The Gathering Storm - Elsewhere, Book 1
Chapter 14

Marc slept soundly beneath his warm linen sheets and wool blanket. He did not hear the knocking on the door, nor his wife striking a match to light her bedside candle and padding softly across the floor. He did not hear the murmur of voices at the front door or notice the slight chill from the night breezes as draughts fluttered the curtains and made the candle gutter. It was not until Ellenne gently shook his shoulder and called his name that he roused from his dreams. He blinked into the smoky candlelight, squinting up at her pale, smiling face perfectly framed by blonde ringlets. She looked angelic, he thought, bedecked in the frothy white lace of her nightgown.

“What’s wrong, Ellene?” he asked in a sleep-dried croak. “Are you ill? Is it the baby?”

“No, no, I’m fine. You have a visitor.”

“A visitor – in the middle of the night?” He was more awake now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up in bed.

“Marc, it’s Minister Nedrin. He’s in the parlour.”

Marc threw back the sheets and hurriedly pulled on his voluminous lawn shirt and tan britches, muttering about the unreasonable hour for business meetings. Ellenne laughed softly.

“Marc,” she chided in a whisper. “He’s the Minister of Information and you’re his best agent. It’s not the first time he’s come knocking after dark and I dare say it won’t be the last. Now, do you need me to serve drinks or can I go back to bed and see if this little one will let me sleep for a few more hours?”

She indicated the gentle swelling of her belly, where their third child was growing.

“I can manage,” grinned Marc. “You go to sleep.” He kissed her on the forehead and left the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed the hall to the parlour and found his employer standing in front of the hearth, warming his hands above the glowing embers of the evening’s fire. Nedrin turned as he entered.

“Good evening, Marc. Sorry to disturb you so late. Please pass my apologies again to Ellenne. A pressing matter has arisen.”

“Of course, Minister, I will. How can I help you? But first, will you take some wine?”

“Please. I need you to take a trip for me Marc. South.”

Marc pulled the poker from its stand and thrust it into the coals, then poured wine into two tankards. Waiting for the metal to heat, he asked,

“South? One of the villages?”

“No Marc, South. The forest.”

Marc drew the glowing iron from the embers and heated one tankard of wine then the other. He looked at Nedrin thoughtfully.

“You know they’re never going to let us near the gate, so why keep sending these envoys? We don’t really want to build any sort of relationship with those creatures, and we never recover much information that truly benefits us.”

“It’s not that. Four of them were found on board a smuggler’s ship in our harbour this morning.”

Marc choked on his wine. “Four forest folk! Here in Lytos Meer? Creatures?”

“No, no, Manguin – well, two of them have Myrial colouring. But definitely southerners.”

“How could you tell, if they looked normal? And what were they doing in a smuggler’s hold?”

“Oh, no, not in the hold. In the captain’s quarters, bold as you please and taking wine with him.”

“So they’re under his protection. Which captain?”

“Nathanyen Jonas. But don’t worry; we have him under lock and key.”

“And his crew?” asked Marc, alert now despite the hour and worried for the city’s security. “Are they well guarded?”

“Of course; confined to ship, patrols on deck and on the quayside. And I took the precaution of having the southerners moved up to the jail in the High City. Now I didn’t come here for you to ask me whether I know how to do my job Marc. We have plans to make. These spies were not very good at their job – they weren’t well disguised. Their clothes were all Pixieweave, with wooden buttons, and we found items in their packs that look horse-forged. They also carried coinage which was mostly Myrial; strange since they claimed to be from Meer Armen. But the most concerning thing was pouches full of stone-polished gems.”

“Tumbled gems; what a giveaway. I wonder what they planned to buy with them. Have they been questioned yet? Who found them?”

“Steffan Melbren discovered them while trying to catch Jonas out for smuggling. The man’s obsessed, but Jonas is too clever for him by far. He took them all to Excise House for questioning, sent a man to inform me, then decided to interrogate the women while he waited. I expect he wanted to claim the glory of foiling their plot. Marc, he tortured them.”

