The Betrayal (32 page)

She frowned, misliking the direction of her thoughts. Instinct warned her to learn more.

Turning, she saw the Steppegard swaying where he stood. He was spent and could go no farther on his own. She put him up on the catamount's back and started forward again, this time heading toward the camp instead of away from it.

Her hunger was now a dull ache that stabbed with every step. She cast a searching thought wide through the woods, but there were no kobalen near. Soon she would resort to the transitory satisfaction of feeding on deer or bear. The catamount's khi was now unwholesome, but even that might tempt her as a last resort.

As she neared the camp, she moved with greater stealth. When she could hear the voices of the ælven, she made the catamount stop beside a copse of bare-branched saplings, leaving it and the Steppegard there in concealment while she ventured forward.

Slowly, slowly now, each step with a hunter's caution. Press a foot down upon the snow, make no sound.

She was close enough now to distinguish what the ælven were saying. She stopped behind a thick-trunked pine, spreading her khi through it and through its neighbors, the better to hear those around the campfire.

“Will we reach Heahrued today?”

“Tomorrow, more like.”

“And then another ten days to the Steppes. I will be glad to be out of this snow.”

Shalár thought the lilt of the male's voice had a hint of Southfæld in it, or perhaps Eastfæld. She closed her eyes, frowning in concentration.

“Nine days if we press, and we should.” Another voice, male, a little lower than the first. “Remember, we must travel with all possible speed.”

“Perhaps we can get fresh horses in the Steppes. That would speed us.”

Horses! Shalár chided herself for a fool. She must be wearier than she had thought, not to notice.

She extended her khi through the woodlands, careful not to touch the ælven's khi lest she alert them to her presence. A short distance away she sensed where their horses—seven, all told—were grazing.

She made herself attend to the ælven's conversation. They were not a patrol, not if speed was important to them.

The woods were filled with a dim blue light that set a ghostly glow to the snowdrifts and woke shadows beneath the pines. Day was coming. She should leave here and seek shelter. She moved forward.

A glimpse of movement startled her into shrinking against a tree. She had seen a pale-haired, silver-cloaked form between the trees. The crackle of the campfire reached her ears, reminding her of how chilled she was.

“If we can get horses at Waymeet, then yes, but we must not go afield in search of them. Jharan stressed that we should reach Fireshore as soon as we possibly can.”

Jharan! They were from Southfæld's governor. Shalár drew a sharp breath.

How could she take them? There were seven of them, and she was so weary with the Steppegard and the cat to control.

Her eyes narrowed. The cat.

She reached her thoughts back to where the catamount crouched and took a tighter hold on its khi. Slowly she brought it forward, letting it utter no sound. When it stood beside her, she pulled the Steppegard from its back and leaned him against a tree.

She paused to listen. The ælven still talked of horses. Shalár set her hand to the hilt of her kobalen dagger, then stepped away from the tree and started the catamount forward. She let it scent the ælven and
their beasts, felt a growl building in its throat, and loosed it.

For a moment the cat's footfalls thudding on snow were all she heard; then it roared as it reached the ælven's camp. Startled shouting, the frightened shrieks of horses, an agonized scream.

Shalár started forward. The cat had killed and wanted to feed, but she would not let it do so. She paused to look through its eyes. A confused glimpse of a swinging sword that the cat dodged, then frightened ælven scrambling away as she sent it against them again.

Withdrawing enough to remember her own flesh, she staggered forward, drawing her knife. The camp was in an uproar, two ælven down and four others huddled together, preparing to fend off the cat.

One male had gone to the horses. Shalár circled the camp, following. The solitary ælven did not see her before she struck.

A slash to the back. The ælven screamed in surprise and fell to his knees. Shalár slashed again, grimacing. Slitting his throat would have been quicker, but she wanted this to look like the catamount's work. She managed a cut down one side of the throat, enough to set the blood flowing freely, splashing across the snow. She hissed at its sharp scent.

This one was finished. Hunger roared in her ears at the smell of his blood, but she turned away, left him bleeding into the snow and made for the camp where the four ælven were holding the cat at bay with drawn swords.

