“We followed ancient paths,” Jametari said. “Paths long ago frequently traveled by my folk as they journeyed across the lands. Time has changed the landscape, but the paths recall us.”

Any other time, and uttered by anyone else, such a statement would sound absurd.

“And many years,” he continued, “has it been since last my folk came willingly among the Sacoridum. Once we dwelled in all these lands before the coming of men. Alas, it is a time even before my reckoning, but ever smaller has our territory grown as a result.”

“I hope you have not come all this way,” Zachary said, “to seek recompense for wrongs committed generations upon generations ago by forgotten ancestors.”

“No, we have not, though there are Eletians who have not forgotten.”

His words hung there between them, between mortals whose time on Earth was but the blinking of an eye and those who lived eternal lives.

“We also do not forget the alliance of men and Eletians during the Cataclysm,” Jametari said, and then glancing at Laren, he added, “and it seems you have not either, for the banner of the Green Riders you bear was woven by the hands of Eletians and presented to Liliedhe Ambriodhe on the eve of the decisive battle. It is threaded with words of justice and victory, and of friendship between our peoples. In common purpose, our peoples defeated darkness and unjust conquest.”

“We do not forget,” Zachary said, “especially in these days when darkness has returned.”

“And it has returned, though Kanmorhan Vane sleeps for the moment,” Jametari said, using the Eletian name for Blackveil Forest. “When it awakens again, it will be with vengeance at its heart. I fear the D’Yer Wall will not hold against the onslaught.”

Zachary shifted in his chair. “The old ways of making the wall strong are lost, but we are attempting to relearn them.”

“There may not be the time.”

“We do not know how much time we have.”

The golden leaves stirred above and the boughs of the birches creaked. Laren thought she saw a ripple in the tent-sky. The stream gurgled unabated and it felt like ages passed. Zachary and Jametari regarded one another like lords carved in stone carrying on some mental conversation.

“You sent a delegation northward,” Jametari said, “to seek us out, to know our mind, to find out if the old alliance still holds true. That delegation failed, ambushed during its journey. And now I have come forth in turn, to take the measure of this king and his people, to see for myself the strength or lack of foundation for an alliance.”

“If you are an enemy of the darkness to the south,” Zachary said, “then I would say a rekindling of the alliance sounds promising.”

“Mornhavon is our mutual enemy. His conquering of Argenthyne and the depredations committed against our people are evils that shall never be forgotten. Now that the wall is failing and Mornhavon awakened from his banishment, I must decide what is the best course for my people.”

Laren noticed he completely circumvented a commitment to an alliance. To take the measure of king and country? What would it mean if he did not care for what he saw and refused to reestablish the alliance? Then she remembered Karigan telling her there were factions of Eletians who wanted to see the wall fail and release all the wild magic pent up in Blackveil, whether or not it was tainted by Mornhavon. Some Eletians felt it would return raw magic to the world.

Laren could only shake her head in wonder that they would turn their backs on an entire people in that way and wish them ill. It was no better than the conquest of Mornhavon the Black. How prevalent was that feeling among the Eletians? How deep did their bitterness delve? They had all of eternity for it to stew.

Zachary laughed. Everyone, both Sacoridians and Eletians alike, stared at him in astonishment.

“And so you will judge our worthiness,” he said. “My worthiness in my own realm. Or perhaps you wish to delay, for the politics of your court are attempting to sway you one way or another. Trees will bend to and fro,” and he gestured at the birches, “but in a storm, they can snap.”

He stood then, tall and regal, and Laren and the other Sacoridians stood in unison in his wake. “Judge us as you will, prince of Eletia, but I’ve no time to play your games. The time to act is now, and we have been acting. Not spying, not playing games, not waiting. While you may be content for the tide to rise to crisis point, I am not. Whether you are with us or against us, we of Sacoridia will forge ahead as we always have. But know this, if in your self-interest you choose to do nothing at all, then you are against us, and we shall consider you our enemy in league with the powers of Blackveil.”

Stunned silence met the king’s speech, but he did not wait for a reaction. “I will take leave of you now.” He nodded toward Jametari, and without pausing or waiting for an escort, he turned on his heel and headed back through the grove. His companions followed, and Laren brought up the rear. Glancing back at the prince and his people, she found they remained unmoved, still in shock.

Estora flew from the chamber and slammed the door shut behind her before any of her cousins, aunts, sisters, ladies, or more important, her mother, could protest or follow her out. She glanced about the corridor only to discover one surprised servant who curtsied and scurried away. She even managed to leave her Weapon behind and, to her dismay, close a swath of her skirts in the door.

She cracked the door open and yanked them out. A deafening chatter poured from the room; the women oohing and aahing over materials merchants had brought up from the city and designs for the wedding gown drawn by tailors. A baker had brought samples of cake and other dainties, and vintners bottles of their best wines. The ladies, it seemed, had tested enough of the wines to not even note her departure, or care, and the volume of their voices rose to fevered pitches as swatches of cloth and frills flew through the air. She saw her poor Weapon attempting to make his way across the room through the melee, his expression grimmer than usual, especially when some lace was flung into his face.