Review
“Interesting characters and a fast-paced story make The Betrayal an entertaining read.”—Anne Bishop, author of Tangled Webs
“A rich, intriguing novel.”—Jane Lindskold, author Through Wolf’s Eyes
“A rich, intriguing novel.”—Jane Lindskold, author Through Wolf’s Eyes
Product Description
The noble and magical aelven were riven by war when a rogue clan embraced a forbidden source of magic: the drinking of blood. In the bitter fighting that ensued, the vampiric Clan Darkshore were cast out of the aelven and driven across the Ebon Mountains. Stripped of their various clan colors, they were thenceforth known only as “alben,” hated and shunned. An uneasy peace now holds over the land, but it is whispered that Shalár, the beautiful and bloodthirsty queen of the alben, is readying a surprise attack to win back all that was lost–and none can say where or when she will strike.
The fate of the clans will depend on two young aelven lovers, Eliani and Turisan, who are blessed with a legendary gift: the fabled power of mindspeech. But this ability comes with great risks. Time is running out as the alben mount their attack–and their ultimate betrayal.
The fate of the clans will depend on two young aelven lovers, Eliani and Turisan, who are blessed with a legendary gift: the fabled power of mindspeech. But this ability comes with great risks. Time is running out as the alben mount their attack–and their ultimate betrayal.
About the Author
Pati Nagle was born and raised in the mountains of northern New Mexico. An avid student of music, history, and humans in general, she has a special love of the outdoors, particularly New Mexico’s wilds, which inspire many of her stories. Nagle’s work has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Cricket, Cicada, and various anthologies.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Alpinon
A footfall on the forest floor below brought Eliani’s head up sharply. The scroll in her hands curled back into itself. She had not been reading it–her thoughts had drifted long since. The Lay of the Battle of Westgard had failed to entrance her this day.
She leaned out from the branch where she sat and peered down between the leaves of her favorite oak, seeking the sound’s source. A shadow of movement below, the edge of a cloak curling out of sight. Not a kobalen, then. Nor could it be a guardian, for Alpinon’s patrols were always at least three strong.
Eliani laid a hand against the oak’s trunk–slender there, near its top–and closed her eyes. The tree’s khi was slow and deep. She sent her own khi through it and out into the forest: roots running strong into the earth, whisper- fine grasses moving with each light breeze, small creatures dwelling in branch or under root. A much brighter, stronger pulse of khi reverberated through the wood, one that could only be ælven. Eliani drew back from it, as the ælven did not trespass upon one another’s khi.
She opened her eyes and carefully set her scroll in a notch of two branches where she had stored little trea - sures since childhood. She loved the old ballad–heroic mindspeakers and soul- consuming alben warlords still thrilled her despite her inattention this day–but her curiosity about the intruder was more immediate. She moved stealthily down to the oak’s lowest limbs, making no sound at all, for she could have climbed the tree blindfolded in any direction. Pausing on a lower branch, she saw a solitary figure walking away northward: tall, male, pale- haired.
She caught her breath, thinking for an instant that it was an alben. Fear set her heart pulsing before reason reminded her that an alben would not be walking in daylight even if he dared to cross the mountains into Alpinon.
No, it was a Greenglen, his hair not white but pale blond, as was common to his clan. He wore a cloak of Clan Greenglen’s colors–sage lined with silver–and carried a long bow slung over one shoulder.
Greenglens rarely were seen in Alpinon, though their homeland of Southfæld shared a nearby border. Eliani had met only a handful of them in her short fifty years, and none recently.
She smiled a hunter’s silent plea sure. She would track this foreigner, try to glimpse his face, see how long she could follow him unnoticed. It was the sort of game she most enjoyed, and she was good at it, having spent the last two de cades in Alpinon’s Guard. She felt a moment’s wistfulness, reminded that soon she would become the Guard’s commander. The other guardians would call her “Warden” instead of “Kestrel,” the nickname they had given her.
Tomorrow, on Autumn Evennight, she would be confirmed in her majority and formally named heir and designated successor to her father, Felisan, governor of Alpinon. The command of the Guard would pass to her as well. This was her last day of youth and irresponsibility. A little mischief might be forgiven her this last time.