Shalár swept her knife across the back of a male's neck, then sliced at his neighbor before he could turn. The distraction made them lower their swords, and the cat leapt at them. Shalár stumbled back, evading a wildly swinging sword. The cat snarled, pinned a female, then tore her throat out.

Blood everywhere, spattered across the snow and the trees, its scent heavy on the breeze. The horses were shrieking in terror. She heard hoofbeats as one pulled free of its tether and galloped away down the road.

Shalár ducked another blow from the sword of the sole survivor. Releasing the cat, she turned all her will toward the ælven, wrapping her khi around his in a fierce grip. He looked shocked and for a moment dropped his guard.

It was all she needed. She parried his sword and stepped inside its reach, setting her knife to his throat, letting the black glass bite.

“Drop your blade!”

He stared at her, pale hair tangled across his face and his nostrils flaring with each short, sharp breath. The cat uttered a snarling grunt and commenced devouring the flesh of the female it had killed.

The ælven's frightened eyes darted around the camp and widened with the realization that all his companions were slain. He let go his sword, which fell into the snow with a muted thump.

“Good. Turn around.”

Shalár stepped back as he obeyed her. The catamount growled, then sank its teeth into the shoulder of its prize and dragged the corpse away toward a thicket of gray bushes. Shalár caught hold of the ælven's long hunter's braid and laid her knife along his throat again.

“On your knees.”

He sank down in the trampled, bloodied snow. Shalár stood over him, pondering what to do next. She was dizzy and out of breath. She let go his hair and laid her hand on his shoulder, beginning to draw on his khi.

The ælven gasped and sagged forward a little. Shalár tightened her grip on him. His khi gave her strength, though by now she needed more than just khi.

“Where are you going?”

“T-to Fireshore.”

“Why?”

“A message. For Governor Othanin.”

“From?”

“Governor Jharan.”

Movement in the woods drew her attention. The Steppegard was staggering toward the camp. Shalár felt a stab of panic as she realized she had lost control of him as well as the cat, but he was too weak to be a threat or even to escape.

He seemed to know it. He came to a halt beside a nearby pine, blinking as he leaned heavily against it. Shalár kept her gaze on him.

“Who carries the message?”

The ælven turned his head, then pointed toward one of the dead. “Korian.”

Shalár looked at the Steppegard and jerked her head toward the corpse. “Find it.”

Slowly the Steppegard pushed away from the tree, swayed a little, then came forward and dropped to his knees beside the dead ælven. He searched and a moment later held up a sealed parchment. It shook with the trembling of his hand.

Shalár nudged her captive. “Any other messages or copies of this?”

“No.”

She shifted her grip on the knife, preparing to kill the ælven, but hesitated. The Steppegard, still on his knees, no longer watched her. He was looking at the corpse before him. He started to bend toward it.

“No.”

He looked up, nearly snarling. The golden eyes flashed with raging hunger. Her own hunger flared in response.

She cast a glance around the camp. Nearby she saw a length of narrow cord lying coiled upon a rock.

“Bring me that snare.”

The Steppegard stared at her angrily, then slowly retrieved the cord. He brought it to her and gave her the parchment as well. She tucked the message into her leathers, then sheathed her knife and bound the ælven's hands behind him with the snare.

Rarely had she done this. Even though she had renounced their creed long ago, she did not like to feed upon the ælven, who were, after all, her kin, deny it all they might.

She had no choice, however. She was nearly spent and must feed now.

She came around to stand before her captive, who looked up at her with fearful eyes. A fair-faced Greenglen. She would remember him. She owed him that much, as kindred.

She glanced at the Steppegard. “Kneel there.”

He moved beside the ælven, who turned his head to watch him. While the ælven was thus distracted, Shalár swiftly stepped forward and opened the vein of his throat, then bent to the wound and fed even as he cried out in pain and alarm.

The first mouthful burned through her like sunfire, hot and so rich that it stung. She held the knife to his throat so that he would not struggle, reinforcing the threat with a grip on his khi as she drank deep of his life. She felt herself reviving, blossoming with strength. Every sound, from the shifting of snow on the branches overhead to the panicked shifting of the ælven's horses, became sharper and brighter.

