When the touch of a hand and a caring thought create a psychic bond that can span vast distances, the lives of two young ælven strangers are forever changed.  Turisan and Eliani share the legendary gift of mindspeech, which can aid their people on the eve of war—but only if they are willing to embrace an irrevocable intimacy. 

The Betrayal, available in print, ebook, and Kindle now from Del Rey Books.  Learn more at http://aelven.com.

Excerpt from The Betrayal copyright © 2008 by Pati Nagle and Del Rey Books. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author. Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for personal use.

“I hope you will stay with us some few days, Turisan.  We are to celebrate a handfasting soon.  Your presence would grace the occasion.” 

“A handfasting?”  Turisan’s gaze shifted briefly to Eliani, then back to Felisan.  “It would be my honor to attend.  Are both parties from your household?” 

“No, only Beryloni.  She is the daughter of my departed lady’s brother.  She sits just there, in the blue gown, and beside her is her partner to be, Gemaron, who is of the Steppegard clan.” 

Turisan turned to the couple and smiled warmly at them as he raised his goblet.  “I wish you great happiness together.” 

Others took up the toast.  “Great happiness!” 

Eliani raised her cup, smiling, and sipped.  She, too, wished them great happiness, though her feelings were shadowed with reserve.  Handfastings were rare among the ælven, for it was a lifelong pledge, and the breaking of a promise was unthinkable.  Part of the creed, to keep good faith and to speak truth. 

Eliani had only witnessed one other handfasting, that of her father’s sister, Davhri, many years ago when she herself was still a child.  Her most vivid memory was of the ribbons—blue and violet for Stonereach, orange and grey for Clan Sunriding, and the mage-wrought handfasting ribbon, woven with images and blessings—all tied into a complicated braid about the joined hands of the couple who were to be forever bound, body and spirit.

Davhri, whom Eliani had loved fondly but whom she now scarce remembered, had gone north to her new partner’s home in Fireshore.  Gifts and messages had come from time to time, brought by traders, but Davhri had never revisited Alpinon.  Thus Eliani tended to associate handfastings with loss. 

Cup-bonds were much more common than handfastings.  A promise to be true for a year and a day was no less serious a pledge, but one more easily kept.

Eliani had cup-bonded once herself, though she had regretted it halfway through the year.  She was not an easy partner, it seemed.  She and Kelevon had fallen into disagreement, and dissolved their bond the day after its year was at last concluded.  She had immediately gone into the Guard, and Kelevon had departed for his home in the Steppe Wildes and not been heard from again. 

The minstrels struck up the Battle of Westgard, and Eliani glanced toward them, feeling a tingle of foreboding.  She tried to shake it off.  It was not unusual for them to perform the lay, for the tale of how the Bitter Wars had ended, how mindspeakers had helped the ælven conquer the alben and drive them westward across the mountains, was a favorite of her father’s.  Eliani remembered hearing it at his knee, begging him to tell how he had fought in the battle, and his answer that it was at Midrange and Skyruach that he had fought, not at Westgard.  The Bitter Wars had ended many centuries before his birth.  

The meal drew to a close, and the household gradually took their leave.  Many paused to exchange greetings with Lord Turisan.  His courtesy was flawless, his voice soft, and he seemed never at a loss for a kind word, even to Eliani’s youngest kin, Curunan, who at twenty summers was just old enough to sit with the household.     

Felisan rose from the table.  “Well, then, Lord Turisan, come into my chamber and give me Lord Jharan’s news.  Good night, yes, good night.”  He waved to the last few guests as he started toward the back of the hall.

Eliani followed her father, shoulders-on with Lord Turisan, who glanced toward her and yielded the way.  In turn she held aside the tapestry for him to enter the governor’s private quarters.  Only she and her father dwelt here now.  Others of the household lived in their own homes in the city. 

Lord Felisan led the way into his study.  Scattered scrolls of music and tomes thick with history lent the chamber a comfortable air.  Eliani banished a worry that Lord Turisan would think the place unkempt, and held her chin high as she fetched mead and chalices from a cupboard.  If Lord Jharan’s son disliked his surroundings, he could take his leave. 

Luruthin gazed at the tapestry long after Eliani had let it fall.  The minstrels finished their final tune and began to pack away their instruments, the governor’s departure having signaled the end of their duty.

