Heart of the Exiled (33 page)

You were to stay out of danger!

I was. I will explain later
.

Turisan—

Hush, love. I must call for help now
.

She subsided, though a string of dark thoughts seemed to run through the back of his mind in which words such as “idiot” and “foolhardy” were common. Ignoring these endearments from his beloved, he peered across the river.

As he watched, guardians came out from behind the wagons and rocks, collecting arrows from among the dead kobalen. Turisan saw a face he knew.

“Harathin!” He mustered all his strength to shout again. “Harathin!”

Harathin paused, frowning as he cast his gaze about. Turisan waved with his good arm, then fell back against the tree. Harathin ran to the riverbank, staring across at him.

“Lord Turisan?”

Turisan struggled to his feet, wincing as his movements jostled the dart in his arm. He stood leaning against the tree, head swimming.

“You are wounded! Stay there; we will come!”

Turisan wondered idly where Harathin thought he might go. The pain was returning, interfering with his ability to think. He wanted to sit down again but felt he should remain standing.

Harathin came to the riverbank with a horse and two guardians, one of whom began stripping off cloak and leathers. The other took the cloak from the first, then mounted the horse and rode southward.

“Turisan? Nolanin will cross at the south ford and come to fetch you.”

“There is another rider here, wounded. We have horses.”

“Good. Now save your strength.”

Taking this for permission to relax, Turisan sank to the ground again. The first guardian had stripped to
tunic and legs, and he now saw that she was female. She ran north along the riverbank. When she was a good distance upstream she stopped, then jumped into the rushing water. Turisan gasped, for the river was cold and ran dangerously fast here.

The guardian swam with strong strokes and caught herself on a tree root just above where Turisan sat. She scrambled out of the water and hastened toward him, dripping, her wet clothes clinging, braided hair lying heavy against her back. Turisan shivered in sympathy.

She glanced down at the Eastfælder, then stepped past him to Turisan’s mare and took his pack and water skin from the saddle. Uncapping the skin, she handed it to him.

“Drink.”

The familiar voice made Turisan glance up. He had not recognized her but now saw that it was Filari. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, and her face had fresh cuts in two places—one a nasty gash down the nose—along with the older cut and the bruises Kelevon had given her, now fading.

Turisan took a swallow from the water skin. “Thank you, Filari. You need not have swum the river.”

She cast a skeptical glance at him, then dropped to her knees and began to dig in his pack. “Have you a spare tunic in here? Ah, yes.”

She pulled it out, but instead of donning it as he had expected, she took out her belt knife and began cutting and tearing the tunic into strips. Turisan leaned back against the tree, watching her destroy his clothing.

The cold of the water seeped into his stomach, making it rumble. He should have eaten something last night, he realized. He had been foolish not to. He
felt unwell and leaned his head against the tree trunk, closing his eyes.

Turisan?

Yes, love. I am all right. Help is here
.

How were you struck?

He described the skirmish between kobalen and Southfæld’s guardians and told of the kobalen he had stopped from running to Midrange. Eliani scolded him for risking himself, as he expected. He listened fondly, waiting until she ran out of abuse.

Eastf
æ
ld has come. Five hundred riders
.

Ah!

“Turisan? My lord?”

Turisan opened his eyes. Filari was peering at him, looking anxious. She had a pile of torn cloth across her knees.

“I must remove your leathers from this arm.”

He nodded and reached up with his left hand to help unfasten them. Filari swatted his hand away and unlaced the bracer from his lower arm. She was gentle, but he winced in pain with each movement.

Filari glanced up at him, then began to work cautiously at the lacings tying the upper armpiece to the shoulder of his leather jerkin. He clenched his teeth and noticed she was doing the same. Her fingers were trembling, the tips blue.

“You are freezing. Take my cloak.”

Filari shook her head. “You need it more than I. Nolanin is bringing mine.”

She succeeded in untying the lacings, then sat frowning at the dart. “I do not think I can break the shaft without risking breaking the head.”

“No.”

Kobalen dart heads were made of ebonglass,
wickedly sharp and fragile. Fragments left in wounds were both painful and dangerous.

She bit her lip. “I can try to strip the fletching or just lift the leather far enough on the shaft so that I can see to remove the head.”

“Easier to remove without the leather. Strip the fletching.”

“All right. Hold still.”

She took gentle hold of the shaft, and he hissed, then closed his eyes, determined to make no more sound. Filari did her best to steady the dart, but every tiny movement set up waves of pain. He imagined the barbed head slicing his muscle into shreds.

Whiteness filled his mind again. Eliani, sending her healing. He silently thanked her and, when the jostling stopped, opened his eyes.

Filari had pulled the goose feathers from the dart and was frowning at the bare shaft. He knew she was trying to decide how to remove the leather armpiece.

Grimacing, he slid the fingers of his left hand beneath the leather and gripped the shaft, then nodded. Filari took hold of the armpiece with both hands and pulled it upward while Turisan steadied the shaft. It seemed to take a long time, though it could not have been more than a moment. When the leather left the shaft and the pressure released, he let out a grunt.

“Now let me look.”

