“Ah, yes,” said Eolair, but from his tone it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to the prince or to the empty air. “I do remember. Oh, I remember . . .”
They might have stood there for an hour, content merely to experience this unexpected, wild beauty, but suddenly a shape appeared before them.
“You will come with me,” said Yeja’aro. “Prince Jiriki is not here, but the . . . princess . . . will want to see you.” He gave the word a curious, angry emphasis.
The Sitha led them up the rocky path himself, winding between the fires; this time, when Morgan or the count stumbled, nobody reached out to help them. Dozens of Sithi watched the pair of them, curiously incurious as cats, as they climbed the slope toward a single large fire burning in a pit that had been dug at the top of a mounded grass meadow, not far from one of the valley’s steep walls. A single white-haired figure sat beside the fire. Her garment was full and loose, covering her body entirely from the neck down, and Morgan thought she must be some respected elder of the Sithi-folk.
Grandfather talked of the Sithi’s First Grandmother, didn’t he? But he seemed to remember that one had died in some terrible attack.
As they drew closer and he could see the Sitha-woman’s face more clearly, he decided that not only was she much younger than the color of her hair had led him to believe, she was also one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen.
They had almost reached the fire when she finally looked up at them. A small, almost secretive smile curled at the edge of her mouth, and her wide eyes caught the light, glowing. Her skin seemed the same shade as the flames, as though she and the fire were part of the same thing.
“So,” she said. “I had a feeling.”
“Aditu, I found them at the forest’s edge,” Yeja’aro said, his voice less harsh than it had been. Morgan thought he almost sounded apologetic. “They carry Ti-tuno. It was the horn we heard, in truth.”
When she smiled again, Morgan did not know whether he wanted to marry her on the spot or crawl into her arms and let her gently rock him to sleep. “Yes. I knew it was Ti-tuno,” she said. “I can never forget when I last heard it sounding, before Asu’a.” She smiled. “Count Eolair, my heart is glad to see you. It has been so long!”
“Lady Aditu.” Eolair sounded as though he might weep. “Much longer for me than for you, it seems. You have not changed.”
She smiled again. “Ah, but I have, as you will discover. Still, handsome boys become distinguished men—I would know you anywhere. Come, sit. And, speaking of handsome boys, who is this young one? I think I know him, but I would be told.”
Morgan realized his mouth was open but was doing nothing useful. “I am Prince Morgan,” he said, but it sounded strange and impolite, by itself. “My lady Aditu—Princess—I give you greetings from my grandparents.”
“Yes,” she said, as if he had asked a question. “Oh, yes. In the midst of such sadness, it is good to see the face of old friends again, even at several removes.”
Morgan was still staring. He knew he shouldn’t, but in that moment he couldn’t imagine looking at anything or anyone else.
“We have much to discuss,” Count Eolair began, but Aditu lifted her hand to forestall him.
“Not now, old friend. You have walked far, and walked the Sithi’s ways at that, which are even more tiring.” She turned to Yeja’aro, who had been standing silently by. “What of Tanahaya?”
Yeja’aro’s narrow face was grim. “She is very ill. These Sudhoda’ya say she has been poisoned. She is with the healers now.”
“Bring me word as soon as they know anything.” Aditu turned back to the count. “And now you two must sleep. My brother will return tomorrow and all that must be said will be said then. Eolair, it is good to see you again, against all the world’s chances. Morgan, this meeting means more to me than you can know.”
“Come,” said Yeja’aro, while Morgan was still puzzling out her liquid, lightly accented Westerling. He and Eolair let themselves be led away from the fire. Morgan looked back and saw that the woman named Aditu had again lowered her chin to her chest, contemplating the flames as though reading a beloved old book, a familiar but still instructive companion.
Morgan was exhausted. Suddenly the night seemed to be sagging in on top of him, and it was all he could do to put one foot after the other as Yeja’aro led them along the side of the valley to a place that had been prepared for them, two beds of moss in a frame of sticks, each with a blanket thin as a whisper, made of a slippery, cool substance that to Morgan’s weary mind felt like a moth’s wing looked.
Neither he nor Eolair spoke after they climbed into their beds. For all its near-insubstantiality, Morgan’s blanket was very warm. He watched a patch of stars slowly spinning across the sky above his head, a wheel of lights that he thought he should recognize but didn’t—just one more strangeness of this very strange day. Then, after only a very short time of listening to the sweet, strange sound of Sithi voices singing to each other across the pocket valley, he fell into a deep sleep.
Eolair had to work hard to wake the prince. Morgan complained bitterly, keeping his eyes tightly closed as though some horrifying demon stood over him instead of the Count of Nad Mullach. Eolair had only the dimmest recollection of himself at the prince’s age; a few sharp memories like mountain peaks piercing a haze, but he did not believe he had ever been allowed to sleep until he woke on his own. His father, the old count, had regarded rising with the dawn to say prayers to the gods as part of a noble’s duties. And Eolair’s fretful, quiet mother had hardly ever seemed to sleep at all.
“Come, Highness.” He gave the prince a harder shake. “Aditu’s brother Jiriki has returned, and we must speak to our hosts. The sun is in the sky. Rouse yourself, please.”
Morgan gave Eolair a slit-eyed stare and a frowning look meant to shame him. Instead, the lord steward laughed.
“Come. Sit up, Highness. I have brought you something to eat.”
The prince reached out blindly, then hesitated when he felt what Eolair had put in his hand. He peered at it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Bread, of a sort. Flavored with honey. It’s quite nice. And there’s a stream of fresh water just below the rise, over there.”
“We’re really here,” Morgan said a moment later with his mouth full, looking around him. “With the Sithi. I didn’t think it would feel like this. It’s so strange . . . !” But this home of theirs was not anything as grand as Morgan had imagined—that was certain.
“It has been more than thirty years since I first saw the Peaceful Ones up close,” Eolair said, “and I am still astonished each time.”
While the young prince tended to his morning needs, the count sat on a toppled tree in the warm sun and watched the morning life of the Sithi camp. It was both a smaller and less organized gathering than the Zida’ya war camp he had visited all those years ago outside Hernysadharc. At first glance everything seemed chaotic, with exotic figures coming and going from the small valley and many others engaged in quiet work, although Eolair could not always guess what they were truly doing. By daylight he could see that the hill and its hidden valley stood high above the surrounding Aldheorte. Anyone down among the forest trees would find it almost impossible to see even the valley’s campfires at night, because the trees and the bulk of the hill would hide their glow.
“It seems only days since I saw you last, Eolair of Nad Mullach,” someone said behind him.
Eolair turned to see Jiriki standing a short distance away at the top of the rise. His hair was long and white, like his sister’s, but like her he did not look an hour older than at their last meeting. “Days to you, perhaps,” the count told him. “To me, it has been a weary length of years. But whatever the length of time, it is good to see you again, Jiriki i-Sa’onserei. I heard you and your company return just before first light. I heard them singing.”
“We came a long distance,” the Sitha said, then sprang down the hillside as lightly as a deer. He reached Eolair’s side in a moment, and looked him over with a slight frown. “Your face shows pain. Have you been wounded?”
Eolair smiled. “No—well, yes, I was, but that is not the cause of my discomfort now. My hip aches. It is what happens when we mortals age—our bodies do not last as long as our wits.”