Heir to the Sun

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  Not that these facts made leaving Alluria any easier. Caol’nir drew back and gazed at his mate, the woman he’d never dared hope would love him. “Remember everything I taught you,” he said, stroking her cheek. While his remaining family would watch her, he had also spent the winter teaching her how to wield a dagger.

  “I will,” she promised, “and remember what I taught you.” In addition to the firestarting spell, Alluria taught her mate to discern direction, as well as a glamour to hide him while in plain sight. “And don’t lose the stone!” she added; she still couldn’t say why she had charmed a few stones to override Sarelle’s spells, but she felt better having done it.

  Caol’nir promised that he would forget nothing, and she straightened the laces of his jerkin. “And, nall, do not forget to return.” Alluria’s voice caught in her throat.

  Caol’nir tilted her chin up and began to say his goodbye, when Alluria caught sight of something over his shoulder and smiled. He turned and saw his father, leading a horse packed for travel.

  “It seems I’m going with you,” Tor said in response to his son’s startled face. “Alluria’s forced me to watch over you, and return you to her in one piece.”

  Caol’nir turned to his mate, who explained, “I couldn’t let you go alone,” Alluria explained. “What if those who would enslave us captured you?”

  Caol’nir protested, for removing the Prelate from Teg’urnan for several moons would garner more attention than was prudent. “So you cajoled my father into watching over me?”

  “No, I begged him,” she clarified. “Be angry with me if you wish, but know that I only went behind your back out of love.” She continued in a low voice, “You’ve kept me safe often enough; can I not return the favor?”

  Caol’nir tangled his fingers in Alluria’s hair as he drew her close; he would take her hair with him if he could, he so loved the feel of it against his skin. “As I was saying before we were interrupted,” he continued, now wearing that rakish grin she loved so much, “I need you more than the air I breathe. You’re my soul, Alluria. I’ll count the moments until we are together again.” With that, he kissed her, hard and long and passionately enough that even the gatekeeper stayed silent. When they parted, Caol’nir regarded his father while he held Alluria. “What of your duties?”

  “Fiornacht is more than capable,” Tor replied, “and he will enjoy the authority.” Tor swung into the saddle and urged his horse toward the gate.

  Caol’nir turned back to his mate. “Nalla...”

  Alluria hushed him. “Don’t. Just know that I love you and that it rends my heart to be without you. I too will count the moments until we’re together again.”

  Caol’nir kissed her again and mounted his horse. Leaning down, he kissed her a third time. As he was about to bestow a fourth, Alluria said that the sooner he left the sooner he could return. He kissed her anyway, and then rode north to save Parthalan from its own king.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the elder sun approached his noonday apex, nearly a thousand weary faeries and elfin warriors crested the World’s Spine and reached the Seat of Tingu, the ancestral home of the elves. The Seat was made of polished green and purple stone that looked as if it had been coaxed from the earth as one would tend a seed. While the palace was smooth as a river stone, the emerald and amethyst mountain from which it was carved jutted toward the sky at sharp angles, uncut or polished and yearning for a jewelers touch.

  Home.

  As Lormac looked upon the Seat, he agreed with the Sala; it was good to be home. While all elves preferred to live near the northern mountains, he felt the pull of earth and stone stronger than most. Like all those of Nexa’s line, he felt the Seat call to him, a call magnified by wearing the Sala.

  Lormac mused on his long life as he neared the Seat; while elves were an immortal race, as were the fae and trolls, Nexa’s blood afforded him a much more enduring nature. He was never ill, unlike the trolls who had retreated far beneath the surface to avoid illness millennia ago, nor was he easily injured like the fragile fae. His stoic nature meant that he afforded precious few a glimpse at his true self, but when he did choose to let go and love, he loved them deeply.

  And for eternity.

  The thought was not his own; rather, he would not admit to it being his, and he rubbed the Sala to quiet it. Lormac had long ago grown accustomed to its voice within his mind, but lately it had grown louder and more persistent. Lormac looked over his shoulder and saw the object of the Sala’s interest riding next to Torim.