Though Luruthin enjoyed music, he was content to have the hall fall silent.  He had sensed Eliani’s tension, and thought she was not entirely pleased with their visitor.  A stirring beside him made him look at Gharinan, kin to Eliani and himself, though closer to Felisan in age.  His gaze was also fixed on the curtain. 

“Eliani was at her most courteous tonight.  I wonder what put her in a dangerous mood.” 

Luruthin could guess, but refrained from doing so aloud.  Gharinan did not know Eliani as well as he, dwelling farther from Highstone in the village of Heahrued, of which he was theyn.  Apart from their mutual service in Alpinon’s Guard, Gharinan had spent little time in Eliani’s company, though enough to conceive a futile ardor for her. 

That was not at all uncommon.  Since her ill-fated cup-bond, Eliani wanted no lover and took pains to express this in her dress and behavior, with the result that full half the Guard had lost their hearts to her. 

Luruthin, whose village of Clerestone was but a day’s ride from Highstone, had been somewhat luckier than most, for he had known Eliani since her childhood.  They had even enjoyed a brief and blissful intimacy a little more than two decades past, but it had ended abruptly when Kelevon had swept into Highstone, and since that disastrous alliance Eliani had held Luruthin at a distance.  He knew her better than many of her kin, and knew that her maddening ability to wrap herself in blind solitude was her way of avoiding the attentions of those who were attracted to her. 

Possibly Lord Turisan had made the mistake of flirting too overtly.  Luruthin’s lips curved in a small, grim smile.  If that were so, Eliani would be sure to punish him. 

He made himself look away from the tapestry, turning to Gharinan instead.  “How many recruits do you expect to provide to the Guard this winter?  Is that Iliron old enough yet?” 

Gharinan shook his head, his face hardening with worry.  “Not for another few summers.  I will not place mere children in harm’s way.  We are not yet so desperate.” 

Luruthin’s gaze strayed to the tapestry once more as he agreed.  “Not yet.”

Eliani offered Turisan a chalice of mead, and watched as he held it up to admire it.  Light from the hearth danced off the golden liquid within, sparking along the patterns cut into the cup. 

“These are exquisite.  They are carved of crystal?” 

Lord Felisan nodded.  “Each from a single flawless stone.  It is one of our finest crafts.” 

“I have never seen their like.” 

“Your father has a pair.  No doubt they were tucked away safe when you became old enough to roam the palace, and never brought out again.” 

Turisan laughed.  “I shall ask him.” 

Lord Felisan smiled as he raised his chalice.  “To Lord Jharan’s health.” 

Eliani and Turisan echoed him together.  The honey-wine was cool and sweet on Eliani’s tongue.  She relaxed into her chair, stretching her booted feet out to the fire.  None too ladylike, she reflected.  Ah, well.  Ladylike remained in her chamber wardrobe, along with her seldom-worn gowns. 

Felisan gave a sigh of pleasure, then turned to Turisan.  “Now, what is this message you bring?”

Turisan reached into his tunic and withdrew two letters, each sealed with pale green and silver ribbons.  He handed one to Felisan. 

“My father sends you this.  He charged me also to say it is not his fault that I come before you without a respectable escort.” 

Felisan chuckled.  “Ah, dear Jharan.  Always concerned with appearances.” 

Turisan’s dark eyes gleamed with laughter, then went grave as he turned to Eliani.  He bowed in his seat as he offered her the second letter. 

 “To you, Lady Eliani, my father sends this greeting on the occasion of your majority.  I offer my personal congratulation as well, and hope that I may have the honor of being present at your confirmation.” 

A pretty speech, and so earnestly spoken.  Even his voice was beautiful.  Eliani felt a sensation of breathlessness, as if she were standing at the edge of a precipice from which a gust of wind might send her tumbling.  She had felt so before, and had fallen, with unhappy result.  She blinked and looked away, swallowing a sudden tightness in her throat as she opened the letter. 

To Lady Eliani of Felisanin, Greeting from Lord Jharan of Jharanin. 

Pray accept my felicitations upon the occasion of your confirmation as nextkin to Lord Felisan and Governor-elect of Alpinon.  May your life be filled with blessings, may the ældar honor you with their wisdom, and may spirits guard your path.  Should that path at any time bring you south to Glenhallow, I would be most honored to greet you at Hallowhall, and beg you to accept the welcome of my house. 

