The Betrayal (3 page)

The meal drew to a close, and the house holders gradually took their leave. Many paused to exchange greetings with Lord Turisan. His courtesy was flawless, his voice soft, and he seemed never at a loss for a kind word, even to Eliani's youngest kin, Curunan, who at twenty summers was just old enough to sit with the house hold.

Felisan rose from the table. “Well, then, Lord Turisan, come into my chamber and give me Lord Jharan's news. Good night, yes, good night.” He waved to the last few guests as he started toward the back of the hall.

Eliani followed her father, shoulders-on with Lord Turisan, who glanced toward her and yielded the way. In turn she held aside the tapestry for him to enter the governor's private quarters. Only she and her father dwelt here now. Others of the house hold lived in their own homes in the city.

Lord Felisan led the way into his study. Scattered scrolls of music and tomes thick with history lent the chamber a comfortable air. Eliani banished a worry that Lord Turisan would think the place unkempt and held her chin high as she fetched mead and chalices from a cupboard. If Lord Jharan's son disliked his surroundings, he could take his leave.

Luruthin gazed at the tapestry long after Eliani had let it fall. The minstrels finished their final tune and began to pack away their instruments, the governor's departure having signaled the end of their duty.

Though Luruthin enjoyed music, he was content to have the hall fall silent. He had sensed Eliani's tension and thought she was not entirely pleased with their visitor. A stirring beside him made him look at Gharinan,
kin to Eliani and himself, though closer to Felisan in age. His gaze also was fixed on the curtain.

“Eliani was at her most courteous to night. I wonder what put her in a dangerous mood?”

Luruthin could guess but refrained from doing so aloud. Gharinan did not know Eliani as well as he, dwelling farther from Highstone in the village of Heahrued, of which he was theyn. Apart from their mutual service in Alpinon's Guard, Gharinan had spent little time in Eliani's company, though enough to conceive a futile ardor for her.

That was not at all uncommon. Since her ill-fated cup-bond, Eliani wanted no lover and took pains to express this in her dress and behavior, with the result that full half the Guard had lost their hearts to her.

Luruthin, whose village of Clerestone was but a day's ride from Highstone, had been somewhat luckier than most, for he had known Eliani since her childhood. They had even enjoyed a brief and blissful intimacy a little more than two de cades past, but it had ended abruptly when Kelevon had swept into Highstone, and since that disastrous alliance Eliani had held Luruthin at a distance. He knew her better than did many of her kin, and knew that her maddening ability to wrap herself in blind solitude was her way of avoiding the attentions of those who were attracted to her.

Possibly Lord Turisan had made the mistake of flirting too overtly. Luruthin's lips curved in a small, grim smile. If that were so, Eliani would be sure to punish him.

He made himself look away from the tapestry, turning to Gharinan instead. “How many recruits do you expect to provide to the Guard this winter? Is Iliron old enough yet?”

Gharinan shook his head, his face hardening with worry. “Not for another few summers. I will not place
mere children in harm's way. We are not yet so desperate.”

Luruthin's gaze strayed to the tapestry once more as he agreed. “Not yet.”

Eliani offered Turisan a chalice of mead and watched as he held it up to admire it. Light from the hearth danced off the golden liquid within, sparking along the patterns cut into the cup.

“These are exquisite. They are carved of crystal?”

Lord Felisan nodded. “Each from a single flawless stone. It is one of our finest crafts.”

“I have never seen their like.”

“Your father has a pair. No doubt they were tucked away safe when you became old enough to roam the palace and never brought out again.”

Turisan laughed. “I shall ask him.”

Lord Felisan smiled as he raised his chalice. “To Lord Jharan's health.”

Eliani and Turisan echoed him together. The honey wine was cool and sweet on Eliani's tongue. She relaxed into her chair, stretching her booted feet out to the fire. None too ladylike, she reflected. Ah, well. Lady like remained in her chamber wardrobe, along with her seldom-worn gowns.

Felisan gave a sigh of plea sure, then turned to Turisan. “Now, what is this message you bring?”

Turisan reached into his tunic and withdrew two letters, each sealed with pale green and silver ribbons. He handed one to Felisan.

“My father sends you this. He charged me also to say it is not his fault that I come before you without a respectable escort.”

Felisan chuckled. “Ah, dear Jharan. Always concerned with appearances.”

Turisan's dark eyes gleamed with laughter, then
went grave as he turned to Eliani. He bowed in his seat as he offered her the second letter.

“To you, Lady Eliani, my father sends this greeting on the occasion of your majority. I offer my personal congratulation as well, and hope that I may have the honor of being present at your confirmation.”

A pretty speech, and so earnestly spoken. Even his voice was beautiful. Eliani felt a sensation of breathlessness, as if she were standing at the edge of a precipice from which a gust of wind might send her tumbling. She had felt so before and had fallen, with unhappy result. She blinked and looked away, swallowing a sudden tightness in her throat as she opened the letter.

A formal missive. Eliani folded it again, wondering if Jharan was so oppressively polite in person. Setting the letter aside, she leaned toward the fire, cupping her chalice in her hands, and turned to Turisan.

“What news from your western borders? We have had kobalen coming across our passes in greater numbers.”