  “What do you think of my home?” Lormac asked Asherah.

  “Amazing,” she replied, her eyes fixed upon the Seat. “I don’t know if amazing is the proper word. No, it’s splendid!”

  “It is half again as large as Teg’urnan,” Torim murmured. “I did not think so big a structure could exist.”

  “It’s larger than it appears,” Lormac stated. “You can only see the outer walls now, but the Seat travels deep into the mountain.”

  “Like a cavern?” Asherah asked.

  “Nothing like a damp, dark cavern,” Lormac replied. “It is full of light, and warmth, and…” Lormac realized that he was waxing on about the Seat, evidenced by Asherah and Torim’s bemused faces. “I’ll just have to show you.”

  “I would like that,” Asherah said.

  Lormac smiled—no, the elf king grinned—as Asherah spoke the words, the Sala’s approval singing in his mind. Before he could continue, Balthus approached him.

  “My lord, the Gatekeeper waits,” Balthus proclaimed. Lormac murmured his apologies to Asherah, and followed his second to the Gate.

  The Gate of Tingu was largely a ceremonial object, for while it rose to three times Lormac’s height, it was only a gate, without an attached wall or fence. As Lormac approached the Gate he brought his left hand to his right shoulder, the Sala resting over his heart.

  “Ancestors, I beg your leave to enter,” Lormac said, his voice reverberating off the Seat. The elves turned as one from their king to the Gatekeeper, a wizened old man in a grey robe, and the faeries quickly followed suit. The Gatekeeper nodded to Lormac, and with a strength that belied his frail form he dragged the Gate open and allowed the king’s procession to pass through to the Seat.

  As soon as he entered the palace, Lormac was whisked away to deal with matters that had been waiting for him during his long absence, and couldn’t send for Asherah until the following morning. Lormac paced about his chamber as he waited for her arrival, the Sala humming her name inside his head. Finally, he heard Aldo admit her and he rushed to the front room.

  “My lady,” Lormac said as he took her hands, “how do you find the Seat of Tingu?”

  “Magnificent,” she replied. “I had no idea that such a palace existed.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t summon you sooner, but I’ve learned some unsettling information.” Lormac kept hold of her hand as he led her to a long table and indicate a map, yellowed and crumbling at the edges, which took up nearly the entire surface. “We have reports of Ehkron in Thurnda. It seems that your fight has become mine, after all.”

  Asherah studied the map, tracing Thurnda’s border with her finger. “Do you know why he’s here?”

  “I’ve been told precious little,” Lormac replied bitterly. “I hope to have word soon enough.”

  “I didn’t want to bring trouble to your door,” Asherah said softly.

  Lormac gently squeezed her fingers. “It’s not your fault that an evil creature behaves in an evil manner. If it is truly the mordeth-gall’s intent to enslave all he can, he would have breached my lands sooner or later. Your coming here alerted me, so I’m better able to protect my people.”

  Asherah nodded. “Have many been harmed in Thurnda?” she asked, but was interrupted when a small child burst into the room.

  “Da!” cried a boy with Lormac’s gray eyes and wiry frame, bounded across the room and flung himself at the elf king. Lormac swept the boy int
o his arms, then brought him before Asherah.

  “Asherah, this is my son, Leran.”

  Leran wrestled free of Lormac’s grasp and offered Asherah an elfin salute.

  “Hello,” Asherah greeted, crouching before the boy. “Did you make this for your father to play with?” She indicated the small wooden horse he clutched, crudely carved with splinters sticking out from every angle.

  “I did. I finished it yesterday. You’re pretty,” Leran said, then he hid behind his father’s legs.

  “And you are very handsome,” Asherah said, laughing when Leran blushed. Lormac marveled at Asherah’s easy manner with his son; Leran was not comfortable with many people outside of Lormac and his two nurses, yet he acted as if he had known Asherah all of his short life.

