Sometimes good scenes are cut for reasons of length, or because they do not advance the main plot.  This scene was removed from The Betrayal for such reasons. 

This scene takes place the morning after Turisan's arrival in Highstone.

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Copyright © 2009 by Pati Nagle. 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.

Turisan sipped at his tea, musing about Lady Eliani.  Felisan’s bristly daughter was a puzzle to him.  Their acquaintance had begun badly, true.  He had done all he could to amend that, yet still she seemed cool.  He was glad his father was not present, for Lord Jharan would surely be displeased at his clumsiness. 

Of all the ælven in Alpinon, Felisan’s daughter was the one he could least afford to offend.  Some day they each would govern in their fathers’ places, for even the most ardent of governors eventually tired of the burden and handed their tasks on to others.  It would be in his and Eliani’s best interests, and those of their people, for them to get along. 

Along with his morning meal had arrived a note from Lord Felisan, a formal invitation to attend the ceremony of Eliani’s confirmation in the Hall before the Evennight festival in the public circle.  He tapped the note against his chin, thinking.  Perhaps he could make some gesture that would please Eliani.  He had brought a gift for her from his father’s house, a fine brooch of silver gilt set with blue and violet gems, especially commissioned for this occasion at Jharan’s behest.  He might add to it a gift of his own, a personal gesture of goodwill. 

He had brought very little with him, for he had wished to travel light.  He got up to go through his belongings, which some kind attendant had bestowed for him in the bedchamber the previous evening. Apart from his weapons and clothing, there was little enough.  A store of food—trail fare, none of which would make a suitable gift.  A water flask of Glenhallow make, simple but prettily chased with silver vines.  A small flute he had made from one of the fat reeds that grew along the Silverwash. 

He laid the flute and the flask side by side on the bed, considering them.  The flask was a finer piece of workmanship, the product of the metalsmiths’ guildhall in Glenhallow. 

The flute was less beautiful to the eye, but true of note, mellowed by the years.  He had learned to make and play them during his youth, when he was serving with Southfæld’s guard.  His friend Dirovon had taught him the craft as a means of passing the long, tedious watches, and this was the best result of his efforts.  He had kept it mostly as a memento, for his instrument of choice was the lute. 

He picked up the flute, recalling his impulsive decision to bring it with him though he had not played it in many seasons.  He had thought to awaken old memories with it, but so far he had not brought it out. 

Touching the fingerholes, he felt the reed’s fragile dryness.  He set it to his lips to try a note, which the flute yielded grudgingly and with great waste of breath.  If he were to give this to Eliani he must oil it, for in its present condition it was not fit to be played. 

He set it down and picked up the flask, turning it over and running his fingers along the shining silverwork.  This would be a handsome gift, a fair example of Southfæld’s craft, and one that would likely impress.

He paused.  Why was he so concerned?  Why fret so over this ceremonial visit?  Even if he failed to please the Lady Eliani, he had done neither himself nor Southfæld any harm.  Like as not she would have forgotten her reserve by the time they next chanced to meet.  Still, something drove him to ensure that when they bade farewell at the end of his visit, it would be upon friendly terms. 

He looked at the flask in his hands.  It would cost him nothing to part with it, for he attached no sentiment to it.  He put it down and took up the flute again. 

In this he had invested himself.  His khi ran through it, for though he was no mage he had spent many days with this small pipe, playing out what was in his heart to the dawn or to the evening star, and some of that feeling had inevitably caught among the fibers of the reed. 

This would be his gift to the lady of Highstone.  A pledge of future friendship. 

He smiled, satisfied with his choice.  He put away his other belongings, then carried the flute out to the front room, where he sought out paper, pen and ink with which to write a formal acceptance of Felisan’s invitation. 

Luruthin sat on the stoop before the theyns’ lodge in a chair he had brought out from its feast hall, watching the preparations for Evennight.  The theyns’ lodge was one of the largest houses in Highstone, second only to the public lodge.  Usually it stood mostly empty, but on this day it was so full that he had been obliged to move in with Gharinan and give up his room to three others who had arrived at dawn. 

Every theyn in Alpinon save one had come to Highstone to honor Eliani at her confirmation.  The sole absentee was Mirithan, theyn of the village of Althill, the smallest and northernmost settlement in the realm.  Mirithan had sent messages of congratulation and regret that he would not be present, according to Eliani. 

