Reyna looked down at her daughter. “If there is, if you see it in him - would you spare him?”
Inara felt her mother’s tears splash across her hand. She turned her head to let Reyna see the sincerity behind her eyes. “No,” she whispered.
Reyna scrunched her eyes tight and nodded some semblance of understanding.
“I would give him rest,” Inara continued. “And then I would cling to those memories of golden days on the beaches of Alborn. I would remember him as he was.”
Reyna cupped Inara’s face. “I don’t want to lose you too.”
“You won’t,” Inara promised.
A smile broke through her mother’s grief. “Oh to have your courage and strength,” she praised.
“Gifts from you,” Inara pointed out.
Reyna spilled more tears and brought their heads together. “Not from me,” she wept softly. “I never got to say goodbye to her.”
Inara recalled her last words with Adilandra, before she flew to Erador. “I parted ways with her in The Black Wood. She was so strong. She told me there would be victory for us both. And then, together, we would come here and take you away. She was so sure.”
Reyna pulled back. “Adilandra Sevari was nothing if not sure of her path. Who else would leave Elandril and trek south to Darkakin lands in search of dragons? Her legacy will always be the courage and strength that lives within you.”
“Within us both,” Inara corrected.
Reyna took a steadying breath. “Within us both,” she echoed.
“When this is all over,” Inara promised, “we will make sense of all this together. We’ll forge what future we can.”
Reyna shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know where to begin making sense of being queen.”
Inara appeared to ponder over that. “Perhaps I should start calling you, your Grace.”
Her mother waved the notion away. “Come then,” she bade. “I would like to spend some time with you before you leave again. I would know all about this alteration to your bond with Athis. Your father was telling me but I would much rather hear it from you.”
“There will be time for that,” Inara reassured. “Have you ever seen a dragon hatchling?” she enquired instead, guiding her mother with a hooked arm.
“I can’t say I have,” Reyna replied.
“They’re adorable,” Inara remarked. “If a little dangerous,” she added, thinking of Athis’s excited descriptions.
11
The March to War
Doran Heavybelly strode through the camp with purpose, clapping his meaty hands together. “Get yer arses movin’!” he bellowed at the laziest of his kin. “Get yer tents down, pack up yer gear, an’ make sure yer bellies are full. We’re goin’ to war!”
He spotted Aenwyn in the distance, reassuring those that cared for the wounded they would be staying in the camp. The War Mason was glad Aenwyn and her bow would be counted among their army. He had never been envious of an elf before - and he told himself he still wasn’t - but watching her navigate a battle and fire an arrow into Morgorth’s eye at a hundred paces put her skill on a par with Reyna’s.
Killing from a distance, however, was not the dwarven way. He was reminded of this when he finally arrived at the remnants of his tent, where Pig snuffled at the ground. His saddle was already laden with gear and supplies, seen to by Thaligg or Thraal no doubt. Lying on the ground, however, tethered to the back of the saddle, was Lord Kraiden’s head - right where he had promised it would be. Since lopping it off, he had bolted the spiked crown to the wretch’s skull so all would recognise it.
The sight of it tempted the dwarf’s mind to spiral into dark places. Busying himself, Doran spat on the skull and stepped over the tether to inspect his gear. Andaljor was strapped horizontally across the back, both hammer and axe in need of a good clean. He had full water skins and even a skin of what smelled like Hobgobbers Ale. He reminded himself to thank the brothers when he could.
The sound of dwarven war songs carried on the breeze, drifting between the trees of Ilythyra. There were already hundreds of his kin making their way to the edge of the forest, where the northern tip met the green pastures of The Moonlit Plains. Most of them, he knew, were simply eager to put the trees behind them and see mountains again.
Lighter on their feet and swifter of action, the elves marched out of Ilythyra in neat rows of two abreast. Though many had taken what time they had to clean their armour, every one of them showed evidence of recent battle.
“They’re quite the sight, aren’t they?”
Doran turned to see Russell who was struggling to tow a horse. “They’re good at walkin’, I’ll give ’em that.”
The old wolf chuckled to himself. “Still can’t bring yourself to compliment them, I see.” His smile disappeared when the horse tried to get away from him again.
Doran shrugged. “It’s in me blood. Are ye ready to go?” he asked with one bushy eyebrow rising into his head.
Russell applied both hands to the reins and tried to calm the horse, though what came out of his mouth was closer to a growl. “I’m ready,” he answered through gritted teeth.
The horse finally lost its nerve and reared back on its hind legs. Russell lost his grip on the reins and staggered back, his arms out ready to tackle the distressed mount. Doran sidestepped and took a hold of Pig’s reins, hoping to restrain the Warhog from responding with his tusks.
Like an angel descending from the heavens, Galanör dropped from the nearest tree and came down on the horse’s saddle. It naturally bucked back and forth but the elven ranger could not be dismounted, his muscles adjusting constantly to maintain his balance. With some physical negotiation, he succeeded in placing his head beside the horse’s, where he could whisper sweet elvish words.
Doran watched in amazement as the mount began to calm down. It wasn’t long before Galanör was seated comfortably in the