Marc turned pale. “Melbren tortured the women?” he demanded incredulously. “That stinking son of a Pixie!”

Nedrin paused with his tankard half way to his mouth and looked askance at Marc. “You realise that epithet is both biologically impossible and contextually inappropriate,” he said wryly.

“Sorry sir, don’t know what came over me,” Marc replied. “My son likes to throw around these little expletives. I believe he learns them at school. They seem to be having an undue influence on me.”

“Children these days,” Nedrin shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t know the forest existed until I was sixteen. It used to be one of those ‘important talks’ your father would sit you down for, along with not ruining the family name with spirited youthful exploits and how to conduct oneself on one’s wedding night.” Nedrin bore an expression of thoughtful reminiscence. Marc coughed delicately.

“You were saying, sir, about the prisoners. Any idea what their plans were?”

“No, unfortunately not. Seem to be made of stern stuff, these forest women. Didn’t say a word, even with all he did to them. I know, I know,” he protested, seeing Marc’s disgusted face. “Not the done thing, really, women and all that. I expect he thought they’d break quickly, give him fast results. They’re in the jail’s sanatorium now, being treated by the nurse. We’ll question the men, of course, withhold proper food, all that sort of thing. Anything they say will have to be corroborated though.”

“Hence my trip south,” concluded Marc.

“Quite so. We need to know what they were doing here, how they got into the city unnoticed, how long they were here for and what they were doing on that ship with all those jewels.”

“My usual team?” asked Marc.

“Of course. Rolf and Eriika will pose as your aides, Aubren as your servant. They have been briefed and will meet you outside the south gate at dawn. I’ve despatched a rider to the south coaching inn to arrange rooms for tomorrow night, a change of horses, supplies and such. After that it’s two days hard riding to the River Mist. The horse guards will likely pick you up at that point and escort you to the Elf city. Find out what you can but don’t stay more than two days or they’ll get suspicious.”

“Yes, Minister. If you could find something suitable as a gift, I understand there was a royal birth expected around New Turning. It would make a good pretext for the visit.”

“Really? How sure was your source? Why didn’t you report this to me?”

“Minister, if I told you my sources you wouldn’t be nearly as impressed with me and if I told you everything the second I heard it I couldn’t surprise you with these little gems off the cuff, could I?”

“Ha! Alright Marc, you’re not my best for nothing. I’ll have a suitable gift in your saddle bag by dawn. I’ll say goodnight now. You have an early start. Good journey.”

“Thank you, Minister. I’ll see you next week.”

Nedrin set his tankard on a small table and left. Marc was heading back to his own room when a door further along the corridor opened and a small blonde girl emerged, a miniature of her mother in white cotton.

“Father? I heard talking. Is it morning?”

Marc went to his daughter and picked her up. “No, Elise. It’s very late at night. You must go back to sleep and so must I. I’ll tuck you in.”

He carried her to her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, kissing her forehead. She giggled as a loose strand of his hair tickled her face.

“Shall we have apple cakes for breakfast, Father?” asked Elise winsomely; keen to gain every possible benefit of an extra bedtime.

“That will depend on your mother,” advised Marc. He smiled indulgently at the little girl who, for the next few months, would still be his youngest child. “However, if I speak to her before I leave I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Marc realised his mistake as he said the words and bit his lip, awaiting the inevitable reaction.

“You’re leaving? Father no! Don’t go away.” Large tears welled up in the child’s brown eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Her lip trembled and her little shoulders shook at the thought of her beloved father leaving. Marc held her close and stroked her hair.

“Don’t cry, my little one. It’s only for a few days. Mother and Matthis will still be here to look after you. When I return you can tell me all the adventures you have had while I’ve been away. Alright?”

“Alright Father,” sniffed Elise. “Bring me something pretty?”

“I’m not sure it’s that sort of trip Elise, but I’ll try,” smiled Marc, wondering how Nedrin would react to finding forest-made objects in the house of his best agent. He tucked his daughter in again and returned to bed. Ellenne turned toward him as he climbed in. He could almost hear her frowning in the darkness.

