Heart of the Exiled (37 page)

“May we come in?”

“Of course. Yes, come in.” Davhri opened the door wide.

The hearthroom was small and dark, the welcoming hearth cold, swept clean though a little ash lingered in its corners. Davhri pulled aside a curtain and stepped into the house, beckoning Eliani to follow. She traded a glance with Luruthin, who drew the outer door closed, leaving it a little ajar.

The house lay in darkness, filled with grief. Feeling stifled, Eliani went to one of the curtained windows.

“May I open this?”

“Oh. If you wish.”

Eliani pushed back the drape, letting the late-afternoon sunlight into a room that was clean, almost barren, as if abandoned. A table and four chairs, two more chairs by the empty hearth. Shelves bearing plates and cookware, a few scrolls, and one or two ornaments that had not been moved in some time. Two handfasting ribbons hung above the curtained doorway to the hearthroom, glinting softly.

Apart from this, the house looked as if no one lived there. Eliani grimaced, thinking that though Davhri might dwell here, she was not living much.

Davhri’s face had gone dull again, losing the little energy their arrival had brought it. She seemed to be fading before Eliani’s eyes. Determined to fight that, Eliani pulled her father’s letter from her tunic.

“My father sends you this, along with his fondest love.”

She pressed the letter into Davhri’s hands. Davhri stared down at it for a moment, then looked up at Eliani. Her face broke into a smile, the first since their arrival.

“Thank you, child! How is Felisan?”

“He is well. Very well. Will you not read it?”

“Yes.” Davhri glanced vaguely around the room, then gestured to the table. “Will you sit?”

“Thank you.”

Eliani and Luruthin sat on one side of the table. Davhri laid the letter down before a chair across from them. All her movements were slow, deliberate. Eliani wondered if she was actually ill. She watched Davhri
sit and pull the letter toward her, turn it over and over in her hands, and finally break the seal. As she read it, a smile grew upon her face, and her eyes lit with laughter.

“Ah, Felisan.” She chuckled as she folded the page. “He has not changed, I see.”

“Very little. He misses you. We all miss you in Highstone. I have hoped that you were happy in Bitterfield.”

Davhri’s eyes rose to meet her gaze. “Well, and so I have been. Very happy.”

The tinkle of tiny bells came from the hearthroom, followed by a voice calling, “Davhri? It is Mishri.”

Before Davhri could move or answer, the curtain was drawn aside and a young female of no more than forty summers came in. She was like enough to Dejhonan in color and feature that Eliani suspected they were close kin. She wore a tunic and legs of soft gray—everyone in Bitterfield seemed to wear gray—and carried a small covered basket, which she set on the end of the table.

“Good day to you, gentles.” She smiled at Eliani and Luruthin. “Pay me no mind.”

She turned to the hearth, collected a kettle from its hook and an empty copper wood bin, and carried them outside. Though she had said little, the room seemed to fall quiet with her departure.

“Such a kind child. She comes to visit me often and helps me with household chores. It is very good of her. I fear I have little heart for any sort of work of late.”

Eliani stretched a hand across the table to her. Davhri clasped it lightly, her fingers cold and strangely small. Davhri had always seemed so strong to her, so vital.

Davhri was a potter, and those fingers had shaped many a beautiful vessel. Her home in Highstone had always been filled with gleaming pots, vases, and bowls and her shelves cluttered with jars of special earth for glazes and scrolls of designs. Glancing around this barren room, Eliani saw one piece of Davhri’s making, a wish jar, high on the shelves. No other sign of her work was present.

“Davhri? Tell us about Inóran.”

Davhri met Eliani’s gaze, and her lips curved in a small, sad smile. “He is gone.”

Luruthin stirred, resting his hands on the table. “Dejhonan told us he went to Ghlanhras.”

“Three seasons ago.” Davhri shook her head slowly, the smile fading. “I do not think he will return.”

Eliani frowned. “Why did he go there?”

“He went to trade in Woodrun and sent word from there that he was going on to Ghlanhras. He was hoping to trade for glass, for new windows for my workroom.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, which she spread upon the tabletop, withdrawing from Eliani’s gentle grasp. “I did not mind it as it is, but he said there should be more light to set off the glazes.”

“Why has no one gone to find him?”

