Heart of the Exiled (42 page)

Eliani and her party reined in before Ghlanhras and sat frowning at the high wall surrounding the city. Black basalt, roughly cut and unpolished, a rod or more in height, it was a wall of function but no beauty. Glenhallow’s masons—even Highstone’s—would have been ashamed to call such work finished.

The gates, made of darkwood, were closed. Eliani had never seen an ælven community that did not offer welcome to all visitors. Glenhallow was the only other walled city she had seen, but its walls were finer and its gates stood open. This felt wrong.

A space two rods wide was cut between the wall and the forest, all the way around, so that the city was ringed in sunlight despite being in the midst of deep forest. Beyond that circle, the woods grew so densely that she doubted any could pass through save by chopping a path as they went. Darkwoods twined in the midst of the tangle, their limbs interweaving, making it difficult to discern to which tree the branches belonged.

Luruthin’s horse sidled. “It appears no one is watching for visitors. Shall I knock?”

Vanorin shook his head. “That is not your place. You are an ambassador here. Taharan, if you will.”

A Stonereach rider dismounted and went to the heavy darkwood gates. He pounded with a gloved fist, the sound falling deadened in the quiet. Somewhere beyond the gates a child squealed, then was quickly silenced.

This city, this forest, felt forbidding. Eliani wished to be anywhere but here. She rolled her shoulders, trying to rid them of tension.

Hurried steps sounded beyond the gates, followed by several heavy clunks, then one side of the gate swung slowly open. A male looked out, dressed in a dark gray tunic and legs that had seen much service. By his coloring he might have been Greenglen save that his face was hardened and his eyes were wary, a look Eliani was beginning to associate with Clan Sunriding.

He gazed at her in astonishment, making no gesture of welcome. She felt a surge of impatience and sat taller in the saddle.

“I am Lady Eliani of Felisanin, come to bring messages to Governor Othanin.”

This news did not appear to give the gatekeeper any pleasure, but he stepped back, opening the gate wider to let them in. Eliani nudged her mount forward, riding through at a walk with Vanorin close behind.

A long avenue stretched before them. To either side, a street curved away from it on which houses built of darkwood stood shoulder to shoulder much like those Eliani had seen in both Bitterfield and Woodrun. When the last rider had come through the gate, the keeper swung it shut.

“Pardon my caution. Visitors seldom come to Ghlanhras. Darkwood Hall is this way.”

Eliani and the others followed him down the avenue. The dull clopping of the horses’ hooves against packed
dirt echoed from the houses, sharp sounds reflected by the hard darkwood. No faces appeared at the windows of the houses.

They crossed a broad, silent street, then another. Ghlanhras was laid out in concentric circles like Bitterfield, but on a much larger scale. They passed seven sets of circles, but not until they reached the public circle did Eliani see another soul: a fair-haired child of no more than twenty years rolling a hoop in the street, who stopped and stared at the strangers.

Eliani smiled at him. A female came out of a house, caught the child up, and hurried back inside, hushing his protests.

Eliani realized that none of the doors stood open, not even slightly ajar as they had been in both Bitterfield and Woodrun. If there were hearthrooms in these houses, none welcomed visitors, not now, in any case. That alone bespoke the city’s deep unhappiness.

The public circle was larger than Highstone’s, smaller than Glenhallow’s, and cobbled in dark polished stones on which the horses’ hooves clattered. If Ghlanhras held a market, it was not meeting today.

On the north side of the circle stood a sprawling hall, much larger than any other structure in Ghlanhras. Its wide, low wings seemed to embrace the circle, and rooftops of varying levels were all flat, with deep overhangs creating shade. It was at least twice the size of Felisanin Hall and all black, built entirely of darkwood. Eliani concluded that this must be Darkwood Hall, the governor’s residence.

She inhaled sharply at the thought of so much darkwood in a single structure. The wood was prized and rare in Alpinon, used sparingly where its strength and endurance were most needed. The fact that most of
the buildings she had seen in Fireshore were built partly or entirely of darkwood made this realm seem extraordinarily prosperous.

