Ebon Mountains Ebon Mountains
Eliani held her arms across her chest as she walked behind Luruthin on the narrow game track through the woods. Exercise was not enough to keep her warm here. They were high in the Ebons, near the crest of the range. Oaks had given way entirely to tall pines and firs and occasional small stands of bare, white-trunked firespear. The air was thin and sharp with the smell of evergreens. These were comforts, much like the woodlands of her home.
They were far from Ghlanhras now, having crossed the faded track that led to the pass of Westgard. Eliani felt safer here in the mountain heights. Luruthin, before her on the path, walked slowly and steadily, weary but willing and strong enough after rest and food to keep up with the Lost who led the way.
As they topped a rise, the path they were following opened onto a flat, rocky ledge and the party paused there, gathering to look down the east slopes of the Ebons. Shadows traced the tops of the evergreens, and cold stars glinted overhead. Far below, a small scatter of warm, glimmering lights could be seen.
“Bitterfield.” Kivhani stepped up beside Eliani. “They have begun to keep a night watch.”
Eliani nodded. When her party had stopped there on their way northward, Bitterfield had not kept such a watch, but its people had been wary nevertheless. News of the fall of Ghlanhras, a city they already distrusted, must have prompted the change. If alben fell upon Bitterfield or any ælven town, it would happen at night.
The lights—distant windows, torches in the public circle perhaps—made Eliani yearn for a warm bed and a roof overhead. Instead, the party turned away and ascended another rise, leaving the glimmer of Bitterfield behind.
The path they followed was little more than a game trail, but soon it broadened and met a stream, and turned to follow the watercourse up another steady rise. Kivhani paused at the turning to let the party drink.
Eliani kept an anxious eye not only on Luruthin, but on Vanorin as well. He looked weary and grim, and was drinking one-handed.
“Your arm is troubling you?”
He glanced at her and shrugged. Eliani felt badly for not having offered him healing days ago, but in truth her courage had failed her. She did not wish to cause him grief, and had thought that a healing might do so, being of necessity an intimate contact of khi.
Now she regretted that choice. Vanorin needed healing, plainly, though he would not admit it. Perhaps the same reasons that had made her hesitate to offer had kept him from asking.
Well, no more. She drank another mouthful of water and rubbed her hands on her cloak, then stood and turned to Vanorin.
“Come.”
He looked up at her, questioning. She summoned him with a jerk of her head, and moved to a large pine a few paces from the stream. Kivhani caught her eye as she passed, and leaned toward Othanin to murmur something into his ear. Eliani noted that the governor looked weary, but well enough.
At the pine she turned and waited. Vanorin had stood but remained by the stream. She beckoned him with a gesture, then sat down with her back against the trunk. Slowly Vanorin approached.
“We have only a few moments, but it should help.” Eliani patted the ground beside her.
“My lady—”
“Hush. Sit down.”
She moved aside and made him sit with his back resting against the tree trunk. He stared straight ahead, not meeting her gaze, his face so stern it reminded her of Jharan, which of course reminded her of Turisan.
Eliani hid a wry smile. Peering at the scrap of cloth tied around Vanorin’s arm, she frowned.
“This needs washing. It will have to wait until we reach the camp. May I touch you?”
He glanced at her and nodded, then looked forward again, blinking. Eliani first held her hands in the air just over the wound. Khi leapt in her palms, heat drawn toward the injury. Vanorin made a restless movement, then closed his eyes.
Drawing a deep breath, Eliani let herself sink into the absorption of healing. Slowly she brought her hands to rest lightly against the bandaged arm. A small tingle flooded up the backs of her hands as her khi and Vanorin’s mingled. His was pleasant, its gentle tone surprising even though she had felt it before. He sat motionless, as if afraid even to breathe.
The cut on his arm was small but fairly deep, and suffered from neglect. Eliani sensed the beginning of a festering and frowned. If she had dealt with this at once the wound would now be well on the way to being healed.
