Swords Over Fireshore (48 page)

Rephanin hesitated, thinking a bird about to take wing must feel thus. He knew Ehranan's soul—had shared it in the battle by necessity—but this was no battle. This was the lonely, frightened heart of one who bore a great burden.

The soul beyond Ehranan's care-worn eyes was vast and rich. Rephanin embraced it, offering his own khi, feeling it mingle with Ehranan's, flowing together as they had not done since Midrange.

Then, there had been distractions, obligations, the emergency of war. Now there was nothing to keep them from sharing all that was in their hearts. Ehranan's anxiety over the many details he must manage, over the welfare of those who accepted his command, over what they would face in Fireshore, all the worries he felt he should keep from the army were revealed. Rephanin was overwhelmed, and could only offer sympathy, wordless comfort, understanding.

He heard Ehranan give a small gasp. The commander stepped toward him, and suddenly their embrace became physical as well. A new level of tension filled Rephanin's awareness.

It is all right. It is all right.

“It was his own voice he heard, repeating the assurance over and again.

Gradually the agitation in Ehranan's khi subsided, leaving them drifting together, sharing comfort, reaching a balance of peace.

They were together. Neither was alone. There was much solace each could give the other, much support, much affection.

Another possibility lay open to their exploration, one that Rephanin had tried to keep from his thoughts. This close, he could hide no thought from Ehranan, nor could he hide the rousing of his own flesh. He sensed Ehranan's dawning understanding, the long moment of stillness while Ehranan paused to consider the possibilities.

Rephanin made no advance, no offer, no invitation. He was still, so still he scarcely breathed. He could not deny or hide the feelings building within him, the urgency in his flesh. He waited, and at last he sensed a flicker of response, a tiny stirring of curiosity.

Ehranan wrenched himself away, mind and body, stumbling. Rephanin nearly fell, disoriented by the sudden shift. He strove to catch his breath, to calm the thunder of his heart, to still all the frightened thoughts within him.

Ehranan stopped a few steps away, both hands bunched into fists. He stayed thus for several breaths. Rephanin could see the tension in his shoulders.

“Forgive me.” Ehranan's voice was rough.

“It is all right.” The assurance rose to Rephanin's lips without volition.

“No. No, it is not. I apologize.”

Ehranan turned, unhappiness writ in his face. It made Rephanin angry with himself, for the carelessness that had turned comfort to something unwelcome.

He swallowed. “I should not—”

I am cup-bonded.

Taken aback, Rephanin blinked. Ehranan slowly came back and stood before him, an arm's length between them.

I am cup-bonded until Midsummer.

His gaze was sharp, demanding, filled with need. He had resumed contact only on the lightest level, only enough to speak. Rephanin sought no more.

I see. A...a long-standing connection?

Ehranan let out an exasperated breath. We have been occasional lovers for some time. At last Midsummer's feast we were carried away and made our pledge. I did not know then that I would be going to war in the next season. Mirlani was less than pleased when I departed.

Oh.

I have had but two letters from her since I left Hollirued. I doubt we shall renew our bond. However....

However. It was a solemn pledge, not as lasting as handfasting but every bit as serious. Rephanin closed his eyes, frightened anew at how near he had come to compromising that pledge.

I ask your pardon—

Do not. You need not. The fault was mine.

Ehranan's tension echoed through the words. Rephanin wished he could offer comfort, but that was not possible now. He met the commander's gaze, saw the hunger there and felt a shadow of the same revive in his own flesh.

Ehranan's mouth twisted in a wry smile. I did not think to mention it to you. Forgive me.

Rephanin sighed and rubbed at his brow. I would like to say there was no reason you should think you need warn me you were pledged, but that is sadly untrue.

Ehranan chuckled. Oh, Rephanin. Have you not let that go?

Ehranan met his gaze and held it for a long moment. A whisper of the chasm's breeze teased Rephanin. Finally Ehranan looked away and shook his head.

I ... it is useless to speculate. We do not know where either of us will be at Midsummer.

Roasting in a darkwood forest, perhaps.

Perhaps. A smile tugged at the corner of Ehranan's mouth. Until then we had better forget we had this conversation.

I doubt I can manage that, but I will try not to remind you of it.

Ehranan gave a cough of laughter. You cannot help but remind me. His smile faded to a look of wistfulness.

Accept my thanks, Rephanin. You have given me—much comfort.

Bereft of words, Rephanin watched him walk away, slowly this time, toward the army's camp. Ehranan paused and looked back, his blue eyes piercing Rephanin's soul. He smiled briefly, sadly, then went on.

Rephanin closed his eyes. Confused and conflicting feelings assailed him: desire, regret, sympathy, hope. After a long moment he shook himself, and slowly followed.

One must go on.

Darkwood Hall

 

S
halár peered at the map spread on her work table. If they marched swiftly—very swiftly—they would reach Woodrun in three nights. If her hunters could not capture the town at once, they would have to retreat and find shelter, and would be vulnerable to being hunted down and dragged out into the sun.

Shalár closed her eyes briefly at the surfacing of ancient memories of the Bitter Wars, of folk dragged from their homes in Ghlanhras into the poisonous light of day. Even centuries later she recalled the screams, the pleading that was wasted upon the unyielding ælven.