“You’re leaving again,” she accused.

“A week, only,” he assured her. “It’s necessary.”

“Lytos Bor?” she asked.

“Yes,” he lied smoothly. Not only was he not permitted to tell her the truth, he knew she would worry more at the thought of him in the Elf-forest.

“Bring me back some spices and dried moon berries.”

“You sound like our daughter. She wants ‘something pretty’. It’s not a shopping trip, you know; I won’t be spending time in the market district.”

“Hmmph. I’m sure you could make a quick stop on your way home. Please try. I have an intolerable craving for moon berries and there are none in the market here.”

“Alright, I’ll try my best. I can’t have you pining away for want of something my boy has you craving.”

“Girl.”

“You always say that.”

“So do you.”

“Well, we’ll know in fifteen weeks. I really don’t mind.”

“Just as well since you have no say.”

Marc reached across to brush his fingertips over her cheek and found them wet. “Ellenne?” he said.

“Yes, Marc?”

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

“Goodnight then. Oh and Ellenne?”

“Yes Marc?”

“Could you make apple cakes for breakfast? Elise was upset about my leaving and they would cheer her up. I promised to ask you.”

Now it was her smile he could sense across the intervening inches.

“I will make apple cakes for breakfast. Goodnight Marc.”

Tilarion sat pensively on the carved oak throne in the Great Hall of Theyos Raal. Before him at one table sat Timmoran, the Mayor of Maybor and representative of that town to the council, flanked by Ronvin and Chelm. At the neighbouring table sat Roshen, one of the oldest and most learned Elves in the city and the new Keeper of Justice, who was to act in a prosecutorial capacity. The question of who should defend Ronvin and Chelm had finally been decided on advice from Thalaenna, who had counselled him to choose whoever was the fairest, most impartial person he knew, regardless of race or other qualification. There had been some initial grumblings about allowing an outsider to take an active part in proceedings, but Tilarion had reminded the dissenters that Timmoran held a seat on the council and the case dealt specifically with council business, so they acquiesced.

Ronvin looked dignified and serene as he sat in the large, airy chamber. His five weeks of house arrest had taken little toll on him, since he had spent the time reading and contemplating, which was how he spent most of his time anyway. He refused to worry or grow preoccupied with the outcome of the proceedings, preferring instead to trust in Tilarion’s wisdom, since he had been responsible for a good deal of the King’s education himself and liked to think that he had been a worthy tutor. He reasoned that, having instilled in the King a passion for justice and fairness and a zeal for the highest standards of integrity, the conclusion Tilarion reached must be correct.

Chelm, on the other hand, seethed in her chair. She was no less furious now than on the day of her arrest, perhaps more so. She was an egocentric Pixie, utterly convinced of her own importance and entitlement and therefore outraged at all that had been denied her in her lifetime. Her hair was untidy and her clothes rumpled, as if she had decided to act the part of prisoner to its fullest extent regardless of the facilities which had been made available to her during her frankly luxurious confinement. Her dishevelled appearance and unremitting ire presented a stark contrast to Ronvin’s tranquillity as they sat on either side of their council. For his part, Timorran looked in equal measure proud and daunted as he shuffled his papers and glanced about the hall. He was very much aware of the honour Tilarion had done him in making him council for the defence and had spent hours poring over law books in preparation. At the other table Roshen appeared sanguine, confident of his case.

Tilarion rose to his feet and motioned for silence. A large crowd had gathered to bear witness to what was, after all, an historic event. Row upon row of eager onlookers filled the floor of the ancient hall and the tiers of galleries which encircled it at the three upper levels. Almost every Elf who hadn’t left with Prince Illion and many Pixies from the forest, plus a goodly number of Equiseen and Manguin, were present to hear the case, so even though everyone kept their voices low the cumulative effect was almost deafening. The buzz of conversation died as they saw the King stand to speak.

