Swords Over Fireshore Page 7

  Turisan had not noticed that picture before, and his breath caught at the sight of it. It had been at the foot of the Shades that he and Eliani had discovered they shared the gift of mindspeech. The rumble of those mighty waters had haunted him during the last part of the journey here. Even now he could hear it, a low whisper of sound to shake the soul.

  “Turisan!”

  Felisan leapt up from his chair in the center of a long feast table. His face, so like Eliani’s, was tense for a moment. Turisan smiled to reassure him that he bore no bad tidings of the governor’s daughter. Felisan’s eyes lit with relief, then with pleasure as he hurried around the table to clasp Turisan’s arm.

  “Welcome indeed! I had not thought to see you here. Has the battle concluded?”

  “It has, and your guardians accompanied me here. They have gone to their homes.”

  An outburst of excited talk followed this announcement. Several of the revelers hastily took their leave, and it was some moments before Felisan was free again.

  In that time, Turisan noticed Lady Heléri, standing at her place at table beside Felisan’s empty chair. Her hands were tightly clasped before her, her dark blue eyes fixed on Rephanin, and though her face was calm Turisan sensed she was concerned for the magelord.

  Felisan at last turned to Rephanin. “Lord Rephanin, I am honored to welcome you to Highstone, and to my hall. Will you come and sit beside me?” Felisan glanced at Turisan to indicate he was included in the invitation.

  “Thank you.”

  Turisan followed them to the table and took a chair offered to him by a Stonereach female. He smiled thanks to her, thinking she looked familiar, though of course they all looked familiar. Eliani’s eyes gazed at him from a hundred faces in this hall.

  Lady Heléri drew up another chair for the magelord. The Southfæld Guardians were made welcome around the table and immediately pelted with eager questions about Midrange. Turisan had the governor’s questions to answer. He told Felisan what he knew of the battle’s progress, much of it gleaned from his conversation earlier with Lord Ehranan.

  “Ehranan is bringing the forces from Southfæld and Eastfæld north. He will keep them on the plains road.”

  Felisan’s brows drew together. “Why do they march north?”

  “Because of news from Fireshore.”

  Felisan’s gaze sharpened, an unspoken question in the green eyes that were usually tranquilly lazy. Turisan gave a slight nod but said no more. Some issues were better discussed in private.

  Felisan seemed to understand, for he reached for his wine goblet and an ewer from which to fill it. “Tell me of Eliani. Is my daughter well?”

  “She is well. She sends you her love.”

  Felisan’s lips twitched in a smile, though the slight frown of worry did not leave his brow. “Give her the same from me, when you speak again.”

  “Of course.”

  “What is wrong with your shoulder?”

  Turisan realized he had been rubbing it. He had worn the sling while riding, but had taken it off before entering the hall, and the weakened limb was aching.

  “A slight wound. Nothing of concern.”

  Felisan’s brows went up. “Wounded? How did this come to pass? Jharan will be furious, you were supposed to stay out of harm’s way!”

  Turisan chuckled. “He was furious. I met him at Willow Bend.”

  He told Felisan of his own adventures at Midrange and of leading the column of wounded southward until they met his father coming north. Felisan laughed aloud at his description of Jharan’s reaction to his wounded state.

  “Gave him a good fright, did you? Well, he cannot keep you under his wing forever.”

  Turisan glanced at Felisan, surprised at the remark. It had not occurred to him that he was being kept under Jharan’s wing. But then, neither had it occurred to him that he might ever dwell anywhere but at Hallowhall. He was only just beginning to consider other possibilities.

  Kitchen attendants brought platters of food and fresh ewers of wine which they set before the new arrivals. Felisan raised an ewer, offering to fill Turisan’s cup.

  “Not as elegant as your father’s table, I fear.”

  “Yet far better than the camp cooking and trail fare we have been eating. Fresh bread!”

  Turisan picked up a small loaf and tore it in half. Steam rose from the soft bread and set his mouth watering. He heaped the plate before him with cheeses, meat, and sweet cakes, and ate with zeal.

