Heart of the Exiled (36 page)

The Feast of Crossed Spirits had passed recently. These gifts had been brought here by ælven to remember their kin.

Some of the ribbons were of good quality, some of the tokens finely made. These were treasures of the sort that Yaras had gone ahead to seek, but Shalár was not tempted to touch them. A shade could follow such a thing, and she had no desire to be pursued by the troubled echoes of the dead.

None of the ribbons were red and black. There were no remembrances here for Darkshore’s fallen.

With that thought another shade appeared before her, one of her own kind this time. A male with white hair and night-black eyes, desperate eyes, and he was running, fleeing. He dropped to his knees before Shalár, felled by a blow from behind, his face contorted with pain and fear. She could not help starting back for an instant; then she deliberately stepped on the ground where the shade had faded.

Perhaps she should not set a conce here. Conces were an ælven custom, and she had not practiced such since she had fled to the west.

Her father had been ælven, though. He had considered himself ælven to the end and had fought for his people’s right to stay in their homeland.

She would set no conce. The return of Clan Darkshore to Ghlanhras was remembrance enough for her father.

The crumbling walls of Westgard village rose ahead. Shalár quickened her pace, anxious to be off
the battleground, away from the conces and the shades that clung among them. She reached the small circle around which the houses had been built and stopped in its center as the army gathered around her.

“Yaras?”

“Here.”

The houses were stone. Their roofs had long since fallen in, leaving only broken walls that ringed the circle in a jagged parapet. Shalár reached the ruined house in which Yaras squatted, sifting the dirt at his feet with long fingers. He looked up at her, eyes glinting in starlight. A wisp of his hair had worked free of his braid and blown across his face.

“Someone camped here not long ago.”

Shalár nodded. “Feast of Crossed Spirits. They must have traveled far if they were willing to rest here, even for a night.”

Yaras gestured toward the yield of his scavenging, laid out on a large pouch of fine linen that was sticky with the juices of the fruit it once had held: a brooch of metal worked in a simple fretwork design and gilt, the pin of its clasp broken away; a length of dark green ribbon, frayed at the ends; a pottery cup glazed in a wondrous deep blue, slightly chipped on the rim. There were a handful of other such prizes.

“You were right. These are worth the seeking.”

He nodded, and knelt to collect his findings. He rolled them up in the linen pouch, then stowed it in his pack.

Shalár led the way out of the house. The circle was now crowded with her army, so closely packed that they had difficulty opening a passage for her and Yaras. She passed out of the village to the ancient road, pausing to look back at her hunters. The hardest part
of the journey was behind them; ahead, the test of their mettle.

“This is the way to Ghlanhras.” She saw eagerness bloom on their faces and turned, setting foot on the road.

“Come.”

Fireshore looked much the same as the Steppes to Eliani. After descending from Twisted Pine Pass, she and her party had traveled across country, through woodlands where evergreens increasingly gave way to greenleaf trees. They had crossed the river Varindel, with the Great Sleeper looming to the west, and were thereafter in Fireshore, but forest was forest and their journey changed little for several days. When they came to a road running across their path, they rejoiced.

They paused in a glade surrounded by greenleaf trees and occasional twining black trunks of darkwood. Eliani brought out the map she had copied from the records in her father’s study. She spread it against her saddle, and Vanorin joined her.

Luruthin peered over her shoulder. “Is it the Bitterfield road?”

“It must be.” Vanorin traced a finger along a wavering line below the road. “That is the Varindel. There are no other roads going west.”

“How far to Bitterfield? Will we reach it today?”

“We should.” Eliani glanced at Vanorin, ready for his denial, but he made none. She looked at her cousin and grinned. “We shall ride until we do.”

They mounted and started westward, delighted at
having a road instead of making their way through wilderness. It was smaller than the trade roads, more like the mountain road they had traveled through Alpinon, but plainly in use.

