Swords Over Fireshore (44 page)

“I am glad to see you again, Eliani.”

“And I you, Governor. I have a boon to ask of you.”

“Oh?”

“Luruthin....” She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

Vanorin came to her rescue. “Luruthin asks that you visit him. He is at Davhri's house.”

Othanin nodded. “I will be glad to.”

Eliani cast Vanorin a grateful glance. “Thank you. Have you planned your trip to Alpinon?”

“First I must go to Woodrun.”

“I advise against that. It would place you in needless danger.”

“Woodrun is where my people have gone. I must make contact with them, and confer with the theyn.”

“The ælven armies are on their way there. Until they arrive, there is too much risk in your going there. You could go after the Council. You must leave soon for that, in any case.”

Othanin gazed at her. “You do not think my people will see that as cowardice? I fear many of them think poorly of me as it is.”

“You have suffered enough at the hands of the alben.” Vanorin's voice was gruff. “Let any who doubt your courage speak to us. We shall enlighten them.”

A small smile flickered around Othanin's mouth. “That is kind of you.”

Eliani leaned toward him. “Write a letter to Theyn Doriavi. I will carry it to the army, and see that it is delivered to her. Tell her you will come to Woodrun after the Council.”

The governor gazed into the fire. After a long moment, he stirred.

“I will think on this. Meanwhile, I will visit your friend.”

Luruthin had just poured the last of his tea into his cup when he heard voices out in the house. Davhri had a visitor, a male. Sitting up, he listened more closely and was certain the voice was Othanin's.

He got up, set the cup aside, and straightened his borrowed robe. He felt nervous, which was absurd considering what he and Othanin had been through together. Yet Othanin was governor here, and he only a supplicant.

A gentle knock was followed by Othanin's voice. “Luruthin?”

Luruthin opened the door and saw Othanin in a robe the color of live coals, with his black hair loose across it. His dark eyes were clear and determined, more so than Luruthin had seen them before. He looked strong, and well, and Luruthin knew a pang of envy.

“Come in.”

Luruthin closed the door and gestured toward the beds. Othanin sat on that which had been Vanorin's, and Luruthin sat facing him.

“Thank you for coming. I have... I must ask...”

“You wish to join the Lost.”

Luruthin looked up sharply. “Eliani told you.”

“No, she said nothing.”

“Is it so obvious?”

Othanin's eyes softened. “Kivhani and I suspected your condition by the time we reached the camp. I hope your realization was not too painful.”

Luruthin sighed. “Why did you not tell me, if you knew?”

“You must forgive us. It seems unkind, I know, but we did not wish to give you news that would likely anger you against us. It might have made you reluctant to return.”

“Oh.”

Luruthin looked down at his hands, which were tightly clenched. He pulled them apart, and found himself at a loss what to do with them. He laid them on his knees.

“What must I do? Should I write to Kivhani?”

“No, no. She is expecting you. I will take you to the camp tonight.”

Relief rained through Luruthin. He had half feared being turned away, he realized.

“You are fortunate that the clan is still nearby. They are planning to move their camp soon.”

“Why?”

“Too many outsiders know of their presence here.”

Luruthin frowned. “We—Eliani and Vanorin—would never betray them.”

“Not intentionally, but a chance word, a stray remark ... it is too great a risk. The Lost's ways are strict, but with good reason. Much thought and much bitter experience have gone into their making.” Othanin's lips curved into a slight smile. “Even I do not know to which camp they will go.”

Luruthin was surprised. “If they trust anyone it is you.”

“They do trust me, but only to a point.” Othanin rose and made as if to go. “I will return this evening to take you up.”

“Othanin?”

“Yes?”

The governor paused, looking back at him. Luruthin stood and stepped toward him.

“When you and Kivhani depart for the Council in Highstone, I would like to accompany you.”

Othanin's brows twitched together. “Why?”

“Eliani suggested that I would be a good advocate for the Lost, since many of the Council know me. She thought also that you might be glad to have a guide. If we wish to avoid other travelers we may have to leave the road. I know where to find water, and good camp sites. And I know where kobalen range.”

Othanin's face grew sober. “We can discuss it with Kivhani tonight.” He offered to clasp arms. “I am glad you returned, though sorry that it was needful. You will be glad as well, I believe.”

Luruthin gazed at Othanin's arm, knowing that to take it would tempt him again as he had been tempted with Vanorin. Knowing as well that Othanin would feel the difference in his khi. He should be grateful, he supposed, that Othanin offered the gesture in spite of it.

He clasped arms briefly, then quickly let go. Othanin seemed to understand. He went to the door and Luruthin followed him.

“Thank you, Othanin.”

The governor turned, a gentle expression on his face. “A bitter path is easier when one walks it with friends. I will return after sunset.”

Luruthin closed the door behind him and returned to his bed. Jhinani was in his thoughts now, and he could not evade the bitter truth that he must never see her again, that he must let her go.

He knew so little of her, but he had spent long enough looking forward to knowing her better that the loss was as bitter as any he felt. She was his partner, though he had broken the bond. She carried his son. He had tied all his hopes up in her, and now they were never to be realized.

He grieved now as he had not let himself grieve before, for Jhinani, for Clerestone, for all his friends and kindred. He knew he must leave them.

From grief he drifted into a numbness, a kind of peace. All seemed grey to him, no spark of joy to hope for on the path ahead.

He wondered what purpose could be served by his living on under this affliction. To talk to the Council, perhaps. He could not imagine that his words would have much effect, but Eliani wished it and so he would try.

