The Betrayal (4 page)

The front room ran the width of the old hall and would have accommodated a feast table for twenty, but held only some chairs, shelves, a table that would seat ten at most, and an even smaller worktable. Two draped doorways stood on either side of a large low hearth. A freshly kindled fire glowed there, and nearby sat a dark-haired lady with eyes of twilight blue, tall and beautiful with the grace of many years on her smooth brow.

On the table before her, a branch of candles illuminated a small loom on which she was weaving an elaborate
ribbon. Spools of floss lay neatly together: blue, violet, russet, and pine green, along with fine-spun silver thread. The weaver looked up, smiled a welcome, and set her work aside.

Eliani bowed. “Lady Heléri, bid you good even. I have brought you some pinenut cakes.”

Heléri answered in a soft, rich voice. “Thoughtful child. I have not tasted one since the harvest.”

“Because you will not join us at table.” Eliani grinned. “We miss you, Eldermother.”

“There is no help for it. You break your last bread before I arise. Come, sit by the fire. Tea is brewing.”

“And you have set out two cups. Did you know I was coming?”

“I thought you might. When Misani came to lay the fire, she told me you have an important visitor.”

“Ah.” Eliani settled into a chair. “Word is all over Highstone, no doubt.”

“Oh, yes. The governor of Southfæld's son? We have not had such a visitor in de cades.”

Heléri rose to retrieve a steaming ewer from the hearth. Eliani spread the napkin full of cakes on the table between them, moving the floss aside to make room.

“How well these colors go together.”

She lifted the finished end of the ribbon to admire the twining images of river, cloud, sand, and wood. Silver letters in ælven script began just short of the loom.

“This is for the handfasting.”

“Yes. Beryloni is much excited.”

“Oh, I know. I have listened to her raptures every day. I hope she truly knows her heart.”

Heléri poured tea into two tall pottery cups. “They have cup-bonded twice. They must know their hearts by now. You are thinking of your own disappointment.”

“Perhaps so.”

Eliani accepted a slender flared teacup and wrapped her hands around it, savoring the fragrance of burnt honey that arose from within. She sipped the tea, which had a flavor entirely different from its scent—warm, dark, and slightly pungent.

“Tell me about our visitor.”

Eliani took a larger swallow, feeling the tea's warmth spread through her. “Lord Turisan, son of Lord Jharan.”

Heléri smiled. “I remember Jharan well. He and Felisan were inseparable in their youth. They were always hunting or exploring, here or in the south, until the Midrange War redirected their fates.”

Eliani nodded. She had heard many tales of their adventures together, both at Heléri's knee and at her father's. Some, from the time of the war, had been wrought into song.

“What is Lord Turisan like?”

“Well … he has Greenglen coloring, is tall and comely, and is very gracious.” Eliani glanced up at Heléri. “It is clear he was bred in the high court. No doubt he finds our humble hall quite rustic.”

“Has he said so?”

“He would never be so uncouth. He does not have to say it; it is in his eyes.”

“Ah.” Heléri smiled. “So you have mastered the art of reading the soul through the eyes.”

Eliani felt her cheeks warm. “No.”

“Then do not be hasty to judge.” Heléri put down her cup and gazed at Eliani, who had to make an effort not to look away. “What is it that troubles you?”

“Nothing.”

“Has Lord Turisan brought bad news?”

“None we did not guess. He tells us the kobalen are increasing along Southfæld's borders, especially near
Midrange Pass. Lord Jharan is summoning the Ælven Council to Glenhallow.”

“Ah. You will enjoy visiting Southfæld.” Eliani thought of Lord Jharan's letter to her. Had he meant to encourage her to attend the Council?

She frowned. Even that morning she would have greeted an invitation to visit the south, or indeed any ælven realm, with unabated plea sure. She wanted to know of the world beyond her homeland. Why, then, did she now feel hesitation? She looked up at her elder-mother.

“I fear change. I can feel it coming, and I do not want it.”

Heléri's brows rose slightly. She set aside her cake and took Eliani's chin in one hand, gazing long into her eyes, making her feel that the light words about reading souls had masked a deeper truth. Through Heléri's hand, Eliani felt the resonance of her khi, a silvery tickle against her own energy. Heléri's eyes held hers, the blue glowing like dusk in the firelight, filling all Eliani's being until at last they closed and she was released.

The fire snapped, and Eliani started at the sudden sound. She looked up to see Heléri sipping from her cup.

“You would remain forever as you are?”

“N-no. But I would not lose what I have.”

“We do not always have the choice of that.”

Eliani had no answer. She had expected words of sympathy from Heléri, assurances that her feelings were merely nervous ness about her coming majority. Instead, Heléri drew her loom toward her and began again to weave.

Eliani looked at the spools of color on the table. Blue and violet were her favorites—Stonereach colors—and she wanted never to give them up. Beryloni would carry
them away with her, in this very ribbon that Heléri wove for her, but henceforth she would align with clan Steppegard and wear their colors as her own.

Eliani glanced up at the handfasting ribbon that hung above Heléri's door: white and gold entwined with the violet and blue. White and gold for Ælvanen, oldest of the ælven clans, governors of Eastfæld, of which she knew but little.

Heléri seldom spoke of her homeland. Eliani had never met any other from that realm and had seen Ælvanen's colors only in this ribbon. Letters of silver were woven through it, commemorating the joining of Heléri and her Stonereach lord, Davharin, who once had governed Alpinon and who long since had crossed the gray border into the spirit realm. The ribbon was all that remained of their union in the physical world.

