The Betrayal (12 page)

“Where did you take them? In Fireshore?”

Irith shook his head. “We were on our way there and had just crossed the Ebons when we came upon these encamped near Hunter's Pass. Their horses took fright and bolted.”

The ælven were somewhat battered by their journey but all in good health. Shalár could taste their khi in the air, so vital it was. Five were Greenglens and bore the gear of Southfæld Guards save for the weapons of which they had been relieved. A sixth wore simple riding leathers and had the wild hair and sun-gilt skin of a Steppegard.

Irith brought forward their swords and bowed as he presented them to Shalár. The swords alone were of high value, for none among her people could make them. She had metal-smiths but no sword-smiths, and these blades were mountain-forged.

She walked around the small cluster of ælven, observing them. “What have you learned from them?”

“Very little, Bright Lady. They are reluctant to talk, but we found this on one of them.”

He handed her a folded and sealed parchment. Shalár turned it over in her hands, keeping half an eye on the captives to see their reaction. They seemed dispirited but not alarmed. Either the missive was not precious or they were resigned to its loss.

She tore open the seal and read a formal invitation from the governor of Southfæld to the governor of Fireshore to attend a meeting of the Ælven Council in Glenhallow. For a moment she was tempted to turn to her table and pen a response, sending back an acceptance under her signature as the true governor of Fireshore. She relished the thought briefly, then
dismissed it. That would be a foolish waste of this interesting message.

So Southfæld was summoning a Council? That had not occurred in several centuries so far as she knew. Interesting, and possibly troublesome. She must think on how to turn it to her advantage.

Leaving the letter on the arm of her chair, she descended to inspect the captives. The Steppegard and four of the Greenglens were male. The one female was somewhat weather-worn but looked healthy. She might breed well.

“Which of them bore the letter?”

Irith indicated one of the Greenglen males. Shalár walked up to the ælven and took his chin in one hand. He pulled away, and the flash of defiance in his eyes moved her to punish him.

She struck out with khi, and the Greenglen flinched, crying out in surprise and pain. Shalár let his response ripple through the khi of the others in the chamber, then put her hand to the Greenglen male's throat and enwrapped him with her own khi, cutting him off from the others.

His eyes went wide with dismay as she began to drink of his khi, drawing it through her palm. She took her time, slowly savoring his strength, aware that the others were watching intently.

When the Greenglen's legs would no longer support him, she released him. He dropped to his knees, gasping.

Much refreshed, Shalár stepped toward the next captive, who cringed away from her. She merely smiled at him and walked on.

She would try the males, each in turn, and if they were all unsuccessful, she would give them over to the females in her guard and thereafter make them available to any female citizen of Nightsand desiring to
breed out to an ælven. Perhaps she would even offer an incentive for conception, as she had just done with that poor starving farmer.

The female she would breed more selectively, sending Dareth to her before any others. Perhaps Irith would be next.

If these six all bred successfully—highly unlikely but possible—six more children would be born in the next year. Not enough to reverse Darkshore's decline, but a beginning. It would be more important as a means of inspiring hope, a herald of greater changes to come. If even one child were conceived—

“Bright Lady?”

She glanced up at the ælven who had dared to speak to her. It was the Steppegard. He tossed his head in an effort to get his wildly curling hair out of his eyes.

Shalár came toward him and reached up to push the curls behind his ears. He did not draw back. Impressive after the demonstration she had just made with his comrade, who was still on his knees. The Steppegard's skin felt warm and smooth, his curling golden-brown hair silky, his khi sharp with the tang of danger, but with only a hint of fear's bitterness. He actually leaned toward her to whisper.

“I have no allegiance with these others, nor any importance in my homeland. I can be no use to you. Let me go free.”

Shalár was amused at his daring. “Why were you traveling with Southfæld Guards?”

“We fell in together by chance on the trade road.”

“You were going to Fireshore?”

“Bringing horses down to winter pasture.”

“Ah.”

His golden eyes pleaded along with his words. “I am useless to you, but if you free me, I will act in your ser -vice.”

Shalár gave a soft laugh. “Be of use to me, and perchance I
will
set you free.”

A spark of hope lit his eyes, and he took a half step toward her. “How?”

“Get a child on a female of my people. I will even offer you several to choose from.”

His face fell into a frown. “That is a jest in poor taste.”

“It is no jest.”

This new group of ælven, though small, represented the best new hope for children that her people had known in centuries. Perhaps she would try this one first, with his wild hair and desperation to be free.

She would not free him, of course, even if he did conceive. Especially if he conceived, for if he was fruitful, he would be all the more valuable to her.

A small movement at the side of the chamber drew her attention. Dareth had returned. She glanced over at him, saw the look of resignation on his face.

No doubt he guessed her intentions. He disliked her frequent attempts to conceive with anyone who might prove potent, but as he himself had failed her in that effort, he had no grounds for complaint. Silent and patient but jealous, her Dareth. She wondered how long he had been standing there.

She looked back at the captive before her. “Why should I trust you, Steppegard?”

“I have a name.”

“You do not need it here.”

He might never need it again. She had not bothered to learn the names of her other captives. Laughing softly at his annoyance, she turned away.

“Take them to the pens.”

Shalár returned to her chair, lounging back in it as she watched the captives being taken away. The Steppegard would not move at first and continued to stare at
her as the hunters pushed him ungently toward the entrance.

Yes, she would try him first, she decided. But let him have a taste of the pens before she bedded him in more comfortable circumstances. It might make him more willing to talk about Fireshore.

