Quentin was looking around, as well, after that, but it was Bek who spied the two figures coming up the walk from the palace. At first neither cousin could make out the faces in the gloom, catching only momentary glimpses as they passed through each halo of torchlight on their approach. It wasn’t until they had reached the pavilion and come out of the shadows completely that Bek and Quentin recognized the short, wiry figure in the lead.
“Hunter Predd,” Quentin said, walking forward to offer his hand.
“Well met, Highlander,” the other replied, a faint smile creasing his weathered features. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Quentin.
“Made the journey out of Leah safely, I see.”
“Never a moment’s concern.”
“That old sword strapped to your back reveal any secrets on the way?”
Quentin flushed. “One or two. You don’t forget a thing, do you?”
Bek shook the Wing Rider’s hand, as well, feeling a little of his earlier uneasiness fade with the other’s appearance. “Is Walker here?” he asked.
Hunter Predd nodded. “He’s here. Everyone’s here that’s going.
You’re the last to arrive.”
Panax rose from his bench and wandered over, and they introduced him to the Wing Rider. Then Hunter Predd turned to his companion, a tall, powerfully built Elf of indeterminate age, with closecropped gray hair and pale blue eyes. “This is Ard Patrinell,” the Wing Rider said. “Walker wanted you to meet him. He’s been placed in command of the Elven Hunters who will go with us.”
They clasped hands with the Elf, who nodded without speaking. Bek thought that if ever anyone looked the part of a warrior, it was this man. Scars crisscrossed his blunt features and muscular body, thin white lines and rough pink welts against his sunbrowned skin, a testament to battles fought and survived. Power radiated from even his smallest movements. His grip when shaking hands was deliberately soft, but Bek could feel the iron behind it. Even the way he carried himself suggested someone who was always ready, always just a fraction of a second away from swift reaction.
“You’re a Captain of the Home Guard,” Panax declared, pointing to the scarlet patch on the Elf’s dress jacket.
Ard Patrinell shook his head. “I was. I’m not anymore.”
“They don’t keep you on as Captain of the Home Guard if the
King is assassinated on your watch,” Hunter Predd observed bluntly.
Panax nodded matter-of-factly. “Someone has to bear the blame for a King’s death, even when there’s no blame to be found. Keeps everyone thinking something useful’s been done.” He spat into the dark. “So, Ard Patrinell, you look a seasoned sort. Have you fought on the Prekkendorran?”
Again, the Elf shook his head. “I fought in the Federation Wars, but not there. I was at Klepach and Barrengrote fifteen years ago, when I was still an Elven Hunter, not yet a Home Guard.” If Patrinell was irritated by the Dwarf’s questions, he didn’t show it.
For his part, Bek was wondering how a failed Captain of the Home Guard could end up being given responsibility for the security and safety of Walker’s expedition. Was his removal only ceremonial, made necessary because of the King’s death? Or was something else at work?
There was an enormous calm in Ard Patrinell’s face, as if nothing could shake his confidence or disrupt his thinking. He had the look of someone who had seen and weathered a great deal and understood that loss of control was a soldier’s worst enemy. If he had failed the King, he did not carry the burden of that failure openly. Bek judged him a man who understood better than most the value of patience and endurance.
“What remains to be done before we leave?” Quentin asked suddenly, changing the subject.
“Impatient to be off, Highlander?” Hunter Predd chided. “It won’t be long now. We’ve got an airship and a Captain and crew to speed us on our way. We’re gathering supplies and equipment. Loading is already under way. Our Captain of the Home Guard has selected a dozen Elven Hunters to accompany us.”
“We’re ready then,” Quentin declared eagerly, his grin broadening with expectation.
“Not quite.” The Wing Rider seemed reluctant to continue, but unable to think of a way not to. He glanced out at the encroaching night, as if his explanation might be found somewhere in the gloom. “There’s still a few adjustments to be made to the terms of our going, a couple of small controversies to be resolved.”