The Betrayal (21 page)

Three nights later the small core of Shalár's pack rejoined the rest of the hunters at Hunt's Eve. From the excitement in the pack's khi, Shalár knew they sensed what had happened after the final catch. They greeted the returning hunters, even the novices, with both
deference and a display of sensual interest approaching outright courtship. Shalár watched with amusement as young Ranad received a warm welcome from Vethir, a veteran of more than ten hunts.

She made the catamount lie down, dismounted, and sent it slinking away to the ledge, then joined her captains. Welir took charge of the catch and herded them toward the bitterthorn copse, save for fifty that Shalár ordered to be kept back.

Ciris stood silent, his gaze hot on Shalár. She looked away from him to Yaras, whose hunger she could sense but who showed no impatience.

“Take me to the reserved kobalen.”

Yaras led her toward the rock overhang, the hunters' daylight shelter. Near the southern end, opposite Shalár's resting place, three hunters stood guard over perhaps twenty kobalen clustered within a deep curve. The creatures had been talking, but at her approach they fell silent.

“Very good. I am glad you have kept them well apart.”

Yaras glanced up. “They are for your house hold's private use?”

She smiled as they started back to the bonfire and the waiting feast. “No, for something else.”

“I did not think they were the strongest you could have chosen.”

“Not the strongest, no.” She slowed her stride a little. “How fares Yalir?”

“She is well, thank you, Bright Lady.” Pride in his daughter softened his voice. “She continues her study of the plants and herbs on the western slopes of the Ebons.”

“Good. Let her know that if she finds anything of new significance, she should bring it to Nightsand. And Firan?”

He was silent for two paces before answering. “I tried to convince her to join this hunt. She preferred to stay on the farm. Putting up the harvest for winter.”

Shalár nodded, watching him. “That is important.”

“I had hoped …”

He halted, and Shalár stopped as well, waiting. He glanced at her with a rueful shrug.

“I always hope for another hunt like the one when Firan and I conceived Yalir. It is why I keep hunting.”

“That is my hope for you as well.”

Shalár held out her hand to him. He brought his up to meet it, and a small shock passed between them as their khi flared together in their palms. Shalár let her stirring desire flow out to him, and Yaras looked up, surprise in his face.

“Let us make haste. The others are waiting.”

A small flush lit his cheeks, and he nodded, keeping silent. Their hands dropped apart, but the khi flowed even more strongly between them. Shalár felt his response, tinged with the urgency of his hunger, send a shiver along her flesh.

He was potent. He had conceived once and wished to do so again. Shalár inhaled, savoring his scent and the spice of his desire.

They reached the circle, and Shalár looked up at the moon. A bruise was beginning to show on the lower edge of the orb. She smiled, then drew her dagger and held it aloft.

“Hunters! I give you greeting beneath the blood moon!”

A hiss went through the pack—a shiver of indrawn breath. They drew closer.

“You have hunted well and made good catches. To -night is your reward. Feast well and take your ease. Tomorrow eve we start for Nightsand.”

Shalár chose a kobalen from the fifty under Welir's
control and made it stand before her. The creature shuddered with fear.

“Those who are not first to feed may kindle fires. Ciris, see to it that one is made for Gæleph.”

Ciris nodded, frowning slightly. Shalár glanced at the moon, now rapidly going dark behind the world's shadow. Gazing over the eager faces of her pack, she raised her knife and took the first blood.

She handed the feeder to Ciris, gave feeders to Welir and Yaras, and saw to it that the rest were ready for the captains to share with their companies. The smell of blood hung heavy on the air as she made her way to where Yaras stood watching his company feed.

He looked up well before she reached him, and his eyes were hungry yet. He must have started his feeders and immediately given them away. His gaze burned into her, hunger and lust raising an answer in her flesh. Overhead, the moon went blood red as it fell fully into shadow. A low moan went up from somewhere in the pack.

Shalár wanted a feeder to share with Yaras, but there were none left. The bitterthorn copse was too far away, too much trouble. She wanted now, wanted here. Her hunger flared into anger, which burned away in the sudden rise of lust as she saw her feelings reflected in Yaras's eyes.

She reached out a hand and touched Yaras's face, the smooth, clean curve of his chin, past his ear into his hair. He had caught some of it back in a half braid, but the rest fell loose over his shoulders and down his back, soft and pale in the starlight, burnished by the ruddy moon. Shalár's fingers glided through it, then fell free.

She stepped closer, laid her hand on his shoulder, and leaned forward to kiss him. His khi enveloped her, bright with hunger, heavy with desire. He responded
greedily to her kiss, and a tremor passed through the pack.

Someone made a small sound of surprise. Shalár looked up and saw Ciris taking hold of a feeder that a female of his company was using. He cut a second vein in the feeder's throat and latched on to it, sharp eyes urging the female to join him. She did, and the pack's khi pulsed hotter. As if freed by this, the others began to move, finding partners, changing feeders, some sharing as Ciris had demonstrated.

Shalár and Yaras tumbled to the ground together. His hands found their way beneath her tunic and danced over her breasts. She pulled it off, the cold air and his touch combining to bring her nipples painfully erect. His kiss warmed her, and she tugged at his leather legs. He reached down a hand to deal with them and then lay against her, his flesh warm on hers, his desire hot and hard.

She lay on her back, taking him in with a moan of plea sure that echoed through the pack. She opened her eyes to watch his face as he dug at her, a frown of urgency on his brow.

He felt good within her, strong and vital. She gripped his shoulders and pushed herself against him. He was there, right there, but her flesh would not yield.

“What did it feel like?”

He raised his head, mouth open as his body continued to strive, but seemed at a loss for explanation. She reached toward his khi, suggesting a more intimate contact.