Jharan, Governor of Southfæld 

A formal missive.  Eliani folded it again, wondering if Jharan was so oppressively polite in person.  Setting the letter aside, she leaned toward the fire, cupping her chalice in her hands, and turned to Turisan. 

“What news from your western borders?  We have had kobalen attempting to cross our passes in greater numbers.” 

He sipped his wine.  “We have seen an increase as well, especially in our northernmost reaches.  We are considering augmenting our guard at Midrange Pass.”             

“At High Holding?” 

He shook his head.  “That would take at least fifty guardians, and the fortress is in disrepair.”  He set down his chalice and turned toward her.  “We keep an outpost to the east of there, by the Silverwash.  Our patrols report an increase of kobalen in the area, both on the main pass and on the harder trails.” 

“And farther south?” 

“No—they do not like the cold overmuch.” 

Eliani smiled grimly and gazed at the fire.  “They are venturing into our higher passes now—colder paths where they never roamed before.  They have begun to raid some of our more remote settlements, and their numbers are increasing every year.  They have become a serious concern.”  She finished her wine and set her chalice on the table between them, then met his gaze.  “Also, we have heard report of an alben seen in the far north of our realm.” 

Turisan looked appalled.  “An alben, east of the mountains?”

“Close to our border with the Steppe Wilds.” 

Turisan frowned.  Eliani looked into the flames. 

“Have you ever seen an alben?”

“No, and I hope I never may!” 

She glanced at him, and his eyes flashed as he met her gaze, though his face remained reserved.  An interesting reaction.  Perhaps, as a Greenglen, he bore a prejudice against those who had once, long ago, been of his clan. 

The alben were now considered a separate race, but they had begun as ælven.  Few had been seen since the Bitter Wars, when many of them had been slain and the rest driven west across the Ebons.  Eliani remembered her father telling her the history, making a story of it so that she would remember it the better, with shining heroes—the mindspeakers, Dironen and Dejharan, who could converse in thought though leagues might separate them—and the white-haired, black-eyed, alben, so evil that they seemed to breathe darkness.  The Lay of the Battle of Westgard told of the end of the Bitter Wars, but there were no songs of how the alben had come to be. 

Originally, Clan Darkshore had cleaved from Clan Greenglen and journeyed north to settle Fireshore, where the jungles were rich in darkwood.  A few centuries later the Ælven Council had determined that Clan Darkshore had broken the creed in the most vile and brutal way, practicing evil cruelty upon kobalen, keeping them in captivity and even drinking their blood.  When Darkshore refused to desist, the Council had cast them out of ælvenkind, naming them alben and launching the Bitter Wars to drive them from ælven lands.  It had all happened long ago, centuries upon centuries ago.  Long enough to have become legend, so that the truth of it was fading amidst the many tellings. 

Felisan folded up his letter.  “Lord Jharan has summoned the Council of Governors to meet at Glenhallow on the first of winter, to discuss this increase of kobalen.” 

Eliani looked from him to Turisan.  “The Ælven Council?  Does he fear another attack at Midrange?” 

Turisan nodded.  “My father would rather we not be caught off guard, as we were in the Midrange War.” 

“A sentiment with which I am in complete agreement.”  Felisan drained his glass and set it down.  “Jharan shall host a Council at Glenhallow the like of which has not been seen in many centuries, and it will be well for the ælven.  Our clans have become too scattered.”  He arose, and Eliani and Turisan followed suit. 

“You are welcome to bide with us as long as you choose, Turisan.  A guest house has been prepared for you . . .” Felisan glanced at Eliani, who nodded.  “. . . and my daughter will show you the way.” 

“I thank you for your kind hospitality.” 

Felisan clasped his arm.  “Good night, son of my shield-brother.  Rest well.” 

Eliani watched her father go out, then turned to their guest, feeling a return of her previous awkwardness.  She should say something pleasant, but nothing came to mind.  She led him out, through the feast hall where a few of her kin lingered, to the hearthroom where they paused while an attendant fetched his cloak. 

