Not for the first time, Fel’annár tried to imagine his life without Llyniel. He breathed deeply, revelled in her presence in his mind. She was safe; they all were.
His mind sharpened, focussed on the present. The voice of the trees was so strong in his mind. Even now, behind their reassurances that his friends were safe, an underlying warning was becoming clearer. They spoke of his father. They spoke of ...
He placed a hand on Idernon’s forearm, careful not to disturb his hood. “Something has happened in the city,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“The trees speak of a deposed king.”
Idernon’s step faltered. He picked it up lest he draw attention to their group. They still weren’t safe.
They came to a stop before a large, circular tent. Farón spoke with the guard at its entrance, and then he turned to the warriors who had accompanied him, to those who had seen the strange lights in Fel’annár’s eyes, seen his face. “Not a word. On your oath.”
They nodded, and with a lingering stare at Fel’annár’s hooded form, they disappeared into the surrounding crowds. Farón nodded, then ducked inside, The Company behind him.
It was dark inside, save for the fire at the centre, and the candles which stood on a table to one side. But the warm glow was enough to tell a surprised Fel’annár that it was Amareth who stared at him from one side of the table, a curious Erthoron at her side, and further back, the dark features of an Ari’atór, familiar beads gleaming and winking as he stepped forward. Narosén—and if he was here, Lorthil surely was, too.
He heard the rustle of cloth, the fall of heavy, oiled weave behind him and the crackle of the fire. He stared at the four elves before him, standing utterly still, like a life-sized tapestry. But then Amareth stepped forward, and the illusion was gone.
“I knew you would come. That you would return. Even though I feared it.”
Erthoron’s head snapped to Amareth, and then to the foremost hooded figure. “Fel’annár?”
A bloodied hand reached up and slid back the hood. Fel’annár stared at Amareth, saw her wide, shining eyes, intense as they wandered over him. They paused at the Bonding Braid, the honour stone and the barely recognisable Heliaré. Gods, but he wanted to hug her, and yet reproaches clamoured for release. His eyes travelled to a wide-eyed Erthoron, a shocked Lorthil and a satisfied Narosén.
“I need your reassurance that my identity will not be disclosed.”
“You have it. Although I confess, I don’t understand. Surely it is in our favour to tell our people. Many thought you dead or simply indifferent to our cause.” Erthoron stepped closer.
“Until word comes from our allies in the city, we must stay out of sight.”
Erthoron nodded, turned to Farón. “Find Captain Dalú. We need to reinforce the perimeter guard and provide protection for our guests. His identity is to remain a secret.”
“I have sworn my elves to secrecy, lord.”
Erthoron turned back to Fel’annár. “Will you not introduce your companions?”
Fel’annár half-turned to The Company behind him. They, in turn, pulled their hoods down and waited. “This is The Company. My brothers and sister. They go where I go.”
A female Ari’atór, although uncommon, was not unheard of. But it was Galadan’s blond locks that Lorthil stared at.
“And the Alpine?” he asked, pointing with his finger at Galadan.
Fel’annár’s features sharpened as he took a step forward. “The Alpine is a trusted lieutenant, a loyal and brave warrior. He would die for you.”
Lorthil started, looked away.
“As would I,” said Sontúr, stepping forward. “I am Prince Sontúr Ar Vorn’asté of Tar’eastór.” He watched them for a moment, and then he bowed, aware that they returned the gesture. Fel’annár could see their shock, their questions. A prince of the Motherland stood before them, more Alpine than Alpine, despite his grey hair.
“We have many questions, lords, and I am sure you have your own,” said Erthoron with a heavy sigh. “Farón, have a tent set up as close as you can to this one.”
Farón nodded and then turned to Or’Talán incarnate. He stood there for a moment, eyes unreadable even to Fel’annár. There was mistrust in his eyes, some confusion, or perhaps scepticism. It mattered little to him, for his shoulder twinged and reminded him of the blade he had taken there. He felt Tensári’s hand at the small of his back, and then Idernon stepped forward.
“Lord. Can you provide food and clothing? Our journey has been long and eventful.”
“Of course. I will send for a healer.”
“No need, lord. We have our own,” said Fel’annár, watching as Sontúr arched his eyebrow at the Silvans and stepped to his side.
Erthoron returned the gesture, watched as they turned to leave. Narosén caught Fel’annár’s line of sight. He smiled that same mischievous smile Fel’annár remembered from back in Sen’oléi, the one that said he knew more than he should. But the smile faltered as he regarded Tensári. He bowed to her, to Lorthil’s visible surprise, and then he left, staff thudding over the ground beside him.
But Amareth had eyes only for her son, the one that would not return her gaze. He was angry, and she had expected no less. But her ruse was over. She was free at last to answer his questions, and she would, as soon as he had rested. After that, she had her own questions, about his journeys, about his Bond.
Minutes later, the new tent was erected and The Company, hooded once more, were led away.
“Well?” Erthoron smiled and Amareth returned it, but it faltered too soon. She had missed nothing of his childhood, and yet, it seemed she had missed every day of his adulthood.
“Did you see his eyes, Erthoron?”
“I did. They are not the eyes of a child.”
“No. No, they’re not.”
Llyniel heaved a deep breath as she rounded the final corner. One last corridor and she would be home, ten years on.
Turion had said he had become friends with her father, but she couldn’t help but wonder at the unlikely friendship. Turion was a hardened, resolute captain, while her father was … an academic. A philosopher. He was cautious, wary of change.
If everything had gone to plan, the others would be in the bowels of the palace, in the caves and natural springs below, waiting for the right moment to make it inside, unseen. There was no way of telling who was loyal and who was not. All it would take was for a disloyal guard to see them, and Band’orán would have the upper hand. And so, to the eyes of others, Captain Turion made for the king’s quarters as he so often did, returning from a mission in Port Helia. Beside him, Aradan’s rebellious daughter, making for her own family quarters on the level below. No one would think anything of it.
On the second-to-last floor of the palace, where the king’s closest advisors dwelled, Llyniel stopped. She turned and faced the ornately carved double doors that opened into Aradan’s suite of rooms. She had been born and raised here.
She remembered her mother’s face, looking down on her and laughing, that scandalous cackle Miren was famous for—that and her incessant babbling. She saw her own pleading face, still podgy and rosy. She wanted to go to the forest, wanted to play in the trees. She saw the sadness in her mother’s eyes—duty or heart? And what did it matter? It had all been sacrifice, one Llyniel hadn’t understood at the time. She saw her father’s quiet laugh, herself as she swiped at his arms, scolded him as she laughed. She remembered his voice as he read to her, his pride when she excelled. She remembered the hurt in his eyes when she told him she was leaving. It was because of them. Because they would not make a stand, defend the Silvan people. She hadn’t understood. Still didn’t.