“Give me the memory.”

His eyes widened with momentary panic, then he closed them, seemed to struggle for a moment, and yielded. She felt him release his guard, opening his thoughts to her, trusting her and in that act becoming completely hers.

With a shiver of delight, she reached into his khi and sought for his remembrance of conception. He brought the moment forward and offered it to her: a hunt much like this one, a coupling much like this one, with the pack's passion triggered by her lust for Dareth on that occasion.

Shalár immersed herself in the memory, seeking every nuance of his flesh's sensation. A musky scent—Firan's—and her body moving beneath his, dancing in harmony with his, then suddenly opening like a flower—

With a cry Yaras peaked, taking Shalár with him in the depth of their shared khi. He arched his back as he drove at her. She twined her arm around his as they surged together, then gradually subsided.

They lay still but for the thundering of their hearts, their short, quick breaths slowly relaxing into longer, deeper ones. Yaras raised his head.

She found her voice, though it was rough. “You have taught me much more than I knew. This was well worthwhile.”

Above, through dark branches, she could see the moon. A thin crescent of white gleamed along one side.

Yaras turned his head and suddenly tensed, a sharp inhalation accompanied by hunger flaring through his khi. A feeder lay not far from them, abandoned while those who had been using it grappled together. Shalár made it crawl over to them, urging Yaras to feed first. He twitched within her as he reached out and gripped the feeder's shoulder, turning it so that he could reach the cut on its neck.

She was so enwrapped with him that she tasted the blood for a moment. Gradually, as he fed and the sharpness of his hunger eased, she released Yaras and drew back from his mind.

She sent her khi lightly through the grove, noting
that most had fed or at least begun to feed. Those standing guard over the kobalen, in the copse and back at the overhang, were the last waiting, bright flares of hunger in the night. Soon their places would be taken by those who were sated, and the feast would ease to an end.

Yaras paused, turning to look at Shalár, then reaching to fumble among their scattered clothing. He found a knife and brought it across to make a second cut on the other side of the feeder's throat where it would be convenient to Shalár.

His gaze met hers as he set the knife aside. She smiled, then tucked her head into the curve of the feeder's throat and drank. A whisper of Yaras's khi caressed her as he bent to feed again.

Shalár stood before her reserved kobalen, her captains behind her. The kobalen watched her suspiciously as they cowered against the rock, silent though she knew they had been talking amongst themselves. Planning together. That was the sort of kobalen she had chosen to single out.

Behind her the quiet sounds of the pack moving about the grove echoed among the tall evergreens. The night was old now and they were preparing to leave, to travel at least a short distance before the sun forced them back into hiding.

Shalár looked over the kobalen with narrowed eyes. She addressed them in their own crude tongue.

“Your people are strong. Good hunters. I …”

She paused, frowning, for the kobalen had no word for “honor.”

“I cheer for your strength.”

The kobalen stood huddled together, watching her in wary silence. Some of them shivered despite the fine black fur covering their bodies. Fear, not cold.

“You are the wisest of your people. That is why you are here, apart from the others.”

Shalár gestured toward the bitterthorn copse. Several of the kobalen glanced that way, then cringed closer together. Shalár picked out one to address: a wiry male with a hard, heavy brow, small but tough-looking.

“You are a leader of your folk.”

The male kept its head lowered but glanced up at her. It spread its hands, palms down, in the kobalen gesture for “no.”

Shalár placed her fist in her palm, the kobalen “yes.” The male looked startled.

“Wise is sometimes more important than strong. Because you are wise, I bargain with you. I need good hunters to fight for me. You wise ones can convince others of your kind to join together. You …”

Again she paused, seeking a way to express her pledges. Their language had poor means for describing the future.

“Join me, fight for me, you have good reward.”

The wiry male raised its head. “You hunt us for food. Why we fight for you? You promise reward, then kill.”

Shalár fixed him with a glare. “We keep our promises.”

The kobalen did not answer, though she saw mistrust in its eyes. The rest were silent, watching and waiting, content to have this one speak for them for now. Shalár continued.

“We not kill those who serve us. Fight for me, and you are safe from my hunters. Forever.”

That word was of her own tongue. Those who lived a scant few de cades had no need of such a word.

“Forever is today, next day, next day, all days. Safe forever.”

Some of the kobalen muttered together. From their khi, she sensed their confusion. They had expected to be slain by her or die attempting escape.

The wiry one frowned. “You say you not hunt me. Even if you keep promise, other tall ones hunt me.”

“No. I put my mark on you, and none of my people who sees it can hunt you. My promise is their promise.”

She turned suddenly to her captains. “Yes? I put my mark on this one, you not drink from him. Yes?”

She knew they understood her. The kobalen's tongue was simple enough, and they had all hunted the creatures long enough to acquire the basics of their speech. First Yaras, then the others made the kobalen gesture of assent, placing a fist in the opposite palm.

A murmur went through the kobalen at seeing their hand-speech used by her folk. Shalár looked back at the wiry male.

“The other tall ones, the ones across the mountains. They not hunt me either?”

Shalár's lip curled. “I not speak for them. They are my enemies. They are the ones we fight. You fight them with us, you safe from our nets. Forever safe.”

The kobalen frowned. It was too young by many generations to remember Midrange, but the story of the great fight with tall ones across the mountains might have been passed down.

Shalár opened a small pouch at her belt and shook from it a ring of bright gold, a little smaller than her smallest finger. It was open, with a sharp point on one end and a recess on the other to receive it. As a guard against forgery, she had instructed Farnath to inscribe it with tiny intricate script. No kobalen could work metal at all, so she knew they could never reproduce such a thing.