Shivering, Turisan let his hand fall. The sleeve of his tunic was stained with blood from the seeping wound. Filari cut the cloth away with deft strokes of her knife and peered at the clean slice made by the dart as it had entered, a thin line oozing bright blood, perhaps five times the width of the shaft.

“Can you hold one side? If we pull it open a little, away from the barbs, I can draw the dart straight out.”

Turisan nodded. He pressed his fingertips against the skin on one side of the wound, ready to pull. His hand was shaking as badly as Filari’s. She set one hand opposite his and wrapped the other around the dart.

“Now.”

He pulled, and pain seared into his arm. He felt as if his bone were being drawn out of him. A moment later, wet heat spilled over his fingers. He let out the breath he had not known he was holding, gasping.

“Here, quick.”

A blow struck his arm, and he jumped, then realized that Filari had pressed a folded cloth against the wound. He bit back indignant protest.

“Can you hold it? Press hard.”

Turisan fumbled his hand over the cloth and pressed. An answering ache rose in his arm. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the tree, trying to steady his breathing. Eliani was still sending healing, had sent it throughout. He became aware of the tension in his limbs and made an effort to release it. The worst was over, and the pain was already lessening.

He could feel Filari’s movements as she bound the wound. He gave himself to Eliani’s healing, sinking into the peaceful warmth, letting his hand be moved and replaced over the bandage.

Feeling he should express his gratitude, he opened his eyes. Filari was wiping her knife with a scrap of cloth. He managed a weak murmur.

“Thank you.”

Two answered that he was welcome.

Eliani returned to herself to find she was leaning forward in her saddle, left hand pressed to her right shoulder, her horse standing in the center of a circle of riders who were all staring at her. She blinked and
looked at Vanorin, who sat his mount before her, eyes filled with concern.

“My lady? Are you well?”

She inhaled and sat up, letting her hand fall. Her muscles were stiff.

“Yes. Where are we?”

She looked around at the forest, vaguely remembering riding through those pines. The party had been following a stream down out of the heights. She spied it after a moment, a few rods away, its murmur a tickle at the edge of her hearing.

Vanorin looked dismayed. “We are in the Steppe Wilds. Do you not remember?”

“Yes, yes. Forgive me. Turisan was hurt, and I was distracted by it. All is well now.”

She said this with a silent hope that it was true. Turisan’s wound was not dangerous, but she would be glad when he was somewhere safe, well away from the chaos at Midrange.

Luruthin moved his horse up beside hers. “Do you feel able to ride on?”

“Of course.” She nodded, but instead of urging her horse forward, she sat staring at the lock of black mane between its ears.

“Eliani?”

Luruthin’s voice was gentle. Somehow that broke her determined calm. She felt a tear slide down her cheek as she met his gaze.

“The war at Midrange has begun.”

Hoofbeats, running, intruded upon Turisan’s fitful repose. He stirred and was rewarded with a dull stab of pain in his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw Filari standing nearby, waving to the approaching rider, a guardian who led a second horse by the reins.

Turisan frowned. He should know who this guardian was. One of his command, and Filari had said his name earlier.

The guardian slowed to a walk and came toward them, tossing a bundled cloak to Filari as he reached them. She caught it and put it on.

Turisan sat up, his movements slow and careful. He was stiff from leaning against the tree. Filari turned and looked at him.

“Ah, good!” She came closer and knelt beside him. “How do you feel?”

“None too well, but better than before.”

She smiled, then held up the kobalen dart, turning it to show him all the sides. “See? No chips.”

“I am in your debt.”

Filari shook her head. “I was in yours.”

It was true that she seemed more steady now than she had been in Glenhallow, more vital. Turisan privately doubted he had done her a favor by bringing her here, for the fighting had scarcely begun. At least now the odds were no longer overwhelming.

Filari offered the dart. “Do you want it?”

Turisan took it in his left hand and looked more closely at it, musing. Some guardians kept such things as reminders of their trials or as tokens of good fortune. He twirled it by the shaft, admiring the craft that had gone into the black glass head, its perfect symmetry, the smoky glow of light through its thinnest edges. He then reversed it and smashed the point into a rock that lay beside him. The head shattered, scattering splintered glass.

“Now it will never harm another.”

He tossed the shaft away and got to his feet, leaning against the tree for balance. He felt light-headed but thought he could ride. He looked around for his water
skin, found it at his feet, and bent to pick it up, then noticed a cloak draped on the ground.

A gold cloak, and beneath it the Eastfælder who had accompanied him. The cloak was drawn up over his face. Turisan looked up sharply at Filari, who shook her head.

Turisan picked up his water skin and straightened, which made his head swim a little. He opened the skin and took two deep swallows, then looked down at the fallen guardian.

The rider had dismounted and now joined them, pausing as he encountered the gold cloak. “Hai—who is this?”

Turisan shook his head. “I do not know his name.”

“That is his horse.” Filari gestured to the bay that was quietly cropping dry grass. “Do you need help?”

The guardian shook his head, glanced at Turisan, then bent to lift the Ælvanen’s body. The cloak draped gracefully as he carried it away.

“Here.” Filari picked up a remnant of Turisan’s torn tunic, fashioned into a sling. She slipped it over his head, helping him settle his injured arm in it.

“Thank you.”