A green canopy rose high overhead, lit with the soft glow of muted sunlight. Vines climbed the sinuous trunks of darkwoods, thick with crimson and yellow flowers that emitted a heavy, sweet scent. A bird somewhere gave a long falling cry.

Eliani looked up but could tell nothing of the sun’s position save that it was somewhere to the west. This forest was strange; she felt closed in, cut off from the clear sky. She had been in deep forests in her own realm, but this was different. She knew an urge to climb one of the darkwoods just to catch a glimpse of the sun.

Before long the road widened, and the space beneath the trees grew more open, with here and there an empty place where once a darkwood had stood. She could feel where a tree’s khi was missing, which was a strange sensation. It was as if the forest sensed its absence.

The khi of these darkwoods was different from that of any other trees she had known. She was not certain she liked it.

Sunlight slanted through a gap in the canopy ahead, golden with the lateness of the day. Eliani urged her horse forward, hoping it was Bitterfield and not merely a cleared space in the forest. When the dark walls of houses came into view, she looked at Luruthin and smiled.

Bitterfield was the second village to be built here. The first, Fairfield, had been the first ælven settlement ever attacked in force by kobalen raiders. It had happened centuries upon centuries ago, long before the
Bitter Wars. The kobalen had devastated the village, but the survivors had chosen to rebuild. The next time raiders had come, Bitterfield had fought back, thus beginning the ælven’s acquaintance with warfare.

Eliani thought on that sadly. Warfare was not in harmony with the creed, yet it seemed they could not escape it. Why the kobalen continued to make war against the ælven when they lost so much by it was beyond her.

Bitterfield had turned its back to the darkwood forest. Houses shouldered close together, leaving no space for raiders to run between, and the road narrowed as it led into the village, passing between stone posts that could be blocked and defended in time of attack. It seemed cold and unfriendly, unlike any ælven settlement Eliani had seen.

As they passed the outer ring of houses, she saw that the front of each house, facing inward to the village, had windows and adornments and a spacious garden. A second circle of houses faced the outermost, and a third, smaller circle had its back to the second. Within the third ring was the village’s public circle. By the time they reached it, they had attracted the attention of the citizens.

The folk of Bitterfield looked like Greenglens mostly, though sometimes the fair hair was curly and many of the brown eyes were light in color, not the deep dark brown Eliani knew. A few looked like Steppegards, and one or two had the black hair of Ælvanens. They watched her and her companions in curious silence from doors and windows or looking up from working in their gardens.

Eliani dismounted at the edge of the public circle, thinking it odd that none of the citizens approached.
In Highstone, visitors were surrounded the moment they stepped into the circle, if not before.

A quarter of the way around the circle, a door opened and a male stepped out of one of the larger houses, his long pale hair loose about his shoulders. He wore a light tunic and legs of unadorned gray and soft shoes instead of boots. His eyes were a golden brown that made Eliani think of honey cakes crisp from the oven. Her stomach growled.

The male came toward them, opening his hands in greeting. “I am Dejhonan. I am theyn here.”

Eliani nodded and made a slight bow. “I am Eliani of Felisanin, from Highstone in Alpinon, and this is Luruthin, my cousin, who is theyn of Clerestone. We came to visit our kindred.”

Dejhonan’s brows rose in surprise. “You have kin in Bitterfield?”

“My father’s sister, Davhri.”

“Davhri … of course. Felisanin—yes, I should have realized.”

“She dwells here, does she not?”

“She dwells here, yes.” Dejhonan nodded, though his smile was somewhat troubled. His gaze passed over the rest of the party. “You are not all kin to Davhri.”

“No, these are my … companions. This is Vanorin, who hails from Glenhallow.”

Dejhonan clasped arms with Vanorin. “You have come a long way.”

“Yes.”

A brief silence followed, as if Dejhonan waited for elaboration. When none was forthcoming, he looked at Eliani.

