by Ted Neill
Roslyn made a face as if she were sucking a lemon then went quiet, focused on the game once more. Haille watched the rest of the match, and the next: Gavin taking his sister in the first but Roslyn rallied to win the second, after which Gavin picked up the set and stomped off back to the house.
“He doesn’t like to lose, especially to me,” Roslyn said.
Katlyn woke in the late afternoon. By then the sun had retreated behind the treetops and the air had grown cool. Haille and the others had moved inside to drink tea while sitting close to the iron stove that warmed the kitchen. Now father and son played a silent game of kerosar, and Roslyn, upon seeing Katlyn appear in the doorway, her hair disheveled from sleep, leapt from her seat and offered to plait Katlyn’s hair. Katlyn accepted, rubbing her eyes while Haille poured her a cup of tea.
The last time Haille had felt such warmth and easy comradery had been the supper he had shared with Katlyn’s family upon their return from the Font of Jasmeen. As easy and comfortable as both gatherings had been, there was a pit in his stomach, a shard of pain that twisted whenever he looked at Gavin and his father or even Roslyn and her mother. It was a growing sense of the void in him, where memories of such family fellowship should have been.
He excused himself to his room, closing the door behind him. He did not make it as far as the bed, but instead caught himself against the wall and slid down to the floor, staring, unable to place thoughts, much less words to the gulf he felt within. He had pushed forward over so many weeks, so many leagues, the momentum occupying his will, his waking thoughts, but now anxiety threatened all his assumptions. What was he chasing? What would reaching his father accomplish? The threat of loss had compelled him, but what if the loss was already complete? What if there was nothing to save? His father had already rejected him and when Haille had the chance to “fix” himself, he had chosen otherwise. He did not regret the choice at all.
Would his father?
But if his father would not accept him, his choices, his friends, then what was worth saving?
He was relieved when Val knocked on the door and called him back to the kitchen, if for no other reason than to save him from his own thoughts. Haille opened the door.
“Sandolin wants to talk to us,” Val said.
“I’m coming,” Haille said pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Not looking like that,” Val said. He dropped his hand from where it had been rubbing the scar on his chin, and pushed Haille backwards into his room, then closed the door behind him.
The room felt smaller with Val’s imposing figure filling the doorway. He crossed his arms; his feet set apart, and looked at Haille out of the corner of his squinted eye. After making some sort of silent assessment of Haille, Val sighed, and sat down on the floor his knees popping.
“I thought Sandolin—”
“Can wait.”
Haille balled his hands and bit his lip, Val leveling a wordless stare at him.
“Well?” the Captain finally said.
“What?”
“You going to tell me what is wrong?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Haille heard himself say.
Val let out his breath and made a tsking noise, “Normally I would leave another man alone with his thoughts . . . his demons.”
Haille swallowed and looked to the door.
Val continued, “But times are not normal and neither are you.”
“Normal is exactly what I wish I were.”
“But you are not, Prince Haille. You are a leader.”
Haille snorted, “I have a title. That does not make one a leader.”
“I’ll be the first to agree. Even command does not make one a leader nor does doing things right.”
Now Haille was confused. Val read it in his face and a bemused smile crept into the corner of his mouth.
“It’s not doing things right, that make a leader. It’s doing the right things. You’ve bungled some choices, sure, but all in all Haille, you’ve made some good choices, choices that the others believe in, choices I believe in. And so we follow you, your vision, your dream.”
“But what if that dream is a fallacy, Val?”
“Saving the king?”
Haille returned to his own spot, sitting on the floor, “Val, I guess it was never just about saving him. It’s about redeeming me.”
“That is plain to us all.”
Haille felt a flash of relief but it was soon gone, “But what if he still does not care?”
“Then he is a fool.”
Haille felt as if slapped. He looked up into Val’s face. His expression was steel, steadfast. To his surprise, Haille felt a laugh building in him.
“Just like that, you would dismiss him.”
“He would deserve it, even if he has the title ‘king’.”
Haille laughed again.
“It feels good, doesn’t it,” Val said.
“Yes,” Haille said, not exactly sure why.
“Good. Don’t lose hope about reconciliation. Fathers and sons, they are tricky things. But as long as you both live, there is hope to improve things between you. Be grateful for that. Now master yourself. I said you are a leader. The others look to you. There may, aye, there will come a time, I believe, when many will follow you. You need to learn to wear a countenance of courage.”
“Even when I’m feeling afraid?”
Val got up and turned to the door pausing with his hand on the knob, “That is the only time you really get to be brave.”
Once they had returned to the kitchen Sandolin announced that the elders would be holding a banquet in their honor.
“And much would be at stake,” Val pointed out, draining the dregs of his tea. “Both of you must be at your best tonight. These elders are the ones presumably to make the decision to help us or not.”
Haille stomach felt light and quesy, as if full of feathers. He was all too aware that it was his ancestor who had persecuted and betrayed these elves. “Do you think they even want to see me, considering whom I am related to?”
“Of course,” Sandolin said, looking up from the game of kerosar and taking one of Gavin’s pieces in the process. “After all, you helped rescue Veolin Crossborn.”