Davhri still stared at her hands. She pressed them into the table, fingers splayed, straining against the wood.

“No one cares to go to Ghlanhras.”

“But if Inóran is missing—”

“No one
wants
to go there. I would have gone, but I am afraid. Some say the city is cursed.”

Eliani sat back, somewhat alarmed. She exchanged a glance with Luruthin.

“Ghlanhras is Fireshore’s greatest city.”

“Was.” Davhri nodded. “It was.”

Eliani leaned closer, keeping her voice gentle. “Cursed in what way?”

Davhri raised sad eyes to look at her. “Dark khi. Ill fortune festers there. Some say it is a legacy of the Bitter Wars. The trade caravans will no longer go there. They go no farther than Woodrun.”

“Pashani did not mention that.”

Eliani glanced at Luruthin. “She may not have known.”

“Do you know Governor Pashani?” Davhri looked from one to the other. “Did you visit her in the Steppes?”

“She was at the Ælven Council lately held in Glenhallow.”

Davhri blinked. “I did not know there was to be a Council.”

“Word of it never reached Fireshore, apparently. That is one of the reasons we are here.”

Mishri returned at that moment, carrying the bin, which was now full of firewood with the heavy kettle wobbling on top. She put the wood down by the hearth, hung the kettle on its hook, and set about making a fire. Eliani thought it best to shift the conversation away from her errand in Fireshore for the moment, so she asked Davhri the first question that came into her thoughts.

“I saw the goldenberry bush in your garden. Is that from the cutting you took from Highstone?”

“Yes. I fear I have neglected it of late.”

“It is still alive, though. I was not certain you would get one to grow here.”

“Inóran cosseted it along. It really does not like the summer heat.”

An awkward silence fell. Luruthin made an attempt to fill it.

“This village is unlike any I have seen. So compact. Is it difficult to clear space in the forest?”

“Somewhat difficult.” Davhri nodded. “But the village’s design is more toward defense against kobalen. They still come over the mountains now and again.”

“Have you had much trouble with them of late?”

“No more than usual. I would say less these last few years.”

Eliani shifted in her chair, glancing toward the window, where the daylight was fading. Outside, the wasted garden seemed forlorn. She saw one pale yellow berry hanging from the feeble bush Davhri had planted and longed suddenly for Highstone.

A sharp snap from the hearth drew her attention. Mishri’s fire had kindled and was sending cheerful light into the room. The logs were some kind of greenleaf, Eliani noted by their bark and pale wood. Darkwood was far too valuable to burn, nor was it the best firewood, she and her party had learned in the last few days. It was reluctant to catch, though once lit, it burned long and steadily.

Mishri came to the table and began taking things from her basket: a small box, two sunfruits, little jars, a loaf that smelled fresh from the oven. Eliani’s mouth began instantly to water. She had not tasted soft bread since Althill or sunfruit since the summer.

Davhri bestirred herself. “Tell me about Highstone. How is Lady Heléri?”

Eliani smiled. “She is well. She sends you her blessing.”

They talked of family and friends. Eliani chose all the happiest news to give Davhri, who seemed to revive
somewhat with remembering her old kindred and clan.

When the kettle boiled, Mishri made tea and served it to them with a platter of bread, sliced sunfruit, and berry preserves. The tea ewer and cups matched, all a pale gray with glints of gleaming copper in the glaze, and Eliani knew from their quality that Davhri had made them. She wrapped both hands around her cup and inhaled the fragrant tea, a blend of tealeaf, sweet grass, and a floral scent she did not recognize.

“You have handfasted.” Davhri looked in surprise at the ribbons on Eliani’s arm, as if she had just noticed them. “And lately. You still wear your ribbons.”

Eliani’s heart skipped. Even now she reacted so to the thought that she was bound for life.

“Yes. My partner remains in Southfæld.”

“You left before you made your new home together?”

Eliani took a sip of tea, swallowed wrong, and went into a fit of coughing. She glanced at Luruthin, who answered for her.

“She left the morning after the handfasting.”

“Only to visit me?”

Davhri looked bewildered, but it was not the vague expression she had worn when they had first arrived. Eliani cleared her throat.

“To visit you, yes. We also have other reasons for coming.”

She did not want to distress Davhri by talking of the kobalen at Midrange or the disasters that had befallen those who had tried to bring messages to Fireshore.