To hunt Kelevon and prevent him causing further harm. Luruthin felt a grim determination take hold inside him. That would be a service he would be glad to perform for his people. And when Kelevon was removed, perhaps he could turn his mind to removing Shalár.

He sat up suddenly, gasping with fear at the thought of going near her again. He was not ready to face that, though in truth there was little more she could do to harm him.

He rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to banish her from his thoughts. He could not get near her even if he wished to, entrenched as she was in Ghlanhras. He would not think of it.

Deciding to meditate, he sat on the bed and breathed deeply, willing away the tension in his flesh, watching from a distance the stray thoughts that entered his mind and dismissing them as they came. When he was calm and no longer troubled by random thoughts, he hesitantly opened his awareness to the khi of his surroundings. He sensed Davhri at work in the room outside his door, the hot storm of the fire on her hearth, and the gentler glow of the sleeping garden beyond the window.

Rain was still falling, a quiet, steady rain, blurring his awareness of all the living things nearby, though he could still feel them. Small creatures lay in their burrows, awaiting the sun's return. Birds nestled patiently in the shelter of their nests in the forest beyond the village, the leaves of tree and bramble protecting them from the wet.

Slowly he became aware that he was not alone. He wondered for a long while whether this should trouble him. He held back from seeking to know who it was who was near, for in not knowing he had no cause to be afraid.

It was someone he knew. That understanding came unbidden, and with it woke curiosity. Before he could form an intention, he found himself opening his awareness further, seeking to identify the other.

He became aware of a brilliant glow of love surrounding him. Surprised, he reached out to the source, and found it the familiar presence he had sensed.

His daughter. Shiláni.

Wonder and gratitude filled him, and also a wish to know why. Had she been drawn by his grief, or by his seeking peace in meditation? Before he could shape an inquiry, he was startled by a knock upon his door.

“Luruthin?”

He opened his eyes, blinking, disoriented. It was Davhri's voice that had called.

He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“I have finished my work for the day. I thought you might like to come out and sit by the fire.”

He took a couple of breaths to steady himself, then got up and went out into the main room. Davhri had draped her windows and the doorway to the hearthroom, though he could see glints of daylight at the edges of the tapestries. He went to the fire and sat gazing at it, thinking of Shiláni.

This was not the first time she had come to him. Why her, and never his son?

That was a selfish thought, he supposed. The answer might be as simple as that she was nearer, though he had heard it said that distance in the world of flesh was not a barrier to those in spirit.

Davhri returned to the room, a folded mass of grey silk in her hands. “Your clothes are clean, but they are rather worn. Will you accept these in their stead?”

Luruthin took the silks she offered, two tunics and two sets of legs in the soft grey so common in Bitterfield. He looked up at her.

“Inóran's?”

“They were, yes. He will only keep two changes with him, though, and he has many more than that here. I know he would be glad to have them go to use.”

Luruthin rubbed the silk between his fingers. It was much newer than the tunic and legs he had been wearing ever since Ghlanhras. He would be glad to abandon those. Let them become rags, or paper, and so be given a new life.

“Thank you, Davhri. Thank you for your endless generosity.”

“This is but a small thing.” She flashed a sad smile. “I am glad to help. It makes up a little for my not having been able to help Inóran.”

She stepped to the large table and brought back Luruthin's leather tunic, neatly folded. “This is stained, I fear. I did my best, but could not get it all out.”

Luruthin unfolded it and looked at the bloodstains down its front. Glancing at Davhri, he saw her watching warily.

“I put on Birani's leathers after she was killed. We were in a snowstorm, and I had no cloak.”

Though it might as well have been the blood of the kobalen he had fed upon. Luruthin laid the tunic aside, and put the silks on top of it. He was feeling unwell, and in the next moment a cramp seized hold of him. He hugged himself, leaning forward in his chair.

“Tea! I will fetch it.”

Davhri hastened from the room, leaving him to struggle alone. He grimaced, breathing shallowly. He hoped this would pass, that he would have the strength to travel this night, for he must.

Davhri returned with a steaming cup. “Shall I hold it for you?”

Luruthin shook his head and took the cup in both hands, careful not to touch Davhri for fear he would draw upon her khi. He could feel it even so, bright enough to be almost painful.

He brought the cup to his lips and sipped, burning his tongue on the hot liquid. Another small sip, then another. His hands were shaking. He clutched the cup and drank the tea little by little, and gradually felt the cramp begin to ease.

“Thank you. It does help.”

He sat back in the chair. The pain faded, leaving him feeling wrung.

Davhri returned to the kitchen and came back with her own cup of tea and a bulging cloth pouch. The latter she laid atop the grey silks.

“That is more of the tea. I promised it to Inóran, if you do not mind carrying it.”

“I would be glad to.”

“Would you take him a note from me as well?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Othanin exchanges messages with them every few days, but I do not like to impose on him.”

“I doubt he minds.”

“Even so.” Davhri sipped her tea. “We are supposed to go each our own way, Inóran and I, but I cannot say goodbye to him. Not yet.”

Luruthin understood her feelings only too well. He wondered if she knew that the Lost would soon leave their camp above Bitterfield. Not his place to tell her, he supposed.

He felt adrift, his loyalties and obligations shifting. It would be better once he had formally joined the Lost, he thought. It meant relinquishing his clan, he realized with a stab of sadness.

Glancing toward the window, he saw that the rain-gray daylight was fading. He put aside his cup, took up his clothing, and stood.