She had informed Luruthin of this the previous day while keeping her countenance admirably prim, and Luruthin had laughed aloud.  A decade since, he and Eliani along with three other guardians had patrolled up to Althill and earned Mirithan’s disapproval by running buck races in the meadow above the village one fine autumn afternoon. 

It had been a day of riotous fun, and absolutely nothing had been accomplished by the villagers during the impromptu festival, which had continued past sundown.  That night everyone in Althill, even the theyn, had supped cold on cheese and apples, for there was no time to build back the cook fires.  Mirithan had yet to forgive them. 

Luruthin had toyed with the idea of bringing a couple of prime young bucks to Highstone for Eliani’s confirmation, but in the end he had decided against it.  She would have enough trouble leaving her wild days behind without such a reminder. 

He smiled, thinking fondly of their carefree adventures in the Guard.  Entering adulthood at last, his dear friend and kin.  Perhaps she would be able to leave all the past behind now, bad memories as well as good.  Luruthin hoped so, for his own sake as well as hers. 

A smell of fresh-baked honey cakes wafted by, sparking his hunger though he had eaten earlier.  He stood and was about to go in search of the source when he spied Lord Turisan coming out of one of the guest houses.  With his hand on the back of his chair, Luruthin watched the foreigner cross the public circle. 

Every head turned, every soul paused in his or her work to look at the Greenglen lord.  Turisan seemed unconscious of the attention he attracted, or perhaps he just took it for granted.  Perhaps he was always admired so in his own city. 

Luruthin found himself resenting the wonderment of Highstone’s citizens at their unusual visitor.  Among the brown-haired, green-eyed folk of Clan Stonereach the exotic looks of a Greenglen or a Steppegard stood out strikingly.  It was natural to be attracted to the unusual, the different.  Luruthin was certain that sun-gilt skin and curling bronze hair had played a part in Eliani’s losing her judgment over a certain Steppegard horse trader. 

He watched Turisan start up the steps that led to Felisanan Hall.  Suddenly he no longer cared for honey-cakes.  He thrust his chair inside the theyns’ lodge and hastened across the public circle, following Turisan up to the hall. 

The Greenglen went to the hearthroom as Luruthin had expected, but came out again almost at once and took the footpath that skirted the hall and led to the kitchens.  Luruthin watched him go inside, then followed.  The path was narrow, with the hall to the left and the cliff dropping off to the right, a full three rods to the north road below. 

Luruthin paused just inside the kitchen door, in time to see the attendants fluttering like a startled flock of doves at Turisan’s intrusion.  Ferashi, the head cook, from whom Luruthin had coaxed treats on numerous occasions in his youth, stood blushing like a maiden as the Greenglen bowed to her. 

“Forgive my intrusion on this busy day.  I hoped I might impose upon you for a small quantity of oil.” 

Luruthin stepped forward.  “Sword oil, my lord, or saddle oil?” 

The Greenglen turned, observing him with an expression of faint surprise.  “Neither.  I would not have sought such here.”  A small smile spread across his lips and his eyes narrowed slightly, then he returned his attention to the cook.

“I need an oil that is safe to be eaten, and will not become sticky.” 

Ferashi brushed flour from her hands.  “I cannot give you sunfruit oil, my lord.  We have precious little, and it will be springtime before another trader brings aught from Fireshore.” 

The Greenglen smiled.  “It need not be anything so fine.  Any plain oil will do.  At home I use oil of almond.” 

“We have hazelnut oil . . .” 

“Yes, that would suit.” 

“How much do you wish?” 

“A small cup half full, if it can be spared.” 

Ferashi fetched the oil herself, pausing to frown at the kitchen attendants until they hastened back to their tasks.  She placed both the cup and a fresh seed cake in Turisan’s hands, beaming. 

“There, my lord, and this for you as well.” 

The Greenglen smiled.  “My thanks, Mistress . . . ?” 

“Ferashi, and it please you, my lord.” 

“It pleases me very well.  Thanks to you, Mistress Ferashi, and Evennight blessings.” 

Turisan bowed again and retreated to the door.  Luruthin paused for a moment before stepping out of his way.  The dark eyes narrowed again, though the pale lips still smiled.  Turisan passed out of doors and a few steps down the path, then turned just as Luruthin had begun to follow. 