Outside the air was chill with approaching autumn.  Lights burned in most windows, for the night-biders were about their business.  They could see almost as well at night as in the day, though darkness robbed the world of color.  Many loved moon and stars better than daylight.  Night-biders often shared tools and workrooms with their sun-dwelling counterparts, who retired to rest and meditate during the hours of darkness.  Between them, the day-biders and night-biders populated ælven towns with activity and music at all times. 

Turisan paused in the circle to gaze up at the night sky.  “The stars are far more brilliant here than at Glenhallow.  Saharis is like a beacon!” 

“It is the mountain air.  No doubt the skies above your southern peaks are similar.” 

“True.  I have seen just such a sky on a winter’s hunt.”  He looked at her, smiling.  “Tell me of the Three Shades.  Are they best viewed by daylight or starlight?” 

“Either.  They are quite different by night.  I would view them both ways, while you are here.” 

“That would please me, if you will again be my guide.” 

Was that meant to rebuke her for not telling him her name at once?  She gazed at him, but could not read his face.  Subtle, this Greenglen lord.  She made a formal bow. 

“Of course.  I recommend daylight first.” 

She led him to the guest house and bade him good night, then returned to the hall and invaded the kitchen, which was warm with the heat of new-fed fires, and smelled of flour and yeast.  Gathering a handful of small cakes left over from the evening meal into a napkin, Eliani thanked the cook and went out again into the night.

She climbed a steep stair that led above Felisanin Hall to a solitary house, the oldest in Highstone.  It was the original governor’s hall, so ancient its stone walls were covered deep in moss and lichen, making it seem a part of the cliff rather than a hand-built structure.  A light burned inside, sending a faint glow through the dark blue tapestries that screened the windows.  Eliani paused in the hearthroom and rang the guest chime, and when bidden entered the house. 

The front room ran the width of the old hall, and would have accommodated a feast table for twenty, but held only some chairs, shelves, a table that would seat ten at most, and an even smaller work table.  Two draped doorways stood on either side of a large, low hearth.  A fresh-kindled fire glowed there, and nearby sat a dark-haired lady with eyes of twilight blue, tall and beautiful with the grace of many years on her smooth brow. 

On the table before her a branch of candles illuminated a small loom on which she was weaving an elaborate ribbon.  Spools of floss lay neatly together:  blue, violet, russet and pine green, along with fine-spun silver thread.  The weaver looked up, smiled a welcome, and set her work aside. 

Eliani bowed.  “Lady Heléri, bid you good even.  I have brought you some pinenut cakes.” 

Heléri answered in a soft, rich voice.  “Thoughtful child.  I have not tasted one since the harvest.” 

“Because you will not join us at table.”  Eliani grinned.  “We miss you, Eldermother.” 

“There is no help for it.  You break your last bread before I arise.  Come, sit by the fire.  Tea is brewing.” 

“And you have set out two cups.  Did you know I was coming?”

“I thought you might.  When Misani came to lay the fire she told me you have an important visitor.” 

“Ah.”  Eliani settled into a chair.  “Word is all over Highstone, no doubt.” 

“Oh, yes.  The governor of Southfaeld’s son?  We have not had such a visitor in decades.” 

Heléri rose to retrieve a steaming ewer from the hearth.  Eliani spread the napkin full of cakes on the table between them, moving the floss aside to make room. 

“How well these colors go together.”

She lifted the finished end of the ribbon to admire the twining images of river, cloud, sand and wood.  Silver letters in ælven script began just short of the loom.

“This is for the handfasting.” 

“Yes.  Beryloni is much excited.” 

“Oh, I know.  I have listened to her raptures every day.  I hope she truly knows her heart.” 

Heléri poured tea into two tall pottery cups.  “They have cup-bonded twice.  They must know their hearts by now.  You are thinking of your own disappointment.” 

“Perhaps so.” 

Eliani accepted a slender, flared tea cup and wrapped her hands around it, savoring the fragrance of burnt honey that arose from within.  She sipped the tea, which had a flavor entirely different than its scent—warm, dark, and slightly pungent. 

“Tell me about our visitor.” 

Eliani took a larger swallow, feeling the tea’s warmth spread through her.  “Lord Turisan, son of Lord Jharan.” 

Heléri smiled.  “I remember Jharan well.  He and Felisan were inseparable in their youth.  They were always hunting or exploring, here or in the south, until the Midrange War redirected their fates.” 

