Heart of the Exiled (40 page)

She loosened her leathers, taking off the jerkin and setting it against one of the boulders while she splashed
water on her sweat-soaked tunic and sticky flesh. Her fingers slid into her tunic and caught hold of the small pouch she wore over her heart. It held a ring that had belonged to her father, a lock of Dareth’s hair—a sentimentality for which she occasionally berated herself.

“Bright Lady?”

Shalár started, opening her eyes. Yaras stood before her, a look of patient resignation on his face. If she had felt desire before, that look quelled it. Anger sparked in her chest.

What angered her most was his honesty. He did not desire her, though he would obey her. She wanted more than mere obedience, she found. She turned away from him, unfastened her leather legs and stripped off her clothing, then stepped into the stream.

It was warmer than the streams near Nightsand, much warmer than the bay, though still cool enough to give relief from the forest’s heat. Shalár had not remembered the darkwoods being so oppressive, but then, it had been a long, long time since she had lived here. She squatted to let the water run across her legs and splashed it onto her torso and arms.

After a moment, she heard Yaras stripping as well. He joined her in the water, and she heard him exhale deeply. She ducked her head and scrubbed at her scalp, then sat up and shook the water from her hair. The water was too shallow and too fast for her to lie drifting on it, so she leaned back against the current and watched Yaras bathe. He had unbraided his hair, and its ends floated about his shoulders as he crouched in the stream. Shalár watched him lie back, steadying himself with one arm as he leaned his head into the water. His hair drifted about him like pale moss.

He was strong and comely and would be a fine sire to any child. Shalár pushed away dull resentment at
her lack of success in breeding with him. She had failed to breed with any male, and it was not for lack of effort or of variety of partners.

Nor was it affection that was missing. Her affection for Dareth had been deep, as his for her. If affection was necessary, then none of the ælven in the Cliff Hollows would ever have bred, yet some had bred, at first.

Health was the only thing she could think of that might be lacking. Health and strength. Adequate food. Her people had lived in want for centuries despite their constant efforts to hunt and breed enough kobalen for food.

Would health return once Fireshore was theirs again? If not, she feared her people truly were doomed.

She stood up and walked out of the water, then climbed onto the boulder. It was warm after the coolness of the stream. The forest’s dampness kept it from being quite dry, but it was comfortable enough. Shalár stretched out on her back and gazed through the darkwood branches overhead. She could see one star flickering in a tiny gap between the boughs of broad green leaves.

She listened to the night sounds: hunters rustling in the undergrowth, a bird calling to its mate, the murmur of the stream, and the quiet splashes of Yaras’s movements. A rushing sound told her he had stood, then the stream returned to its quiet flow.

Yaras joined her on the boulder. She looked at him but made no move to touch him. He waited, watching her with eyes darker than the rock on which they rested. At last he lay down beside her, gazing up at the sky.

Faithful, obedient Yaras, whose heart would never be hers. She took his hand, lacing her fingers through
his, and felt a single hot tear slide down her cheek. She swallowed and pushed her selfish wishes aside. She would sacrifice them, and Yaras’s, and those of all the hunters in her army for the sake of bringing her people home to Fireshore.

Turisan sat in the shelter of a tumble of boulders, his arms folded across his updrawn knees, watching the sun rise. The fire beside which he had spent the night had gone to coals, still warm but fast fading. The other campfires were in the same state.

The little column of wounded had made its way slowly southward, taking a full day to cross the valley south of Midrange Valley, the next ridge of mountains, and the valley south of that. Their pace continued to be slow, a source of frustration to Turisan, though he kept it to himself. On the second day they had met the advance force of two hundred riders sent by Ehranan and watched them disappear northward.

Every evening they made camp in what shelter they could find, and those who were fit enough gathered wood for the fires. Every morning what wood remained unburnt went for pyres to burn the bodies of those who had died overnight. One of the wagons now held several forlorn bundles of possessions wrapped in their former owners’ cloaks.

The snow continued fitfully, sometimes making the journey difficult for the wagons, even on the road. There was but one wagon of food supplies, all that had been saved in the scramble to get away from High
Holding, and it was dwindling. Turisan knew that the stores it carried were not enough to see them to Glenhallow, not at the pace they were making.

Never had he been in such a precarious position. Never had he led such a vulnerable company through such harsh conditions. He felt each death as a personal failure, yet he knew this was but a small trial compared with what others had suffered. He had only to think of his father and Skyruach to remember it.

My love?

Eliani
.

He closed his eyes and laid his head on his arms. He was grateful but also sad and frightened.

Hard night?

I fear so. I have not yet gone to see
.

I meant for you
.

Her warmth enveloped him, tingling through his limbs. For a startled moment he wondered if he had been colder than he thought, but no. It was just that she knew what he needed and gave without reserve. He relaxed a little.

Are you riding?

Not yet. Eating sunfruit, then we will start
.

Sunfruit. Turisan swallowed, hungry at the thought of the sweet, tangy fruit, the color of the summer sun and rich with juice. He had been tired and worried the previous night, and cold dried meat had not been enough to tempt him.

He should get up and talk to the drivers, have them cook the last of the barley from the supply wagon. A hot meal to get the little column moving, and perhaps in the evening those who were fit enough could hunt.

Snow could be melted for water; he did not care to take water from the Silverwash just now. The meal
would raise everyone’s spirits, but it would require finding more wood.