  Before he had finished his meal, Heléri and Rephanin rose and took their leave of Felisan. Rephanin looked somewhat drawn. Turisan watched them away, glad that Heléri was with him. If anyone could bring Rephanin peace and healing, it was she.

  The musicians struck up a new tune, one that sounded vaguely familiar. Not until a young female, rather like Eliani but softer of face and of form, stepped forward and began to sing did Turisan recognize the melody.

  He glanced at Felisan, wondering if the governor had signaled his wish to hear the Ballad of Turisan and Eliani. Felisan grinned back at him, giving no sign of anything but guileless pleasure.

  Turisan took a large swallow of wine and assumed a polite smile while he listened to the tale of his own ride to Skyruach earlier in the year, the ride that had been made to prove his gift of mindspeech. It was strange to hear himself lauded so, like the heroes of ancient lore. He did not feel heroic.

  He had never heard the song through, only snippets of it when it was first being composed. Back at Hallowhall, he thought, and closed his eyes, suddenly weary.

  The song drew to a close. The last verse, which he had never heard, described his handfasting to Eliani in such poignant terms that he found his throat tightening at the memory of the one night they had shared before parting.

  Please the spirits, may it not be our only night together.

  Cheering filled the hall at the ballad’s conclusion. Turisan smiled and applauded, nodding to the singer whose cheeks colored with pleasure at the gesture. Felisan called her forward.

  “Well sung, Kelari. Your voice grows sweeter every season.”

  “Thank you, my lord governor.”

  Felisan gave her a small gold ring, which she accepted with another bow and a shy glance at Turisan. Turisan smiled at her, but it quickly faded. The ring reminded him of the gold earrings that the kobalen at Midrange had worn.

  Thousands of kobalen, all marked with rings of gold no kobalen could have made, nor had ever worn before. The first time Turisan had seen such an earring had been here, in Alpinon. It had seemed a strange thing then, worthy of concern. How much more alarming the thousands of earrings at Midrange, now melted in the charnel fires that still smouldered.

  He and Ehranan had examined a number of those rings on the kobalen dead. All had been the same—finely wrought, engraved with a single ælven word: “preserve.”

  No ælven had made those rings, nor set them in kobalen ears. It was the work of the alben. And since so many kobalen at Midrange had worn them, it made sense to conclude that they had been sent there by the alben.

  “Are you tired, Turisan? You need not put up with all this noise.”

  Turisan pushed aside his wine goblet. “The music is most excellent, but I fear I am a little tired. Will you object to my retiring?”

  “Of course not. You will stay for Midwinter, yes?”

  “I would be delighted.”

  “You will be my guest in the Hall. I have only Curunan for company now, and he is always off adventuring.”

  “You honor me.” Turisan lowered his voice. “May I have a private word with you, before I retire?”

  “Of course.”

  Felisan led the way to the back of the hall where an arch gave onto the governor’s private quarters. A small hallway lit by sconces evoked a cozier feeling than the hall.

  Echoes of his earlier visit here flitted through Turisan’s mind—a cup of wine shared in Felisan’s study, a farewell late at night following a handfasting, the Autumn Evennight celeb
ration—and his chest tightened with a longing for Eliani, who walked through all his memories but was not here.

  Rephanin lay in a weary daze, listening to the ringing in his ears. He was someplace quiet now, dark and warm, away from the noise of Felisanin Hall, yet the ringing remained to remind him he was far from well.

  I am not ready. I am not ready to go on. Please, I need to rest.

  A rustle of fabric nearby made him open his eyes. Soft candlelight filled the room where he lay, and a dark figure moved between him and the light, haloed by its glow. He did not remember coming here.

  The figure leaned forward and a cool hand lay briefly on his brow. He smelled sweet herbs, and something warmer and more intimate. It was both strange and familiar, comforting and thrilling.

  “Do you feel better?”

  Heléri’s voice, warm and low. Memories of the evening flooded back to him. He had been so tired, but then he had seen Heléri and known all would be well.

  “Yes.” His voice cracked on the word. He did feel better, if only for knowing she was close.