Eliani nodded.  She had heard many tales of their adventures together, both at Heléri’s knee and at her father’s.  Some, from the time of the war, had been wrought into song. 

“What is Lord Turisan like?” 

“Well—he has Greenglen coloring, is tall and comely, and is very gracious.”  Eliani glanced up at Heléri.  “It is clear he was bred in the high court.  No doubt he finds our humble hall quite rustic.” 

“Has he said so?” 

“He would never be so uncouth.  He does not have to say it, it is in his eyes.” 

“Ah.”  Heléri smiled.  “So you have mastered the art of reading the soul through the eyes.” 

Eliani felt her cheeks warm.  “No.” 

“Then do not be hasty to judge.”  Heléri put down her cup and gazed at Eliani, who had to make an effort not to look away.  “What is it that troubles you?”

“Nothing.” 

“Has Lord Turisan brought bad news?” 

“None we did not guess.  He tells us the kobalen are increasing along Southfæld’s borders, especially near Midrange Pass.  Lord Jharan is summoning the Ælven Council to Glenhallow.”

“Ah.  You will enjoy visiting Southfæld.” 

Eliani thought of Lord Jharan’s letter to her.  Had he meant to encourage her to attend the Council?

She frowned.  Even that morning, she would have greeted an invitation to visit the south, or indeed any ælven realm, with unabated pleasure.  She wanted to know of the world beyond her homeland.  Why then, did she now feel hesitation?  She looked up at her eldermother. 

“I fear change.  I can feel it coming, and I do not want it.” 

Heléri’s brows rose slightly.  She set aside her cake and took Eliani’s chin in one hand, gazing long into her eyes, making her feel that the light words about reading souls had masked a deeper truth.  Through Heléri’s hand, Elaini felt the resonance of her khi, a silvery tickle against her own energy.  Heléri’s eyes held hers, the blue glowing like dusk in the firelight, filling all Eliani’s being until at last they closed and she was released. 

The fire snapped, and Eliani started at the sudden sound.  She looked up to see Heléri sipping from her cup. 

“You would remain forever as you are?” 

“N-no.  But I would not lose what I have.” 

“We do not always have the choice of that.” 

Eliani had no answer.  She had expected words of sympathy from Heléri, assurances that her feelings were merely nervousness about her coming majority.  Instead Heléri drew her loom toward her and began again to weave. 

Eliani looked at the spools of color on the table.  Blue and violet were her favorites—Stonereach colors—and she wanted never to give them up.  Beryloni would carry them away with her, in this very ribbon that Heléri wove for her, but henceforth she would align with Steppegard and wear their colors as her own. 

Eliani glanced up at the handfasting ribbon that hung above Heléri’s door—white and gold entwined with the violet and blue.  White and gold for Ælvanen, oldest of the ælven clans, governors of Eastfæld, of which she knew but little. 

Heléri seldom spoke of her homeland.  Eliani had never met any other from that realm, and had only seen Ælvanen’s colors in this ribbon.  Letters of silver were woven through it, commemorating the joining of Heléri and her Stonereach lord, Davharin, who had once governed Alpinon and who had long since crossed the grey border into the spirit realm.  The ribbon was all that remained of their union in the physical world.

More than a little magecraft went into such ribbons, for the ceremony of handfasting was also a binding of the couple’s khi, and the ribbon not only an artistic masterpiece but a focus for its resonance.  Heléri’s ribbon was centuries old, yet the silver script gleamed as new.  Davharin’s ribbon, the mate to this, was tied around the conce that marked where he had died, ambushed by kobalen.  Eliani had seen it while riding patrol high in the mountain passes.  That ribbon was every bit as fair and bright as this.  She had always felt a little in awe that such a delicate thing could last so long.

Heléri picked up the silver thread.  “I would like to meet Lord Turisan.”  

Eliani watched her fingers ease the fine strand into the weaving, then shifted her gaze to the fire.  “He is certain to pay his respects.”

“Is he?  Not every visitor to Highstone thinks to call on me.  Some are never aware that I am here, and others are day-biders and only leave messages while I am at rest.” 

“That would be unlike him.  He will come.” 

Eliani sensed Heléri watching her.  She looked up at her eldermother, who smiled and silently returned to her weaving.