He felt weary at the thought but made himself stand. Stiff from the cold, he stepped carefully over the cloak-bundled figures lying by the fire and walked toward the wagons.

He found the drivers huddled around a small, fitful fire. When they heard about the prospect of a hot meal, they went to work building it up again. Turisan returned to the camp, rousing the wounded and sending those who were fit enough to help gather wood.

The most severely wounded had been left in the wagons and covered over with tenting. With some dread he visited each one and found to his relief that none had died overnight. Some seemed unlikely to survive the entire journey, but at least this day they would have to build no pyres.

He was returning to the supply wagon when he heard a distant rumbling, as of many feet moving. His heart quickened with fear, and he looked northward across the valley toward the ridge they had crossed, dreading to see kobalen.

All was quiet to the north. Turning south, he saw a black horse at the head of a column of guardians in Southfæld cloaks. He let out a soft cry of relief. Ehranan and the Southfæld Guard had come.

He hurried to where the horses were picketed and found his little mare. Not bothering to saddle her, he rode her bareback down the slope to meet Ehranan, guiding her with his knees and his good hand in her mane, the other still in its sling.

Ehranan raised a hand to hail him but did not halt the column. Turisan fell in beside him.

“Greetings, Ehranan. Your coming is most welcome.”

The commander cast a grim look at him. “Midrange is fallen, then?”

“Not when I left the valley. Eastfæld’s riders arrived in time to make a stand there.”

“Eastfæld!” He smiled with pride. “They came quickly.”

“Yes.”

Ehranan frowned at the sling Turisan wore. “You are wounded?”

Turisan felt the heat of a flush sting his cold cheeks. “A dart to the arm. It is not serious.”

“Tell me.”

Turisan related all that had occurred while he was at Midrange. Ehranan listened, nodding now and then, his expression grave. When Turisan spoke of the retreating wounded under his command, Ehranan glanced up toward the little camp, then toward Midrange.

“You came only this far?”

“Alas, we cannot travel quickly.”

“You are but halfway to Glenhallow.”

Turisan nodded. “Thereabouts.”

“Are you supplied?”

Turisan shook his head. “We are almost out of stores. We can hunt, but we have few arrows.”

“I will give you wagons with food enough to see you through the march and fifty arrows for each of you who is fit enough to hunt. Will that do?”

Hope woke in Turisan’s chest, but he hesitated. “I do not wish to deprive the Guard who are facing battle.”

Ehranan waved his reservations aside. “We have enough to spare and can send for more from Glenhallow. I will have Rephanin relay a request.”

“How does Rephanin?” Turisan glanced behind him but did not see the magelord. Guardians five abreast were crossing the ridge to the south.

“Well enough. You will wish to give him messages for Glenhallow. Ride back along the column and you will find him in our midst.”

“Thank you.”

Ehranan smiled. “You have done well, son of Jharan.”

Surprised and honored, Turisan bowed before turning to find Rephanin. He had almost reached the foot of the ridge when he saw a cluster of horses come over it, a figure cloaked in dull gold at its center. Rephanin rode with his hood pulled forward, obscuring his face, surrounded by guardians. Turisan hailed him.

“Good morrow, Lord Rephanin! I trust you are well.”

The hooded head lifted and turned his way, and he glimpsed Rephanin’s startled face. The guardians parted as Turisan rode up and fell in with Rephanin’s horse. The magelord gave a subdued nod of greeting.

“What happened to your arm?”

“A kobalen dart.”

“Thorian did not mention it when we met yesterday eve.”

“It happened after he left Midrange. Is Thorian well?”

Rephanin nodded. “Making better progress since the snow stopped. The road is clearer to the south.”

“Thank the spirits for that! We are moving at a crawl as it is.”

“ ‘We’?”

“A small group of wounded, bound for Glenhallow. Will you ask Thorian to tell my father?”

“Of course. Should I mention your own wound?”

Turisan pressed his lips together. Best to inform Jharan of that at once rather than risk his hearing it by chance.

“Please tell him I am
slightly
wounded and in no danger.”

A wry smile twitched the magelord’s lips. “Poor Thorian. I would not wish to bring Jharan such news.”

“Give him my apologies and assure him that my father will not eat him.”

That drew a small laugh from Rephanin. He turned his head to look at Turisan, gray eyes glinting with humor.

“Very well.”

Turisan thanked him and left the column to return to his camp. The fires were burning brightly, and the drivers were moving among the wounded, dishing out hot barley into bowls or onto camp plates, whatever each guardian happened to have. Some shared plates, and most ate with their fingers. All seemed glad for the hot meal, simple as it was.

A driver looked up at Turisan as he dismounted. “Some barley, my lord?”

“Yes, in a moment.”

He turned the mare out with the other horses and went to the fire where his pack lay. The smell of the barley had awakened his hunger, and he hastened to dig his wooden plate out of the pack.

A driver spooned some food onto the plate for him. The barley steamed in the cold air.

“Thank you for cooking. I know it is not your usual duty.”

The driver glanced up. “Glad to be of service, especially to these. I saw …”

His face went grim, and he fell silent, eyes apologetic. Turisan smiled to reassure him.

“Thank you.”

He had forgotten his spoon, so he balanced the bowl on his right hand in the sling and scooped up hot pinches of barley with his fingers, eating as he strolled through the camp. Faces turned toward him, most with brave smiles. Some of the less seriously wounded had gone to the wagons to feed those who could not feed themselves. Turisan was moved by their courage and thankful for it. They would need it to reach Glenhallow.