The Betrayal (6 page)

The passage wound deep into the cliff. Now and then a beam of feeble starlight slid down through a wind-carved chimney to splash against the dark rock wall. These channels to the cliff's surface above gave
more air than light, but little light was needed. Shalár could see in darkness, as could her captives. Khi flowed thinly here—a finer khi but weaker even than that of the kobalen. The condition of her captives had worsened to the point where they no longer were useful, or so Shalár suspected.

She and Dareth reached the holding chambers, which were unlike the large caves where kobalen were kept, breeding away as they so easily did. Here each captive was isolated in a small chamber behind a heavy door, all of them opening off a larger cave. Grated windows in the doors allowed the keepers to watch over their charges. Shalár stepped up to the first door.

The chamber contained a pallet, a small wooden basin and pitcher of water, and a covered slop bucket. A tunic of good cloth—unused by its appearance—hung on a peg on the wall, and in the far corner lay what looked like a bundle of rags. Shalár gathered her khi and sent a pulse into the chamber, commanding attention. The rags stirred, and a head arose from them. The face was thin, pinched, and endlessly sorrowful yet defiant. An ælven female.

Dareth moved restlessly beside her. Shalár had sent him to breed to this one, numerous times. She had hoped the female's strength of will portended strength of flesh, but no child had been conceived. None of the ælven captives had bred successfully in over a century.

She glanced at Dareth. “Will you try again?”

He closed his eyes, gave a tiny shake of his head. Unsurprised, Shalár spoke to the female.

“Come here.”

She could order Dareth to breed her, and he would obey, but the ælven was in poor health, even less likely than usual to conceive. That was one curse the ælven and her people shared—the rarity of conception.
Compelling Dareth to try yet again with this failing female was useless. Better to reserve his strength.

The female arose and listlessly approached the door, the tatters of her ælven garments hanging from her thin frame. Fear had long since given way to resignation, though she still showed a streak of stubbornness.

Shalár nodded toward the tunic hanging on the wall. “You have not put on your new clothing.”

The ælven glanced at the tunic, then looked down at her feet, saying nothing, giving Shalár no argument. Nothing to push against, no way to fight. “I have provided the best available for you. My own attendants do not wear as good.”

The female did not respond. Feeling a stab of impatience, Shalár stepped closer to the door.

“Shall I send all my guard in to you? Perhaps one of them will light a spark in your belly.”

The ælven did not move, but Shalár felt cold fear flood through her khi.

“Put it on if you wish to live.”

She knew even as the words left her lips that the female had no such wish. Disgusted, Shalár turned away and strode down the passage, glancing into each of the other chambers. Five ælven females and three males, all in dismal condition. One—a male who had been quite young when captured—stared out at her with fierce hunger in his eyes.

It happened now and then. An ælven captive would manifest the hunger that plagued Clan Darkshore. Shalár once had made it her practice to offer them freedom and a home in Nightsand in exchange for a term of service, but the few who had accepted had not survived, and she no longer bothered. They could never reconcile themselves to their changed state. They would not embrace the hunger. Some had refused to shelter
from the daylight and had sickened and died. One had tried to flee to Fireshore. His bones had been found some years later in the forest near Westgard, picked clean and overgrown with a tangle of verdure.

Shalár looked at the hungry one, considering whether to try him. His flesh might yet have the strength to sire a child. His eyes, still green like a Stonereach's, sharpened under her gaze. Hair that once had been the color of good oak was now streaked with white. Hunger licked at her thoughts as, probably without his awareness, he sought to draw strength from her khi.

She repulsed him with a vicious thrust of khi that sent him reeling back from the door. No captive might presume to draw upon her, or on any of her people. He should have known better, and would know better in the future.

She turned and was surprised to find that Dareth was not beside her. He had remained by the first door, gazing in at the female in rags. Shalár strode up the passage to stand before him. Her boots were of a height to bring her eyes just above level with his. She stared a hard silent warning, which he acknowledged with a downward glance. Appeased, she touched a finger to his jaw.

“Come away. We are finished here.”

She led him back out to the antechamber, conscious of his rejuvenated khi at her back. She would have him now, she decided. They were both fed, it would be the most likely time for them to conceive, and she wanted him. She also wanted to drive from his thoughts any female but herself.

As they emerged into a cool night breeze off the ocean, she glanced back at the pens. The two guards posted at the entrance saluted her. She debated whether to carry out her threat and send them and ten or twenty of their comrades to the ælven in rags as the price of her stubbornness.

Perhaps later. Just now she was impatient to be in her bed, alone with her lover.

She looked at Dareth, and he sensed her gaze, withdrawing his own from the ocean to smile hesitantly at her. His khi tingled against her palm and up her arm, sparking a longing in her loins. Shalár laughed and pulled at his hand, leading him at a run along the ledge toward the Cliff Hollows.

Her hair, still damp from washing, lay heavily across her shoulders as she paced alone in her private sitting room. She had left Dareth in her bed, and for all she knew he was still there, mourning, perhaps, that he had failed to conceive with her yet again.

The polished stone was cool against her bare feet. Her robe, richly cut of Eastfæld silk in an exquisite ruby red, brushed long about her ankles. A touch of magecraft had gone into its making, for it was painted with shimmering white flowers that seemed to tremble on their long stems with her every movement. One of the many useless products of magecraft, she thought bitterly. The ælven mages indulged their gifts in creating such fanciful gauds while her own people suffered from lack of the simplest mage blessings.

