Not all that Brot'an'duive told him was good. Another of the Anmaglahk had passed into the earth, and tonight the people would mourn in the proper ways. But Brot'an'duive's last words had been the most disturbing and left Most Aged Father uncertain.
He let his awareness weave through the roots and branches and leaves of the forest until coming to a glade. There sat a woman of the people, alone and isolated. The forest had been told she was never to leave this place.
Humans found her alluring, and this served her. Her own kind called her beautiful as well, even those few who had seen the scars of claws on her back. White-blond hair hung loose around her tall, lithe frame where she sat against the trunk of an elm. Her large amber eyes were hard, and her triangular caramel face was void of emotion. She stared out into the forest, not even knowing she was watched.
Most Aged Father knew her sorrows, but his sympathy was smothered by her treachery. Even now, he was not certain of all she had done, let alone why.
Each dawn, one of the Anmaglahk brought her food and clear spring-water. The glade was kept warm and dry by sentinel trees. Clothing or simple amenities were provided to her as needed. Beside her was a basket of butterfly cocoons with which she whiled away her days making shimmering sheot'a cloth. She wore a cloud-white wrap of the fabric, fashioned by her own hands, rather than give anything she made to her people.
Most Aged Father spoke to her, using the chatter of leaves in a light breeze for a voice.
Cuirin'nen'a…
She sat upright. Almond-shaped eyes narrowed with spite, as she searched the trees to find where the voice came from.
Your traitor son comes home.