Nowhere had she seen darkwood used on such a grand scale as in Darkwood Hall, however. The beams of its roofs were massive, and she had by now seen enough darkwood trees to know that such large pieces of straight wood were rare and must have come from the boles of very old trees. This hall rivaled Hallowhall, she thought, though its grandeur was of a different style. Where Hallowhall was all golden lightness, this place was all shadow.

Its doors stood open, however; an encouraging sign, although no fire gleamed forward from the welcoming hearth. The warmth of the climate might account for that, though custom called for the token flame of a candle or lantern if there was no fire.

Customs were different here, Eliani thought with a grimace. She dismounted and looked around the circle, noting that no other doors stood open.

Railings stood at the edge of the public circle along with water troughs for horses, implying that there were markets, or at least had been. The gatekeeper indicated that they might tie their horses.

“Do all of you go in to the governor?”

Vanorin glanced at Eliani. “We need not all go. If you will show us your public lodge, some of us will wait there.”

The Sunriding looked confounded. “The lodge?”

“Yes. You do have a public lodge?”

“Y-yes.” The male frowned. “Stay a moment, if you will.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode into Darkwood Hall. Eliani stared after him, astonished at
being left alone. She was no stickler for formality, but even in the casual ambience of Highstone visitors were never abandoned in the public circle.

Luruthin cast a wry glance at Vanorin. “Mayhap the lodge has not been in use much of late.”

“You must be right.”

The gatekeeper returned, bringing with him a tall, sharp-featured male with the black hair of an Ælvanen, dressed predictably in gray. He kept wary eyes on Eliani as the gatekeeper introduced him.

“This is Tenahran, steward of Darkwood Hall. He will take you to Governor Othanin, and I will show the rest of your party to the lodge. We have no lodge keeper, I fear, but you may make yourselves at home there.”

Eliani hid her surprise at this lack and nodded in acknowledgment of Tenahran’s bow. The steward glanced at the gatekeeper as he straightened.

“The kitchens at Darkwood Hall will send a meal to the lodge. How many of you go there?”

Vanorin turned to the guardians. “Hathranen, Rovhiran, you will accompany us. The rest may retire to the lodge.”

Eliani watched ten guardians follow the gatekeeper away across the circle, leading their horses. She, Luruthin, Vanorin, and the two others tied their own mounts at the railings, where she noted that the troughs were dry. It appeared they would have to come back to tend the animals, for she began to suspect that no one from Ghlanhras would do so.

Tenahran invited them with a gesture to follow him into Darkwood Hall. The hearthroom was large, though the hearth itself was small and looked as if it had not held a fire in a long time. There were few
ornaments, and the darkwood walls made the room feel close despite its size.

The steward pushed aside a curtain of gray silk, revealing a wide corridor. Near the ceiling were windows, wide but no more than two handspans high, covered in a latticework carved of darkwood. The light they cast was filtered, dappled against the walls. Closed doors and smaller passages branched off on either side, but the steward led them down the long corridor before them. Their footsteps echoed in the otherwise silent hall.

At the far end of the corridor, Tenahran swung open a pair of tall, ornately carved darkwood doors, revealing what looked to be a vast audience chamber. The ceiling here was high, the full height of the building, and more of the lattice-covered windows ran all around the top of the walls. Five large chairs of darkwood, ornately carved and cushioned with orange velvet, stood upon a dais that ran the length of the far wall.

The steward led them through the audience chamber to a passage that opened from the right-hand wall beside the dais and down it to a door that stood ajar about midway along its length. He turned to Eliani.

“Pray wait here a moment while I announce you to the governor.”

He opened the door and stepped through, drawing it closed behind him. An exchange of murmurs followed, a soft voice responding to Tenahran’s, then the steward opened the door wide.

“Please come in.”

The room they entered was small and windowless, a personal workroom. Eliani and her companions filled most of its open space.

The floor was softened by a carpet woven in intricate patterns in shades of gray. A three-lobed copper lamp hung from the ceiling, illuminating a darkwood table at which sat a male in robes of gray silk trimmed at the throat and cuffs with a narrow band of orange. Tenahran stepped beside the table.

“My lord governor, allow me to present Lady Eliani of Felisanin and her companions.”

