“And if Aria wished to hide it, there was a purpose, a reason.” Narosén nodded in understanding.
“Did you see him, Erthoron? Did you see the lord? The leader? Our Warlord—the one who will unite this broken forest?” Amareth’s eyes were alive, burning with pride.
“He doesn’t want that. He may never accept it.”
“He will. He understands the need for unity. But he doesn’t understand why I did the things I did.”
“Then go to him. Explain,” Lorthil began. “Our people will not be held back for much longer, not by us. We need to show them that Fel’annár is here, that he will lead our warriors and stand for what the Silvan Council rules.”
“He won’t change his mind, Lorthil. But I will speak with him. And when he’s back from this scouting mission of his, I believe he will agree.”
Something clicked and thudded onto the ground. Narosén leaned forward. Pieces of carved bone were strewn over the floor around him. He looked up, to Amareth and then to Erthoron. “There is a Guiding Light in Tensári. She is Divine Protector, Ber’ator.”
It was half the truth, enough to startle Amareth and raise her suspicions. She had known some destiny awaited her sister’s child, but surely Narosén was not implying what he seemed to be. “Are you sure?” Her voice wavered.
The Ari turned to her, studied her face for a moment. “As sure as I am that there is guilt in your heart. As sure as I am that you never meant to hurt him.”
She nodded, and started when Narosén spoke once more. “But you did.”
Amareth pursed her lips, turning away. She had spent a lifetime justifying what she had done, to her family in Abiren’á, to Fel’annár … to herself. But perhaps it was time to admit that she had not always been right, admit that she had underestimated those who would have helped, family that would have shared the almost unbearable burden of lying to a child.
Lorthil breathed after what seemed too long, even for an immortal. “Beloved Aria.”
Erthoron smiled quietly, watching Amareth as she struggled with herself. When Fel’annár had been fifteen, he, too, had pleaded with her to tell the boy of his family. Not of the king, but his family in Abiren’á. Alei and Bulan. But Amareth had never wavered in her beliefs, and Erthoron had supported her all that time. She was Aren Zéndar. He trusted her as much as he had come to love her.
“I wonder, though. Does Fel’annár know? Does he know that he is Ber’anor?” asked Lorthil.
“He knows,” said Narosén, sorting through his tokens with his index finger. One was carved with a sun, the other with an oak tree. “He knows.”
That afternoon, Llyniel sat perched upon a window seat, eyes fixed on the Silvan camp beyond the city walls. Her mother was behind her, sitting at a table and nursing a cup of steaming tea.
“I still remember how you would beg me to take you to Sen Garay to visit with your cousins.” She stopped, eyes on the wood grain of the table, worn yet well-polished. “We hardly ever did. Your father needed us, needed our presence to anchor him. He has all but ruled these lands in the latter years of Thargodén’s rule. The responsibility, the weight of it …”
Llyniel listened. For the first time, she truly listened to what lay beneath her mother’s words.
“It broke my heart, that pleading face of yours. So Silvan, and yet I kept you away from what you most loved. The forest, the trees. Your heritage. The Silver Wolf.”
“You did it for love.” Her voice was a soft murmur, a simple echo of the thoughts in her mind.
“Yes. But in doing so, I pushed you away, didn’t I?”
“I didn’t understand.”
“And now? What has changed, Llyniel?”
She turned to her mother, but words wouldn’t come. It was Fel’annár, her love for him that had changed, that allowed her to understand her mother’s words.
“Come with me to the camp. Now. Let’s go to the Silvan side.” Miren didn’t wait for her daughter’s response, thought that perhaps she wouldn’t answer. But she was accustomed to that. Whatever Llyniel decided, Miren needed to speak with Erthoron, warn him about tomorrow’s visit.
“Now?” Llyniel frowned, pulled from her thoughts.
Miren shrugged. “It’s still light, and the streets are quiet enough. Come with me, as we should have so many times in the past and never did. Aradan doesn’t need me now. It’s Rinon that needs him, and he will not be back this night.”
Llyniel nodded, smiled tentatively, even though curiosity gnawed at her. Miren, meek wife of Aradan, would walk into the Silvan encampment just a few hours before sunset. She had been told of the riots, of the vandalism and the hatred that was growing by the day. What was she thinking?
Moments later, three cloaked figures left the palace, two bearing baskets and the other with a larger pack on his back.
“It’s possible we are being followed,” said Miren. “They do follow me sometimes, but they stay away from the camp.”
“Why do they follow you?” asked Llyniel, eyes darting around.
“I am the Royal Councillor’s wife.”
Llyniel didn’t understand why that would draw the enemy’s attention, but Miren said nothing more and Bala turned, chanced a glance at Llyniel and remained silent.
They passed the gates. They would close at sundown and, should they wish to return, they would be forced to identify themselves. But Llyniel had no intention of returning tonight, so they pressed on until the first Silvan guards came into sight. Llyniel stiffened, realising they would be stopped. Indeed, Miren stood still, and Llyniel watched as she pulled her hood away just a little. The guard nodded and stepped aside. Llyniel realised her mother knew exactly where she was going. She scowled.
“You’ve been here before.”
“Many times, yes.”
She wanted to ask more, but the camp was too much of a distraction. This was nothing short of a forest town. The familiar smells of yeast and cheese, of resins and honey cakes, filled the air. Her Silvan blood pulsed in her veins. She wanted to reach out to these people, embrace them, but above all else, she wanted to see Fel’annár.
“You’ve missed this. However much I tried to make of you a lady in an Alpine court, you were never that. You are Llyniel, Lady of the Silver Wolf of Sen Garay.”
Llyniel smiled. She liked that a lot better.
They came to a large, circular tent. Bala stepped forward and whispered to the guard who stood at its entrance. He disappeared, and soon returned to hold open the flap. They stepped inside.
“Lady Miren. You come on the dawn of decision. What news?” Lord Erthoron stepped out of the gloom and nodded respectfully at Miren, turning then to Llyniel. He cocked his head to one side.
“This is Lady Llyniel. My daughter.”
Erthoron smiled. “A pleasure, lady. Your mother has been of great assistance to the Silvan cause these past months. Is there news, Miren?”
“Oh, yes. There is news.” She smiled, nodded, and accepted Erthoron’s invitation to sit.
Her mother was a spy.
Llyniel stood and listened as Miren told Erthoron about how Rinon didn’t believe that Angon was responsible for the deaths or for the king’s disappearance. She told him how he planned to visit tomorrow, bringing Angon with him. He would search for the king himself, she said, and Handir hoped young Fel’annár would stay in the shadows.