fit for courier duty.”

  Pashani’s amber eyes flashed. “If you think it is wise to throw them untrained onto horses bred for speed, I wish you joy of the effort!”

  Jharan held out a placating hand. “I am sure that was not Turisan’s meaning.”

  Heeding the warning in his father’s glance, Turisan swallowed his impatience. “No, my lady governor, it was not. I meant only that they would be less at risk. Of course they must be trained.”

  Pashani’s eyes narrowed. “A pity we cannot summon more mindspeakers to assist us. There would be no need of couriers then.”

  Refusing to respond to what he expected she meant as provocation, Turisan merely nodded. “Very true.”

  Beyond her, Parishan met Turisan’s gaze with a small, apologetic smile. Turisan felt a sudden kinship with him; they were both nextkin to their parents, who were governors. Some day it might be they who led their Council delegations.

  Pashani turned away and began to reiterate her reasons for insisting that the couriers be given priority. Turisan fell quiet, giving up for the present, though he was not deterred.

  High Holding needed defenders. The garrison at the outpost was only a handful, enough to give warning should the kobalen begin coming through the pass, but no more. They would have to abandon the outpost to avoid being slain.

  And they would offer little protection to Eliani as she traveled past Midrange. Turisan closed his eyes, acknowledging that concern for her was one of his reasons for urging that High Holding be garrisoned immediately. Was it wrong to want to place a few hundred guardians between his love and the kobalen threat? He knew that she would be beyond Midrange before a garrison ever reached it even if they set out immediately, but still he wanted the comfort of sending them. They might be able to help her if there was need. If only he could go himself.

  He opened his eyes, turning to look at his father. Would Jharan permit him to lead a force to High Holding? A thrill filled him at the thought, though he heard his father’s objections at once: too dangerous, defeating the purpose of Eliani’s journey.

  But if he could convince Jharan that his going would benefit the army’s morale—would attract more recruits and inspire the experienced guardians with greater courage—Berephan might help him persuade the governor that the benefits outweighed the risks. He wished the warden had been present this afternoon, but Berephan had little patience for the Council’s debates.

  Turisan gazed at the table before him, thinking, the councillors’ voices washing over him unheard. He would have to pledge to return at once, of course. There was no possibility of his remaining away from Glenhallow for more than the few days it would take to ride to Midrange and back. He would go despite this if he could.

  A call for a vote dragged his attention back to the chamber. The Council had agreed on a plan to deploy the couriers, and in a formal vote by delegation, the plan was approved. Governor Pashani’s mood was consequently jovial; she even smiled at Turisan as the councillors left the chamber.

  “Do you go to the feasthall? You may escort me if you wish.”

  Turisan smiled politely, making a slight bow. “Alas, I am committed elsewhere, though I will be glad to see you in before I must leave.”

  She gave him a wry look. “Committed elsewhere? Does your lady know of this?”

  “I hide nothing from my lady, Governor Pashani.”

  He escorted her to the feasthall, then took leave of her and of his father and hastened back to the garrison. The sun was just setting, making the golden stones of the avenue gleam beneath his boots. He was once again glad of his new guardian’s cloak and hoped the other was keeping his lady warm.

  Eliani? Have you made camp?

  Not yet.

  Two days’ hard ride apart, and he had noticed no diminishment of Eliani’s voice. Each day proved the greater worth of their gift. Turisan smiled to himself, delighted and still in awe.

  I will be in company for a while. Berephan has asked me to sup with him and his captains.

  Drink a flagon of wine for me. I shall be feasting on dried meat and apples.

  My poor love. The outpost at Midrange will have some comforts for you in another day or two.

  I have fixed my hopes on Highstone.

  He smiled, then sent love and farewell as he reached the garrison and turned to Lord Berephan’s house. A guardian showed him to Berephan’s hall, where high narrow windows to the west let in the last of the sun. On the walls were the Guard’s banners and pennants, lit by torches and fading sunlight.

  Berephan and his guests were already
at table and passing around platters of food. As Turisan entered, they fell silent and turned to look at him, rather more intently than he had expected.

  The warden rose from his chair to greet him. Another movement caught his eye: Dirovon, nodding. Turisan smiled back, then clasped the arm offered by his host.

  “Good evening, Lord Berephan. I am late and crave your pardon.”

  Berephan dismissed it. “The Council have been talking your ears numb, no doubt. Have a seat; we have only begun.”

  Turisan took an empty place between Berephan and another he recognized, Captain Hothanen, who commanded a company of the city’s guardians. Hothanen nodded to him and lifted a wine pitcher, offering to fill his cup while Berephan made introductions.

  “Lord Turisan, may I make you known to Captains Phaniron and Sivhani?”

  Turisan nodded to each of them. “Well met.”

  Phaniron, a slender, fine-boned male who sat beside Dirovon, seemed shyly pleased to meet him, but Sivhani looked as if she feared he would do something alarming at any moment. Grow wings, perhaps, Turisan thought, concealing a smile by sipping his wine.

  Berephan offered him a platter of meat. “What news from the Council?”

  “They spent the day discussing equipments for the army—which realms can contribute weapons, horses, and so on. And they have decided to set up courier relays among the capitals of the realms. Both the Steppes and Eastfæld have pledged horses and riders.”

  Hothanen accepted the meat platter in turn and helped himself. “It will take away riders who could serve in the army.”

  “The Council thought faster communication would be worth the sacrifice.”

  Sivhani spoke up from beyond Hothanen, her tone disbelieving. “Does Lord Jharan really expect to have an army assembled in less than forty days?”

  Turisan looked at her, saw her eyes widen with the realization that she was addressing Jharan’s son, and answered patiently. “He holds to that hope. I cannot say what he expects. We must all do our best.”

  A moment’s silence was broken by Phaniron. “Your lady is well, I hope, Lord Turisan?”

  “Please, do not be formal with me here.” Turisan looked around the table. “Berephan, you do not mind?”