“May I offer you and your cousin refreshment before you seek Davhri? My house is just there.”

“Thank you, but I am anxious to see her. She is not ill, I hope?”

Dejhonan hesitated before answering. “No. She is not ill. Your companions might like to refresh themselves in the public lodge while you visit her.”

He nodded toward the largest building on the circle, and Eliani realized with a start that it was the only house in Bitterfield whose doors stood fully open. All the others had their doors only slightly ajar, the opposite of the custom in both Highstone and Glenhallow, where anyone was welcome in the hearthroom of any house.

“Yes, we would like that, and we should make arrangements with the lodge keeper for our accommodation.”

Eliani nodded. “Thank you, Vanorin.”

He and the escort started toward the lodge, taking Eliani and Luruthin’s horses with them. Eliani turned to Dejhonan, smiling.

“Will you take us to Davhri’s house?”

“She lives in the outer ring.”

He led them across the circle to one of two other paths that gave onto it. The citizens, seeing them in Dejhonan’s company, appeared to lose interest and returned to their pursuits.

Dejhonan led them to the outer row and turned up the narrow street that ran between the facing gardens. Each of them was filled with flowers and herbs, some with kitchen plots, some with vines or waxy-leaved trees heavy with the golden orbs of sunfruit.

The garden before the house to which Dejhonan led them was withered. Eliani saw a kiln there, though it seemed long disused. She recognized some of the flowering plants and shrubs, including a goldenberry bush that seemed yet to cling to life.

Dejhonan led them down the path to the door, which was closed. He knocked on it.

“Davhri. It is Dejhonan. You have visitors from Alpinon.”

They waited in silence. No sound came from within. After a few moments Dejhonan knocked again.

“Davhri.”

“What happened?”

Dejhonan turned to Eliani with apologetic eyes. “Her partner is missing.”

“Missing? Inóran?”

Eliani saw him in memory, the tall, fair-haired smiling one who had stolen Davhri away. She had detested him as a child.

“Yes.” Dejhonan spoke quietly, sadly. “He went to Ghlanhras in the spring and has not returned.”

“Has no one sought news of him? Has no one else seen him in Ghlanhras?”

Dejhonan gazed at her, his face grave. “We have little traffic with Ghlanhras.”

Eliani was about to ask why, but a sound from within the house drew her attention. “Davhri?”

Slow, shuffling footsteps were approaching. Dejhonan took a step back.

The door opened a handspan, and a female peered out. She was clad in a loose gray robe that seemed too large for her. Her brown hair was disheveled, pulled in many wisps from its braid, and her face was lined with worry. The green eyes were dull beneath frowning brows.

Eliani caught her breath, for despite these ravages the face was still known to her, so like her father’s. “Davhri?”

The eyes focused on her, frowning in bewilderment. “I know you.”

Eliani felt tears starting and frowned to keep them back. “Yes. Yes, it is Eliani.”

“Eliani. My brother’s child.” Davhri’s brows lifted, and a glint of life came into her face. “All grown now.”

“Yes.” Eliani laughed, happy that Davhri knew her, nervous at her unkempt state. “Do you remember Luruthin? Our cousin?”

Luruthin stepped forward, smiling. Davhri opened the door a little wider and stood in it gazing thoughtfully at him, then nodded.

“Yes, I remember you both. Has it been so long? You were a child when I left Highstone.”

“I have just reached my majority.”

Dejhonan stepped forward. “They have traveled a long way to see you, Davhri. Shall I send Mishri to make a fire and some tea?”

Davhri looked at him and stood a little straighter. “That is most kind of you, Dejhonan. Thank you.”

Eliani turned to him. “Yes, thank you.”

He nodded, stepping back and glancing from Luruthin to Eliani. “Welcome to Bitterfield. Come to my house when you leave here, if you will.”

Eliani watched him walk away, then turned back to Davhri. For a moment they gazed at each other. Luruthin gave a soft cough.