More than a little magecraft went into such ribbons, for the ceremony of handfasting was also a binding of the couple's khi, and the ribbon not only an artistic masterpiece but a focus for its resonance. Heléri's ribbon was centuries old, yet the silver script gleamed as if it were new. Davharin's ribbon, the mate to it, was tied around the conce that marked where he had died, ambushed by kobalen. Eliani had seen it while riding patrol high in the mountain passes. That ribbon was every bit as fair and bright as this one. She had always felt a little in awe that such a delicate thing could last so long.

Heléri picked up the silver thread. “I would like to meet Lord Turisan.”

Eliani watched her fingers ease the fine strand into the weaving, then shifted her gaze to the fire. “He is certain to pay his respects.”

“Is he? Not every visitor to Highstone thinks to call on me. Some are never aware that I am here, and
others are day-biders and only leave messages while I am at rest.”

“That would be unlike him. He will come.”

Eliani sensed Heléri watching her. She looked up at her eldermother, who smiled and silently returned to her weaving.

 Nightsand 

A sliver of red sunlight slipped through draperies that were not quite fully drawn, spilling across the stone floor of Shalár's audience chamber. She frowned at the intruding light and lifted her head to command its removal. A glance was all that was needed to send an attendant scurrying to adjust the heavy drape. No one cared to court Shalár's displeasure.

She shifted in the massive darkwood chair from which she held audience, uncomfortable despite its deep cushions. She was not usually in the chamber so early, but this night she had a decision to make and wanted to give it due consideration. She had called an audience just after sundown so that lesser matters could be settled quickly and put out of her way.

Two oil lanterns on pedestals, so recently lit that she could still smell the sharp smoke of their kindling, gave the chamber its only light. Their flames flickered against the ceiling of black volcanic stone and glinted in the metal threads of the one ælven tapestry that had been brought across the mountains when she and her people had been forced to abandon Fireshore.

Shalár stared at the weaving, her frown deepening. It depicted a simple scene on the wooded seashore near Hollirued, the first ælven city, capital of Eastfæld. The weaver's work was merely competent, though superior
to anything that had yet been achieved by Shalár's people. Clan Darkshore had neither the techniques nor the resources for making such colors—bright colors that lasted for many decades—nor had they yet succeeded in crafting metal thread that would hold its shine. So many skills had been lost to her people when they were driven west.

Someday we will reclaim all that was taken from us.

Shaking her head slightly, she straightened and glanced around the chamber. Only a handful of petitioners had come this evening. She looked to Dareth, her steward and consort, who stood beside her chair. He was lean and handsome, pale-skinned as were all her folk, his silver hair almost as bright as her own. His tunic was of black linen, supple in weave, the finest to be had in the Westerlands. She liked the way it clung to him.

He felt her gaze and met it, black eyes waiting for her command. Shalár nodded, and he called forth the first supplicant, a thin-faced female cloaked in homespun cloth who put back her hood and knelt before Shalár.

“Bright Lady, I come to ask your aid for my family. The kobalen we had for our use has died, and my partner is not strong enough to capture another.”

“So you wish me to give you one?”

Hollow eyes were raised in a furtive glance at Shalár, then quickly hidden. “Bright Lady, you have many kobalen—”

“They are reserved for the use of my house hold and the city guard.”

The female bowed her head. “Nightsand has great need, I know. I hoped you might spare but one.”

“And if I spare but one kobalen to you, then what can I say to the next who begs to be given what she
cannot get for herself?” Shalár leaned forward in her chair, fixing the petitioner's gaze with her own. “Are you unable to hunt? Or merely unwilling?”

“I have tried, Bright Lady. There are few kobalen to be had near my home.”

“Go into the hills, then.”

“My partner is ill—I cannot leave him—”

Shalár tossed her head to get her hair out of her eyes. She was losing patience with this fretful female. “Put him in a neighbor's care.”

“But I …”

The petitioner's khi darkened with fear. There was something else, and she did not wish to tell it. Shalár looked at her with renewed interest, waiting.

“Bright Lady, you are wise and just.”

And strong, and cruel. Shalár said nothing, knowing the thought had been finished in the mind of everyone present. Her reputation was deserved, and she took pride in it. Those qualities—all of them, particularly cruelty when needed—had preserved her people.

The supplicant's shoulders sagged in defeat. “I have a child, too young to be left behind.”

“A child?” Shalár leaned forward. “How young?”

“Fifteen summers.”

Shalár glanced at Dareth, whose face remained impassive. She drew herself up in her chair.

“Fifteen summers. Too young to be left, yes, but not too young to be of use. Pledge your child to my service and I will give you your kobalen.”

The female looked up sharply, fright widening her eyes. Her lips formed the word “no,” though she did not speak it. Did not dare, Shalár knew.

“Under my care, your child will live as well as any in Nightsand. Better than most in the Westerlands. And it will have the advantage of being near other children. Thirty years' service.”

“She would be nearly of age by then!”

“Yes, and raised in better circumstances than you can give her. Do you not wish this for your child?”

The supplicant stared at the stone floor, looking thoroughly miserable. Shalár understood the female's reluctance but was not about to encourage others to implore her aid by granting this one her wish for no return. Charity belonged to the ælven. Clan Darkshore, who struggled to survive in the Westerlands—still struggled after centuries—could not afford it.