Winds of Fury by Mercedes Lackey

he had endured.
    I think emotional damage is harder to heal than physical damage . . . .
    Well, tomorrow would put that distance between them. And if it had not been for Clan k’Leshya and the gryphons, instrumental in helping to find the exact physical location of the rest of k’Sheyna, the healing process would have been put off a lot longer. That alone had succeeded in convincing the last diehards of k’Sheyna that the Kaled’a’in deserved the stewardship of the old Vale. If they had not generously volunteered then help, it would have taken months to locate the Clan and get an Adept in place who could handle the Gate Spell from the other end.
    She looked around for something else to pack, and realized that there was nothing left. Darkwind’s collection of feather-masks had been carefully packed up by one of his hertasi, and the walls were bare. Books and furniture would be left behind for the next occupant. Small keepsakes and jewelry had been tucked into odd corners of packs; feathers likewise. The few papers and notebooks Darkwind meant to take with him were already in the last pack. That left only the clothing they would need for the next couple of days.
    Elspeth was not even taking her old Whites, nor was Skif. The hertasi , particularly the Kaled’a’in hertasi, had made their disdain of those plain, utilitarian garments very obvious. She had finally given in to their unremitting pressure to let them “make something better.” She had only specified that the resulting clothing must follow the same general lines as the old Whites and must be completely white . Not ecru, not eggshell, not ivory, nor pearl-gray, nor pale pink. White . The clothing must be functional; ornamentation must not be any color but white, and it must not catch on things, tear off, or glitter in the sun to give her away—
    â€œAs if big white target in green field not give you away,” one of the k’Leshya hertasi had replied in scorn.
    She suspected that in the end the hertasi , frustrated, had appealed to Darkwind for help; certainly the new Whites had his touch about them. And it was possible to see the pattern of the originals in the new uniforms. But there the resemblance had ended.
    Flowing sleeves caught in long, close cuffs at the wrists, white-on-white embroidery and even beadwork, leathers softer even than deerskin with cut-out patterns as elaborate as lace and long fringe that fell like a waterfall, beautifully tooled and fringed boots and half-boots, and more of the ubiquitous silk so beloved of the Tayledras—the clothing was far more exotic than she could have imagined Whites would be. And, somewhat to her own surprise, she liked them. Even more to her surprise, so did Skif, who asked the hertasi to make him something suited to his size and frame—and style.
    So the hertasi had their hearts’ desire, and took apart the old Whites to be used as scrap material and cleaning rags. And the two Heralds would be returning not only splendidly garbed themselves, but with matching gear for their Companions, who gloated that they would be the envy of the Collegium.
    â€œWe will do well wherever we go. Home should be in your heart, the Shin’a’in say. Worry not about me,” Darkwind said, breaking the silence of Elspeth’s thoughts.
    â€œI’ll always worry about you. At least a little. I guess we’re done,” she said, uncertainly. Darkwind laced his pack shut and stood up, smiling.
    â€œNot quite yet, I think,” he replied—and before she could react, he caught her up in his arms and tumbled her into their bed.
    â€œWe have all evening, and no duties, kechara,” he said, between kisses. “And I at least, had plans—or at least, hopes. . . .”
    Â 
    Given all the unexpected disasters that had followed them, Elspeth more than half expected something to interfere with the opening of the Gate the next morning.
    But nothing