«You were wounded, my Lord — at Halys Cut. A blow struck here.» The Elf pointed to the King’s left temple. «You have been unconscious ever since. My Lord, we were so worried…»
«How long… have I slept?» he interrupted. His hand reached to touch his head and the pain laced downward through his neck.
«Seven days, my Lord.»
«Seven days!»
Gael started to back away. «I will bring your son, my Lord.»
His mind whirled. «My son?»
«Prince Ander, my Lord.» His aide dashed toward the sleeping room door. «He meets now with the High Council. Lie back — I will bring him at once.»
Eventine watched him wrench open the door, heard him talk briefly with someone beyond, then watched the door close again, leaving him in silence. He tried to raise himself, but the effort was too much and he fell back weakly. Ander? Had Gael said that Ander was meeting with the High Council? Where was Arion? Doubt clouded his thoughts, and the questions came in a flurry. What was he doing here in Arborlon? What had befallen the army of the Elves? What had become of their defense of the Sarandanon?
Again he tried to raise himself and again fell back. A wave of nausea swept through him. He felt suddenly old, as if the number of his years was a sickness that had wasted him. His jaw tightened. Oh, that he might have back again five minutes of his youth to give him strength enough to rise from this bed! Anger and determination fired him, and he inched himself upward against his pillows until he lay propped against them, breathing raggedly.
Across the room, Manx raised his grizzled head. The King opened his mouth to call out to the old wolfhound. But suddenly the dog’s eyes met his, and the words died in his throat. There was hate in those eyes — hate so cold that it cut through Eventine like a winter frost. He blinked in disbelief, fighting the sense of repulsion that welled up within him. Manx? What was he thinking!
He forced himself to look away, to stare elsewhere in the sleeping room, at walls and their hangings, at furniture, and at the drapes drawn tight across the windows. Desperately, he tried to compose himself and could not. I am alone, he thought suddenly, unreasonably, and was filled with fear. Alone! He glanced back again at Manx. The wolfhound’s eyes fixed him, veiled now, hiding what had been so evident before. Or had he imagined it? He watched as the old dog rose, turned about, and lay down again. Why does he not come to me, the King asked himself? Why does he, not come?
He dropped back against the pillows. What am I saying? The words whispered in his mind, and he saw the madness that threatened to slip across him. Seeing hatred in the eyes of an animal that had been faithful to him for years? Seeing in Manx an enemy that might do him harm? What was wrong with him?
Voices sounded in the outer corridor. Then the sleeping room door opened and closed again, and Ander crossed the room to reach down and hold him close. The King hugged his son to him, then broke the clasp, searching Ander’s shadowed face as the Prince seated himself on the edge of the bed.
«Tell me what has happened,” Eventine ordered softly. Then he saw something flicker in his son’s eyes, and he felt a sudden chill pass through him. He forced the question from his lips. «Where is Arion?»
Ander opened his mouth to speak, then stared at the old man wordlessly Eventine’s face froze.
«Is he dead?»
Ander’s voice was a whisper. «At Worl Run.»
He seemed to search for something more to say, then gave up, shaking his head slowly. Eventine’s eyes filled with tears and his hands shook as he grasped his son’s arms.
«Arion is, dead?» He spoke the words as if they were a lie.
Ander nodded, then looked away. «Kael Pindanon, too.»
There was a moment of stunned silence. The King’s hands fell away.
«And the Sarandanon?»
«Lost.»
They stared at each other wordlessly, father and son, as if some frightening secret had been shared that should never have been told. Then Ander reached down and clasped his father to him. For long moments, they held each other in silence. When at last the King spoke, his voice was flat and distant.
«Tell me about Arion. Everything. Leave nothing out.»
Ander told him. Quietly, he related how his brother had died, how they had brought him but of the Breakline to the Sarandanon, and how they had buried him at Baen Draw. Then he spoke of all that had befallen the army, of the Elves from that first day of battle at Halys Cut through the long march back to Arborlon. Eventine listened and said nothing. When Ander had finished, he stared blankly at the flicker of the oil lamps for a moment. Then his eyes shifted to his son.
«I want you to return to the High Council, Ander. Do what must be done.» He paused, his voice breaking. “ Go on. I will be all right.»
Ander looked at him uncertainly. «I can ask Gael to come in.»
The King shook his head. «No. Not now. I just want to…» He stopped, choking back what he was about to say, one hand gripping his son’s arm tightly. «I am… very proud of you, Ander. I know how difficult…»
Ander nodded, his throat tightening. He placed his father’s hands within his own. «Gael will be outside in the hall when you need him.»
He rose and started toward the door. His hand was on the latch when Eventine called out after him, his voice strangely anxious.
«Take Manx out with you.»
Ander stopped, looked at the old wolfhound, whistled him to his side, and led him out. The door closed softly behind him.
Alone again, this time truly alone, the King of the Elves lay back upon the cushion of his pillows and let the enormity of all that had happened wash over him. In a little more than seven days, the finest army in the Four Lands had been driven like a herd of cattle before wolves from its own country — driven from the Breakline, from the Sarandanon, and all the way back to its home city, there to stand or fall. Somewhere deep within him there was a terrible sense of failure. He had let this happen. He was responsible.
«Arion,” he whispered. suddenly, remembering.
Then the tears welled up in his eyes and he began to cry.
Chapter Thirty–Six
«Eretria!» Wil exclaimed softly, surprise and wariness in his voice. Disregarding the pain from his injury, he pushed himself up on one elbow for a closer look. «What are you doing here?»
«Saving you, it would appear.» She laughed, her dark eyes mischievous.
Sudden movement caught his eye, and he stared past her into the shadows. Two Rover women busied themselves at a sideboard near the rear of the wagon, rinsing cloths red with his blood in a basin of water. Instinctively, he reached up to his head and found that a bandage had been placed across the wound. He touched it gingerly and winced.
«I wouldn’t do that.» Eretria brushed his hand aside. «It is the only part of you that is clean.»
The Valeman glanced about quickly. «What have you done with Amberle?»
«Your sister?» she mocked. «She is safe enough.»
«You will excuse me if I am a bit skeptical about that.» He started to rise from the bed.
«Stay, Healer.» She forced him down again. Her voice lowered so that the women behind her could not hear. «Do you fear I might seek revenge because of your ill–conceived decision to leave me behind at the Tirfing? Do you think so little of me?» She laughed and tossed her head. «Perhaps now though, if you were given the chance, you would reconsider that decision. Is that possible?»
«Not in the least. Now what about Amberle?»
«Had I intended harm to you, Wil Ohmsford — or to her — I would have left the both of you to the cutthroats who chased you through Grimpen Ward.. The Elven girl is well. I will have her brought after we have talked.»
She turned to the women at the sideboard. «Go. Leave us.»