  Heléri sat beside him on the bed, her weight shifting how he lay, drawing him toward her. He lifted a feeble hand and hers met it, her fingers cool and strong.

  “Where are we?”

  “The old hall. I live here alone now.”

  Alone, since her lord had crossed into spirit. Alone here for centuries, yet she did not betray loneliness.

  “Do you want tea? I have the kettle on the fire.”

  “No.” He shook his head slightly. Even that small movement made the ringing increase. “Just sit with me, please.”

  “Of course.”

  Her hand squeezed his warmly. The other smoothed his brow, and he closed his eyes, sighing as he strove to let the tension seep away. Heléri’s hands grew warm, a sign of the healing power in them. He basked in the warmth, and slowly the ringing subsided.

  “Oh, Rephanin. How dreadful it must have been. Can you tell me? Can you show me a little?”

  He cringed at the thought that she should know anything of Midrange. He wanted to forget it, not share it. He could see no purpose in showing her what would only aggrieve her. The mere thought of it brought moisture to his eyes.

  He could not bring himself to voice an answer. It was all he could do just to breathe, and hold the memories at bay.

  Heléri seemed to understand. She did not ask again, but sat quietly beside him, her hands warm on his flesh. Slowly he became calm again in the gentle light of her presence.

  A part of him looked on in scorn. There was nothing wrong with his flesh. Nothing wrong with his voice. This self-indulgence was as wasteful as any he had known. More so, perhaps, because he was imposing on Heléri, who surely had more important things to do.

  Enough!

  Startled, Rephanin twitched violently. Heléri’s hand tightened on his, even as he realized who had spoken.

  Davharin.

  Acknowledgment came together with a sharpening of awareness, the tingle of contact with Heléri as well as with Davharin, her lord, who dwelt now in spirit. A moment later Rephanin felt his being flooded with light, a light so bright it should have been painful but was not. It burned into every corner of him, stilling the small chiding voice within him, chasing away the shadows that had clung in his heart.

  He yielded, trusting the spirit to know what he could tolerate. The darkness in his heart, the darkness that was Midrange, burned away in the brightness. Rephanin felt suspended in pure light.

  Wisps of sensation brushed his awareness: a chord of music, a cool and pungent scent, a warm breeze. He noted them but did not try to hold onto them.

  He did not know how long it had been when the light finally receded. He knew only that it was still night, and that the darkness that had troubled him was gone, at least for the moment. He opened his eyes and drew a breath. Heléri sat beside him still, eyes closed and a serene expression on her face.

  Thank you, Davharin.

  Wordless warmth was the reply. Davharin preferred feelings, images, or symbols to words, and Rephanin had to agree that they conveyed much more, much more simply, when they could be so employed. He had used thoughts in this way at Midrange, time and again.

  Remembering Midrange did not hurt this time, not as he had expected. A small ache was there, but only in a distant, quiet way. What had Davharin done?

  Healing.

  It was Heléri who had spoken. Rephanin shifted his gaze to her face again, and saw that she was now gazing back at him. The tenderness in her eyes reached straight into his heart. He squeezed her hand, then sat up, surprised at how easy it was. His strength was returning.

  He raised a hand to Heléri’s cheek, feeling warmth leap between their flesh as he held it there. Warmth swelled within him, too. Gratitude and relief, and affection. He leaned forward to kiss her, softly, lips warm together for an instant, then his arms came up around her and he buried his face in her fragrant hair.

  She sighed, returning the embrace. I was afraid for you. I feared you would leave.

  He drank in the smell of her, seeking the heady intoxication of fleshly desire. No. I am not finished here. She had said much the same to him, not long ago.

  She pulled back to look at him, but voiced no speculation on his meaning. This moment was too sweet, and he sensed she had no more wish than he to dwell upon what he must do in the future.

  Abandoning words, he showed her his longing, his deep, unending desire for her. She smiled and kissed him, sharing her own need, so sharp and hot it took his breath away.

