Heart of the Exiled (11 page)

Wait—

Even as he formed the thought, a new presence flooded his awareness, immensely powerful yet gentle, unlike anything he had experienced yet vaguely familiar. It was pure khi overlaid with the slightest echo of an ælven soul. Rephanin felt his breathing become short and quick.

Davharin?

A feeling of confirmation—unformed, a mere ripple through the brilliant khi—was followed by a confusion of ideas Rephanin could not interpret. Heléri sat up beside him, still clasping his hand, her palm hot against his.

He seldom uses language anymore
.

He saw her close her eyes, felt her wordless request for clarity. Agreement swept through Davharin’s brightness, then Rephanin sensed a drawing in, a contraction that intensified power rather than lessened it. Closing his own eyes, he waited. At last a single word rolled over him like thunder across the mountains.

Speech
.

Rephanin frowned.
I do not—

An image leapt into brilliance in his mind, a perfect
circle of glowing whiteness. It became irregular, varying in thickness, and now he saw that khi was flowing endlessly around it. With a shock Rephanin recognized it as his mage circle, as if he were looking down on it from above and seeing only the khi of the mages who formed it.

He applauds your use of speech with your circle
.

Rephanin knew that Heléri’s interpretation was correct. The thought rang within him with the clarity of a deep chime. If a spirit considered the matter important enough to tell him so, he had better pay attention.

Thank you, Davharin. I—thank you
.

Warm amusement flowed around him. He thought he sensed an echo of the ælven shape Davharin had once worn. It sparked memories of a sober-eyed mountain lord whom Rephanin had never troubled to know. Regret swept through him—his own, for an opportunity lost—and was answered gently.

Deferred. Not lost
.

Rephanin smiled at the promise of this thought, feeling his body relax, tension suddenly flowing away. Opening his eyes, he saw Heléri watching him and felt a rush of gratitude.

Yet another gift you have given me
.

He brought her hand to his lips and on impulse began to kiss her fingertips one by one. She stiffened, and he glanced up, seeing shock in her eyes.

Davharin used to do that
.

Did he?

He bent his head to finish what he had begun, at the same time sending a wordless query toward Davharin and receiving instant confirmation. A sense of dizziness went through him as he became aware of a possibility he had never considered. He looked up at
Heléri, who was gazing at him with an expression of wonder.

Rephanin drew a deep breath.
Davharin?

His invitation was enthusiastically accepted, and a wave of powerful khi moved through him or, rather, into him. Bits of memory sparked past too quickly to be caught.

He had shared his mind and his body with countless companions in flesh, but this differed. Davharin was overwhelming, and Rephanin could only trust that the spirit would not consume him completely.

Even as that thought fleeted through his awareness, he knew he was himself, though also some small part of Davharin. Smiling at Heléri, he reached up to brush the concern from her face. His hand then slid to the back of her neck and drew her toward him, and he found himself gently kissing her forehead, then each of her eyelids, as Davharin’s voice whispered in his soul.

She likes this, also
.

Shalár gazed at the black peak of the Great Sleeper rising sharply into the night. In the distance, the Ebon Mountains were a shaded wall. Beyond them lay Fireshore, calling to her.

A faint clang of metal on metal reached her, rare enough on this field, for only a few of her hunters carried swords. She glanced down again at the dark forms surging amid the tall grasses below, clad in the full weight of their leathers. Their khi told her they were weary but not spent. They had improved much in the few days they had been here.

She shifted her gaze to the farmhouse, thinking of the labor it had taken the farmers to clear the field where her warriors now practiced. It had been allowed to go fallow, there being insufficient hands to farm it. Doubtless the trampling feet of her army were doing it little good.

Two other fields were given over to fleececod. A small orchard of no more than ten trees—apples and stonefruits—looked in reasonably good order, though tangles of brambles were encroaching on its edges. Such foods would not sustain her people, but they were necessary for the digestion of the blood that was their true
food. They were also needed by the very young to whom the hunger had not yet come.

Vashakh was at work harvesting fleececod, the sack over her shoulder bulging with the fluffy blooms. As Shalár watched, she emptied the sack into a cart that stood nearby. Her head turned toward Shalár, and she stood still for a moment, then went on with her work.

Shalár looked away, back to her hunters. Perhaps she would send a few of them to assist Vashakh for a night or two, help her harvest the fleececod. Compensation for the damage to her field.

Yaras called out an order, drawing her attention. At his command the hunters fell still, standing silent in the field, their weapons in hand. Their pale hair gleamed in the starlight. Shalár was moved by the sight: her people’s hope, their future. They must not fail.

She left her vantage place and strode among the ranks of her warriors, looking at each face in turn, seeking any sign of weakness or fear. Some met her glance or nodded greeting as she passed. Many had been with her on the recent Grand Hunt, when they had rounded up kobalen to fill the pens in Nightsand so that her people would have food while she made her way to Fireshore.

She permitted herself a slight smile, remembering the feast at that hunt’s conclusion and the wild coupling that had followed. That night had bound all those hunters more surely than any spoken oath.

She glanced at Yaras, recalling the heat of his hands on her flesh. He had not been merely dutiful then. She walked to where he stood, catching his gaze.

“A melee.”

Yaras stepped forward at once, shouting orders. The warriors divided into two forces and took up positions
on either end of the field. At Yaras’s command, they rushed toward one another, crossing the flattened grass of the field like the wind, nearly silent until the first blows fell.

Shalár watched and listened, tasting the khi that sang in the night air. Confidence was the dominant note. They were ready.