He sipped his wine. “We have seen an increase as well, especially in our northernmost reaches. We are considering augmenting our guard at Midrange Pass.”

“At High Holding?”

He shook his head. “That would take at least fifty guardians, and the fortress is in disrepair.” He set down his chalice and turned toward her. “We keep an outpost to the east of there, by the Silverwash. Our patrols report an increase of kobalen in the area, both on the main pass and on the harder trails.”

“And farther south?”

“No—they do not like the cold overmuch.”

Eliani smiled grimly and gazed at the fire. “They are venturing into our higher passes now—colder paths where they never roamed before. They have begun to raid some of our more remote settlements, and their numbers are increasing every year. They have become a serious concern.” She finished her wine and set her chalice on the table between them, then met his gaze. “Also, we have heard report of an alben seen in the far north of our realm.”

Turisan looked appalled. “An alben, east of the mountains?”

“Close to our border with the Steppe Wilds.”

Turisan frowned. Eliani looked into the flames.

“Have you ever seen an alben?”

“No, and I hope I never may!”

She glanced at him, and his eyes flashed as he met her gaze, though his face remained reserved. An interesting reaction. Perhaps, as a Greenglen, he bore a prejudice against those who had once, long ago, been of his clan.

The alben were now considered a separate race, but they had begun as ælven. Few had been seen since the Bitter Wars, when many of them had been slain and the rest driven west across the Ebons. Eliani remembered
her father telling her the history, making a story of it so that she would remember it the better, with shining heroes—the mindspeakers Dironen and Dejharan, who could converse in thought though leagues might separate them—and the white-haired, black-eyed alben, so evil that they seemed to breathe darkness. The Lay of the Battle of Westgard told of the end of the Bitter Wars, but there were no songs of how the alben had come to be.

Originally, Clan Darkshore had cleaved from Clan Greenglen and journeyed north to settle Fireshore, where the forests were rich in darkwood. A few centuries later the Ælven Council had determined that Clan Darkshore had broken the creed in the most vile and brutal way, practicing evil cruelty upon kobalen, keeping them in captivity and even drinking their blood. When Darkshore had refused to desist, the Council had cast them out of ælvenkind, naming them alben and launching the Bitter Wars to drive them from ælven lands. All this had happened long ago, centuries upon centuries ago. Long enough to have become legend, so that the truth of it was fading amidst the many tellings.

Felisan folded his letter. “Lord Jharan has summoned the Council of Governors to meet at Glenhallow on the first of winter to discuss this increase of kobalen.”

Eliani looked from him to Turisan. “The Ælven Council? Does he fear another attack at Midrange?”

Turisan nodded. “My father would rather we not be caught off guard, as we were in the Midrange War.”

“A sentiment with which I am in complete agreement.” Felisan drained his glass and set it down. “Jharan shall host a Council at Glenhallow the like of which has not been seen in many centuries, and it will
be well for the ælven. Our clans have become too scattered.” He arose, and Eliani and Turisan followed suit.

“You are welcome to bide with us as long as you choose, Turisan. A guest house has been prepared for you”—Felisan glanced at Eliani, who nodded—“and my daughter will show you the way.”

“I thank you for your kind hospitality.”

Felisan clasped his arm. “Good night, son of my shield-brother. Rest well.”

Eliani watched her father go out, then turned to their guest, feeling a return of her previous awkwardness. She should say something pleasant, but nothing came to mind. She led him out through the feast hall, where a few of her kin lingered, to the hearthroom, where they paused while an attendant fetched his cloak.

Outside the air was chill with approaching autumn. Lights burned in most windows, for the night-biders were about their business. The ælven could see almost as well at night as in the day, though darkness robbed the world of color. Many loved moon and stars better than daylight. Night-biders often shared tools and workrooms with their sun-dwelling counterparts, who retired to rest and meditate during the hours of darkness. Between them, the day-biders and night-biders populated ælven towns with activity and music at all times.

Turisan paused in the circle to gaze up at the night sky. “The stars are far more brilliant here than at Glenhallow. Saharis is like a beacon!”

“It is the mountain air. No doubt the skies above your southern peaks are similar.”

“True. I have seen just such a sky on a winter's hunt.” He looked at her, smiling. “Tell me of the Three Shades. Are they best viewed by daylight or starlight?”

“Either. They are quite different by night. I would view them both ways while you are here.”

“That would please me, if you will again be my guide.”

Was that meant to rebuke her for not telling him her name at once? She gazed at him but could not read his face. Subtle, this Greenglen lord. She made a formal bow.

“Of course. I recommend daylight first.”

She led him to the guest house and bade him good night, then returned to the hall and invaded the kitchen, which was warm with the heat of newly fed fires and smelled of flour and yeast. Gathering a handful of small cakes left over from the evening meal into a napkin, Eliani thanked the cook and went out again into the night.

She climbed a steep stair that led above Felisanin Hall to a solitary house, the oldest in Highstone. It was the original governor's hall, so ancient that its stone walls were covered deep in moss and lichen, making it seem a part of the cliff rather than a hand-built structure. A light burned inside, sending a faint glow through the dark blue tapestries that screened the windows. Eliani paused in the hearthroom, rang the guest chime, and, when bidden, entered the house.