“Luruthin, is it not?” 

Annoyed at the courtesy, Luruthin nodded. 

“You are a theyn in Alpinon, I believe?”

“Theyn of Clerestone.” 

The Greenglen nodded acknowledgment, still smiling.  He stood still, as if waiting for Luruthin to say more.  Meantime Luruthin could not step past him on the narrow pathway.  His only choices were to retreat to the kitchens or await Turisan’s pleasure.  Since it appeared Turisan’s pleasure was that he should speak he did so, but with ill grace. 

“I wonder what you could need that oil for, my lord.  Is it to smooth your tongue?” 

The moment the words were uttered, Luruthin regretted them.  A fine example of diplomacy he presented, yet to his relief, Turisan seemed amused by it. 

“One might call it that.”  The foreigner’s eyes narrowed, then after a moment his smile widened.  “Come and observe, if you care to.” 

On that the Greenglen turned away, and without waiting strode along the path back to the front of the hall.  Luruthin followed, both annoyed with himself and curious.  When they reached the circle Luruthin caught up with the Greenglen, not wishing to be seen following in his wake.  He did not relish appearing to walk with him either, but it least it placed him as Turisan’s equal. 

They were not equals, of course.  Luruthin found that this, too, annoyed him.

Turisan led him into his guest house and waved a hand in the direction of the hearth while he went to a set of shelves against the wall.  Luruthin drifted toward the crackling fire, but resisted settling himself in a chair. 

The Greenglen came back with the cup of oil in one hand, a cloth and a rustic flute in the other.  He flashed a smile at Luruthin as he seated himself at the hearthside table and placed the cup upon it. 

“Now you shall watch me oil my tongue.”

Turisan laid the cloth aside and placed his fingers over all the holes in the flute, then lowered the bottom of the instrument into the cup.  He put his mouth over the top end and sat unmoving. 

After a moment Luruthin realized he was slowly drawing the oil up into the flute.  No minstrel himself, he leaned his shoulders against the mantel and watched with interest as Turisan patiently worked, nostrils flaring slightly.  He was taking more time than was needed, Luruthin thought.  Perhaps he wished to avoid getting a mouthful of the oil. 

At that moment Turisan raised his head and lifted the flute, releasing the oil, which flowed back into the cup.  He glanced at Luruthin with a bantering smile and picked up the cloth, which he used to wipe his mouth and then the flute.  At last he set the flute upside down in the cup and rubbed both hands upon the cloth. 

“How often must you do that?”

“It depends upon the climate, and on how the instrument is stored.  Once a season at least.  If the flute becomes too dry it will crack.” 

Luruthin glanced at the flute, watching a drop of oil run glistening down its side.  Then he met Turisan’s gaze. 

“And why was this task so urgent that you must needs invade the hall’s kitchen on a feast day?” 

The Greenglen’s smile widened and he gave a nod, acknowledging the justness of the question.  “I wish to make a gift of this flute to Lady Eliani, and alas, I have sadly neglected its condition.” 

“She has not made music in many years.” 

Not since her cup-bond ended.  Not since her soul ceased to sing. 

“Ah?  Well.” 

The Greenglen was silent for a moment, gazing down at the tabletop as if at something faraway.  Then he looked back at Luruthin. 

“Clerestone . . . crystal is mined there, is it not?” 

Luruthin nodded.  “And worked there.” 

“Is that where Lord Felisan’s exquisite chalices were made?”

Luruthin shifted his stance, straightening instead of slouching against the mantel.  “Yes.  It is our best craft, in the village.” 

He wanted to maintain his resentment, but found it difficult to do so while the Greenglen was flattering his pride.  Clever, this foreign lord.  No doubt he had learned such arts in Glenhallow’s high court.  

Turisan smiled.  “I should like to visit your village, and see your crafters at work.”

“So you can tempt them away to work in your own crafthall?” 

The smile faded into a look of surprise.  “No.” 

Luruthin glanced down, aware that he was being uncivil, and that Felisan would not thank him for it.  He noticed a bit of unburned wood that had fallen out of the hearth, and pushed it back with the toe of his boot. 

“Have I somehow offended you, Theyn Luruthin?”   

“No.”  Not in any way that he could admit to.  Luruthin paced away a few steps.  “Lord Felisan is forever telling us we are too mistrustful of strangers.” 