She focused the warmth flowing through her hands on the point where the damage was worst. Healings began on a tiny level, Jhinani had told her, spreading and flowing outward from there. If she could find the source of the pain and festering, she could shift the flow of khi there to set the wound to healing. She let her thoughts follow the thread of dark dullness in Vanorin’s khi, pursuing its origin.
Voices disturbed her. Withdrawing until she could comfortably open her eyes, she saw that the party were all standing again, waiting beside the stream.
“We will have to finish later.”
She took her hands away from Vanorin’s arm, then sat back and watched him open his eyes, blinking in confusion. He glanced at her and color flooded into his cheeks.
“Thank you.”
Eliani nodded, then stood and offered him a hand. He hesitated, but then clasped her arm and let her help him to his feet. Yes, she could tell from his khi that the sickness in the wound was beginning to affect his strength. How foolish they had both been, avoiding this.
She let go his arm and smiled briefly, then turned away. What she wished to do was stay close to him, offering comfort, but that probably would aggrieve him. Vanorin was right; formality was their protection. It reminded them of how they stood to one another, which differed from how they felt.
She liked him, she thought as she fell into step behind Luruthin. At first she had thought him somewhat cold, interested only in his responsibilities as captain of her escort. As their acquaintance had grown she had found her admiration for him increasing. Perhaps missing Turisan had some part in it.
The ache of missing her partner intensified. They had not discussed it, but she knew they were both calculating how many days it would be until they might be reunited. Twenty at least. Likely more.
A shift in the khi of those ahead of her made Eliani glance up. They had topped a small rise and were descending its gentle slope toward an open meadow ahead. She could see the lights of campfires between the trunks of the pines. As one, the party quickened their steps, and a moment later she heard the hail of a watcher greeting Kivhani.
There were others in the woods, many others, all with the same white hair and deep dark eyes. Eliani had to shake off the nervousness roused by their appearance, and remind herself that these folk kept the Ælven creed.
The party reached the meadow, which was wide and mostly level. A lone pine stood a little way into the clearing with a large fire circle nearby. Several smaller fires were scattered around the meadow’s edges. The main fire was surrounded by huge logs that served as benches, and the Lost who had been sitting there all stood to greet the newcomers. Others gathered, coming from the other fires or out of the woods.
“Othanin!” A white-haired male hurried forward.
Eliani watched the two of them clasp arms. The Lost quickly surrounded the governor, asking anxious questions about friends and loved ones in Ghlanhras. Eliani looked away, knowing the answers would not be happy.
Kivhani’s voice rose above the chatter, demanding attention. The Lost fell quiet, all looking to her.
“We have guests.” Her voice was not overloud but would reach the edges of the meadow. “Distinguished visitors. Lady Eliani of Felisanin, from Alpinon, and her companions. Please make them welcome.”
Faces now turned toward Eliani, who quailed under the gaze of so many black eyes. Think of them as Greenglens, she told herself, and summoned a smile.
“Thank you, Lady Kivhani. We are grateful for your hospitality.”
A murmur rumbled through the meadow. The Lost were no more comfortable with her presence here than she, Eliani realized. Perhaps she and her escort were the first ælven to visit the Lost in their camp. Kivhani had not said so, but plainly their arrival was a surprise to many.
A tall male approached and paused a few paces away from Eliani. He was dressed in undyed leather, as were all the Lost. He gazed at her intently, then made a formal bow
“Lady Eliani, I am Inóran. Dare I hope that you remember me?”
“Inóran!”
She had not remembered his face, but then she had been a child the one time that she had seen him, and his appearance was much changed. The hair that was now white had been golden, then, on the day he had handfasted with her father’s sister.
She took two quick steps toward him, extending her arm without thinking. He hesitated an instant, glancing at her handfasting ribbons, then smiled shyly and clasped arms. Eliani felt again the strange prickle that she had noticed in Kivhani’s khi.
“I saw Davhri some days since. She is sorely concerned for you.”
Pain crossed Inóran’s face. “I have wanted to send a message to her, but have not known how to tell her....”
“Tell her you are alive, at least. She grieves.”