“Friends and loyal subjects, you are present here today to listen to the case for and against Ronvin and Chelm, that their fate may be fairly and justly decided. Masters Timorran and Roshen will present evidence and when each has made their case the decision will be made by a vote.”

“A VOTE?” screeched Chelm, standing and shaking her fists at Tilarion.

“Since when are judicial matters decided by a vote in Theyos Raal?!”

“Sit down,” commanded Tilarion. “The matter will be decided by a vote because I recognise my own partiality in the matter; specifically that I am biased against you Chelm and conversely toward Ronvin. There is precedent for such a vote in similar cases in our history books, where the sovereign has been faced with a case involving a friend or family member. However, if you refuse to accept my choice I will happily exile you this minute and save us all the trouble!”

Chelm sat down, abashed. “No need, sire, I accept.”

“Very well then, let us begin by selecting the panel who will deliberate the evidence and vote on the matter.”

Most of the morning was taken up with drawing names of the citizens of Theyos Raal at random from the Registry; a large leather bound volume which held the names and ancestry of every Elf born in Theyos Raal. A black ruled line was struck through the entry if the Elf died, but as this was not a matter of course among Elf-kind there were many names to choose from. The process was to alternately ask Roshen and Timorran to open the volume at a page of their choice and, with closed eyes, stick a pin in an entry. Provided the Elf in question had reached their majority and was not absent or excused by any form of incapacity, they were asked to attend the dais to be assessed on their suitability as a juror. If neither councillor disapproved, they were seated at the front of the room near Tilarion’s throne. This process continued until fifteen jurors had been empanelled, by which time Tilarion decided that everyone could use some refreshment and the chance to take some air and stretch their legs.

Later, once the court had reconvened, Tilarion sat back to listen to the evidence for the prosecution, not expecting to hear anything of which he was not already aware. As far as Ronvin was concerned he was right, since Roshen’s evidence against him consisted mainly of the minutes of the council meeting years previously where he had listed well reasoned arguments against sending any help north to the Jentsies, despite Aedon and Thalaenna’s impassioned pleas to release Lana’s people from their oppressors.

All Ronvin’s points had been logical and had outlined what had at that time been a real and present threat to the forest from the Meerans, should they have realised that the forest had been left undefended. No one at that time had been able to put forward a plan like Illion and Emerden’s and so no one had needed to negotiate the pitfalls inherent in such a plan. It was evident only that to employ main force in a strike against the Raquin would mean an arduous and extended journey over land to reach the Chasm which would leave the forest short of much of its manpower for months.

Roshen stated all this in such a way as to make Ronvin seem guilty of abandoning the Jentsies, but Tilarion could already guess what arguments Timorran would put forward to defend his actions and exonerate him.

When Roshen moved on to Chelm however, there was a whole new level to the case. Roshen was able to bring forward witnesses who had held positions on the council at that time and who testified to the fact that Chelm had met with many of them in secret during breaks in the meeting, to argue for a negative vote. In two cases she had tried to bribe the Elf in question and in one she had hinted that she could have the man dismissed from the council on a pretext if they voted ‘the wrong way’.

As evening fell the prosecution rested its case and Tilarion dismissed everyone, to reconvene in the morning after some much needed rest. Ronvin and Chelm were escorted back to their rooms and Tilarion went to the Royal apartment, seeking solace in the company of his beloved family. It was trying to have to prosecute an old and valued friend, but he suspected that the verdict would exonerate Ronvin and if he was honest with himself much of the vituperation he had originally felt had mellowed in the intervening weeks. As his rage had calmed he had begun to see that while the Jentsies’ fate was both tragic and lamentable Ronvin had only argued for the safety of Doradin’s own realm, for which he could hardly be blamed. However, custom dictated that once an arrest was made, especially on a charge as serious as this, it could not be summarily dismissed without being heard publicly. To bolster this Tilarion’s own stubborn pride would not let him make any open declaration of regret concerning his rather capricious diatribe. On the other hand, in Chelm’s case the prosecutorial arguments had served only to augment and vindicate his original rage against her and he wondered what, if anything, Timorran could say in her defence.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall was charged with anticipation when everyone reassembled the following morning. All eyes were on Timorran as he stood to make his defence. Ronvin smiled serenely and nodded encouragement, but Chelm glowered at her council as if warning him not to let her down. Timorran glanced once more round the hall, cleared his throat, and nervously began his oration.