“Ah.  But that is your clan’s mission, is it not?  It is why Alpinon was created, to guard Eastfæld against intrusion.  It is no wonder that you tend to be wary, even of those who would be your friends.” 

This was so gently said that it drained away all Luruthin’s rancor.  He turned and saw Turisan quietly regarding him. 

“Forgive my ill-humor.” 

“Of course.” 

Turisan arose, and Luruthin thought he would approach and offer to clasp arms.  Instead he went again to the shelves and returned with the seed cake Ferashi had pressed on him.  He smiled, and gestured toward a chair. 

“Will you share this with me?” 

It would be graceless to refuse, and folly as well, for Ferashi baked the best cakes in Highstone.  Luruthin smiled reluctantly and joined his host at the table.  Turisan broke the cake in two and offered half to Luruthin, who bit into it at once.  The tiny seeds crunched amid the sweetness and subtle spices of the cake. 

“This is very good.” 

Luruthin nodded, swallowing.  “Ferashi is the best baker in Highstone.  The best cook, altogether.” 

“She would be given a place of honor in the kitchens at Hallowhall, if she ever chose to seek one.”  The Greenglen glanced sidelong at Luruthin and added with a hint of dryness,  “No, I shall not invite her to do so.” 

Luruthin gave a choke of laughter, and turned it into a cough to hide it.  Turisan pushed a cup across the table toward him and filled it from an ewer of tea.   

“No longer hot, I fear.” 

Luruthin sipped it.  “Thank you.” 

He watched the Greenglen finish his cake, closely observing the clean lines of his face, the pale hair and strangely dark eyes.  There was a smooth, unconscious grace there, and he realized it was part of Turisan’s reserve.

As if aware of his gaze, Turisan looked up and smiled, brushing cake crumbs from his fingers.  “Perhaps you can introduce me to someone I would like to meet.” 

“Who?” 

“The Lady Heléri.  My father has charged me with greetings for her.  Would you be willing to make me known to her?” 

“She is a night-bider.” 

“Ah.  Then perhaps you would show me where she lives, so that I may call upon her later.” 

“She dwells in the old hall.” 

“Where is that?” 

Luruthin smiled, pleased at having something to feel superior about, even if it was merely his better acquaintance with Highstone.  He stood and went to the front window of the house, which faced the public circle.  Putting aside the tapestry, he nodded toward the hall. 

“There.” 

Turisan joined him at the window.  Luruthin watched him peer out at Highstone, wearing a slight frown.

“Above Felisanan Hall, high on the hill.” 

“Ah!  I did not see it at first, for the moss.” 

“Yes.  Lady Heléri says it is all but forgotten, and so is she.” 

“She is not forgotten in Hallowhall.  My father speaks of her with reverence.”  Turisan turned to Luruthin.  “Thank you.  I will pay her my respects after sundown.” 

Luruthin sensed it was time to take his leave.  A part of him wished to offer some idle entertainment as a means of keeping his eye upon Turisan, but he knew that was folly. 

Better to spend the day renewing his acquaintance with the other theyns, some of whom he had not seen in many a year.  He was still in the Guard but rarely rode patrol since assuming the governance of his village, and when he did ride out it was for no more than a day’s journey. 

“Well, I had best leave you to your preparations,” he said to Turisan, glancing toward the flute bathing in oil. 

Turisan followed the glance and grinned.  “Thank you for your company.” 

The Greenglen walked with him to the door and paused there, offering an arm.  Luruthin hesitated, not certain he wished to share khi with this foreigner, but he had been discourteous enough for one day. 

He lightly clasped Turisan’s arm, letting go almost at once, but not before receiving a strong impression of patience, practiced calm, and a seriousness whose depth surprised him.  He sensed no rivalry, no antagonism at all.  Turisan was what he appeared to be:  a lord of a governing house, bred to diplomacy, here present among strangers to show respect for his counterpart’s coming of age. 

Luruthin gave a nod of farewell.  “Fair Evennight to you.” 

“And to you as well.” 

Leaving the house, Luruthin was grateful to hear the door close behind him, for he could feel his cheek coloring slightly with remorse for his earlier ill-tempered behavior.  He hastened to the theyns’ lodge, hoping to find distraction there, and some means of improving his mood.