East of Moonstair in the world, the desolate expanse of marshy woodland and low hills called the Trollhaunt stretched for miles, strewn with ancient ruins and troll-infested caves. In the Feywild, the land was not much different, though both trees and hills stood taller. Albanon led the way southeast, along a river that shimmered with faerie light. Around midday, they found a dry spot overlooking the river and sat down to eat. Kri made a few attempts to start conversation, keeping to light topics, but Albanon kept getting lost in his own thoughts, sometimes trailing off in midsentence, and Kri soon gave up.
After eating, they left the river and struck out due east. The trees grew taller, and an increasingly dense undergrowth of thorny bushes suggested that they were approaching their destination. Albanon found it easy enough to pass through the brambles without harm, and as long as Kri stayed close at his back he didn’t have much trouble. A few times, Kri’s cloak or robe got caught on a thorn and Albanon drew farther ahead; then Kri became lodged in the thorns until Albanon doubled back and helped him free.
“The brambles know their master,” Kri observed as Albanon worked his cloak free for the third time.
“I just know how to navigate them. I walked this forest a great deal as a child.”
“The thorns recoil at your touch.”
Albanon laughed. “Nonsense. My father is the Prince of Thorns, not I.”
“Are you not his heir?”
“It’s not that simple. Nothing is here. Please try to keep that in mind when we see him.”
A few hours after leaving the river, they came to the forest’s edge. The trees gave way to a wide plain, dry and brown, choked with thorny bushes and tangled vines. To the north, the forest jutted a little farther into the plain, and Albanon could just make out the spires and halls of the Palace of Thorns among the trees. He waited to see how long it would take Kri to spot it, a game he had always enjoyed playing with visitors, even eladrin from other realms of the Feywild.
“What are we waiting for?” Kri said. “Isn’t that your father’s house?” He pointed right to it.
Albanon’s mouth fell open. “Didn’t you say you’d never been here before?”
“I haven’t. But it sure looks like a Palace of Thorns, doesn’t it?”
“It usually takes longer for visitors to spot it among the trees.”
Kri laughed. “Ioun is the god of knowledge, prophecy, and insight,” he said. “I make no claim to possess more than a fraction of her wisdom, but she does grant me eyes enough to see much of what is obscured to others.”
Albanon’s gape widened into a smile. He had much to learn from Kri, and moments like that made him all the more eager to start learning. Ioun was also the patron of sages, scholars, and students, so it seemed appropriate for him to study with one of her priests.
His smile lingered as he led Kri through the briers, but faded quickly as the shadow of his father’s house fell over them. The dread that had haunted his sleep the night before returned in full force. His steps slowed without him fully realizing it, but they still brought him to the vine-wrapped outer gate all too quickly. Thorns jutted from the vines, nearly indistinguishable from the mithral bars of the metal gate that supported them. Albanon knew that on either side of the gate, a high fence of mithral and briers extended all around the Palace of Thorns, a warning as much as a physical ward.
“How do we pass through the gate?” Kri asked.
Albanon didn’t answer, but stepped closer to the gate. Silently, the huge gate parted in the middle and opened before him, as if welcoming him home.
“I am not the Prince of Thorns,” he said, “but I am still a member of this house.”
Tall trees with prickly leaves stood like columns in two straight rows ahead, ending at another gate-the inner gate, the entrance to the Palace of Thorns. Holly branches and thorny vines twisted together in an arch over the gate, which was a door made of white wood. Again the doors swung open at Albanon’s approach, but this time two guards stood behind it, eladrin women in fine mithral chainmail, holding slender spears and staring at him with more than a hint of surprise.
“My lord Albanon,” one of the guards said in Elven. “You were not expected.”
“You will announce me to my father, please,” Albanon answered in the same language. It felt strange in his mouth, it had been so long. “As well as my companion, Kri Redshal, priest of Ioun.”
“Yes, my lord.” The guard turned briskly and walked into the palace. Not once did she look back to make sure Kri and Albanon were keeping pace, and she didn’t slow or stop until she reached the ornate door of the audience hall, made of the same white wood but carved with intricate designs of flowers and vines. Then she turned and said, “Wait here, please,” before passing through the door. It closed behind her with a definitive thud.
Albanon’s heart was pounding, making his head throb. Splendid paced from one of his shoulders to the other until he hissed at her to be still. He couldn’t form a coherent thought. Snippets of sentences chased each other through his mind, refusing to resolve into anything he might actually say to his father, the Prince of Thorns. Kri smiled reassuringly at him, and he was unable to return the gesture.
The door swung open again, and Albanon stopped breathing. The guard stood in the open doorway, spear held to the side. She didn’t look directly at him, but focused her gaze up and out as she made her formal announcement.
“Lord Albanon and Kri Redshal, you are welcome in the Palace of Thorns. His Eldritch Majesty, the Prince of Thorns, requests that you appear before him, that he might offer his welcome personally.”
With that, she stepped to the side, clearing the way for Albanon and Kri to enter, and Albanon’s eyes met his father’s.
Albanon had a fleeting impression of a predatory insect, tense and waiting, claws poised to lash out and seize its prey. His father’s features were sharp, and he leaned forward on his throne, his hands clutching the arms. The Prince of Thorns was an old man, though the signs of it were more in his bearing, his perpetual scowl, than in his physical features.
“Albanon,” said the Prince of Thorns. “Tell me, how are your studies progressing?” The old man’s face was neutral, but his disdain was clear in his voice.
Albanon decided to ignore the question as he strode forward and knelt briefly before his father’s throne. The throne was carved from the living wood of the tree that also formed part of the back wall of the chamber, adorned with images of thorn-bearing plants.
“Father,” Albanon mumbled as he rose.
“And you have brought a mortal man into my hall. Therefore, I assume that this is not a social visit. You might as well come quickly to the point.”
Albanon bristled, but struggled to keep his face and voice from showing his anger. “A tower stands on your lands, beyond the Plain of Thorns. We seek your permission to visit this tower.”
The Prince of Thorns scoffed and waved one clawlike hand dismissively. “Ridiculous,” he said. “The Whitethorn Spire has been abandoned for generations. None of our people venture there any more.”
“With respect, father, we’d like to change that.”
“It’s sure to be infested with monsters.”
“We believe we can take care of ourselves.”
“Can you? Then your studies must be coming along very well indeed.”
“Moorin taught me much before his death, and I have had several opportunities to practice my magic in dangerous circumstances.”
“Your teacher is dead? I told you, Albanon, humans are so short-lived. If you had studied with Darellia-”
Albanon interrupted, steel in his voice. “Moorin was murdered.”
“How unfortunate.” The prince’s voice was not the least bit sympathetic, and Albanon felt Splendid stir on his shoulder, growling softly.
“Father, just grant us your permission to visit the tower and we’ll leave your hall and trouble you no more.”