That must not happen to her people now. She had pledged to protect them, and that was one pledge she fully intended to keep.

So, the warriors must needs spend a third day sheltering in the forest, and be ready to sweep upon Woodrun at nightfall. They would then have a full night to subdue the town. That would be best.

She looked up at the hunters in the room, the best leaders she had. Torith, who had led all the hunts since their arrival and kept the pens in Ghlanhras well stocked with kobalen. Gavál, who had scouted several times to Woodrun and knew the forest trails as well as any. Gæleth, who had brought the second group of hunters to Ghlanhras.

None were strong leaders. Of all of them, Shalár trusted Torith the most, but she did not feel comfortable entrusting this venture to him.

She wished for Ciris, Yaras, or even Irith. Bold hunters, all, able to foresee danger and make intelligent choices on their own. They had been watchers for her in the Ebons, tracking the ælven and reporting to her, even going into ælven settlements at night to bring her information. She would have trusted any of them to lead this foray, but they were not here.

Ciris she had sent to Midrange. If he lived yet, he would be making his way back to Nightsand. Irith remained in that city, recovering from sun poisoning. Yaras she had made her steward in Nightsand; she knew he would not return to Ghlanhras. He preferred to remain in the west, with his family.

She looked at Torith. He was competent enough leading a hunt or handling the watchers on the city wall, but would he be a strong leader in a battle? She tried to remember where he had been, what he had done, during the taking of Ghlanhras. She recalled no great accomplishments.

“Are the hunters ready?”

He nodded. “I bade them to assemble at the gates after sundown. They should be gathering now.”

“Have they all fed?”

Torith blinked. “I do not know, my lady Governor.”

“Have you spoken to Wahral about sending kobalen along?”

“No, Bright Lady.”

Shalár leaned back in her chair, resisting the urge to reprimand him. If he were to lead the advance against Woodrun she must not undermine the others' respect for him. She rubbed her forehead, where a slight ache had begun to tease her, then lifted the raven quill from her inkstand and drew a slip of paper toward her.

“Take this to the pens and give it to Wahral. Select thirty kobalen for the journey, and as many as twenty more for those who need to feed before setting out. Make haste, Torith. They must march tonight, as early as may be.”

“Yes, my lady Governor.” He bowed as he accepted her note, and hurried from the room.

She should have reminded him that he would need to assign hunters to watch the kobalen and move them along. They would not keep up with Clan Darkshore, but they would arrive at Woodrun by the time they were needed.

Too many details, and it was stifling in this crowded room. She stood up, and the hunters all drew back. For the briefest of moments she missed Ciris, whom she suspected of aspiring to take her place. She did not trust him in that respect, but she enjoyed his arrogance.

That
was what she needed now. Someone with arrogance. This lot were sheep. Not a one of them could be counted on to be as ruthless as the capture of Woodrun would require.

She stepped to the curtained doorway of her bedchamber and pushed it aside. Her ælven attendant sat just within, whither she had retreated when the hunters began to arrive. Shalár met her startled glance.

“A robe. Something plain. I am going out.”

The ælven rose and went to the wardrobe, her step lighter than usual. Her mood seemed to have improved of late, and Shalár wondered if she had made peace with her lot or was plotting something.

She returned at once with an open-fronted robe of black fleececod, somewhat heavier than most of Shalár's clothing. Shalár shrugged it on over the tunic and legs of scarlet silk she was wearing, not bothering with a sash. She left her chambers, followed in haste by her hunters.

Outside Darkwood Hall she felt the mist of a cold drizzle on her face, blown beneath the covered walk by a winter gust. She strode along the walk in the wake of hunters who were no doubt answering Torith's summons.

When she reached the unfinished inner court behind the gates, she found it nearly full of warriors, the leaf weights on the nets at their hips glinting in the dull night, an honored few bearing captured ælven swords. Reminded of the night her three hundreds had set out for Fireshore, she felt a swell of longing to go with them now.

If not for the child, I would go.

She clamped her teeth on the inside of her lip as her hand went to her belly. The child's safety could not be risked. She dared not lead this fight—and yet, perhaps she dared not let some other lead it.

She must take Woodrun now, secure it against attack. Doing so would have two benefits: it would give Ghlanhras a forward line of defense, and it would all but end the darkwood trade.

If Shalár controlled darkwood, she would have something to bargain with. Something with which to command the ælven's attention.

She looked at the darkwood wall that Kelev was building, and the pile of salvaged darkwood that remained to be added to it. Wet in the drizzle, like her black-clad warriors patiently waiting. They stood here because they had faith in her. They looked to her to lead them, and her heart ached to answer.

She closed her eyes, seeking the feather touch of her daughter's khi. It hovered at the back of her awareness, as ever, present but maddeningly out of her reach.

Child, I would not risk you, but nor can I risk three hundred hunters. Nor the failure of this venture. It must not fail.

A flutter answered, a stirring within her. At first she was uncertain whether it was movement of the tiny body growing inside her, or the soul that waited to enter it. A warmth then flooded her and she knew it was the soul.

Do what you must. Follow your path.

Shalár drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. The pale faces of her hunters were turned toward her. Her pack, watching for her command.