  Her.

  “Thank you,” Lormac said as he accepted the tiny horse. “Now run along, and I’ll join you soon.” Leran nodded and bounded from the chamber.

  “He is a wonderful boy,” Asherah said. “Have you others?”

  “There is only Leran,” Lormac replied. “He is the center of my world.” Lormac had placed his hand on Asherah’s shoulder as he replied. He found that he needed contact and kept touching her without asking, his only reward being Asherah’s stiff limbs as she moved out of his reach. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  Asherah smiled tightly. “I know you don’t.”

  “Come, I want to show you something,” Lormac said as he extended his arm to Asherah. “Only to help you along,” he added.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting his arm. He led her to a small door in the rear of his receiving chamber, grabbing his cloak along the way.

  “We’re going someplace cold?” she inquired.

  “It is much cooler than the rest of the palace,” Lormac replied as they entered a stone passageway.

  “The floor slopes upward?” Asherah asked.

  “Yes, this lead’s toward the mountain’s peak.”

  “And what is at this peak?”

  “You’ll know soon enough.”

  Lormac smiled when Asherah frowned, then turned her attention toward the passageway itself. Initially, the walls had the look of masonry, as did the walls of Lormac’s chamber, but they quickly gave way to smooth, undulating stone in the same rich greens and purples as the exterior of the palace. A swirl of white metal, broken up so it resembled windblown pollen, was imbedded in the stone.

  The passageway opened up to a large gallery. The walls and floor continued in that green and purple stone, but now veins of other gems and precious metals also swirled together. The ceiling was not solid stone but rather a field of white crystal, transparent enough to let sunlight illuminate the interior as bright as day. Toward the rear of the chamber, the crystals became larger and adorned the floor as well as the ceiling, giving the appearance of a chamber decorated with crystalline furniture.

  “Oh,” Asherah breathed, “what is this beautiful place?”

  “This is the Seat of Tingu,” Lormac replied with a sweep of his arm, “birthplace of all elfkind. Remember when I told you that we were born of the earth and stone?”

  “Elves were born from this very spot?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, placing his hand on the small of her back and turned her toward a large, flat crystal. “It’s said that this crystal was Nexa’s bower.” Asherah trailed her fingertips along the edge of the stone, then she noticed similar formations.

  “And what do these signify?” she asked.

  Lormac explained that each elf descended from Nexa was represented by their own stones, those of the living glowing, as did the crystal ceiling, while the stones of those who had passed took on an iridescent sheen. Lormac named them all, until they reached the tiniest stone that was Leran’s. Lormac’s heart swelled as he took her interest as yet another sign that she was his true mate. Then Asherah uttered words that removed the few lingering doubts he possessed.

  “Thank you, for sharing this with me,” Asherah said. “I’ve never been to a place as sacred and magnificent as this.” She traced the stone that was Lormac’s, and he felt her touch along his back, warm and soft and utterly calming. “Of course, I don’t remember most of the places I have been, but I don’t think anyone could forget being here.”

  “It does leave an impression in one’s mind,” Lormac agreed. Asherah still had her hand on his stone, and Lormac was enjoying every moment. “When you touch my stone, I feel it as if you’re touching me.”

  “Oh,” Asherah said, dropping her hand. “I-I didn’t know.”

  “Not to worry,” he said. “I didn’t mind.” Asherah smiled, then she dropped her gaze to the Sala.

  “The stones in your armband, they are from here?” Asherah asked.

  “Yes,” Lormac replied, further pleased by Asherah’s interest in his heritage. “This is called Sala, and it was created by Nexa herself. By wearing it, I proclaim my right to rule Tingu.”

  “I thought your crown signified that.”

  “The crown is just a decoration,” Lormac said, “but this is who we truly are.”

  “You’ve always reminded me of a mountain, but I could never say why.” Asherah again looked about the gallery, her eyes filled with wonderment as she murmured, “Truly, I’ve never seen a lovelier sight.”

