The Betrayal (22 page)

The first of the rings had been lost when Yaras's
small band was caught by the ælven. That had been but a test, and she counted it a success despite the loss.

She showed the ring to the kobalen male. It reached up to touch the shiny object, and Shalár pulled it back.

“I hang this from your ear, here.” She touched her own earlobe. “None can remove it. This marks you as safe from our hunting. Forever.”

“And then you take me away, make me fight for you, never free again.”

Shalár's mouth twitched, but she resisted smiling. Astute, this kobalen. It would serve her purpose well.

“I not take you away. Everyone in your band who fights for me can wear my mark and be safe. Fight one big fight and win, then be free.”

Shalár watched the kobalen turn away from her—an act of daring in itself—to consult with its fellows. Kobalen needed time to grasp new ideas. She waited for it to think through the concept of temporary service for lifelong immunity. If it were not for the prolific abundance with which the kobalen bred, she would not be able to make such an offer.

The male returned, accompanied by a somewhat smaller and heavier female. The latter looked at Shalár with challenging, frightened eyes, but it was the male who addressed her. It gestured to the small earring in her hand.

“I take this thing, what if some other take it from me?”

“It only protects the one that wears it. Some other could take it from you, but not to wear. Look.”

Shalár slid the ends of the ring over the end of a leather strap and pressed them together until she felt the click of the ring closing. Then she cut the ring free of the strap and handed it to the kobalen, a bit of leather still clinging to it.

“Try to open it. You cannot.”

The kobalen pulled at the ring, though its coarse fingers could get no hold. The female watched with interest, took the ring away from the male with a brief exchange of snarls, tried and failed to open it, and finally bit it. Shalár had anticipated this and had Farnath strengthen the gold with other metals. It did not yield.

“Once it is closed, it stays closed. It is no use to any but the one who wears it.”

The male took the ring back, bit it as well, chewing off the leather, then spat the ring into its palm. “You put this in my ear, I bleed.”

“A little, yes.”

Shalár met the kobalen's accusing eyes. Yes, this one could think ahead. Excellent.

“Even if there is blood, you are safe with this mark on you. I not drink from you, my hunters not drink from you.”

The kobalen stood staring down at the small golden ring in its palm. Finally it cast a glance at its fellows, then held out the closed ring to Shalár.

“Give. I fight for you.”

“You must come to the hanging rock west of the big mountain pass, by the dark moon. If you fail, I hunt you down myself and drink your life.”

The kobalen pounded its fist into its palm three times. “Give!”

Shalár permitted herself a small smile. She took another ring from her pouch and stepped toward the kobalen. The female stood by, nervously shifting from foot to foot. Shalár reached up to the male's left ear, slid the ring over the lobe, and pinched it shut.

The kobalen let out a grunt, and the smell of blood burst bright on the air. Shalár swallowed sudden hunger despite her recent feeding and stepped back, away from temptation.

The male reached up to its ear, feeling the ring. It grunted again, then turned to the female, which anxiously examined the ring. Shalár took advantage of their distraction to lick a smear of blood from her thumb. A mistake, for her hunger flared brighter.

She glanced at the rest of the kobalen. “Soon I hunt again. Any with my mark are safe. The rest …”

She let them imagine being hunted once more. The bold female ground its teeth, then spoke.

“Give me your mark. I fight for you under the dark moon.”

Shalár reached into her pouch for another earring. The female took a sudden step toward her, making Shalár look up sharply.

“If you give mark to my young also!”

Shalár gazed at her narrowly. “If you fight well at the mountain pass, I mark your young. Not before.”

The female swallowed, then gave a stiff nod. Shalár pinched the second ring through the female's ear. The kobalen winced but made no sound.

That was enough for the others. They began to clamor for Shalár's mark, pressing around her with no hint of order or restraint. She summoned Yaras with a glance and gave him a handful of the rings. Together they worked swiftly until each of her select kobalen wore one. The air was ripe with blood scent, making her ache with hunger even though her belly was full.

She stepped back, rejoining Welir and Ciris, who had watched silently. Putting a hand on either one's shoulder, she repeated her earlier command, this time to all the kobalen.

“Meet these captains at the hanging rock by dark moon.”

Yaras, standing a little apart, looked up at her with startled question in his eyes. She ignored him.

“Bring others with you. All who fight at the mountain pass wear my mark.”

Releasing Ciris and Welir, she stepped back, gesturing toward the nearest edge of the grove. Two of the hunters stood guard there, but she waved them away.

“Go now. Travel swift to hanging rock. Bring others. Go.”

For a long moment the stunned kobalen did not move. Still suspecting a trick, she supposed. Shalár gestured again toward the plain, where the night was beginning to grow a shade less dark.

Finally the wiry male moved toward freedom. Watching Shalár all the way, he took three steps, then reached out toward the bold female, beckoning. With a wary glance at Shalár, the female joined the male, then both began to run.

Shalár did not move save to hold up a hand, preventing the nearby hunters from blocking the kobalen's escape. The rest of them flushed like a flock of mountain geese, running toward freedom as swiftly as their limbs would carry them. She heard their triumphant cry as they broke from the woods and ran across the open plain.