She paused, raising her head to breathe the cold air. She had the strength now to dull her captive's senses, and out of pity she did so. He breathed, but as in a trance, eyes far away, as were his thoughts, no doubt.

The Steppegard was watching her in taut anxiety. She took hold of his khi again, letting him feel her grip.
He flinched a little but continued to stare at her, mute and demanding. She smiled slightly and with her knife made a second cut on the ælven's throat, a downward claw stroke. She watched the Steppegard bend to it, watched him swallow with desperate urgency, then returned to her own feeding.

Sometime later she felt the ælven's spirit depart, felt the sudden absence of his khi from the blood she was consuming. She continued a little longer, until drawing from the corpse became an effort. Letting go, she raised her head and watched the Steppegard until he, too, gave up.

He sat back on his heels and looked at her, flushed with strength, eyes aglow. Now, if ever, he would take his chance and try to escape. Shalár braced herself, watching him warily.

“Bright Lady.”

His voice was hoarse with emotion. Shalár gripped her knife's hilt harder.

His eyes traveled her form. She sensed a different hunger in his khi, a different need. So strong! She shivered, tried to mute the sensation of his rising desire. He might yet attack her, might yet try to overpower her.

Watching him, she set the tip of her knife to its sheath and slowly pushed it in. The Steppegard's gaze followed her hand, then returned to her face. He swallowed.

Shalár stood up. “Come here.”

He obeyed, stepping over the ælven on whom they had fed. Glancing around the camp, she saw where someone had bedded down, blankets still covering a pile of brush. She led the Steppegard to it.

He threw off his cloak and pulled off his tunic, then reached for her leathers. Startled, Shalár bore down sharply on his khi, causing him to grunt in surprise. He meant no harm to her; she could feel that now. Relenting, she let him undress her, let him cover her on
the cold blanket, let him drive into her. She had the strength now to stop him in a heart's beat, but there was no need.

He was good. So much better this way than bound and helpless. She should use this chance to try for a child, but before she could focus on the memories Yaras had shared with her, the Steppegard brought her to ecstasy. She pounded a fist against the snow and drove at him, feeling him flood her with seed, feeling his urgency ebb. They lay still for a moment; then Shalár softly laughed.

“Very good, Steppegard.”

He raised his head, the golden eyes that regarded her bright once more. “Ælven blood is so much better. Why do you even bother with kobalen?”

She raised her head, anger rising in her heart. “Because it is wrong. Understand, Steppegard, this is not our way. Today we had no choice but to feed upon ælven blood, but it is not our way.”

“But you care nothing for the creed.”

“That does not make me a savage. They are our kindred. Even the kobalen do not feed upon their kin.”

He was silent. She had the sense that she had not convinced him, but it mattered not. She controlled him; he would do as she bade.

They caught two of the ælven's horses and rode south until dawn drove them to seek cover. For Shalár, it required almost as much effort as controlling the catamount, since horses were terrified of her kind. Fortunately, the Steppegard had skill with the animals, and it seemed the hunger had not yet made him fearsome to them, so she had only her own mount to control.

She looked at the Steppegard, appraising his appearance with a critical eye. She had given him the fresh clothes she had brought for him: a tunic, legs, and cloak
of Fireshore make, with a sash of Clan Sunriding's orange and gray, all from her carefully hoarded store. He would pass as an envoy, she thought. He must.

He had wanted to wear one of the Greenglens' swords as well, but that she would not permit. She had grieved to leave them all behind—seven swords of Southfæld make, a priceless treasure—but whoever discovered the slain Southfæld party must have no cause to suspect that any other than the catamount had killed them.

She turned to him. “How goes the darkwood harvest, Councillor?”

He glanced at her, eyes narrowing. “Well enough, though we have need of new saw blades for harvesting. The wood wears them too quickly, and our bladesmiths have all left Ghlanhras. I hope to speak with Glenhallow's smiths about commissioning some blades.”