Grinning, she turned her attention to her quarry. She tensed her thighs, balanced carefully, and sprang to the forest floor, making no more sound than the falling of a leaf.
Turisan walked at his ease, enjoying the rich earthen smell and myriad colors of autumn leaves, only mildly curious at first about his pursuer. He was not quite certain how long he had been followed.
He was not averse to meeting a patrol from Alpinon’s Guard. In fact, he half hoped to encounter one, for he had not been in this realm previously and did not know the way to Highstone. His pursuer, however, though certainly ælven, was evidently not a guardian. Such a one would have challenged him, not stalked him. He therefore continued to stride through Alpinon’s fair woodlands, which were full of life and untouched by ælven hands, as unlike as could be to his home in Glenhallow. Pausing to examine a spray of scarlet leaves, he saw a flicker of movement above. His brow creased in a slight frown. It was impolite to treat a visitor so, whether or not they knew who he was. He began to tire of the game.
And now he could hear his father berating him for not bringing along an escort suitable to his dignity. Had he been accompanied by ten of Southfæld’s Guard, as Lord Jharan had wished, no zealous Stonereach would have dared to stalk him. In Jharan’s view, a member of Southfæld’s governing house should never travel unattended though he walk through the most benign lands.
Indeed, he should not walk. He should ride a finely caparisoned steed or, better yet, take his ease in a chariot emblazoned with marks of state, surrounded by a mounted escort.
It was such excess of ceremony that made Turisan long so often to be gone from the court at Glenhallow. The more he learned of the intricacies of governance, the more he yearned for the simplicity of a wild wood, a clear stream, and the flicker of stars through leafy branches.
This journey was in part an escape from court formalities, though at the end of it they awaited him again. His father had sent him here on a visit of ceremony, to pay respects and carry messages to Lord Felisan, the governor of Alpinon, and to witness the confirmation of his heir.
Turisan had made no objection to this errand, for he knew it to be his duty as his father’s nextkin. Lord Jharan’s eyes, so often stern, grew soft with fondness whenever he spoke of Felisan, and that alone made Turisan curious to know him. He also expected the visit to Alpinon’s woodlands to satisfy his longing for wildness. Yet even here in the forest he was to have no peace, it seemed. Annoyed all at once, he turned in midstride and nocked an arrow to his bow, aiming it amidst the branches overhead.
“You have followed me half the afternoon. Come down and declare your business with me or begone.” A moment’s silence. Then a rustle in the branches, and a lanky ælven female in worn and dusky hunting leathers emerged, landing softly before him. She brushed a strand of nut- brown hair from her green eyes and stood gazing at him.
“Peace to you, friend. I meant no harm. We seldom have visitors from the south.”
Turisan lowered his bow. “And who are you?”
The little chin went up, then a corner of her mouth curled. “I am called Kestrel. I am kin to Lord Felisan.” Surprised, Turisan paused to return arrow to quiver while he reevaluated her status. No rustic this, what- ever her appearance. Even a lesser relative of Lord Felisan deserved his respect, though she had not given her true name. He bowed.
“It is to bring messages to Lord Felisan that I have come. Will you honor me by guiding me to his house?” The green eyes lit. “Messages? From Southfæld?” Turisan smiled. “From Glenhallow.”
He had thought that mention of Southfæld’s seat of government would thrill her. She drew a breath, as of deep plea sure, then surprised him by replying with quiet dignity.
“It will be my honor to guide you.”
She turned and, with a friendly glance over her shoulder, started northward. Turisan hastened to come up with her. Though not as tall as he, she had a guardian’s purposeful stride. She looked at him sidelong as they walked apace.
“Forgive my discourtesy, I pray. What visitors we do receive from Southfæld generally come by the trade road.”
Turisan smiled to show he held no grievance. “I prefer the woodlands.”
“So do I. You have no horse? Glenhallow sends its messengers on foot?”
“I have a horse. I left it with the guardians at Midrange, thinking to enjoy a walk. I believe it is not far from here to Highstone?”
“No, not far.” She smiled, her mouth twisting with private amusement.