His brow tightened in a frown and his mouth curved downward in bitterness. “My news would not cheer her.”
“Of course it would cheer her to know that you live!”
Eliani thought of Davhri, living a barren existence in Bitterfield, a shadow of her former self. During her brief stay there, Eliani had sought to cheer her, but Davhri’s despair at the loss of her partner could not be lifted.
“We have no communication with Bitterfield. We dare not approach it, or any ælven town.”
She could not bear the thought of Davhri’s continuing to suffer, not when she might at least be comforted. Inóran’s news might not be happy, but it was better than knowing nothing of his fate.
“I could go to Bitterfield. One of my party is ill.” She glanced behind her at the escort. Luruthin and Vanorin had both sat on the ground. The other guardians, Onami, Birani, and Felahran, stood close by, looking nervous. “Two, actually. They could rest here while I go to the village.”
Kivhani frowned. “You do not know what welcome you may find there.”
“I was just lately there. I am certain Dejhonan will welcome me. I have kindred in the village.” She glanced at Inóran.
Othanin, coming to stand beside Kivhani. “Your offer is generous, Lady Eliani, but we need not impose on you so. I will go to Bitterfield. I must consult with Theyn Dejhonan, and tell him what passed at Ghlanhras.”
Eliani shrugged. “He will know by now.”
“He will not know all.”
She met his stern gaze, then nodded. He was still governor, in name if nothing else, and she was encouraged by his willingness to see his duties through.
Kivhani turned to Eliani with a small, kindly smile. “Thus you may rest here a day or two as well. You are welcome for as long as you care to stay.”
Eliani accepted this with a nod. She would have liked to see Davhri again, but there were others here who needed her attention as much if not more. Turning away, she went to Luruthin and Vanorin.
“Come closer to the fire.”
She led them into the main fire circle, where the Lost hastily moved away, leaving room for them on one of the log benches. Eliani was beginning to feel annoyed at their avoidance, as if she and her party were the ones who were afflicted.
The fire’s warmth felt good against her face, and as it began to penetrate her borrowed leathers, she felt a sense of relief. The fire was large, as big as a feast-day fire. The Lost must have no fear of discovery here in this sheltered meadow.
She wondered where they spent their days, for the sun must flood the meadow itself. Looking into the woods around it, she saw the shapes of rough shelters covered in evergreen boughs and had her answer.
Inóran approached, carrying a battered metal urn and three mismatched cups, one of rough pottery, one of metal and one carved of wood. He set down the urn and handed the cups to Eliani and two of her party.
“Tea.” He picked up the urn and offered to pour. “It is mint and tealeaf.”
Eliani eagerly held out the pottery cup. “Tealeaf grows here?”
Inóran nodded as he poured. “It grows in sheltered places on the eastern slopes. We cultivate a patch near each of our regular camps.”
Eliani inhaled the fragrant steam, then sipped at the hot tea. A small luxury and a great comfort.
“Ah, thank you!” She sighed with pleasure. “How many camps have you?”
The sudden silence in the space around her, the stilling of the Lost's voices, told her this question had been a mistake. She had meant it conversationally, but even Inóran’s eyes shifted aside with discomfort.
“Perhaps I should not say.”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
“We have learned to be distrustful, I fear.” He gave a small, rueful smile.
“Have the alben troubled you?”
“Not the alben, no. Not until now.” He glanced around the meadow. “This is usually a summer camp, but our winter camps are close to Ghlanhras. When we became aware that the alben had crossed the mountains, we decided to move.”
Eliani gazed at him, wondering if it had been in the Lost's power to warn Ghlanhras. She decided that if it had been possible to send warning to Othanin, Kivhani would certainly have done so. Most likely, there had not been opportunity.
She sipped her tea, and finding it cool enough, took a larger swallow. Remembering that there were only three cups, she drank as quickly as she could, then let Inóran fill the cup again and offered it to Vanorin, who was sitting beside her with shoulders bowed, staring into the fire. He started when she held the cup before him, as if his thoughts had been far away.
