Heart of the Exiled (30 page)

Feeling awkward, Eliani held her hands out above the ankle, not touching it for fear of hurting Verashi. She might have a gift, but she had no training in the healer’s art, which involved knowledge of the flesh as much as application of khi.

Spirits, help me. Give me guidance
.

She lowered her hands to within a handspan of Verashi’s foot, and heat bloomed in her palms. In her mind a phantom image of the foot began to take shape. Dull red surrounded it, with dark shards of pain leaping up at any small movement. Eliani’s instinct was to draw away, but instead she shifted her attention past the darkness, closer to the flesh.

She sensed throbbing in Verashi’s khi, a heartbeat with which the pain swelled and ebbed. The khi that moved through her own hands was steady, golden and warm. She watched it spread around the foot and begin to dissipate the cloud of pain.

Closer still, her attention focused down into the flesh itself, exploring structure, seeking damage. Eliani did not see so much as sense the swollen tissue, the strained tendon, and the bruised muscle. Bones seemed like pearly sculpture, columns and arches and other wondrous shapes, beautiful in their fragile strength. Those in the ankle were sound, but an angry red spike of trouble rose from one of the long bones in the foot.

Eliani focused her attention there and perceived a crack marring the ivory length of bone nearest the outside of the foot. She directed khi to it and saw the red soften.

She stayed there, observing as the khi that flowed through her hands blended with Verashi’s khi, smoothing it, dissolving pain, easing fear. At length her hands grew cool again. She withdrew them and opened her eyes, blinking.

Golden firelight flickered against the stone cliff, glinting in the falling water and on the ripples of the pool. Eliani sat back, surprised at the stiffness in her shoulders and legs. She had been at this longer than she had realized.

“I think you have cracked a bone, just here.” Eliani gestured to the outer side of Verashi’s foot. “You will have to ride henceforth. One of the packhorses can carry you.”

Verashi sighed and nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Please, not ‘my lady.’ Vanorin is spreading bad habits.”

A chuckle behind her made her turn. Beyond the fire Vanorin sat watching, along with Sunahran, who appeared highly amused. His smile faded to seriousness under Eliani’s gaze.

“Thank you, Eliani.” Vanorin nodded gravely as he spoke.

She became aware of the others in the glen. It was fully dark now, but the stars glimmered in a clear sky. Two other fires had been built, and the guardians were gathered around them, talking in quiet voices, sharing food. A spit over one fire held a skinned coney, and several guardians had speared apples—the parting gift of Althill’s folk—on sharpened twigs and propped them over the flames.

Eliani ignored her stomach’s growl in response to the tang of roasting apples, for she had noticed that some of the guardians around the fires had wet hair. Thus reminded of the hot spring, she turned back to Verashi with a brisk smile.

“Well, now. You will feel better yet after bathing. Vanorin, perhaps you and Sunahran could help her to the springs? I believe it is not far.”

Sunahran stood. “Not far at all. I walked up to see. I would be happy to help Verashi go there.”

“And I will help you bathe.”

Verashi glanced doubtfully at her injured foot. “I do not think I can get the boot off.”

Eliani nodded. “It will have to be cut.”

“I can fashion a lacing to bind it back together.”

Sunahran’s offer made Verashi smile. He and Vanorin together helped her stand and hop one-footed toward the springs. Eliani brought Verashi’s saddle pack and also a pot of soap and a spare tunic and legs from her own pack.

Wisps of steam rose from the broad, shallow pool. Several guardians were relaxing there, but they moved to make room for the newcomers. Eliani smiled her thanks, then directed Vanorin and Sunahran to ease Verashi down beside the pool.

Vanorin drew a small knife, with which he made a long cut down the outside of Verashi’s boot; then he carefully removed it from the injured foot. Verashi winced and gripped Sunahran’s supporting arms rather fiercely but made no cry. Eliani shooed the males away and helped Verashi undress, then shucked her own leathers and clothes and carefully eased Verashi into the pool.