Not a rustic, and not quite so young as he had first thought. Turisan observed her while she answered his polite questions about the land through which they walked.
She was fair of face and form, her coloring middle dark as was common in the Stonereach clan, her figure well enough though leaner than the gently bred maidens of Glenhallow’s court. Turisan, being accustomed to receive the open admiration of every maid he met, was intrigued and somewhat abashed to realize that this female seemed more interested in his messages than in himself.
It would be a lesson to him, he acknowledged silently. He had indeed dwelt too long at court. The woodlands, all ablaze with autumn, grew denser. Turisan’s legs told him they were climbing, though at first the slope was scarcely noticeable. It became a true hill before long and led to numberless others increasing in size, greenleaf trees giving way to tall pines as they proceeded from foothills into the mountains proper. Though he would have enjoyed a rest, his guide seemed unweary...
A footfall on the forest floor below brought Eliani’s head up sharply. The scroll in her hands curled back into itself. She had not been reading it–her thoughts had drifted long since. The Lay of the Battle of Westgard had failed to entrance her this day.
She leaned out from the branch where she sat and peered down between the leaves of her favorite oak, seeking the sound’s source. A shadow of movement below, the edge of a cloak curling out of sight. Not a kobalen, then. Nor could it be a guardian, for Alpinon’s patrols were always at least three strong.
Eliani laid a hand against the oak’s trunk–slender there, near its top–and closed her eyes. The tree’s khi was slow and deep. She sent her own khi through it and out into the forest: roots running strong into the earth, whisper- fine grasses moving with each light breeze, small creatures dwelling in branch or under root. A much brighter, stronger pulse of khi reverberated through the wood, one that could only be ælven. Eliani drew back from it, as the ælven did not trespass upon one another’s khi.
She opened her eyes and carefully set her scroll in a notch of two branches where she had stored little trea - sures since childhood. She loved the old ballad–heroic mindspeakers and soul- consuming alben warlords still thrilled her despite her inattention this day–but her curiosity about the intruder was more immediate. She moved stealthily down to the oak’s lowest limbs, making no sound at all, for she could have climbed the tree blindfolded in any direction. Pausing on a lower branch, she saw a solitary figure walking away northward: tall, male, pale- haired.
She caught her breath, thinking for an instant that it was an alben. Fear set her heart pulsing before reason reminded her that an alben would not be walking in daylight even if he dared to cross the mountains into Alpinon.
No, it was a Greenglen, his hair not white but pale blond, as was common to his clan. He wore a cloak of Clan Greenglen’s colors–sage lined with silver–and carried a long bow slung over one shoulder.
Greenglens rarely were seen in Alpinon, though their homeland of Southfæld shared a nearby border. Eliani had met only a handful of them in her short fifty years, and none recently.
She smiled a hunter’s silent plea sure. She would track this foreigner, try to glimpse his face, see how long she could follow him unnoticed. It was the sort of game she most enjoyed, and she was good at it, having spent the last two de cades in Alpinon’s Guard. She felt a moment’s wistfulness, reminded that soon she would become the Guard’s commander. The other guardians would call her “Warden” instead of “Kestrel,” the nickname they had given her.
Tomorrow, on Autumn Evennight, she would be confirmed in her majority and formally named heir and designated successor to her father, Felisan, governor of Alpinon. The command of the Guard would pass to her as well. This was her last day of youth and irresponsibility. A little mischief might be forgiven her this last time.
Grinning, she turned her attention to her quarry. She tensed her thighs, balanced carefully, and sprang to the forest floor, making no more sound than the falling of a leaf.
Turisan walked at his ease, enjoying the rich earthen smell and myriad colors of autumn leaves, only mildly curious at first about his pursuer. He was not quite certain how long he had been followed.
He was not averse to meeting a patrol from Alpinon’s Guard. In fact, he half hoped to encounter one, for he had not been in this realm previously and did not know the way to Highstone. His pursuer, however, though certainly ælven, was evidently not a guardian. Such a one would have challenged him, not stalked him. He therefore continued to stride through Alpinon’s fair woodlands, which were full of life and untouched by ælven hands, as unlike as could be to his home in Glenhallow. Pausing to examine a spray of scarlet leaves, he saw a flicker of movement above. His brow creased in a slight frown. It was impolite to treat a visitor so, whether or not they knew who he was. He began to tire of the game.