“Do you think she will be there?” Haille asked.
“She might,” Sandolin said, frowning as Gavin took one of his pieces. “But I know she must take time to heal . . . she has not been seen much about.”
Haille stared out the window, his spirits flattening.
“More tea?” Maylief asked.
“Sure, thank you.”
Gavin and Roslyn were to remain behind but Sandolin and Maylief were transformed for the banquet. Gone was Maylief’s apron, replaced by a silver gown that reminded Haille of a waterfall the way its folds rippled and fell. Like so many of the things crafted by the elves, Haille wondered if there was some subtle magic charm woven into it. Sandolin wore a jacket that reached his knees. He had an “older” one which he let Haille borrow, even though it showed no signs of wear and tear. Quite the opposite, its threadwork was sturdy and fine. Fitting Val and Cody was more difficult for their shoulders and chests were larger than the figures of the slender elves, but Sandolin found colorful sashes for them to wear that gave their traveling clothes an air of festive formality.
Haille particularly noticed Katlyn’s new appearance. One of Maylief’s gowns fit her as if it had been tailored for her shape. Roslyn’s arrangement of her hair into braids and loops was unlike anything Haille had ever seen in Antas but it suited Katlyn well. She looked more splendid than any noble woman at court.
“Well, I never—” Cody said, looking up from adjusting his sash.
The gown was off the shoulder and left her arms bare, allowing the dragon-binding-band to show. Katlyn cupped her hand under it. “Is it appropriate to show it here?”
“It is not forbidden. It will attract attention though,” Maylief said.
“But you may want to show it to some of the elde
rs, it is a fascinating piece,” Sandolin said.
“I’ll take any opportunity to see if I can learn more about it,” Katlyn said.
“Here,” Maylief said, wrapping a gossamer lavender shawl around her. “This will allow you to cover it and reveal it as you wish.”
Katlyn thanked her. The shawl made the ensemble complete and Haille exchanged sheepish looks with the other men, imaging that they all felt a bit drab in comparison. Val voiced what they were feeling best: “They will think you a princess and us part of your retinue.”
“Val,” she laughed, then changed her expression to one of worry. “Haille do you think it is too much? I don’t mean to seem out of place.”
“Tonight, I don’t mind sharing the attention what-so-ever.”
Indeed, Katlyn was the center of attention. The banquet was held in a hall that felt neither inside nor out. It was a clearing, its borders marked by more channels of running water and trunks of great trees, these polished to a dark red sheen. Their branches interlocked overhead in a dense ceiling of sorts but starlight still peeked through the irregular shaped gaps. The rest of the space was lit by torches that glowed not with the red-orange light of flame but rather a soft blue that cast all the elves in an ethereal glow. It favored their light skin tone and their glimmering clothes, lending them all a magical quality.
Aside from those differences, and of course differences in the food—everything was sweet and the bread light—Haille was struck by how similar the banquet was to the goings-on at the court where he had grown up. There were two dozen elder elves recognizable by their age and bearing. They were attended to by a small army of helpers. Seraphina and Gandolin made sure to introduce Haille and his friends to all of them, making a circuit of the room that Haille found as dreary as it was familiar: entertaining small talk, showing deference to those who obviously felt that they were deserving it. At one point, between introductions, Seraphina sidled up beside him and whispered, “You have been trained well in the ways of court.”
“Thank you,” Haille said. But this was, in truth, easier than the events in the castle. There he was looked upon with disdain. Here, disdain was replaced with curiosity. He sensed some suspicion, especially when his last name, Hillbourne, was mentioned, but most of the elders expressed gratitude that they had saved Veolin more than anything else. And the elves themselves were more interesting than the self-important lords and ladies of Antas. Even if he could not catch all of their unusual names, Tanniff, Bandolin, Marolin, Asphrodelle, and others he had never heard before, their fair faces stood out in his memory.
But ultimately, it was Katlyn who consumed much of their attention. To her credit she was beautiful and elegant and she had also proved herself a fighter in their efforts to thwart the vaurgs. What she did not know of formality she made up for with a sense of self-possession and humility.
“You look half-elf yourself,” one elf in a red crushed-velvet doublet said to her.
Sandolin suggested Katlyn show her binding band to the oldest of the elders, a hunched whitened elf with deep smile lines and a cerulean cloak. His rheumy eyes widened at the sight of it and he raised his eyebrows when she explained it had been on her arm since she had appeared on her adopted family’s doorstep in a basket. She shared how it seemed to grow with her, always fitting the circumference of her arm but never so big that she could slide it past her elbow. In the gleam of the silver lanterns, the band glowed and sparkled so much that Haille fancied that he could imagine the dragon incised on it dancing and swaying with her movements.
The old elf looked close but stopped short of touching the band. “Powerful magic and great craftsmanship. I have never seen its like.”