“Good people of Theyos Raal and citizens of the Great Summer Forest, we are gathered today to hear evidence which will decide the fates of two people who are citizens like yourselves.” Timorran’s voice trembled slightly as he started, but once he began to get into his stride his nerves dissolved and he found he was enjoying himself.

“My learned colleague Roshen has made a thorough case and I could well understand if you considered yourselves persuaded by him. I ask however, that you consider two points; intent and jurisdiction. To explore the first point, I would like to call a witness. King Tilarion, would you agree to answer?”

A murmur of surprise rippled around the hall, which was mirrored on Tilarion’s face. He recovered his composure however and, intrigued to discover Timorran’s intent, he rose from his throne and crossed to the witness chair.

“Thank you, your Grace,” smiled Timorran, relieved that so far everything was proceeding according to plan. “Can you tell us please, what is the purpose of having a council of advisors?”

“Well, naturally it is important to see every side in an argument or issue. My advisors point out all the angles and ensure that my decisions are well reasoned and unbiased,” replied Tilarion.

“And did your father value his councillors as you do yours?”

“Of course. He always taught me to try my best to give fair and impartial rulings, aided by those whose job it was to debate the case for me.”

“And if everyone on the council shared the same viewpoint, thus rendering debate impossible? Would it be accepted by general consent that this was the only valid argument?”

“Well, that rarely happens,” chuckled Tilarion, “but someone would be appointed to explore what other views there could be, in case someone complained later that their viewpoint hadn’t been represented in the decision. You know that the minutes of council meetings are a matter of public record. Except this meeting of course, which was not recorded and was purposely kept secret.”

“Yes, your Grace, I will return to that. But on the point of the debate, would someone be chosen at random or would it have fallen to the same person each time to present the opposing argument?”

“It falls within the remit of the Keeper of Justice to argue the opposing side if everyone is agreed.”

“The Keeper of Justice – who was at that time Master Ronvin. And if, through reasoned argument, this person persuaded everyone to change their mind – or at least a majority – would they be held accountable if the decision proved publicly unpopular?”

“No,” admitted Tilarion. “No, the King is responsible for making the ruling and if he decides to leave the result to democracy then everyone has an equal vote and everyone is equally accountable for the decision, under the King. If Ronvin’s argument persuaded everyone, it would have to be accepted that his was the correct viewpoint. However, Ronvin would not have been appointed to such a task in this case, since Chelm was already making the case for the opposition.”

“I see that, your Grace. But in any argument, would the case not be the same as pertains to accountability? I mean, even if this was truly Ronvin’s opinion, is the decision of the council his fault just because that is the argument he made?”

Tilarion smiled, relieved that Timorran had out-argued him and exonerated his old friend and mentor. “No, of course not. It would be the same as in the other case; whatever arguments are made, the responsibility lies equally with every member of the council, and ultimately with the King.”

“I thank your Grace for your assistance in this matter. That will be all... I mean to say, you can return to your throne.... I mean, thank you, your Grace.” Timorran was sweating slightly, flustered by his success and unsure how to go about dismissing a King. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief and looked at his notes, to buy himself a few seconds in which to regain his mental equilibrium. Smoothing down the front of his yellow tunic, he drew a deep breath and began to speak again.

“I believe I have shown through his Grace’s testimony that Master Ronvin’s intent was benign in this case. He either wished to ensure impartiality and exclude bias by exploring all possible arguments in the case before the council, or he was trying to ensure the safety of King Doradin’s own Kingdom by pointing out the perils of sending many capable fighting men away to the other side of the realm for months on end in view of the Meeran threat at that time. There was no ill feeling toward the Jentsie people, no desire to increase their suffering, merely a duty to protect the people who were King Doradin’s primary responsibility – the people of the Great Summer Forest.