Mishri stood up from the hearth, came to the table, and addressed Eliani. “Dejhonan asked me to tell you there is a guest house ready for you both, as your
friends have filled the lodge. It is on the public circle, the house with the firevines over the door.”

“Thank you.” Eliani gestured to the tea and food. “Thank you for all this.”

Mishri smiled, then went out. Davhri gazed after her sadly.

“I should offer you my own house, but I fear I would be a poor hostess.”

“Hush. That is what guest houses are for.”

“You will stay a little longer, though?”

Davhri turned anxious eyes toward her. Eliani felt a deep pity for her, an uncomfortable sensation when she had for so long looked up to Davhri as an example of strength and courage.

“Of course we will stay.” Luruthin helped himself to bread and preserves. “We must do justice to this hospitality.”

Grateful for the diversion, Eliani took a slice of sunfruit. The sweet, tangy juice filled her mouth.

“Mmm. Delicious. Do sunfruit trees bear all year?”

“Not in winter. Those that are on the trees are the last of this year’s fruit. They will rest during the rains. New fruits can be picked in late spring, though they are better come summer. Spring crops often go to making oil.”

Eliani reached for another slice. “Sunfruit most of the year. It must be wonderful to live here.”

“In some ways it is wonderful.”

Luruthin reached for a slice. “This is
more
than wonderful. We are so weary of apples.”

“Apples?” Davhri sat up, her face bright with interest. “You have been eating apples?”

Eliani traded a glance with Luruthin, then swallowed a bite of fruit. “Yes, we got them in Althill. They had a very good crop this year.”

“Mountain apples!” Davhri sighed. “Oh, what I would give for one! I have not tasted apples in so long.”

Eliani wished she had brought her saddle packs, for there were apples tucked into them. She would fetch some for Davhri later on.

“Do no traders bring them?” Luruthin asked.

“Not for years. We see traders seldom enough, and mostly from the Steppes. Our darkwood harvests go to Woodrun. I have thought of going there myself, to see if I can learn anything …”

“Davhri.” Eliani looked into Davhri’s eyes. “We are going on to Ghlanhras. We will seek Inóran there.”

Davhri’s smile vanished, and she shook her head. “No. Do not go there.”

“Well, we must go. I have messages for Governor Othanin.”

“Oh. From your father.”

“From the Ælven Council.”

Davhri looked at Luruthin. “Can you not prevent her?”

He shook his head. “I am pledged to go with her.”

Davhri’s eyes, no longer vague, now filled with the threat of tears. “I beg you not to go.”

Eliani had meant to comfort her by offering to seek Inóran. Seeing her so upset, Eliani turned the subject and very shortly afterward took her leave. Davhri was frail in spirit if not in flesh, and Eliani did not wish to distress her further. Pleading weariness and a desire to bathe, and promising to visit again in the morning, she and Luruthin departed.

Their mood was sober as they walked to the public circle. Evening had fallen, and the darkwood houses seemed wreathed in shadow and suspicion, only narrow glimmers of light escaping through the cracked
doors of their hearthrooms. The windows of the public lodge were alight, and a merry fire shone out from its welcoming hearth.

Eliani cast her gaze around the circle, seeking something that could be described as firevine. She concluded it must be the bright scarlet flowers draping the door of one of the houses.

This proved indeed to be their promised guest house, cozy and clean, filled with cheerful ornaments—mostly painted carvings of birds whose colors were unlike any Eliani and Luruthin had seen. Their saddle packs sat in the front room, and a note propped atop a basket of sunfruit on the table bade them come to visit Dejhonan, describing a house with a sheaf of grain carved into the door.

Luruthin dug a comb from one of his packs and worked it through his hair. “Supper first? The smoke from the lodge’s kitchens smelled good.”

“You just had bread and tea and a plate of sunfruit!”

Luruthin grinned as he braided his hair. “That is not the same as supper.”

Eliani frowned at him, then read quickly through the note again. “We had best honor Dejhonan’s request first. He may offer us a meal if you truly are hungry.”

They found the door carved with wheat standing farther ajar than most, with firelight spilling out of it from the hearthroom. They stepped inside and rang the visitors’ chime, and Mishri came to welcome them, smiling as she held a tapestry aside for them to enter a spacious sitting room.