Their khi brushed together as he took the cup. Eliani sensed his weariness and was quietly alarmed at how much his wound was affecting him. She must finish the healing she had begun. She felt an urge to do it at once, but she did not wish to engage in a healing in the midst of all the Lost. Best to stay by the fire until the party were all comfortably warm, then seek a quieter place.
She watched Vanorin drink the tea in small, slow sips. Luruthin had another cup, and the two Stonereaches were sharing the third.
A restless movement drew her attention to the approach of Kivhani and Othanin. Many of the Lost stood gathered outside the fire circle.
Kivhani bowed, with unaccustomed formality. “Lady Eliani, I must beg your indulgence. I wish to consult with my people about the invitation you offered. May we make you comfortable at one of the smaller fires while we use this circle?”
“Of course.” Eliani stood at once.
Inóran rose, the urn in his hand. “I will take them to our fire.”
Kivhani nodded. “Thank you.”
Inóran led Eliani and her friends across the meadow, past two smaller fires to a third just at the edge of the wood. Here the log seats were much smaller, and Eliani and her companions nearly filled them as they sat and huddled toward the flames.
Two Lost, male and female, came out of a shelter nearby, saw Eliani’s party and cast alarmed glances at Inóran. He told them of Kivhani’s counsel gathering, and they hastened away to the larger fire. Inóran poured the last of the tea into the three cups held eagerly out by Eliani’s party, and set about making more.
“Do you not wish to join the discussion? We will be all right if you go.”
Inóran glanced up at Eliani as he poured fresh water into the urn from a pitcher. “I think my opinion will be suspect, as I am kin to you. If I may call myself so.”
“Of course you are my kindred! Inóran, who you are has not changed.”
He paused and sat back on his heels, the urn in both hands. “I am glad to hear you say so. Not all would agree with you.”
He gazed at her for a moment, then returned to his work, scraping some coals between two flat-topped stones and balancing the urn across them. He then stood up and added wood to the fire.
“What happened, Inóran? If you care to tell of it.”
He bent to check the water in the urn, then sat on the ground beside the fire, folding his legs beneath him. His face grew still. At last he spoke.
“I was returning home from Ghlanhras. I did not find the glass I sought there—those who once made it had abandoned their forges on Firethroat. I came back on the trade road through Woodrun, hoping instead to find a small gift there for Davhri.”
He paused as his voice went taut with grief. Eliani waited. She knew that the others were also listening.
“By the time I reached Woodrun I was unwell. I took a room at a public lodge and lay sick for three days, wracked with fever. By the end of them I knew something was very wrong.
“I could not eat. My last meal lay heavy in my stomach, and eventually I brought it up. I felt a little better after that and thought I should try to go home, but when I went to the door of the house the sunlight blinded me. It burned my eyes, it was so bright. I could not step into it.”
He turned to glance at the urn again, and adjusted its position. “The host, who had been all kindness, became suddenly cold. She told me to leave her house.”
Eliani heard a sharp intake of breath from one of the guardians. Such inhospitality was not in keeping with the creed. If someone was troubled, he should be given help. That was the way they all lived, the way harmony was preserved among the ælven.
“I begged to be allowed to stay until nightfall. She agreed, after some discussion and the gift of one of my best trade stones. When darkness came I left the house, but I knew I could not go home. Others would react the same way that my host had done.”
Inóran paused to poke at the fire, frowning. “In fact, word of my affliction had spread through Woodrun and a small crowd had gathered in the public circle to see me go. They followed me to the edge of the town, all the way to the trade road. By the time I reached it I had made my choice. I turned north, back to Ghlanhras.
“I knew that Othanin had helped others who had been stricken with the curse. I made my way back to the city, sheltering in the darkwood forest during the day. It was—an unpleasant journey.”
He glanced up, meeting Eliani’s gaze for a moment. Her heart went out to him. How terrible it must have been, to realize he had suddenly lost all his former life, that he must walk away from everything he loved.