  He sought for Davharin, who had sometimes shared in their lovemaking, but the spirit had withdrawn. Heléri’s hand slid into his sleeve, flesh tingling on flesh, and he forgot all else as their hearts and bodies twined together.

  Felisan pulled aside the heavy tapestry that covered the archway and held it for Turisan to pass through. He let it fall behind them, muffling the music and shutting out the bright light of torches. A slight smell of dust followed the fall of the tapestry, giving Turisan a strangely comfortable feeling.

  Felisan’s quarters were far from pretentious, and casually kept. Turisan remembered the governor’s comfortably cluttered study to which Felisan led him. It was rather more cluttered now, books and scrolls scattered on every surface including the floor. Eliani had tried to keep it in some order, he suspected, but she had been gone a while.

  Felisan poked at the coals in the hearth and added a log, then invited Turisan with a gesture to sit. “Do you care for more wine?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Will you rest in Eliani’s chamber, or would you prefer another? Mind, hers is somewhat untidy.”

  Turisan hid his amusement, though he did smile. “Nothing would please me more than to rest in Eliani’s chamber.”

  “You must miss her.” A small, sympathetic frown creased Felisan's brow. “Well, so do I. The Hall is too quiet without her.”

  Turisan gazed at the new yellow flames. “I will not apologize for her absence.”

  “Oh, no, no! I never meant that you should.” Felisan sighed and shifted his shoulders as he sprawled in his chair. “I knew she would go when you told us of the mindspeech. Suspected before then that she would go to you, at least for a time.”

  Turisan tilted his head to look at Felisan. “Did you? I did not. It seemed to me I could do nothing to please her.”

  Felisan chuckled. “Well, you did not know her. She fights her own heart, sometimes.”

  “Mm.”

  Felisan’s eyes betrayed an unaccustomed worry. “You said she is well?”

  Turisan turned his chair more toward Felisan. “She has been to Ghlanhras.”

  Felisan leaned forward, eyes intent. “And met Othanin? What did he say? Why did he not come to Council?”

  “Our messages never reached him. The alben intercepted the first party in the mountains. That was the party Kelevon had met, and he was taken with them.”

  “Ah!”

  “And the second pa
rty was slain here in Alpinon. We had word of it a few days ago from Clerestone.”

  “So the guardians Eliani sent back arrived safely there? Good. She will be glad to hear of it.”

  “Can you—can you speak to her now?”

  Turisan nodded. “I will, but I must first tell you of Fireshore.” He looked down at his hands and rubbed them together. “I have no gentle way to say it. Ghlanhras was attacked and captured by the alben shortly after Eliani arrived.”

  “What?!”

  “Eliani escaped, but Luruthin was taken. So was Othanin, and the others dwelling in the city.”

  “Where is my daughter?” Felisan looked as close to anger as Turisan had ever seen him.

  Turisan leaned back in his chair. “She and her escort rode back to Ghlanhras to rescue Luruthin and Othanin.”

  “No!” Felisan jumped up and began to pace. “I forbid it!”

  “It is done, Felisan. They succeeded, although at some cost.”

  Felisan stopped and met his gaze across a table cluttered with maps and candlesticks. “The cost?”

  “Two dead, three wounded, three unaccounted for and presumed captured.”

  A look of pain crossed Felisan's face. Just as swiftly, it fell into a neutral mask, reminding Turisan of his own father.

  “Shall I speak to Eliani now?”

  “Wait.” Felisan frowned in thought. “I had rather speak to her myself.”

  Turisan’s brows rose. “Would that you could.”

  “I can, with Rephanin’s help. And yours, of course.” He glanced at Turisan, a self-conscious smile curving his lips. “Rephanin has done me the favor before. He helped me and Jharan achieve our lifelong wish.”

  A small tingle ran through Turisan’s flesh. He knew his father and Felisan had sought mindspeech together in their younger days—had entreated the spirits to be blessed with the gift. It had occurred to him that the mindspeech he shared with Eliani might be the spirits’ answer to their fathers’ plea.

  “Rephanin helped you share mindspeech.”

  Felisan smiled as he returned to his chair. “Yes. At long last. It was a great gift.”