And so we come to the question of Jurisdiction. In examining this issue I read every document I could find. It seemed most evident to me that Elven laws deal with issues pertaining to the forest, Manguin laws deal with keeping the peace in the towns and documents brought back from far flung places all seem to concentrate on maintaining justice in their own locality. So far as I can see there isn’t one single thing written down anywhere that compels one people to take up arms against another people in order to chastise them for their treatment of a third party.

I’m not saying they shouldn’t, you Grace, not by any means, so please do not think I am speaking out against the current situation. All I am saying is that no document states that we are obliged to do so. The only thing that comes close is the treaty between the Manguin towns and the Forest which ensures Sovereign protection in the case of a Meeran attack and that is more in the realm of a cooperative alliance, requiring the towns to provide fighting men in exchange for evacuation of the rest of the populace and shelter in the forest. We had and still have no such treaty or alliance with the Jentsies and thus have no jurisdiction over the Raquin or obligation to take up arms against them.

Whether to send men to help the Jentsies or not was a matter of conscience and personal choice, made by each council member on their own recognisance. They heard of that poor woman’s ordeal and the plight of the Jentsie people, they were reminded of the Meerans and the danger to their own families and they had to make a choice. Now, as to the question of bribery and intimidation by Chelm which was brought to light by Master Ronvin, well quite honestly I was unaware of that until yesterday and don’t have much of a defence against it. All I can say is that Chelm felt very strongly the need to protect the forest and, though her actions were undeniably misguided, I believe her intentions were to protect the best interests of her own people. Your Grace, at this juncture the defence rests its case.”

Timorran sat down in his chair, enormously relieved that his moment in the spotlight was over. He was not a man who commonly strove to be the centre of attention, and although he was respected in his town as a good mayor he generally preferred a quiet life.

Tilarion mulled over what he had heard for a few seconds before he stood to address the assembly.

“Thank you Masters Roshen and Timorran for discharging your duties so admirably. It is now up to the members of the panel to discuss what they have heard and to arrive at their verdict. The panel will retire to the antechamber behind me which has been reserved for this purpose. Once they have reached their conclusion, this court will be reconvened to hear the verdict. A general announcement will be made. Thank you.”

Tilarion sat down again as the throng began to file slowly out of the hall. He rubbed his face wearily, relieved that he could soon put this whole regrettable business behind him. Suddenly, at the edge of his field of vision, he became aware of a tussle by the door. It appeared that one person was trying to push their way in through the mass of people leaving. He could hear quite a bit of grumbling and one lone voice of insistent protest.

“Let me pass! I must see the King at once!”

Tilarion’s interest was piqued and he waited impatiently for the young Elf – one of the few members of the guard who had not gone with Illion – to make his way to the front of the hall.

“Your Grace, I have a matter of utmost urgency to bring to your attention. I came as fast as I could but was somewhat waylaid by the crowd. I apologise for my rather brusque manner, but I had to speak to you immediately.”

“I thank you for your haste then, .....” Tilarion left the sentence hanging in order for the young Elf to supply his name.

“Martus, your Grace.”

“Thank you Martus. If the matter is so very pressing, perhaps you could enlighten me as to its nature?”

“Oh, yes your Grace. Four Meerans have been apprehended by the Equiseen Guard, your Grace. They were crossing the bridge over the River Mist in broad daylight. They claim to be a Peace Envoy from Lytos Meer and are demanding to be presented to your Grace.”

“Meerans! Here... Now? Either this is a very great coincidence or a very bad omen. Where are they now?”

“They have just entered the forest, your Grace. A guard ran ahead with the news, so that we would be prepared. Shall I have them turned away? They mustn’t notice how many are gone! It’s imperative that the situation in the forest remains a secret!”

