Whill should fight?”
Abram stroked his beard and looked up at the ceiling. “Let us see what comes of the meeting. It may be that the elves will elect to go also. Either way, Whill is now a man and must decide what is best for himself.”
Roakore stood at his door, scowling at the young man before him. “What do ye want, anyway, wakin’ me at this hour?”
The young man bowed low. “I apologize, good dwarf, but it is three hours after sunrise and I thought you might want your breakfast.”
“Me breakfast, eh? What if I do?”
The young man nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I will bring you whatever you desire, sir. If I may. My name is Ithellio of the house of Noranan. My family has served the kings for more than seven centuries. I have been appointed as your servant for the duration of your stay.”
Roakore traded his scowl for a grin. “Servant, eh? Well, then, Ithellio. What do ye offer?”
“Offer?”
“Fer
“Ah. Anything you desire.”
“Good then. Bring me a pound o’ bacon, greasy but crunchy, a pitcher o’ goat’s milk, a side o’ ham and a good fresh loaf o’ bread, with fresh-churned butter.”
The lad bowed low once again and stepped backward. “Very good, sir. I shall return shortly.”
Roakore slammed the door before the lad had finished speaking. His room was the same in design and layout as Whill’s, and soon he discovered the large tub with its two waterspouts and hand pumps. Being used to bathing in cold natural springs within his mountain home, he had not a clue what the spouts of the tub were for. He scratched his head and investigated the balcony. Below he saw the vast gardens with their many fountains and pools. To many humans such a sight would inspire awe, but to the gruff dwarf the flowers seemed a waste of space. Instead he looked past the gardens to the castle walls. It was upon looking at the cold, well-shaped stone that the dwarf was awed.
Zerafin entered his sister’s room without knocking; he had contacted her through his mind, and she had bade him enter. Avriel sat upon a well-cushioned and pillowed sitting couch, combing her long hair. She wore a white silken robe. Elves lived many centuries, and had beliefs and ways very different from those of humans. Within elven society, shyness and self-consciousness did not exist. Zerafin found nothing strange about the way his sister was dressed; it was morning, after all, and the castle was warm, the silk comfortable. Avriel’s servant, however, though well trained, was unable to hide his blushing face.
Zerafin looked at the man.
Avriel let out a chuckle and spoke aloud, startling her servant. “Of course I have, brother, do you really think me so unprepared?”
“Leave us now,” Zerafin told him.
The middle-aged man was visibly scared but did not move. “My lady?”
“Yes, leave us,” Avriel said. “Thank you for awaiting my instruction.”
The servant bowed low and exited the room without looking or speaking to either of the elves. As the door closed, Zerafin shook his head. “Why anyone would let themselves be reduced to that level is beyond my comprehension.”
Avriel stood and returned her brush to her nightstand. “You know as much as I of the history and traditions of humans. It is considered an honor to them to do so, as you well know.”
“An honor to make yourself like a dog? I know the traditions, but I will never understand them.” He picked up an apple from the fruit basket.
Avriel went to the wardrobe, disrobed and began dressing herself in her chosen garments. “You think that Eadon will try to reach Whill through possession?”
“I do. If I were Eadon and knew that Whill was here in Kell-Torey, so well hidden and protected, I would resort to possession to kill him. The boy Tarren, for example, would be a perfect subject.”
Avriel appeared fully clothed from the wardrobe with a look of disgust. “Sometimes you are very morbid, brother. Morbid, but brilliant. Tarren, you say?”
Zerafin nodded as he ate his apple.
“I have a thought you might find compelling, though it is not mine alone-Mother voiced it to me first,” she said. “What if…what if Eadon does not want Whill dead?”
Zerafin swallowed his last bite hard. “Go on.”
“Put yourself in his shoes, as they say. If you were Eadon, and you knew that Whill of Agora existed-the very one spoken of in the prophecy, the one who is destined to wield the sword Adromida-would you want him dead? Would you gamble that his human uncle could wield the blade in his place? And what if Addakon does find it? How long do you think he will put up with Eadon once he has such power? Evil will turn on evil, so it is written.”
Zerafin thought for a long moment. “I do not think that Eadon wants either of them to gain possession of the blade. If Whill does, then his plans will fail. If Addakon does, then he will surely be betrayed. I do think, however, that Eadon wants Whill to find the blade, and I think he plans to be there when it is found.”
“That makes sense. So you believe that Eadon wants Whill captured.”
“Yes, I do, which is only another reason we should watch him that much more closely.” He gave her a sly look. “Which I doubt you will mind doing.”
Avriel rolled her eyes. “That again.”
“What? I do not try to mock you. I only speak the truth. Sister….”
“What is it?”
“I know you feel for Whill deeply. I am glad for it, believe me. I have not seen you smile so many times in so few days since you were a child, since Drindellia. He makes you happy. I understand. He has awakened a dead place in your heart that not time, nor I, nor elven love interests, have been able to. He is mortal, a mere human, yet you see him as a legend. Not an equal, but as a superior. You see in his eyes the last hope for our people, the redemption of our father, our homeland. Is this why you love him, Avriel?”
Avriel averted her brother’s gaze. After a moment she looked up into her brother’s eyes, her own wet with tears that had not fallen. “He looks at me in a way that no one else does. I see lust, yes, and the recognition of beauty that I am aware I possess. I have seen this in other men, human and elf-even dwarf, for that matter. But there is something more, something that poets of old could only hint at. When he looks at me I am a little girl again. I, an elf warrior of 650 years, a princess to her people, am reduced to childhood in his eyes. He disarms my heart with but a glance, and lights a fire within me that the oceans could not quench. I do not know why; I do not care. I feel more alive than I have in centuries. If it is due to his title, the prophecy, I think not. I am not infatuated with him, as you might hint. Infatuation and love branch the same tree, but they bear two very different fruit. I love him for who he is inside.”
Zerafin embraced his sister. “Then you have my blessing.” He held her at arm’s length and peered into her still-tearful eyes. “Do not be afraid, my Avriel. I also feel that this is all very right. You have never in your many centuries taken a lover, though you have had countless volunteers, a fact that made Mother very nervous.” They shared a small laugh. “But know now and always that you have my blessing in this. As you shall Mother’s.”
Avriel embraced her brother and finally let her tears fall onto his shoulder, though they were now tears of joy.
Abram sat smoking his pipe; rings still lingered in place many feet above. They had long ago finished their meals and were now simply chatting. The king was telling Whill one of the many stories of Abram’s heroism during the Draggard battles that had taken place since he was but a lad. Whill was enthralled but also slightly sickened by the many stories of near death. He wasn’t sure whether he was more impressed or angered by the tales, realizing just how close he had come to losing the only father he had ever known.
The king finished his latest tale, sat back, and enjoyed a large gulp of wine. Then he put down his drink and set his gaze upon Whill. Instantly Whill got the impression that the king’s next words would not be light-hearted, for his face had become grave, as if he had finally decided upon something most unpleasant.
“You seem to know I have bad news,” Mathus said. “You are indeed perceptive, Whill.” He sat up. “I have
