Heart of the Exiled (45 page)

Her glance fell upon a tall wardrobe of darkwood. She tossed her sword onto the bedstead, then pulled at the wardrobe, tugging it away from the wall. Though empty, it was heavy. She toppled it and wedged it between the table and the bed.

The door handle moved, then the door banged against the table. Eliani gave a small, startled cry. She was trapped, cornered like a cat in its lair. They would take her, but not without a fight. She retrieved her sword and held it before her in trembling hands, watching as the door shook beneath repeated blows.

A small sob escaped her. She wondered if they had killed Luruthin. The thought tore at her heart, and she gasped.

“Oh, spirits!”

Eliani!

Oh, love! Alben—

I know. Do not give up. I am with you
.

Warmth flooded her, Turisan’s love, lending her strength. It steadied her. Wiping at her eyes, she looked desperately around the room for something, anything to give her an advantage. There was nothing in it but the table, a chair, the bed, and the wardrobe. Nothing hanging on the walls and only a small unlit lamp suspended from the ceiling by a slender chain.

She could make a weapon of that, perhaps. If there was oil in it, maybe she could set a fire. Only if she got out to the passage and could reach one of the torches.

The door shuddered as heavier, regular blows began to hammer against it. Eliani scrambled onto the
wardrobe and caught at the lamp’s chain. She tugged, but it was hung from a metal loop embedded in the darkwood ceiling. She pulled harder, sobbing with anger and frustration. The chain broke, and the lamp fell to the floor with a clatter.

Useless. It was useless. She had only her sword and could not stand against the many alben now shouting outside the door.

Gasping, she looked wildly around. Her gaze fell on the filigree latticework covering the high window. The panel was narrow, but she might be able to squeeze through.

Yes. Try it
.

She jumped down from the wardrobe and dragged the chair over to the wall beneath the window. Standing on the chair, she could just reach the panel and saw that it was hinged at the bottom and secured by two small latches at its top edge. She pushed them aside, and the top of the panel dropped toward her, a small chain at either side supporting it.

It was carved into filigree, but it was still darkwood. She hoped that it was yet strong enough to support her and that the hinges would not give beneath her weight.

A loud splintering told her the table was breaking. The door opened a crack, and the shouting beyond it grew louder.

Eliani fetched her sword, shoved it through the open panel onto the roof, and grabbed at the carved wood, her fingers breaking through the fragile fabric behind it. She hauled herself up, scrabbling to get a leg onto the panel. It creaked with her weight.

The hammering at the door increased. Eliani’s foot slipped on the darkwood. She kicked off her slipper and tried again, bare toes clinging to the wood. Pulling with both arms and one leg, she managed to scramble
onto the panel and then roll out of the window and onto the roof.

She stood on a strange terraced landscape of gentle slopes and filigreed panels. Many were dark, but some glowed with light, and uneven torchlight flickered behind others.

The shouts and hammering below her were strangely muted. Over them she could hear the furtive sounds of the forest.

Hurry, love. They will not be far behind
.

Yes
.

She caught up her sword, kicked off her remaining slipper, and ran lightly along the roof. Slate tiles were cool underfoot despite the warm night. She followed the row of filigreed panels that defined the bedchamber she had escaped from and its neighbors. Above, a higher row of larger panels glowed with light. She slowed, remembering the shape of the audience hall. Someone was there now, and she doubted it was Othanin.

“Oh, spirits.”

Eliani—

I have to see
.

She climbed onto the next tier of the roof and silently approached the nearest large panel. She put her ear to it to listen and heard many voices, murmuring here rather than shouting. Slowly, cautiously, she worked at the silk covering, which time and exposure had made fragile, making a small hole through which she could see the chamber below. What she saw chilled her blood, and she almost cried out.

The chamber was now lit by bright torchlight, and alben stood within, a hundred or more, with their hair glowing pale against the darkwood. Near the five
chairs of state stood a female cloaked in black and red, Darkshore colors.

Shalár!

What?

The alben leader. Kelevon told me of her
.

Eliani gazed down at the female, whose face was cold and stern. Her white hair was pulled back into a hunter’s braid. At her feet, bound with black nets, were several ælven.

Luruthin! Oh, spirits!

He was there, on his knees, alive if somewhat battered. His head was bowed, and his arms were bound behind him. Sprawled beside him, apparently unconscious, was Othanin.

Eliani bit her lip to keep from calling out to them. She wanted to scream with frustration.

You cannot help them. Not alone
.

I will not leave them!

Get to Vanorin. He and the others will help you
.

Eliani stifled a sob. The alben leader, Shalár, reached down and caught Luruthin’s chin in her hand, forcing his head up. A cruel smile formed on her lips, and Eliani could scarcely contain her rage.

Get away, Eliani. Get to safety
.

She gasped as she tore herself away from the window. She could hear shouting again from the wing where she had crawled onto the roof and more somewhere out in the city. Slinking low, she darted east, away from the guest chambers and from the exposed public circle. She dropped down one tier of the roof, then another.

Reaching the eastern edge of the hall, she saw that an avenue ran between it and the nearest houses. The distance was too great for her to jump across. There
were gardens, though. One house had its private garden bordered with trellises of grapevines and berry canes. She glanced behind her, hearing sounds of pursuit on the roof.