A spark of khi approaching from the west drew her attention. She looked away from the melee, searching the woods for the intruder. It was not Vashakh. Shalár reached out with khi to sound the newcomer.

A runner, come from the direction of Nightsand, but come from much farther. News from Ciris at last!

The runner’s breath rasped slightly as he bowed before her. He must have left Nightsand at sunset and run all the way. It was Ranad, who had been a novice on the recent Grand Hunt.

“Bright Lady, I bring you greeting from Midrange. Ciris and Welir send you their obedience.”

He proffered a letter. Shalár broke open the seal and swiftly scanned the few lines.

The news was good. More than three thousand kobalen had come to Midrange at her summons, and still more were arriving.

Shalár smiled grimly. She would have to have additional rings made, small rings in the ear that marked the kobalen who wore them as protected from her hunters. Convincing the kobalen of her sincerity had been difficult, but now it appeared they wholeheartedly embraced the bargain. Fortunately, kobalen roamed the wastes in such numbers that her people would not go hungry even when a few hundred were held immune from the hunt.

She glanced at Ranad, who stood waiting. “Come with me.”

Yaras looked up sharply, and a frown drew his brows together. Shalár paused, staring at him.

Jealous? No, disapproving. He thought she intended to drag poor Ranad into her bed, did he? She had not had such an intention, though she doubted Ranad would protest.

She turned to the runner. “Are you hungry?”

She could feel that he was. He swallowed and gave a single nod. Hiding a smile, she turned to Yaras.

“Halt the melee and set them to single combat practice. And send a kobalen to the house.”

She brushed past him without waiting for an answer. Let him think what he chose. She did not mind unsettling his exasperating state of calm.

As they walked, she questioned Ranad about the kobalen at Midrange, as much to learn about his attitudes as to compare his information with that given by Ciris. He seemed enthusiastic about the effort to mold an army out of the kobalen and described to her his attempts at captaining them.

Ciris had only a handful of hunters with him at Midrange, and Shalár’s greatest concern had been that the kobalen might turn on them. So far, though, the creatures had listened and obeyed to the best of their ability.

She heard voices as she approached the farmhouse: Vashakh and Mehir, talking in low, urgent tones. A pebble grated beneath Shalár’s foot, and they stopped abruptly. She entered the house, nodding at the male farmer as she led Ranad through toward her room. At her gesture Ranad sat on the bed while she seated herself at the small table, took out paper and ink, then picked up a quill, mending it with a small bone-handled knife before dipping it in the ink.

She wrote first to Farnath, the metalsmith in
Nightsand who had created the kobalen earrings for her, telling him to make another thousand of them and send them at once to Ciris. As she was sealing the letter, a hunter sought admittance, bringing with her a kobalen.

Shalár stood and took hold of the creature with khi, thanking the hunter, who glanced at Ranad with mild interest before retiring. Shalár went to the doorway and lowered the curtain, then turned to Ranad. He was staring fixedly at the kobalen. She made the creature sit on the floor and knelt beside it, drawing her knife.

“Come here.”

Ranad joined her on the floor. Palpable waves of hunger shook his khi. He had not fed in Fireshore, then.

“Take hold of it.”

Ranad was still fairly new as a hunter, but he showed no hesitation in seizing the kobalen’s khi. Shalár released it to him, then made a cut on the creature’s throat and leaned forward to take the first mouthful.

The hot blood combined with the singing of Ranad’s hunger raised excitement in her, but she took only one swallow, then sat back and gave the kobalen to Ranad. He fell on it with a grunt. She left him feeding and went back to the table.

She drew a page toward her, then sat pondering what to write to Ciris. It seemed the kobalen army was as ready as it could be, ready enough for her plans. She did not need that force to be honed to sharpness. Kobalen were limited in their understanding; they would never be a precise weapon.

Soon winter would grip most of the ælven lands. Nightsand, lying well to the north, would merely be covered in cloud and rain, a respite from the punishing
sun. And Fireshore would be as it ever was, lush and green, though the rains would cool it somewhat. A pang of homesickness smote her, longing for the once familiar forests of Fireshore, the looming presence of Firethroat by the sea.

Now was the time to move. Ciris had reported that Midrange was still passable, but the snows had already begun. Soon the kobalen would not be able to get through.

She dipped her pen and wrote a few brief lines of instruction, then set the quill down and gazed at the drying ink on the page. Once this message was sent, she could not turn back.

She never asked for help or guidance, either from unseen spirits or from the ældar who the ælven believed watched over each form of life. Not since she had been driven from Fireshore. She did not ask it now, but she thought of Dareth.

He had grown weary of life and especially of dependence on the blood of kobalen. He had given up, and that had wounded her. Toward the end he had seemed inclined to go back to the ways of the ælven, ways that she had deliberately abandoned.

Was his spirit watching her now? Would he approve her actions? Her heart ached with those questions.

Folly. Dareth was gone and no longer had a say in her life. She must rely upon her own wits.

She glanced at the letter to Ciris; nearly dry now. The lives of many of her people hung on those lines. Gazing at the words without seeing them, she acknowledged that she had already committed to this course of action. The only question that had remained was when. The answer was now.

A sigh behind her made her look at Ranad. He had finished feeding and was sitting up, turning eyes drunk with satisfaction toward her. The kobalen lay on the floor, the wound at its neck seeping a little, eyes glazed and staring sightless at the ceiling. Ranad had drained it. He must have been extremely hungry. Perhaps he had not taken time to hunt on his way here.

“Are you ready to return to Ciris?”

“As you will, Bright Lady. I thank you.” He gestured toward the kobalen.