The Betrayal (45 page)

“A word with you both, if you please.”

It was spoken as a command and seemed so unlike her father that Eliani had to stifle a startled laugh. He ushered them into a small chamber at the back of the dais, nodding graciously to the well-wishers as he shut the door upon them.

Felisan smiled. “You will be here all night if you express your thanks to every soul who wishes you happiness.”

Turisan laughed. “Ah, I thought this might be a rescue. Thank you!”

Felisan stepped to the back of the little chamber, beckoning to them to follow. “Whoever designed this palace was quite ingenious, I find. They have placed a door here through which one might slip away from an assembly such as this. I suggest you use it before Jharan drags you into the feast hall.”

Eliani bit her lip. “I would not wish to offend him.”

Her father shook his head, a glint of roguery in his eye. “We shall toast you in your absence. Go along, now, and great joy to you.” He shepherded them out through the door, smiling conspiratorially as he closed it.

Finding herself in a torchlit hallway alone with Turisan, Eliani felt her heart quicken. She looked up to see him softly smiling at her. She placed her hand in his and felt an echo of the dizzy sensation that had carried them through the handfasting ceremony.

He led her down the corridor, away from the public rooms of the palace. At the foot of a stair leading to the upper floor he paused, and Eliani realized he was wondering whether to go to his chamber or hers.

At that moment an attendant stepped out of the adjoining corridor, a slender youth, fair-haired and brown-eyed, his features still sharp-edged like a young colt's. Eliani recognized him as the one who had brought her Turisan's gift of the circlet she wore.

“My lord and lady, good evening. I am to guide you to your chamber if you are ready to retire?”

Turisan gave him a suspicious glance. “Pheran—”

“This way.”

The attendant smiled, then moved past them and started up the stair. Turisan glanced at Eliani, and they followed. At the upper floor Pheran turned back toward the heart of the palace. Eliani thought he would lead them to the gallery above the great hall, but he turned away to another stair, much smaller and winding upward in broad, curving steps.

Ah. I know where he is taking us.

Turisan's hand squeezed hers, and Eliani suffered herself to be led up the short stair, then along a curving corridor to a second, much longer stair. By the
time they had emerged into an antechamber, she had lost all sense of direction.

The golden stone of the anteroom's walls glowed in soft candlelight. A small fire burned brightly in what Eliani assumed was a welcoming hearth, and on the opposite wall tall vases of white winter lilies flanked a wide door. Pheran opened the door and led them up yet another stair, this one short and straight.

Eliani caught her breath as they emerged into a chamber that was circular and open to the night, with balustrades rather than walls and pillars—carved into the shape of living trees, like those of Hallowhall's great dome and arcades—at intervals framing the views. Overhead a few bright stars glinted between the carven branches.

Four great fireplaces roared with fires burning brightly against the night's chill, and heavy tapestries were caught back at the pillars, ready to be let down to block cold breezes. In the center of the chamber a large bed was draped in lighter tapestry.

Feeling shy of a sudden, Eliani walked to the balustrade at the west, looking out at the starlit sky above the dark bulk of the mountains. Far below, she heard the whispering of water in the fountain court and saw the fountains as pale, dancing shadows. She leaned against a pillar and drew a deep breath of crisp air.

Magnificent
.

The Star Tower. One of my favorite places.

Eliani smiled at Turisan as he joined her. Beyond him she saw Misani come into the chamber bearing a tray of wine and small cakes, which she set upon a low table by one of the fireplaces.

“Many blessings, my lady, my lord. Lady Heléri sends you her good wishes.”

Eliani turned to her. “Thank you, and please convey my thanks to Lady Heléri for sparing you to me.”

Misani nodded, smiling, and walked over to the eastern side of the chamber, where Pheran was engaged in lowering the tapestries. She took his arm and drew him toward the stair. “Good evening, my lord and lady.”

Pheran gave a start of surprise but quickly recovered. “Yes, good evening.” He made a stately bow, then accompanied Misani out.

When the soft closing of the door below reached them, Turisan turned to her, eyes bright in the firelight. Eliani gazed at him, trying to memorize every line of his face, to take in all the details of his form, in the hope that his image would replace all other memories.

His tunic of sumptuous cloth, silver-woven in intricate design, quietly proclaimed his realm's rich culture. He had taken off his coronet, she noted, so that the handfasting ribbon on his left arm remained the brightest thing about his person. It glinted in the firelight as he took a step closer.

“Are you hungry?”

Eliani shook her head, then reached out her hand. He took it, kissed it gently, then turned it and pressed a second kiss into her palm, sending a shiver through her. He glanced up at her.

“Cold?”

She shook her head. It was not cold that made her tremble but a tingling awareness of him. Every part of her was afire with anticipation.

His eyes flashed in response, and the gentleness left him as he kissed her. She closed her eyes and, when she could breathe again, inhaled his scent, warm and slightly musky. A tremor ran through her with the next, deeper kiss, but it was not caused by cold, nor fear. This she did not fear. This she knew how to enjoy, though it had been long since she had permitted it.

With surprise she realized that Turisan was holding back his thought—refraining from mindspeech—touching her only with hands and lips. Running her fingers from his shoulders up the back of his neck and into his soft, flowing hair, she reached out her mind to his and was overwhelmed by his desire.

The double embrace, mind and body, had a dizzying effect as sparks of sensation passed between them: his hand on her cheek, both the warmth of the cheek and the cool hand at once, scents and tastes and touch blending into storm. They embraced the confusion of sensation and beyond it found a place where balance returned.