She tossed her sword down into the garden, then leapt after it, landing hard and rolling to lessen the impact. She got to her feet and picked up the sword, then hurried toward a small archway between the house and its neighbor. She passed through and out into the street beyond.

There were no lighted windows that she could see. She had no time to wonder if Vanorin, too, had been captured or to search for citizens who might have escaped the alben. She had to get out of the city at once. She paused, struggling to catch her breath and to think through the panic that gripped her.

Get away from there, Eliani. I will come to you
.

She laughed under her breath.
It is a trifle far, my love
.

I will come
.

The devotion behind that ludicrous pledge steadied her. She looked up and down the street, and when certain it was empty she ran across and between the next row of houses. The city gate was likely to be watched, but perhaps the alben had not had time to set a guard all along the wall.

Anger and sorrow welled within her. She fought them back, striving to think clearly. A pity she had no idea where Othanin’s stables were. She pressed on, crossing street after street on her way toward the black wall.

Turisan watched helplessly through Eliani’s eyes as she darted through the streets of Ghlanhras. His face was molded in a scowl of concentration, and he
scarcely dared to breathe. So present was he in Ghlanhras that the sensations of his own flesh were muted, distant. It was some moments before he came to the hazy realization that someone was talking to him.

“Please, my lord!”

Turisan opened his eyes, blinking at the wavering firelight of the camp. The nearest fire had fallen to coals, its heat barely reaching him as he leaned against the cliff wall. Willow Bend was a haven his little column had been glad to reach. It meant they were but three or four days from Glenhallow.

“Not now.”

“But my lord, the wagons have come!”

“Wagons?”

Eliani had ducked behind a large building, a crafthall, perhaps. She must have seen or heard something and gone into hiding. Turisan wanted to stay with her, but the driver would not leave him alone.

“—from Glenhallow, my lord! Please, I was sent to bring you at once.”

“Where is he?” A more strident voice reached them from downhill.

Turisan looked up. “Father?”

He let Eliani go for the moment. Jharan came striding toward him, dressed for riding, eyes intense and his hasty footsteps grinding against the sandy packed earth of the camp. Turisan struggled to his feet, just in time to be caught in his father’s tight embrace.

“W-what are you doing here?”

Jharan held him at arm’s length, gazing at him with eyes filled with concern. “I have brought wagons to carry your wounded back to Glenhallow.”

“But—”

“When I heard you were wounded, I could no
longer stay.” Jharan lowered his voice. “I could not wait patiently in Hallowhall while you struggled homeward.”

“It is only a scratch. Thorian was to tell you so.”

“He did.” Jharan lifted his hand from Turisan’s right shoulder, laid it gently over the sling for a moment, then touched Turisan’s cheek. “I used to rail against Turon for risking himself and all his nextkin at Skyruach instead of staying in Glenhallow. Now I know why he did it. Staying behind is much harder.”

Turisan felt an echo of the feeling behind his father’s words. The burden of responsibility was writ all through Jharan’s khi. Ordinarily he did not let it show, but the care and worry in his face betrayed feelings he usually kept hidden.

“You are safe now.” Jharan smiled softly. “At first light we shall start for Glenhallow.”

“Not I, Father. I ride north.”

Jharan’s smile faded. “Do not be foolish. You can do nothing at Midrange.”

“Not to Midrange. To Fireshore. Eliani needs me.”

“She has her escort—”

“No, Father.”

Turisan closed his eyes briefly to see where Eliani was. She had emerged from hiding and was once more prowling through Ghlanhras. He opened his eyes again and looked at his father, who was frowning. He frowned back.

“She is alone. The escort—I have much to tell you. Let us take counsel together now, and in the morning I will ride. I need only a fresh horse and a satchel of food.”

“My son—”

“Hear what I have to say.”

Jharan gazed at him, dark eyes troubled, frowning in concern. “What has happened?”

Turisan glanced at the driver, who was waiting a few paces away. Beyond him the rest of the camp was also watching. He leaned close to his father, placing his good hand on Jharan’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear.

“The alben have returned to Fireshore.”

Rephanin had become the battle. His memories of himself were distant, vague, hidden beyond the barrier that kept him from feeling the anguish that churned in Midrange Valley. He had no thoughts save for the commands that passed through him and the occasional pleas for aid that came back from some desperate captain watching his warriors fall and die.

Death was merely an ache to Rephanin now. The army was his body, and when Ehranan told him to move an arm, he did so. A hundred warriors shifting to fill a gap in the shield line. Two hundred rested guardians returning, taking the place of others who were spent.

Some died, an ache, a discomfort to the body, but the body lived on. The constant shifting and reacting to the flow of the battle were natural to him now, easy to understand and even to anticipate. With the omniscience of khi he saw a weakness developing near the river, where water lapped at the feet of the ælven on the shield line.

He had abandoned words—he now understood Davharin’s difficulty with them—but he focused a pulse of bright khi toward Ehranan and drew his attention to the trouble. Ehranan responded at once.

Forunan, move your company to the right! Avhlorin
,
send some of your reserves to clear that blockage in the river—stop the flooding
.