Verashi hissed as her foot went into the hot water, then gave a long sigh. “Thank you, my—Eliani.”

Eliani smiled, reaching for the pot of soap she had left at the pool’s edge. “You are welcome. Let me wash the dust out of your hair.”

Dust and matted blood. Eliani eased her fingers through the tangles and gently sought for cuts as she rubbed the herbal soap into Verashi’s scalp. She found one small one—Verashi winced when she touched it—but most of the guardian’s injuries seemed to be bruises. Eliani was silently thankful it was not worse.

She looked across the pool, where Vanorin, Sunahran, and Luruthin all sat in the water, pretending not to watch. She called to them.

“I think it would be best if Verashi returned to Althill with Ghithlaran.”

Verashi seemed relieved. “Yes. I fear I would not be of much use to you now.”

“You will be of considerable use to me by going with Ghithlaran. Keep him out of mischief, see him home.”

An injured guardian was not ideal protection for a youth of thirty, but Verashi could at least talk him out of doing anything idiotic. She was pretty enough that Ghithlaran probably would listen. He might even be inspired to a mood of protectiveness.

Eliani looked at Vanorin almost as an afterthought. “If this meets your approval, Captain.”

“And if it does not?”

Eliani felt herself blushing but held on to her dignity. “I would hear your alternative suggestion, of course.”

Vanorin chuckled. “I do approve.”

Relieved, Eliani washed her own hair, then emerged from the water, quickly dressing. She helped Verashi out of the pool and into her clothes, then bundled the guardian’s cloak around her. This time again it was Sunahran who supported Verashi, and he had found a branch for her to use as a crutch. By the time they reached camp, the two of them were talking in soft voices.

Eliani watched Sunahran tenderly help Verashi sit down by one of the fires. It was clear that the injured guardian would not lack a comforting embrace tonight.

Suddenly lonely, Eliani turned away and saw Luruthin also watching the two Greenglens, his damp hair loose about his shoulders. He met her gaze and smiled in commiseration. He was bound, too, and also far from his love.

Eliani went to her saddle pack to put away her jar of soap. A cloth-wrapped bundle, small and slim, caught her eye. She hesitated, then took it out and carried it to the nearest fire. Sitting across from Luruthin, she untied the ribbon and carefully unwrapped the blue cloth from a small reed flute.

“Turisan gave you that.”

Eliani nodded as she draped the cloth around her shoulders to keep the cold air off her neck. The flute had been a gift on the day of her confirmation, when she had been acknowledged not only as a full adult but as nextkin to her father and governor-elect of Alpinon. It was for that occasion that Turisan had first come to Highstone, representing Governor Jharan, who had sent with him a rich gift for Eliani of a brooch in the shape of two stags, gilt and set with jewels in Stonereach colors.

The brooch was back in Glenhallow with the rest of her finery. The flute had been Turisan’s own gift. She treasured it more, though she had not yet played it beyond trying a note or two.

She held it in her hands, feeling the quiet glow of khi within it. Turisan had made it, she knew. His khi suffused it. Once that had frightened her; now it was a comfort.

She raised the flute to her lips, knowing its smooth surface had rested on his own lips. Closing her eyes, she blew a note, low and soft. It seemed mournful.

She let a melody rise, her fingers moving without conscious thought, following something her heart wanted to say for which there were no words. She filled her lungs and breathed her love and loneliness into the flute. She had hope, which softened the song and kept it from becoming bitter. She had courage,
drawn in part from Turisan and her awareness of his love. She let the tune build upon that, rise and become stronger, the clear notes ringing in the night air.

Behind them the little waterfall played counterpoint, quiet and constant. The last note of the melody seemed to hang in the air, ringing softly until it faded into the trees.

And Turisan was there. She felt him and offered a wordless welcome. His love enfolded her in return.

I heard your song, my love. It was beautiful
.