The Elf was clearly so perturbed by the situation that nerves had quite overcome his sense of propriety. Tilarion raised one eyebrow at the impertinence of a stripling guard telling him what must be done, but answered mildly, if a little facetiously.

“Well, thank you for your advice; I’ll be sure to bear it in mind. If it’s all the same to you though, we won’t send them packing, since that would only arouse their suspicions. Have them brought up to the city and shown to rooms to rest and freshen up after their journey. Tell them that I will meet with them this evening to welcome them properly. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that one wrong word could be disastrous, so mind what you say.”

Martus was blushing furiously, suddenly aware of how presumptuous his attitude had been, and only bowed his head before he left to carry out his orders, too abashed to speak. Tilarion beckoned to Roshen, who came quickly to his side. Timorran remained at the other table, having wanted to allow the crowd to disperse before he went to his guest room for the night.

“Roshen, summon the Elven council to my chambers immediately. There are four Meerans on their way to the city under escort by the Equiseen Guard. They claim to be a Peace Envoy from King Victor, but it’s just too convenient. We must plan. Go quickly.”

Roshen bowed and turned on his heel, his keen mind already whirring as he left the hall.

Tilarion used a small private door at the back of the hall which led to a bridge directly over to the Royal apartments. He was deep in thought as he greeted his wife and daughter.

“What’s the matter?” asked Aeleessa, who knew her husband well enough to recognise his moods. “Did things not go as expected with the trial?”

“What? No, no, nothing like that. I just had some rather perturbing news. A party of Meerans – supposedly a peace envoy – arrives at any moment. The council will be here soon to plan. How do we present business as usual to a group of Meeran spies without their noticing the distinct lack of male Elves in the citadel? Fully half the men have gone north; it’s not an easy thing to hide!”

If Aeleessa was taken aback by the news, she didn’t show it. She paced for a few moments, biting her thumbnail, then turned to face him.

“Leave it to me. I’m going to speak to the Norns. Tomorrow the spies can be given a special tour of the citadel. Once everyone is gathered to hear the verdict, we’ll walk them past the Great Hall. There will be a full complement of Elves for them to see.”

“Illusion, you mean? But the Meerans can know nothing of the trial. If they discovered its cause, it would only be a quick step from there to unearthing the whole truth!”

“Don’t worry, they’ll be moved straight past the hall; they won’t be allowed to linger. I’ll show them the school room – no shortage of noisy occupants there.”

“Perhaps not to you my dear, but eleven scholars are hardly likely to impress them. I’m sure Meeran school rooms are much busier.”

“Yes, but then there are more than three hundred Meerans altogether, so there are bound to be many more children. I’m sure they’ll understand that eleven children and three babies is perfectly normal for such a unique population.”

“Unique?”

“We don’t die, my dear, in the natural order of things. If we bred the way they do, the forest would soon be overrun.”

Aeleessa gave an arch little smile and left the room to set her plan in motion. Tilarion turned to Lorissa, who was hovering protectively beside her babies’ cradles.

“Won’t they wonder why my husband isn’t here to greet them, Father? Won’t they suspect? They won’t try to harm my babies, will they? You mustn’t let them! They’re not really here for peace, are they? They’re spies. They’re always spies.”

“Yes, my dear, they’re always spies, but as ever we’ll pretend we don’t know that and they’ll pretend we don’t suspect and no one will acknowledge that everyone is pretending, so all will be well. And if any of them so much as plucked a hair from one of my grandchildren’s heads, their spymasters would be wondering what became of them for a very long time, because not one of them would ever see home again.”

He held Lorissa close and kissed her head, and she drew enormous comfort from her father’s grim promise.

Marc and his colleagues were shown into a set of comfortable rooms in the outer reaches of the city. They had ridden hard for three days and had, after the mediocre standard of the coaching inn on their first night, had camped out on the hard ground under the stars. There was a fresh water lake in the middle of the plains, fed by an underground spring and used by herds of buffalo and gazelle and the other creatures of the plains as their main source of drinking water. It disgusted Marc to have to drink from the same well as wild animals, but once boiled he had to admit that the water didn’t taste too bad.