Few with mage talent had survived to cross the Ebons, and most of those had died since. Of the new folk born to her people in the west, almost none had exhibited such gifts. None could fashion blessings to strengthen their weapons or add protection to their garb. It was one of the reasons she continued to encourage breeding to ælven captives, hoping to restore the gifts of magecraft to her people. Meanwhile, she felt an odd resentment for the ælven's indulgent mage-made fripperies, enchanting though they were. She brushed a hand over the painted flowers, making them sway as if caught by a breeze. This was the last such
robe she had, and it was beginning to wear. Secretly, in her heart, she wanted more.

It was not the time, however, to pursue such luxuries. She must mount a grand hunt for kobalen now, before winter arrived. A blood moon was coming. The time was right. The only question in her mind was whether to hunt for more than sustenance for her people.

Already she had initiated the gathering of information. She had three trusted watchers who spent their nights roving the borders between the Westerlands and the ælven lands to the east of the Ebons. Their usual task was to keep her informed of any intrusions of ælven across the mountains, but that was not enough for the plans she was contemplating.

Shalár felt her shoulders tensing and made an effort to relax them. She hated having anything to do with the ælven and yearned for the day when she would be entirely free of them, but that day was far distant as yet. Until her people could create all that they needed themselves, until their numbers rose beyond the threat of extinction, they would be bound to the ælven.

For survival. Even now. It enraged her, and she fed the anger, knowing it would serve her in the coming effort. She stopped pacing before the hearth and crouched to drink in its warmth.

Already the flush of strength from the kobalen's blood she had consumed was beginning to wane. She needed more, always more.

She closed her eyes, indulging in a moment's bitterness. The hunger was none of her choosing. She would be rid of it if she could. She had no choice but to feed upon kobalen; none of them had a choice.

The ælven had refused to accept that. Instead of trying to understand, trying to help, the ælven had cast all of Clan Darkshore out and made war on them because
of the bane suffered by a few. Because of something they could not control.

Hypocrites. Did not their precious creed command them to be of service to others? Yet they had done nothing to aid their afflicted brethren of Clan Darkshore. Nothing.

She felt a tear slide down her cheek and hastened to brush it away. No weakness; she could not afford weakness. Abruptly she stood and summoned the nearest attendant. Galir, recently entered into her service, was yet a child, as evidenced by the darkness of his hair. Perhaps thirty summers of age and surely never bedded from his look of startled surprise at finding her so lightly clad.

She let him take in her appearance, watching with amusement as his wide gaze traveled her form and finally arrived at her face. A moment later he ducked his head.

“How may I serve you, Bright Lady?”

“Summon Ciris to me.”

“Ciris?” The youth looked up at her, uncertain.

“Ciris the watcher. He has just returned to the city. Try the hunters' lodge.”

“As you will, Bright Lady.” He bowed low and moved to leave.

“And Galir—”

He stopped, still as a startled buck, wary eyes turned to her. Shalár smiled.

“Tell the steward I wish to see you clad in clan colors. I think they would suit you.”

His chest rose and fell with quick, frightened breaths. At last he found the presence to bow again.

“Thank you, Bright Lady.”

She watched him flee the chamber, never meeting her eyes again. Amused, she smiled. He showed promise, this one. When he reached maturity, she would try
him. Perhaps his young strength could give her the child she desired.

While she waited for Ciris, she dressed in a heavier robe of supple linen, dyed as close to black as Night-sand's drapers could manage. The hem and sleeves were broidered with twining vines of night-blooming jasmine, the pale flowers standing out against dark green leaves. They did not shimmer or move.

Shalár ran her fingers over the vines on one sleeve. The artist who had done the needlework had died recently, giving in to weariness and despair. That left but one broiderer in the city, an apprentice. Another would have to be trained. Perhaps the child of the petitioner who had lost her kobalen would prove handy with the needle.

A gentle knock on the door heralded the arrival of an attendant—not Galir—who informed her that Ciris was waiting in her audience chamber. She sent him away with orders to bring bread and ale to them, then went out to her public room.

The heavy draperies had been drawn back from the west side of the chamber to reveal a broad opening. Formerly a cave mouth, it had been widened into a vast gallery with pillars carved from the black stone at either side, framing a sweeping view of the ocean and Night-sand Bay. Starlight glistened on the dark waters, all silver, blue, and black. Warmer lights twinkled in the city below as her people went about their night's business.

Standing at one side of the gallery, looking down, was a tall male clad in hunter's leathers. His hair was long and stark white, a few wiry strands escaping the braid. He turned, regarding her with piercing black eyes.

“Ciris. You are well fed, I trust?”

He nodded. “You have work for me?”

“Yes. Come and sit with me while we discuss it.”

She led him to a small table at the side of the chamber, laid with a platter of bread and cheeses, two pottery cups, and a jug of ale. The meal was more a symbol of hospitality than a practical gift, for her folk no longer could survive on such foods alone, and Ciris would have fed well in the wilds. That was one advantage of being a watcher: One could catch one's own feeders from the kobalen who roamed the plains.

Old customs had their uses, however, and such simple foods aided digestion. With a gesture Shalár invited Ciris to help himself to the meal, and he at once reached for the jug.

“You are weary of watching.”

Ciris shrugged as he poured ale for both of them. “Little changes. I saw a large band of kobalen cross into the Steppe Wilds, near Coldwater Lake.”

Shalár sipped her ale. “Hunting mountain geese for feathers to fletch their darts.”

He nodded. “There are more such forays than usual this autumn. The kobalen have gone into the mountains in greater numbers.”

“Food must be scarce on the plains.”

“And the kobalen more plentiful than ever. Their numbers have increased rapidly of late.”