Some nights later, Shalár raised her head at the sound of a knock on her chamber door. She slid off her bed and flipped the folds of her robe to cover her legs.

“Enter.”

Two guards came in with the Steppegard captive between them. His hands again were bound behind his back, though he had been given the freedom of them in his cell in the pens and had taken advantage of the opportunity to wash himself. He wore the legs of his leathers but only a linen shirt above them. No doubt the walk from the pens had made him cold.

“Leave him.”

“As you will, Bright Lady. We shall be within call.”

She watched the Steppegard from where she stood until they withdrew. He gazed back at her silently, seeming unafraid, waiting.

When the door was shut, she came toward him, looking him over appraisingly. She fingered the cloth of his shirt and found that it was finely woven, more finely than anything Nightsand's weavers could produce.

“You are not so poor a creature as you would have me think. This is no herder's clothing.”

“I never claimed poverty. I did not speak of my fortunes when I told you I was insignificant.”

“Speak of them now, then. What are you?”

“I raise horses.”

“Ah, yes. Winter pasture.”

Shalár found the air in her chamber a trifle cold. She
strolled to the hearth, added wood to the fire, and shut the screen once more. The Steppegard had not moved.

“Come over here. It is warmer.”

He obeyed after the slightest hesitation. Shalár sat down in a cushioned chair and regarded him.

“Why were you traveling with Southfæld Guards?”

“We met by chance, as I told you.”

“Did they tell you of their errand?”

He looked at her in surprise, then glanced downward. Deciding, no doubt, whether to answer her would be a betrayal of his chance companions.

“They were messengers to the governor of Fireshore. I do not know the nature of the message.”

“And your winter pastures are in Fireshore? For your paths lay the same way.”

A reluctant smile pulled at a corner of his mouth. “One of them took an interest in a horse of mine. I hoped to trade it.”

“Ah. I see.”

“I cannot tell you anything of their errand, Bright Lady. They did not speak of it to me.”

“What can you tell me of Fireshore?”

His brow creased with confusion. “Fireshore?”

“When were you last there?”

“In the summer.”

“Selling horses?”

He shook his head. “Managing a trade caravan. I provided the horses.”

“You do so often?”

“Now and again. How does this help you, Bright Lady?”

“Poorly, so far.” Shalár shifted in her chair, leaning back. “How fared the folk in Ghlanhras when you were there in summer?”

“We did not go to Ghlanhras. Only to Bitterfield.”

Shalár suppressed impatience. “How fares Bitter-field, then?”

“Prosperously enough. We traded hides and balm-leaf for sunfruit and darkwood.”

“Does the city grow?”

He tilted his head slightly as he gazed at her. “Yes. Slowly, but it grows.”

Shalár stood up and moved toward the hearth, turning her back on him. It was a waste of effort, perhaps, to question him. He was unlikely to provide her with any useful knowledge. Unfortunate, for unlike the Greenglens, he seemed willing to answer questions. If he knew anything of importance, though, she guessed he would have offered to share it.

“Do you travel to all the ælven realms?”

“At one time or another, yes.”

“Tell me something useful.”

“Useful?”

He was silent for a moment. Shalár turned around, expecting to see him defiant, and instead saw him frowning in thought.

“One of Ælvanen's kin-clans is contemplating withdrawing from Eastfæld to create a colony on the southern coast. They are negotiating with Southfæld for a grant of land. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”

“That sort of thing, yes.”

She did not know how useful this particular bit of news would be beyond its indication that Eastfæld still prospered. No surprise, that.

The Steppegard's eyes grew narrow. “The governor of Alpinon will have named his daughter his nextkin by now.”

“You know Alpinon's governor?”

“Somewhat.”

The Steppegard's khi darkened as he stared unseeing
toward the hearth. Shalár found this intriguing. The succession of Alpinon was of little interest to her, but it appeared to mean something to this captive. She moved up beside him, watching his face closely.

“What is Alpinon to you, Steppegard?”

His glance flicked toward her, then away again. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Shalár's lips curved in a sly smile. “I believe that is the first falsehood you have told me. How interesting.”

He held silent. Shalár decided it was time to remind him of his position. She stepped to him and took hold of his collar with both hands, feeling the softness of the linen.

“Yes, this is a very fine shirt. These are well made also.”

She let her hand stray to the supple leather covering his legs. He started slightly as her fingers brushed his thighs, then drifted upward. The darkness in his khi bled away, replaced by wonder, anticipation, and a tinge of fear.

Shalár smiled and pressed her hand against him, feeling the immediate response of his flesh. With her other hand she pulled loose the tie of her robe, allowing him a glimpse of her pale bosom.

She looked up and saw his eyes widen. Sliding a hand around his elbow, she led him to her bed. There she turned him around, unlaced his leather legs, and pushed them down to his knees. Pressing her hands against his shoulders, she obliged him to sit down atop the furs.

He gazed up at her, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. “I can better plea sure you with my hands free.”

Shalár smiled as she removed her robe and set it aside. “It is not plea sure I want from you.”

She pushed him onto his back and mounted him, settling herself upon him with care so as to urge her
body to open completely. He squirmed beneath her, trying to make his arms comfortable.

“Be still.” She set her hand to his neck to give him a warning pulse of khi.

The startled look in his eyes told her he understood, and he fell still. She moved her hand up to touch his hair, feeling it curl around her fingers. Then she leaned both hands against his shoulders as she slowly rode him, willing herself with each stroke to open, open and receive a child.