Alliances

The young guard smiled. “Lord Olin wants to know who to blame for the escape. In the tower questions are answered quickly or not at all.”

“Leave them alone! Tell him it was me!”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” Laughing, the bandit moved away. Nothing she said mattered. None of the guards believed her.

Only the young one would even speak to her, and then only to make obscene suggestions. The distant screams continued intermittently.

Some time later, a sharp rap on the cell door jolted her awake. She didn’t know how long she’d dozed, but the young guard’s laughter brought her quickly to her feet.

“It appears you weren’t lying. They both admitted you planned the whole thing.” He shook his head, grinning appreciatively. “You’re a firebrand.”

“What has happened to them?”

“Oh, they’re dead. Believe me, they’re lucky. For you, it won’t be so quick.” She did not ask what he meant, but he volunteered the information anyway. “You’re to be executed, as a warning to other would-be rebels. Day after tomorrow.” He walked away.

Sick with guilt and helpless fury, Kerian slid to the floor.

Chapter 5

The cemetery outside Gateway lay between two hills, hidden from the lights of town and the traffic on the coast road. The vale was low and boggy, so the graves were built above-ground. Bathed in starlight, they stood like ordered blocks of ice, white and polished. Most were unadorned stone boxes, but a few elaborate mausoleums bore the names of families long important in the province.

Like the nation itself, the cemetery had fallen on hard times. Weeds sprouted around the foundations of the monuments. Grass grew knee high and choked the pathways. Vines girded graves great and humble. Here and there, the stone boxes had collapsed from weather or the attentions of grave robbers. The broken graves were quickly claimed by weeds. Cemeteries were melancholy places in the best of times. The one outside Gateway was a somber testament to the tragedy of a nation.

Standing alone on one of the overgrown paths was a figure draped in a long linen duster. She stepped from the deep shade of an obelisk and starlight washed her pale features in cool radiance. Her face might have graced an elegant statue atop one of the finer monuments. Her astonishing beauty overlaid by deep pain, Alhana Starbreeze was the living embodiment of mourning.

The whir of a nightjar made her start. Then a figure, cloaked and hooded like herself, emerged from the grass-choked side path.

“What word?” she murmured.

The newcomer drew back his cowl, revealing a lean countenance, almond-shaped eyes, and a high, pale forehead. Like Alhana, Samar was a Silvanesti. There was a glint of iron at his throat, a warrior’s gorget.

“Nothing to confirm the rumors, lady, but nothing to disprove them either.”

The line of her jaw hardened. Every day she lingered in this land was dangerous and expensive. Danger she could bear, but there was little she could do to lessen the drain on her slender purse.

She asked no more questions, preferring to hear Samar’s full report when they rejoined their party. They mounted their waiting horses and, with Alhana in the lead, left the deserted cemetery.

Samar followed three steps behind, as he felt was proper. Long acquaintance allowed him to recognize his lady’s disappointment. Hope had buoyed her for a while, and she’d had precious little of it lately, but she was coming to realize the folly of the dream she chased.

Her only child, on whom she’d placed her hopes for the future of the elf nation, had been taken from her. No hero’s death, nor even a worthy one, had been granted Silvanoshei. He had died a dupe, killed by the woman he loved, the false prophet of a dark deity. Porthios, the husband Alhana had married for duty but come to love, was gone as well, killed in the same war that had claimed their son. Blasted from the sky by a dragon’s fiery breath, his had been a magnificent end for a warrior and a king. The crime, Samar thought, was that Alhana could not accept that her husband was dead. His griffon’s incinerated body had been found, but its rider never was. From that slim hope, Alhana had built the fantasy that her husband might still live.

Their homeland was despoiled, their people scattered, but she would not give up the search. A resurrected husband might be too much of a miracle, but at the very least she intended to find his remains and see him properly interred. However, Alhana had not come to the long-unused cemetery to find Porthios’s grave. Rumors had reached, even her in exile, of a mysterious leader who was forging the few remaining elves of Qualinesti into a rebellion. The old cemetery served as a private place to wait while Samar ventured into Gateway to gather what information he could about the budding revolt and its mastermind. Silent as a ghost, Alhana walked among the forgotten dead, waiting for word of her lost husband.