He didn’t manage to finish his sentence before he was asleep.
—«♦»—
HUNGER and the smell of food woke him. Daylight was shining through the walls of the Healer’s tent, and Isinwen was there with a large covered tray that smelled
Kellen scrambled into a sitting position and reached for it. Isinwen set it carefully on Kellen’s knees and removed the cover.
“I See you, Isinwen,” Kellen said. “Tell me what I need to know, of your courtesy.” The tray was piled high with enough food to feed three people, and Kellen was so ravenous he was sure he could eat all of it. Thinking back, he wasn’t sure when the last time was he’d had a full meal. One day? Two? He thought it might have been the journey-meal on the march the day they’d reached Ysterialpoerin, but he wasn’t quite sure. He reached for the tall mug of tea first.
“You have slept only through the night, which should please you. The farther cavern is quiet, as is the nearer. You will need to see Artenel today for a first fitting for your new armor, and to choose a new sword. Ciltesse has selected three destriers for you to choose from, but thinks you will pick Anganil. There have been wagers placed, of course.”
Kellen found himself grinning around a mouthful of bread and cheese. He’d discovered that Elves would place bets on the most unlikely of things, and at the most unlikely of times. Even in the middle of war. Probably in the middle of battle.
“Redhelwar wishes to see you when you are fully recovered. And… Belepheriel begs the favor of an audience as well.”
Kellen nearly choked on a mouthful of roast chicken.
He took a deep breath, and prepared to eat crow along with his chicken. “Isinwen, I fear I have offended Belepheriel greatly by my rash and ill-considered words. It would please me if you, who are wise in the ways of the Elves, can help me to understand what seems strange to me.”
Isinwen smiled. “Your manners improve. Kellen, the whole camp knows what happened in Redhelwar’s pavilion that night, though certainly no one would say so. Belepheriel’s words are just as I have said them to you. He spoke so to Ciltesse in my hearing. He comes as a petitioner. It is for you to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“That’s not a lot of help,” Kellen muttered, swallowing chicken and reaching for a meat-pastry.
“You would wish to know his reasons for asking,” Isinwen said. “I do not know them. I do know that he will not offer you insult, should you come as a guest to his pavilion. If you would seem gracious, accept. If you wish a… distance… to grow between you, say nothing. If you wish to truly sever all connection, then refuse to see him. But that course could lead to… awkwardness.”
“Awkwardness,” Kellen suspected, was a mild understatement of what would actually happen. And whatever his—or BelepheriePs—feelings, the army could not afford a feud.
“I’ll see him,” Kellen said quickly. “I did not know that his son was one of the scouts who died. I wish I had.”
“We searched for their bodies and did not find them,” Isinwen said sadly.
“You won’t,” Kellen said. Abruptly he lost all appetite. He pushed the tray away. “The Wild Magic showed me their deaths. They died quickly and well. But then—after Gairith had left them—the Shadowed Elves came and took their bodies.” Kellen hesitated for a long time. “It was a hunting party, searching for food.”
Isinwen made a quick gesture over his heart, and bowed his head for a moment. “Tell Belepheriel so. It is better to know, no matter how black the news.”
“I will tell him. I wish… it seems there are very many people I must see this day.” His mood of good humor was quite gone now. He would have liked to enjoy it just a little longer.
Isinwen nodded. “Were I to have the choices set before you, I would go first to Belepheriel, then to Dionan to discover Redhelwar’s pleasure. The rest of what you must do can be set about those things. And now, clothing was prepared for you while you slept. I have had it brought.”
When Isinwen said that clothing had been “prepared,” he meant precisely that. The garments he presented for Kellen’s inspection were nothing Kellen remembered ever seeing before, though it was all in his colors.
The skintight pants that the Elves favored had been made in his size, woven of soft heavy wool, with a twining pattern of leaf and vine worked into the weave. Thigh-high boots of smooth leather, lined in sheepskin, with a tapered heel so that Kellen could ride in them at need were also a perfect fit. A sleeveless quilted undertunic was a superior replacement for the one he had lost. He wasn’t sure what it was made of, but its surface was as soft as down. A heavy, long-sleeved tunic—also wool—that came nearly to his boot tops, again, a perfect fit, better than