The governor stood. His hair was as black as an Ælvanen’s, and his eyes as dark and rich as Turisan’s, though they showed more care. Lines of worry had etched his face, but he smiled as he stepped past Tenahran to greet Eliani.

“I am Othanin. Welcome to Ghlanhras.”

Eliani made a formal bow, compelled perhaps by the knowledge that her messages were from Jharan and the Council. “Thank you, my lord governor. This is my cousin Luruthin, theyn of Clerestone, and our friends Vanorin, Rovhiran, and Hathranen.”

“Welcome to you all.”

Vanorin bowed to him, then turned to Eliani. “With your permission, my lady, we will attend to the horses.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He and the other two guardians stepped out, relieving the crowding in the room. Othanin turned to Eliani.

“House Felisanin, you say? You are kin to Governor Felisan?”

“I am his daughter.”

“Ah. I am honored to meet you, my lady. Please be seated. Tenahran, if you would bring some refreshment?”

The steward, who had moved two chairs forward, bowed and left the room. Eliani and Luruthin sat in
the wide, low-backed chairs of darkwood, which proved more comfortable than they looked.

Anxious to discharge her duty, Eliani drew two letters from within her leather jerkin, one sealed with ribbons of silver and pale green, the other with all the colors of the Council. Both were a trifle worn at the corners. She laid them on the table before Othanin.

“I bring you these missives, my lord governor.”

He gazed at them, then glanced up at her. “You carried them here yourself. Most would have sent them on from Woodrun.”

“I was charged to lay them in your hands. Two other envoys have failed to reach you.”

Othanin looked startled. “I am sorry to hear it. I assure you they were not turned back from Fireshore.”

“They never reached Fireshore. They—well, read these, and then I will explain.” Eliani gestured to the letters.

He gazed at her for a moment, the outer corners of his eyes pinched with concern. He picked up the Council’s letter but paused before breaking the seal, and met Eliani’s gaze.

“Tell me this. Are we at war?”

Eliani drew a breath, then nodded. “We are at war with kobalen, at Midrange.”

Othanin’s eyes widened. He broke the seal and spread open the Council’s letter. Eliani watched him read, the frown deepening on his brow. At one point he gave a soft exclamation of alarm but read on. He finished the Council’s letter and pushed it aside, reaching for Jharan’s. He read it quickly, then let it fall to the table and looked up at Eliani.

“I cannot send help to Midrange.”

“We gathered as much.”

Luruthin’s tone was wry. Eliani glanced at him,
then laid a hand on the table and leaned toward Othanin.

“Why have you not informed the other realms of the state of things in Fireshore?”

A bitter smile touched Othanin’s lips. “Sunriding has no wish to share Darkshore’s fate. When I asked about war, I meant that, not kobalen. I am very sorry to hear of the threat at Midrange.”

“No longer just a threat. Since those letters were written, the kobalen have come across the mountains. Eastfæld has sent support and we are holding the valley, but the outcome is by no means decided.”

Othanin closed his eyes briefly. “I wish I could help.”

Tenahran returned with a tray. All were silent as he poured golden wine into small goblets, then offered a plate of light bread. Eliani took a piece and bit into it, her hunger waking with sudden fierceness. It was sweet and crisp and melted easily in her mouth, leaving her wanting more. Luruthin helped himself to two slices and leaned back in his chair, munching.

“Close the door, please, Tenahran.”

The steward looked surprised, glanced at Eliani, then complied. Othanin put his elbows on the table, hands clasped before him.

“What of this alben who posed as a messenger from me? What has been done with him?”

Eliani’s pulse jumped with anxiety. She took another sip of wine before answering, then cleared her throat.

“I regret to tell you that since then he has escaped. We suspect he will either head west of the mountains or seek refuge in the Steppes.”

“And your first envoy, those with whom he was captured. Will you seek to free them?”

Eliani’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She closed
it, feeling color rise to her cheeks. “To be honest, we assumed they were lost to us.”

“You are probably right. Even if they live, they may well have succumbed to the curse by now.”

Eliani set her goblet on the table. “What can you tell us of this affliction? Have you learned its cause?”

Othanin gave a slight shrug. “Would that we had. We know only that it most often befalls those who spend considerable time in the darkwood forest.”