He looked at Alice, and the gentle stroking of her hand across Athena’s back. His mother looked almost content. Why not stay on the shell, wait it out and let fate decide? He was tired of making decisions, rolling the dice. They were safe here.
As if she could sense his doubt, Sylva laid her hand on his, her palm cool and smooth to the touch. He lifted his head and met her gaze.
“You’ve got us this far,” she whispered. “Lysander’s too big … you’re the only one who can do this.” Her eyes were filled with hope, and he felt disgusted with himself, at his fear, his doubt.
“I don’t want to risk it,” he said, hating himself with every word. “She might be seen. We should wait, at least until we’re farther away … we still have time. I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”
Sylva lowered her gaze and pulled away from him, stashing the book inside her jacket.
“Doing nothing is as much a choice as doing something, Fletcher,” she said. “It might be the greatest risk of all.”
She stood up, swaying slightly as the shell tilted with each of Sheldon’s ponderous steps.
“Think it over,” she said, walking away from him.
To Fletcher’s surprise, she went to sit beside his mother. As he watched, she tugged an ivory-colored object from the coil of her braided hair, letting her tresses fall loose around her shoulders in a wave of white gold.
It was a comb made from carved deer bone, and Sylva lifted it and gently pulled it through Alice’s hair. Fletcher’s heart leaped as a smile played across his mother’s lips, and she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying the sensation.
Sylva did not seem to notice, instead teasing Alice’s hair with long, careful strokes until it hung straight down his mother’s back, free of the muck that had coated it, the dirty yellow soon a burnished flaxen sheet, peppered with white at the roots. Pocketing the comb, Sylva lifted her hands, and soon her nimble fingers were dancing back and forth, twisting and braiding it.
“There,” Sylva said, tugging Alice’s hair one final time. It had been braided to fall in a thick plait down his mother’s back, and Fletcher smiled. Gone was the wild woman, leaving a frail, elegant beauty in her place.
“Thank you,” Fletcher breathed, hurrying over to them. “She needed it. And the braid, it’s beautiful.”
“Just something my mother taught me,” Sylva said, shrugging shyly.
Fletcher smiled again.
“I wish I’d had time to meet her after the council meeting,” Fletcher said.
Sylva looked down at her hands.
“She died when I was very young,” she said.
Fletcher kicked himself. Of course. How had he never asked about her mother?
He suddenly realized that he knew far less about Sylva than any other of his friends. Ever since they met, she had never spoken about her home and rarely mentioned her family. But when she had, it had always been about her father.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have known.”
“No … I never talk about her,” Sylva said, her voice taut with pain.
Fletcher said nothing. He didn’t want to press her. The silence stretched on, until Sylva finally spoke again.
“Maybe I should,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “You would have liked her. She was brave, and loyal. But she trusted too much. She was poisoned and … we couldn’t save her.”
She turned her head away and wiped a tear from her eye.
“I … that’s awful, Sylva,” Fletcher said. It was all beginning to make sense. How hard it was for her to trust, to care about others. Her constant suspicion of his motives. It all came down to this.
“Why would someone do such a thing?” Fletcher whispered.
“It was my sister,” Sylva said, and her face turned hard once more. “She was older. Wanted to be chieftain, and knew that she was next in line. When they found hemlock in her room, we knew it was her. But we couldn’t prove it, so she was banished from our lands. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
Fletcher shook his head, horrified. Somehow, he had imagined elves to be above such evils.
“So … why aren’t you chieftain then?” Fletcher asked, hoping to change the subject.
“I wasn’t old enough, and am not even now. My father took her position. Our society passes chieftainship through the mother to the eldest daughter, or if there are none, the eldest son.”
So that was why most of the Elven Chieftains had been female. It was a stark contrast to Hominum’s society.
“Anyway, enough of that,” Sylva said, getting to her knees. “I’m glad you have a chance to know your own mother. She’s a sweetheart.”
Sylva leaned forward and kissed the top of Alice’s head. And then something amazing happened. Alice lifted her hand and pressed it against Sylva’s cheek.
“Mum?” Fletcher asked, his pulse quickening. “Can you hear me?”
He leaned forward and peered into her eyes. For the briefest of moments, his mother met his gaze. Then her hand dropped to her lap and she gazed vacantly out at the thickening groves around them.
Hope flooded Fletcher.
Perhaps his mother could be saved. She needed normality, comfort and care. And he knew they wouldn’t find that out here, in this sullen wasteland. Sylva was right; he needed to act.
“Athena,” Fletcher said, pulling the Gryphowl from his mother’s lap. She gave him a disgruntled yowl, but reluctantly unfurled her wings and looked at him expectantly.
“How would you like to do some scouting?”
CHAPTER
6
GREEN LEAVES BLURRED as Athena whipped through the canopy, searching for a tall tree to perch on. She didn’t want to breach into open air, at least not yet. Instead, she found a tall, pine-like conifer, with gnarled bark and sharp, pin-like leaves. It towered above the trees around it, and she landed with outstretched claws. Careful to avoid detection, she crawled up its trunk and inserted herself among the needles at the top.
A few hundred feet back and even farther below, Fletcher and his team peered at Verity’s tablet, which Cress unashamedly confessed to having “borrowed” when the young noble was not looking.
“I can’t see a thing,” Othello murmured, leaning closer to the tablet. “There are branches in the way.”
Fletcher nudged Athena forward with a thought. Strangely, she did not seem afraid at all. Instead, he sensed exhilaration and knew she was in her element among the treetops. Gryphowls were solitary rovers by nature; never staying in one place for too long, so the unfamiliar territory did not intimidate her.
Within the branches, Athena used her claws to push aside the green needles, then push her head through to survey the landscape around her. Using her flexible, owl-like neck, she slowly turned to give them a panoramic view of the skyline.
“Bloody hell,” Cress breathed.