Katlyn’s face darkened with sadness when he said that he could not tell her more. But he did promise to take a second look, a deeper one, at a more opportune time. Shortly after, they were called to the table to eat the main course. After such a flurry of introductions Haille was disappointed not to have met Veolin again. However, Adamantus approached their seats with two elves following behind. The other elves seated around the table nodded to them in greeting and followed them with their eyes. They both were tall, one with long blond hair, the other brown with light brows and flowing script tattooed onto his neck, wrists, and anywhere else where his skin was visible. Their features were familiar and although they did not have the age of the elders, they walked with a sense of purpose that Haille associated with power. He rose as they approached.
“Prince Haille, may I introduce Kaylief and Lasolorn,” the elk said, nodding to the blond one and the tattooed one in turn. “These are the brothers of Veolin Crossborn.”
They did not smile. Haille noticed both were armed with swords, daggers, and other blades of strange design. Nor were they dressed in the formal gowns of the others, but rather riding britches and boiled leather vests and arm pads.
These were elves of riding, ranging, and fighting. Not unlike their sister.
“We thank you for your service and bravery,” Kaylief said with a shallow bow. Lasalorn followed with a nod. Both elves’ expressions were flat and serious. Despite their sobriety, Haille liked them, if anything else for their lack of pretense and their dress. Here were elves just returned or about to travel. An urgency to return to their own journey kindled within him.
Val moved in between them.
“Your sister fought valiantly,” he said.
“As we would expect her to,” Kaylief replied.
After an uncomfortable pause Sandolin added that the brothers would dedicate a toast to Haille and his companions—even though they did not seem the toasting type.
“Will Veolin be joining us?” Katlyn asked. Haille could have hugged her, for the question was top of his own mind.
“She is indisposed,” Kaylief said. Apparently he did the speaking for both of the brothers. “She is resting, convalescing from her wound.”
“Of course,” Adamantus said. “As to be expected after such an ordeal.”
Another silence passed before Sandolin broke in with a few tired bromides that allowed them all to comfortably return to their places.
“A bit humorless aren’t they?” Katlyn whispered to him.
“But their gratefulness is real,” Haille said.
“As are their good looks,” Katlyn added.
Haille looked askance at her but she simply gave a gentle shrug. The brothers indeed showed their gratefulness again in a toast, at least Kaylief did, displaying a bit more emotion than before. Lasolorn remained silent but raised his glass in earnest.
“A long time since humans have come to our home, but despite the past, my sibling and I can attest that the union of our people can at times be rich and rewarding.”
The toast was followed by applause, a few more speeches, and then Val took the floor, as their captain, to give thanks for their hospitality and offer humble comments of his own, praising Veolin’s fighting spirit. The atmosphere was more relaxed after that, perhaps helped by the white wine that the elves passed around in sparkling carafes. Haille, sensing that his part was nearly over, leaned back in his chair, slightly bored, sleep creeping up on him. Katlyn was engaged in a lively discussion with the rheumy old elf again about her binding band. Val, Gandolin, and Adamantus spoke in close proximity to one another at a corner of the table while Cody performed sleight of hand tricks for the elves. They laughed and one shouted, “And you insist you are not using magic?”
“No,” Cody said. “I’m just an ordinary man, forced to thieve by circumstances on occasion . . . .”
Haille could not help smiling, but he had no one to share his amusement with. He sighed and let his eyes unfocus across the table. That was when he saw her, those orbs of blue over a white bandage, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders, so dark it appeared to shield her face like a hood. Veolin was standing in the darkness between two trees but not so far back that the light of the torches did not touch her hand when she made a motion to Haille that was unmistakable.
Follow me.
Chapter 18
The Ride of the Squires
The squires proved easy to cajole into saddling their own horses and riding in as reinforcements. They were all too eager for the opportunity to prove themselves and come to the aid of their king, beating their shields and calling out war cries, some with voices that still cracked with youth. Gail had ridden with young warriors before but often they were hardened, hand-selected by her for cruelty and lack of conscience. How these boys would hold up in the horrors of battle she was less sure. Soft, she thought most of them, and pampered from city life.
All that was about to change.
If she was right. If not, it would be the pillory post for her or even the gallows.
Gail had around four dozen riders, no time for an exact count. She kept Kevin and Patrick at the front with her. Her two friends had shared the “orders from the king,” so most of the impressionable squires assumed that Kevin and Patrick had been left in charge. It suited her needs. Kevin and Patrick were well liked, well respected, and proficient at relaying her orders, calling them out with the deep voice that she lacked.
They rode out of the camp following the hoof prints of the cavalry in the sandy soil of the steppes. It made for easy tracking but she did not like what she saw: the Maurvant had retreated into a narrow gorge, a dry riverbed making for swift passage. Too swift. She urged her horse onward to where the canyon walls narrowed then pulled up hard on the reins, the riders coming to a stop behind her.
The way was blocked. A pile of rock fall, three men deep, barred the way. The landslide was fresh, dust still hung in the air, and rocks were still settling in place. From the other side she could hear the sounds of war horns, the cries of men, and the clash of arms.
“There is nothing natural about this rock slide. It was to cut off their escape.”
“Do we climb over?” Kevin asked.
“No, we’d have to leave our horses and we don’t want to surrender that advantage. Ride back. Half should take the north side of the canyon, half the south. We’ll ride along the rim and use the high ground to our advantage.”