Shalár watched, grinning. Some would test her word, thinking no doubt that she would never know which of them fought at Midrange and which did not. They would learn their error when those who came to Midrange received a second, different earring. Two earrings or one of the second style would distinguish those who had fulfilled their promise. A single earring of the first design would become a mark for her vengeance.

She turned to her captains. “Ciris, Welir. If there is aught you need from Nightsand, I will send it here for you. Start now for Midrange. Watch the pass and report to me. Take five hunters from each of your
companies to train as subcommanders and five more to carry messages back.”

Ciris frowned. “Do we cross and watch the ælven roads?”

“No. Spend your time with the kobalen. As soon as they begin to arrive, teach them to act as companies and answer your commands. You will not feed from any that wear the ring.”

Welir glanced sidelong at Ciris, then nodded. “We understand, Bright Lady.”

“If none of them come to Midrange by the dark of the moon, wait five days and then commence hunting them down.”

Ciris's lips parted in a smiling snarl. “Yes, Bright Lady.”

“Go, then, while there is still dark. Travel swift and safe.”

Shalár turned to Yaras, who stood mutely watching. She could feel his discontent.

“Yaras, you will take the catch to Nightsand.”

He gave a small, stiff bow. “As you will, Bright Lady.”

“Come, let us look them over.”

She turned, leading him toward the bitterthorn copse and away from Ciris and Welir. He walked silently beside her for a few strides, then spoke in a low, tense voice.

“I may not serve you in battle?”

“I do not want all my watchers in the same place. There is a risk of organized attack by the kobalen, though I doubt even those clever ones will think of it.”

He nodded, and she saw his throat move in a swallow. “Do you return to Nightsand as well?”

“For a short time. Then I will take my wretched cat back to its home territory and strike toward Fireshore. Irith should be returning by now. I want to know what he has learned.”

“What care you for Fireshore when you are gathering armies at Midrange?”

Shalár paused, gazing at Yaras with a smile growing on her lips. “Fireshore is the prize. Midrange is merely a diversion. How would you like to lead our best hunters into Ghlanhras?”

 Highstone 

Eliani stood in her chamber before the curtained alcove that served as her tiring room, choosing what to take with her to Southfæld. She had continued restless, though many days had passed since Turisan had left Highstone.

Twenty-seven days. Her mind would not refrain from counting anew with each dawn. She pressed her lips together, fighting off the panic that arose when she thought of the dwindling number of days remaining before they were to meet again. The journey to Glen-hallow would likely take ten, given the pace of the caravan. Felisan and Heléri would both be of the party, and neither cared for the sort of pace the Guard was accustomed to.

On a chair nearby were Eliani's saddle packs, and on the floor a small wooden chest with her new sword beside it. Her bedside lamp was the only light, flickering and casting giant shadows against the walls.

Her two best gowns were already in the chest, beneath spare tunics and legs suitable for wearing under her riding leathers. Misani had done it for her, as Eliani's lack of skill in the care of fine garments was famous within the circle of her house hold. In the saddle pack were the things she would need as the party traveled south.

She glanced at the leathers lying ready for her to don, her new ones, just delivered. They had been dyed a deep, rich blue, and a long belt of violet hue accompanied them. The sharp scent of the dyes filled her bedchamber.

She turned to her shelves, thinking to take something along with which to amuse herself. She would need distraction to stave off boredom.

She rejected a bound book of cradle tales and several scrolls of poetry. It was senseless, she knew, but she kept remembering how she had been reading of Westgard when she met Turisan and could not overcome a dread that if she read some other legend, it, too, would spring to life before her eyes.

Her gaze fell upon a clutter of gifts from her majority. Stepping over to the shelf that held them, she found the whitewood box and reed flute that Turisan had given her.

The box, which contained House Jharanin's magnificent brooch, she tossed into the chest. She should wear the brooch at Jharan's court, to demonstrate her gratitude.

She frowned at the flute for a long moment before picking it up. The reed was lightweight and satiny smooth beneath her fingers. Any sharp edges had long since been worn soft by handling. As she ran her hands along its length she felt a familiar tingling in her fingertips, and nearly dropped the flute as she recognized it.

Turisan. His khi was in this instrument. Embedded within it, engrained in it, as if through magecraft. Why had she not noticed it before?

Because he had given it to her
before
. Before the Shades. Before his khi had burned into her.

She closed her eyes, willing away a wave of fear. Some part of that fear—all of it, perhaps—was of Kelevon's making. She wished to be quit of it.

Taking a deep breath, she began hesitantly to explore the flute with her khi. Seldom did an object acquire such a strong impression of its owner's khi. Turisan must have made the flute, or at the very least spent days upon days handling it.

A feeling began to take form within her mind, of strength and gentleness, of depth and warmth, like the near-silent vibration of a flute's lowest note. She was about to raise the instrument to her lips to play when a knock fell upon her door.

Her eyes flew open, and with heart pounding she threw the flute into the open chest, where it clattered against the whitewood box.

“Who comes?”

“Your father. May I enter?”

Eliani picked up a scroll at random from her shelves. “Certainly.”

The door opened, and her father came in. In a comfortable tunic and legs, with his hair caught back from his face in a half braid, he looked more his usual self than he had in the finery he had worn during all the fuss at Evennight. He smiled.