“I sought a private audience with Othanin, and he heard me. He understood at once, and was all kindness. He gave me a few necessities and told me how to find the Lost. I owe him much gratitude. If I had been alone—”
Inóran stopped abruptly and shook his head, then turned away and began fussing with the fire, adding more wood. Eliani thought she knew what he had been about to say. If he had been alone, he might have sought to end his life.
All were silent. Inóran took the steaming urn off of the coals and added tea leaves from a small pouch. The fragrance of mint rose afresh. He set the urn aside to steep and looked at Eliani.
“Tell me of Davhri. Is she well?”
Eliani pursed her lips, composing her answer carefully. “She lives. She is not ill, but I would not say she is well.”
He frowned. “How do you mean?”
“There is no joy in her life, no gladness. She appears to have abandoned her work. Dejhonan is looking after her; he sends his daughter to help her about the house.”
Inóran’s frown had deepened as Eliani spoke. She leaned toward him.
“Davhri lives in despair but cannot give up hope. Inóran, you must end her misery. Send her word of your situation.”
He sighed. “It would be better if she forgot me.”
“That is foolish. Have you forgotten? Will you ever forget her?”
He looked sharply up at Eliani, then shook his head. He looked almost as miserable as Davhri, she thought. She picked up the pottery cup and turned it in her hand, trying for a lighter tone.
“Besides, you need some new cups. These are wretched. You should ask her to make you a set.”
Inóran laughed in surprise, then dropped his face into his hands with a gasping sob. Eliani put down the cup and reached out to touch his shoulder.
“You are partners.” She remembered the handfasting in Highstone, the ribbons hanging above Davhri’s door. “That has not changed, nor will it.”
“But we cannot live as partners.” He looked up at Eliani, his face grave. “Some of us have been discussing this. I am not the only one here who is handfasted. We have thought that perhaps, in our case, the bond should be dissolved.”
Eliani frowned. “A handfasting is for life.”
“One might say this is a different life. What would you wish, if you were in my place? Would you wish your partner to be free?”
Eliani glanced at the ribbons on her arm. “My situation is somewhat different.”
“But surely you can imagine it. If you became afflicted, and could not return to your partner—”
“Their situation is different.” Vanorin's voice was gruff. “They are mindspeakers.”
Inóran turned a startled face to Eliani. “Mindspeakers?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Inóran’s gaze became sharp and intent. “Have you told your partner you were coming here?”
“I told him Kivhani had offered us shelter, yes.”
“And he knows where you are?”
“Not precisely. He knows we are near Bitterfield.”
“And where is he?”
Eliani misliked the cold suspicion in his voice. Beside her, Vanorin shifted slightly and she sensed his concern.
“He is on his way here, to Fireshore.”
With an army of ælven. Inóran would not have reacted well to that news, she thought. He was gazing at her, doubt writ over his face.
“He would never wish you harm. He supports the idea of the Lost being recognized as a clan.”
“An ælven clan?” Inóran’s eyes widened.
“Yes. That is what Kivhani is discussing now. My father has summoned the Ælven Council to meet at Highstone, and he has invited Kivhani and Othanin to attend.”
Inóran gazed raptly at her, his chest moving deeply with his breath. The idea of possible acceptance was new to him, it seemed. His eyes were sharp with sudden, painful hope.
Eliani leaned toward him. “You live by the creed, yes?”
He nodded. “With all our hearts, as far as we are able.”
“Then you are still ælven. That is my view, at least. We need only convince the Council of it.”
His face fell. “There are too many who despise us.”
“That cannot be so.”
“It is so. Here in Fireshore, we have been hunted by ælven.”
“Hunted!”
Inóran nodded. “In summer a group of us were gathering berries near Darkhollow. We strayed too near the town, and were seen. The townspeople assembled, armed with bows, and fell upon us. Two were slain.”
Eliani caught her breath, aghast. “Did they give no warning?”
“None.” Inóran shook his head sadly. “They thought we were alben.”
Eliani sat up straighter. “That must not happen again. The ælven must be made to understand that you are not alben.”
“It may not be easy to convince them. How are they to know an alben from one of us?”
“Clan colors.” Vanorin shifted on his log. “If you became a clan, and always wore your colors—”
“The alben would adopt them as well.”