No words passed between them; no thoughts as formed as that. She suspected she might be able to move his body with her own will, but there was no need for that, because they were in complete accord. Together they explored pure physical sensation, enjoying not only each touch but the ripples of plea sure it awakened, reflected back and forth until they began to lose sense of who was touching, who was feeling.

Eliani emerged again as Turisan moved away, only to catch her off her feet and carry her without pause to the bed. She pushed aside its drapery to let them through, and he laid her down among the soft pillows, then stood gazing at her, dark eyes afire and chest swelling with the depth of his breathing.

Her sash had come untied and been left behind somewhere. She pulled off her overdress of Stonereach blue and sat in her violet silk, reaching up a hand to him, smiling. Taking it in his own, he sat beside her and bent to kiss her throat.

She gasped, remembering Kelevon's teeth closing on her flesh. Turisan drew back, eyes alarmed, filled with questions.

Gripping his hand, she fought the instinct to withdraw and instead opened the memory to him. She felt first his anger, then his understanding, regret, sympathy. He reached up to brush his fingers against her throat. Even that light touch made her flinch; she would have a bruise there by morning.

He gathered both her hands in his and pressed his lips into her palms.
I will never hurt you, my love.

With a small gasp, she felt sudden tears rise to her eyes. Turisan kissed them away with infinite tenderness, careful not to touch her bruised throat. His kisses started them spiraling together again.

Hands moved, touching flesh, discarding garments, all the while trading kisses and feather touches of the mind that lengthened and deepened into unity of thought. At last it was skin alone save for the hand-fasting ribbons that bound their arms—somehow their sleeves had come free without disturbing Heléri's handiwork—and in their state of mutual awareness the ribbons sensed touch almost as would skin, sending shivers through them at each caress.

Their joining was filled with amazement as each shared what the other felt, the strangeness of sensing plea sure in a part one's own body did not have quickly giving way to elation at knowing instantly how to magnify their mutual plea sure. As their bond deepened, they left words, then individual thought behind and gasped with delight at each new sensation.

When they caught and followed a particular stimulation, lending it focus through double awareness, it led to higher levels of ecstasy than either had ever known. They danced, perfectly in harmony, pursuing pure physical joy, transported by echoes and reverberations of sensuality.

At last this frenzy reached its peak, and they sank
back together, amazed and delighted, slowly returning to their separate selves. They had but one thought.

This night will pass too quickly.

Shalár reached the bay just as the eastern star was beginning to fade. She hastened to the city, black sand hissing beneath her feet and a warm breeze giving her comfort. It had been cold at Midrange, and the Wastes were never pleasant. She was glad to be back, anxious to resume her preparations for reclaiming Fireshore.

Ciris and Welir had the kobalen well in hand. Unless the snows came early, they would be ready to cross the mountains at her bidding. Her plans were unfolding as she had hoped.

She climbed the steep path to the Cliff Hollows and smiled as she reached the ledge. Four guards in Dark-shore colors saluted her. She nodded to them and went in, hastening through the public rooms to her private quarters. In the corridor she met Galir, who was carrying a covered tray. He stopped upon seeing her, looking startled.

“Bright Lady! You are returned!”

“Just now. Where is Dareth?”

“I-in your chambers, Bright Lady.”

Shalár lifted the cloth that covered his tray. The smell of fresh kobalen blood drifted up from her goblet, which stood full upon the tray. She looked at Galir.

“You are taking this to him?”

Galir ducked his head. “I have just brought it away, Bright Lady. At his bidding.” He glanced up at her nervously. “We have taken him fresh food every day, as you desired.”

Shalár stood still for a moment, gazing at the cup, her heart turning cold. She took the goblet from the
tray without a word and strode back to her private chambers.

“Dareth?”

She unslung her pack from her shoulder and left it on the floor. The front chamber was empty, the hearth cold. She walked through to her bedchamber.

Dareth lay upon her bed, propped up by pillows, a scatter of scrolls across his lap. He had been reading, but perhaps not for some while. His eyes were closed, hands lying limp. He was deathly pale.

“Dareth!”

Shalár hurried to him, pushing more scrolls off a table beside the bed to set the goblet on it. She caught Dareth's hand in hers, felt the feathery thread of his weakened khi in it, so thin it was almost beyond detection.

“Dareth. No.”

She touched his face. Cold—so cold—but not quite devoid of life. His eyes opened, and he smiled dreamily.

“Shalári. Good, you have returned.”

“Why have you done this?” Her throat was tight with grief, and angry tears escaped her eyes. “Why, Dareth? I did not go to Fireshore!”

“But you will. I cannot support it, Shalári. Forgive me.”

His words stabbed at her heart. She clutched his hand and stroked his face, searching his eyes for a hint of what might stir his interest.

“You promised to give me a child!”

“I have failed to keep that promise. I will atone.”

“No!”

She wanted to shake him but feared doing him harm. She seized the goblet and held it to his lips.

“Drink!”

He turned his head away, frowning as he closed his eyes. Shalár caught her breath on a sob.

“Please, Dareth. I beg you, do not leave me!”

He was silent, his lips pressed tightly together. Despairing, she pushed the goblet onto the table again, slopping a little of its contents onto a scroll.

From habit she picked the page up and brushed away the blood, seeking to preserve the scroll, for good parchment was not easy to make. It was old, a copy from her archives of a poem that had been written many centuries ago in Eastfæld.

She glanced at some of the others and saw that they were all similar works: old ballads, lays, histories. Dareth had been seeking something in the distant past.

The scroll in her hands was “Creed of the Ælven,” a poem whose first stave every ælven child learned by heart almost from the cradle. She remembered her mother teaching it to her in Darkwood Hall. It had been written by the great bard Vahlari on commission from the first governor, Arithan, who had codified the creed by which the ælven lived.