She smiled softly and opened her eyes. Luruthin was watching, his expression tender. So were all the others, she saw. Dark eyes and green eyes gazed at her in silence. The only sounds were the water’s murmur and the crackling of the fires.

She lowered the flute to her lap. As if released by her movement, the others looked away, began to speak in quiet tones, reached for cups, and wrapped their cloaks closer. Luruthin smiled at her, then glanced at the fire, picking up a twig to toy with the coals.

How is it that you heard?

I do not know. Perhaps because the music came from your heart
.

Her fingers tightened on the flute.
I miss you
.

And I you, love. Did you reach the pass?

Oh. Yes, after a slight misadventure
.

She told him of the trail’s collapse, of Verashi’s fall and her decision to send the guardian back to Althill. Somewhat shyly, she added a brief description of her effort to heal Verashi’s injury and how she had sensed the damaged bone.

She wrapped the flute up again, tying it with the violet ribbon, wondering why she had chosen to cover it in Stonereach colors. Clinging to her past, perhaps? Or claiming Turisan’s handiwork as her own?

She lay down beside the fire, pillowing her head on her pack, holding the bundled flute in her hands. As she watched the flames dance above the coals, her mind drifted in Turisan’s warm embrace as her flesh rested from the day’s efforts.

Turisan stood with his back to the mountains, gazing up at the massive earthwork that had been his father’s first accomplishment as governor of Southfæld. Though it had long been neglected, High Holding was still impressive.

Built of unmortared stone and earth, forbidding despite being overgrown with weeds and grass, High Holding spanned the width of a flat bluff at the foot of the mountains, straddling the trail that rose to Midrange Pass. Heavy iron gates in the center of the work—gates that had always stood open in Turisan’s memory—had now, with some effort, been shut across the trail. Midrange Pass was closed to travelers.

To the west of High Holding a narrow, flat plain was bordered on the south by a steep drop to the valley floor and on the north by the Silverwash, falling in a cascade that was almost as high as the Three Shades. The ends of the work were crumbling but still barred passage. The gate was the only way through.

Turisan looked over his shoulder at Midrange Peak, its snowy slopes gilded by the westering sun, the trail through the pass a gray shadow against gold-white. His gaze dropped to the conces set in long arcs west of the earthwork, their line echoing its curve. Long shadows
reached from them toward High Holding. They were for the warriors of Eastfæld who had fought in the Midrange War, those Ehranan had commanded. They had driven the kobalen back through the pass before going south to relieve the besieged guardians at Skyruach.

Dirovon appeared at the top of the work. Turisan climbed up the steep slope of the earthwork to join him. Loose stone shifted beneath his feet. It was an awkward climb even without archers raining arrows down from the top of the work.

Dirovon nodded in greeting as Turisan reached him. “Not so very bad, eh? We will have to shore up the ends. It would be simple to repair if it were not quite so … large.”

“The masons have found the quarry and say there is plenty more stone to be taken from it. The recruits can help.”

“Ah, yes. Good training for them.” Dirovon chuckled. “Perhaps you will do me the favor of issuing the order yourself before you ride back to Glenhallow.”

Turisan narrowed his eyes. “You anticipate a poor reaction when city-bred recruits are asked to haul stone?”

Dirovon shrugged, grinning. Turisan looked back at the peaks, his mood not suited to banter.

“I will give the order. It was my decision.”

They were silent for a moment, then Dirovon gave a quiet cough. “Do you ride south at once?”

“In the morning.”

“Aye. Get a good rest and start early.” Dirovon nodded and shifted from foot to foot. “Are we finished here? There is a fire at the camp, and that Filari has a way with spiced wine.”

Turisan glanced toward the camp and beyond it eastward. Across the river, situated in the woods at the foot
of a lesser, hook-shaped bluff, was a small outpost maintained by Southfæld’s Guard, overlooking the ford where the trade road crossed the Silverwash.