  Nothing is lovely, compared to you. Lormac could not say if the thought was his or the Sala’s, but it no longer mattered. “You remind me of the night sky,” Lormac said.

  Asherah glanced over her shoulder. “How is that?” she asked, the same bemused expression on her face as when Lormac went on about the Seat. He loved that look of curiosity and fascination that she frequently wore, just as he loved so many other aspects of her.

  “Your eyes are black as a moonless night, your hair pale as starlight,” he said as he stepped toward her. “You are a star, a shining beacon of hope for your people.”

  Asherah stared at Lormac for a moment, then she turned away, mentioning a vein of silver that coursed about the Seat, but Lormac refused to let her distract him again. “Little star, where will your light shine next? Where will you go once your people are free?”

  “They are not my people,” Asherah said.

  “The Ish h’ra hai are most certainly yours,” Lormac insisted. “They look to you in all things. You are their light, their savior. Any one of them would die for you.”

  “As I would die for them.” Asherah rubbed her arms, and Lormac draped his cloak about her shoulders. “A king should have a nicer cloak,” she commented, feeling the lumpy fabric. “You adorn others in silks and velvets, yet you go about wearing this sackcloth.”

  “You have not answered me. Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know,” Asherah answered truthfully. “I have no home, no family…I suppose I’ll find a place for myself.”

  “You could remain in Tingu.”

  “I’m not an elf,” she said hurriedly. “There is no place for me here.”

  Lormac closed the short distance between them and took her hand. “As long as I’m king, there will be a place for you here, little star.” He kissed her hand, rigid in his.

  “What place?” she gasped.

  “At my side,” Lormac replied. He noted her nervousness and stepped back, but did not release her hand. “I can give you a home.”

  “What of Leran’s mother?” she demanded.

  “I forget, you fae only have children if you are bound,” Lormac said. “His mother was one of the house women, but now she is gone.” Asherah apologized, but Lormac continued, “Not gone as in dead; gone as in she left Tingu.”

  “Left?”

  “I couldn’t give her what she wanted,” Lormac replied, somewhat harsher than he’d intended.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he replied with a tight smile. “She gave me the gift of my son, for which I am ever grateful.” Lormac still held on to Asherah, and he wrapped a fold of his cloak around her hand. “You asked me where I obtained this
—what did you call it? This sackcloth—and the answer is that Leran made it for me.”

  Asherah stole a glance at his face, and her curious expression bade him to continue.

  “After his mother left, Leran was inconsolable. No one could comfort him, for what substitute is there for one’s own mother? Finally, one of the saffira decided that Leran needed distraction rather than coddling, so she taught him to weave.” Lormac drew the coarse fabric across her skin as he concluded, “As you can see, he is not very good with a loom.”

  “That is noble of you, to wear what your son made for you,” Asherah said.

  “It’s a small act on my part, but it brings him much joy,” Lormac replied. “I’ll do anything to keep those I love happy.”

  “Oh.” Asherah looked at the floor. She withdrew her hand and Lormac, having said all he could for the moment, led her back to his chambers. The return was notable for its silence, in sharp contrast to the banter they had enjoyed during their ascent to the Seat.

  Lormac watched Asherah look around the room, noting details she overlooked earlier such as the shelves that lined the walls full to bursting with maps and tomes, the small toys scattered about that belonged to Leran, then she saw the entrance to his bedchamber.

  Asherah removed his cloak and thrust it toward him. “I will not become your concubine,” she said. “If that is the price for your help, I will find another way.”

  Lormac took the cloak, his laughter rumbling low in his chest. “Do you think that’s what I was asking you? I can assure you, there’s no shortage of pretty things to warm my bed. If that was all I desired, I wouldn’t have bothered bringing you to the Seat.” Asherah frowned and turned her back. Lormac tossed the cloak aside and placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs caressing the skin over her spine. “Your place would be one of honor.”