And now he could hear his father berating him for not bringing along an escort suitable to his dignity. Had he been accompanied by ten of Southfæld’s Guard, as Lord Jharan had wished, no zealous Stonereach would have dared to stalk him. In Jharan’s view, a member of Southfæld’s governing house should never travel unattended though he walk through the most benign lands.
Indeed, he should not walk. He should ride a finely caparisoned steed or, better yet, take his ease in a chariot emblazoned with marks of state, surrounded by a mounted escort.
It was such excess of ceremony that made Turisan long so often to be gone from the court at Glenhallow. The more he learned of the intricacies of governance, the more he yearned for the simplicity of a wild wood, a clear stream, and the flicker of stars through leafy branches.
This journey was in part an escape from court formalities, though at the end of it they awaited him again. His father had sent him here on a visit of ceremony, to pay respects and carry messages to Lord Felisan, the governor of Alpinon, and to witness the confirmation of his heir.
Turisan had made no objection to this errand, for he knew it to be his duty as his father’s nextkin. Lord Jharan’s eyes, so often stern, grew soft with fondness whenever he spoke of Felisan, and that alone made Turisan curious to know him. He also expected the visit to Alpinon’s woodlands to satisfy his longing for wildness. Yet even here in the forest he was to have no peace, it seemed. Annoyed all at once, he turned in midstride and nocked an arrow to his bow, aiming it amidst the branches overhead.
“You have followed me half the afternoon. Come down and declare your business with me or begone.” A moment’s silence. Then a rustle in the branches, and a lanky ælven female in worn and dusky hunting leathers emerged, landing softly before him. She brushed a strand of nut- brown hair from her green eyes and stood gazing at him.
“Peace to you, friend. I meant no harm. We seldom have visitors from the south.”
Turisan lowered his bow. “And who are you?”
The little chin went up, then a corner of her mouth curled. “I am called Kestrel. I am kin to Lord Felisan.” Surprised, Turisan paused to return arrow to quiver while he reevaluated her status. No rustic this, what- ever her appearance. Even a lesser relative of Lord Felisan deserved his respect, though she had not given her true name. He bowed.
“It is to bring messages to Lord Felisan that I have come. Will you honor me by guiding me to his house?” The green eyes lit. “Messages? From Southfæld?” Turisan smiled. “From Glenhallow.”
He had thought that mention of Southfæld’s seat of government would thrill her. She drew a breath, as of deep plea sure, then surprised him by replying with quiet dignity.
“It will be my honor to guide you.”
She turned and, with a friendly glance over her shoulder, started northward. Turisan hastened to come up with her. Though not as tall as he, she had a guardian’s purposeful stride. She looked at him sidelong as they walked apace.
“Forgive my discourtesy, I pray. What visitors we do receive from Southfæld generally come by the trade road.”
Turisan smiled to show he held no grievance. “I prefer the woodlands.”
“So do I. You have no horse? Glenhallow sends its messengers on foot?”
“I have a horse. I left it with the guardians at Midrange, thinking to enjoy a walk. I believe it is not far from here to Highstone?”
“No, not far.” She smiled, her mouth twisting with private amusement.
Not a rustic, and not quite so young as he had first thought. Turisan observed her while she answered his polite questions about the land through which they walked.
She was fair of face and form, her coloring middle dark as was common in the Stonereach clan, her figure well enough though leaner than the gently bred maidens of Glenhallow’s court. Turisan, being accustomed to receive the open admiration of every maid he met, was intrigued and somewhat abashed to realize that this female seemed more interested in his messages than in himself.
It would be a lesson to him, he acknowledged silently. He had indeed dwelt too long at court. The woodlands, all ablaze with autumn, grew denser. Turisan’s legs told him they were climbing, though at first the slope was scarcely noticeable. It became a true hill before long and led to numberless others increasing in size, greenleaf trees giving way to tall pines as they proceeded from foothills into the mountains proper. Though he would have enjoyed a rest, his guide seemed unweary...
