The crown prince and the High Marshal approved this, and the others agreed—Paks thought by surprise as much as anything.
She looked at the elves. Their faces were as always hard to read, but she did not see the scorn or refusal she had feared. One of them caught her eye, and made a small hand signal she had learned from the rangers: approval, the game is in sight.
“Do you remember any more now?” asked the High Marshal. Phelan nodded.
“A little—and better than that, it makes sense. I had memories of my father—a tall, red-haired man with a golden beard, wearing a green velvet shirt embroidered with gold. Now I know that the embroidery was the crest of our house. And the court I remember, planted with roses—that will be at Chaya, and I daresay I can lead the way to it.”
“Your name?” asked Verrakai.
“I am not sure. Your highness, your father once asked me of my heritage, and then swore never to speak of it. But now, with my birthright in my hand, I will speak willingly. My earliest memories are those I have just mentioned. Then, as you know, the prince—I—was stolen away while traveling with the queen. After that, for many years, I was held captive far away by a man who called himself Baron Sekkady. He was, your highness, a cruel master; I remember more than I would wish of those years.”
“What did he—” began one of the lords. Phelan turned toward him.
“What did he do? What did he not do, that an evil and cruel man could think of! Imagine your small sons, my lords, in the hands of such a man—hungry, tired, beaten daily, and worse than beaten. He would have trained me to the practice of his own cruelties if he could.”
“Did he know who you were?”
“I believe so. He used to display me to visitors. After one such banquet, the visitor seemed to recognize me, and the Baron put silence on him.”
“Put silence—?” asked the Marshal.
“He was some sort of wizard, sir Marshal. I know little of that, but he could silence men, and hold them motionless, by his powers . . . though what he enjoyed most was hearing them scream. That visitor, whose name I never knew, had some strange powers himself, for he woke me, while he himself was being tormented in the dungeons. He sent me away.”
“How?” asked the High Marshal, after a long pause.
“I am not sure. By then I had tried escape—and been so punished for it that I had ceased to hope for anything but death. But this man took my fear, and sent me: ‘There is a High Lord above all barons,’ he said. ‘Go to his courts and be free.’ And so I climbed out the baron’s window, and down the wall, and ran through the woods until I came out of that land. When I came to the coast, I stowed away on a ship . . . and eventually came to Bannerlith, where they set me ashore with their good wishes. I worked my way inland, to Lyonya, at any work I could find, until I fetched up at Aliam Halveric’s on a cold winter day, half-starved and frozen. He took me in—first as a laborer, then as a page in the household, and then—when I showed aptitude for fighting—made me a squire. The rest you know. Anyway, it is from that man—Baron Sekkady—that I got my name as I know it. He told me it was Kieri Artfiel Phelan; he called me Artfiel. I use Kieri. What it really is—”
“Is Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan,” said Paks.
“Falkieri—” he breathed. “So close—like the sword—”
“He must have known,” said the High Marshal. “He must have known who you were, and delighted in that knowledge. Some scum of Liart’s, no doubt. Would you could remember where that was?”
“If I could remember that, sir Marshal, I would long ago have freed his domain of him.”
“Vengeance?” asked one of the elves.
“No—not vengeance alone. He was cruel to many others, not me alone. It would lighten my heart to know the world free of him.”
“My lord,” said the crown prince, “you do not wish me to use your title yet, but I must call you something—what will you do now? Will you travel at once to Chaya?”
Phelan looked at Paks, who nodded. “I think I must, your highness. Lyonya has been too long without me.”
“Will they accept you?” asked Duke Marrakai. “Lady Paksenarrion said something about the elves—”
“Their council swore, the night I left, to accept as their king the man the sword declared,” said Paks quickly. “At that time I did not know it was Duke Phelan. As for the elves, the Lady of the Ladysforest wished to see him before the coronation: the elves had their fears, as I said.”
“And do you still, cousins?” asked Phelan of the listening elves, slightly stressing the last word.
“Lord Falkieri, what the elves feared in you was not to your blame. We feared the damage done by your wicked master. Will you deny your temper, and what has sometimes come of it?”
“No. But I asked if you still feared it.”
One of the elves laughed. “Lord, you are not the furious man I had heard of. Here I have seen you accept insult with dignity, and remain courteous and capable of thought to all. For myself—but I am not the one who will decide—I would trust you to govern humans.”
“But your realm is not all human,” the other elf added. “For too many years Lyonya’s ruler has lacked any feel for the taigin. This lack hurts us all. You have shown no such ability.”
“You believe this, too, was destroyed by Baron Sekkady’s cruelty?”
Both of them nodded. “If the small child is not taught—if instead all such sense becomes painful—then it can be lost, for a time, or forever.”
“I see. But being half-elven, will not my children carry this ability by inheritance, even if I lack it?”
“I suppose—I had not thought—” The elf looked genuinely surprised. “I had heard you swore never to remarry.”
“I said so; I never took formal vows, not being in the habit of breaking my stated word. Clearly I cannot refuse to sire heirs for Lyonya, and old as I am, I daresay—”
“Old!” The elf laughed, then sobered quickly. “My pardon, Lord—and lords of Tsaia. I meant no disdain. But Lord Falkieri, you are not old for half-elven. You are merely well-grown. You have many years yet to found a family, though your people will be glad the sooner you wed.”
“But I’m—”
“Fifty years—and what of that? No elf-born comes to full powers much before that. Your sister would yet live had she waited to wed and bear children until fifty. Fear not death from age yet awhile, Falkieri; blade and point can kill you, but not age alone until your sons’ sons are come to knighthood.”
When the elves said nothing more, the crown prince spoke again. “We would honor you with an escort into Lyonya, my lord. Lady Paksenarrion speaks of peril; our lands are old allies. Will you accept it?”
Phelan nodded; Paks saw that he was near tears from all this. He struggled for a moment and regained control. “I brought with me only a small escort, as your highness knows. I would be honored by a formal one. But when could they be ready to leave?”
The meeting dissolved in a mass of details—which unit of the Tsaian Royal Guard would travel by which route, who would take word to Phelan’s steading in the north, how best to plan the march, and on and on. Paks listened, starting as the High Marshal touched her shoulder.
“If you have a few minutes, Lady Paksenarrion, I’d like to see you in the grange hall.”
“Certainly. I see we won’t be leaving for some hours, if today—”
“Not today,” said Phelan, catching her last words. “Tomorrow at best—I’m sorry, Paks, but there’s too much to do.”
She bowed, and beckoned to Garris, who followed her a few feet away.
“Don’t leave him, Garris—any of you—for any reason—for even a few minutes. I cannot name the peril, but we know that evil powers do not want him crowned.”