Marc was bone tired and rather hungry but his active mind was whirring, taking in everything he saw and heard. They had been met before they reached the bridge by a patrol of Equiseen guardsmen. Those serious, stiff-necked people were wary almost to the point of aggression, even once he explained their diplomatic purpose and showed their papers, marked with the diplomatic seal of the government of His Majesty King Victor III of the House of Bonnerasse. The guards had escorted them with brusque formality to the forest, where they had been stared, nay, gawped at by every creature they encountered. The villages of the horse people just before the tree line were enclosed by high walls but children played in the streets visible through the wide gateways. Women could be seen leaving a large stone building with several smoking chimneys; presumably the forge. Marc knew a little of the horse people’s society and assumed the men were all occupied hunting or patrolling.

In the shade of the immense trees slight, pointy eared females of all ages paused in their activities to watch them go by. He saw frank curiosity in their eyes and if he wasn’t very much mistaken a tinge of fear. He became aware of a scampering flurry of activity in the branches above his head and looked up to see what appeared to be naked, green skinned children deftly clambering down the trunks and running along the branches, following them as they rode toward the Elf city. The children also had pointed ears and he wondered if they were the same species as the others, although the skin colour was a quandary.

Eventually they reached a magnificently carved wooden staircase that wound upwards into the trees above. Four Elves, tall and gracious, greeted them solemnly and thanked their semi-equine captors for their escort thus far. They seemed a little uncomfortable as they requested that the guards take care of his mount and those of his companions until the time came for them to leave. Of course, he supposed the horse people might feel embarrassed at the sight of proper horses. He idly wondered if they felt more jealous of the men or the animals. An Equiseen relieved him of his reins and he hefted his pack over one shoulder before turning to ascend the stair. Glancing back he saw the Equiseen tenderly stroking his horse’s neck and speaking gently to it, his eyes filled with a mixture of pity and compassion. It was now Marc’s turn to feel embarrassed as he followed his new escort up into the city.

The rooms to which they were taken were grandly appointed by Elven standards with beautifully carved furniture, softly coloured drapes of a diaphanous fabric and pieces of art on the tables and shelves. He saw hand-blown glass and finely wrought metal decorated with smoothly polished gems. The bed linens were crisp and white, the mattresses and chair cushions soft as clouds. Marc thought of the Royal Palace in Lytos Meer where all was gilt and velvet and thick, wool carpets. The gleaming candelabras and sumptuous luxury there far outshone the simple sconces and fragrant flowers in these rooms, but somehow the other palace seemed suddenly ostentatious and gaudy, while this one embodied subtle, regal elegance.

The Elf at the door was speaking; something about an attendant remaining outside in case they needed anything: standing guard, more like; to make sure they didn’t go snooping. He was a full head and shoulders taller than Marc, who was a tall man by Meeran standards. His ears curved into long points and his hair was the palest blonde, hanging straight to his shoulders. Marc regarded his lean frame and wondered whether he had any combat training. The Elves were reputed to be fearsomely accurate bowmen, but were all equally gifted or, as was the case among his own kind, were some merely cooks, servants, administrators and the like? There couldn’t be very many of them altogether; the city wasn’t that large.

As Marc pondered these things, Rolf, Eriika and Aubren looked around the rooms. After ascertaining that the windows were not locked or barred, Eriika declared that she intended to wash and change, went into one of the bedrooms and closed the door. The rooms were all connected by covered bridges between the branches, like short corridors. There were four in all; the larger sitting room and three bedrooms. Eriika had allocated herself one of the single bedded rooms, leaving the largest for Marc, who was after all supposed to be the highest ranking individual among them. The third bedroom contained two beds and obviously this was left to Rolf and Aubren. Tubs of heated water had thoughtfully been left for them to wash off the dust of the road, so they all obediently availed themselves of this provision and changed into fresh clothes, ready for their audience with King Tilarion.

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