Eliani looked at Luruthin, who had hitherto been silent. She had not thought he was following the conversation. The bitterness in his voice troubled her.
“The alben would learn of your clan, and wear your colors to deceive. They care nothing for the creed, only for their own advantage.”
Stark silence followed his words. All knew they were true.
Inóran picked up the urn and filled the pottery cup at Eliani’s feet, then moved on to pour tea for the others. Eliani sipped, feeling dejected. She could not think of a solution to the problem of differentiating the Lost from the alben. Luruthin was right, any sort of marking would quickly be adopted by the alben.
Certain words of greeting, perhaps? Not as useful as something visual, and it was possible the alben would discover them as well. They could be changed from time to time, but getting word of the change out to all the ælven settlements would be problematic.
Eliani sighed and drank her tea in silence, still puzzling at the problem. The Lost needed something that the alben could not, or would not, imitate. She could think of nothing.
She filled the cup again and offered it to Vanorin, who shook his head. Handing the tea to Onami, she moved to the ground and leaned her back against the log, inviting Vanorin with a gesture to join her. He did so, and Eliani shifted her position so that she could reach his wound and place her hands over it once more.
Vanorin’s eyes dropped shut and he sighed deeply as the warmth spread through her hands. She closed her eyes also and concentrated on finding the source of the pain and illness in the wound.
“Inóran, can you bring some strips of clean cloth? I need to wash and bandage this wound.”
“Yes. Hot water as well?”
“If you have it. Otherwise the tea will serve.”
She returned her attention to the healing and was lost for a time, delving into the depth of the wound, feeling a shadow of the pain it caused Vanorin, of the ache of sickness in the flesh. She brought light to it, heat and healing to banish the dark dull soreness. She remained so until a sharp crack from the fire startled her into drawing back.
Blinking, disoriented, she saw Inóran sitting nearby, watching. Three small strips of cloth lay across his lap, and he had poured some of the tea into a small bowl. Eliani reached for the bowl, and held out her hand for the cloth.
“You are a healer as well.”
“A poor one. My gift is not trained.”
She put a strip of cloth into the bowl and set it down while she carefully removed Vanorin’s leather arm piece and untied the old bandage from the wound on the underside of his arm. He winced as she pulled it away. He had tied it on just after leaving Ghlanhras, and ignored it thereafter. An unwholesome smell arose from the bandage. Eliani threw it into the fire.
As gently as she could, she bathed the wound. Vanorin held still, but she knew from his khi that she was hurting him. She knew also that she must clean the wound as thoroughly as possible, so she gritted her teeth, poured more tea over the cloth, and pressed it deep into the cut. Vanorin inhaled sharply.
“Forgive me. My clumsy fingers.”
He made no answer, nor any further sound as he stood her ministrations. At last she was satisfied that the wound was clean. She laid her hand over it, seeking the darkness that had festered there. The dull ache had turned to a brighter pain, but the darkness was gone.
She bound the wound with another strip of cloth. Inóran carefully folded the third strip and took it away. Cloth must be precious to the Lost, Eliani thought as she watched him go into a shelter. They would have no means of making it themselves. As often as they moved, they could keep nothing so large as a loom.
She placed her hands on Vanorin’s arm again and sent healing into the wound. He sighed deeply. A flicker of something went through his khi—regret? Longing? It was gone at once, and Eliani chose to ignore it. She stayed as she was until the heat faded from her palms, then sat back and collected the bowl and the soiled cloth she had used to clean the wound. She was about to throw that on the fire also, then glanced at Inóran. He held out his hand.
“I will wash it.”
She handed it and the bowl to him, then took back the empty cup from Onami and poured fresh tea into it, offering it to Vanorin. He took it with a small smile.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“You are welcome.”
His gaze held hers over the cup, and Eliani felt a different kind of warmth in it, a warmth that brought heat into her cheeks. Vanorin looked away, down at the cup, and then sipped. Eliani gazed into the fire, reflecting that some wounds could never be healed.