Allardon Elessedil already lay in state, awaiting his funeral and burial. Messengers had been sent to his children, east to the front where Kylen fought with the Freeborn, north into the wilderness where Ahren hunted. Across the length and breadth of the Four Lands, word of the Elven King’s death had gone out.
But Walker could give no further thought to any of it. His concern now was for the safety of the castaway and the initial preparations for the voyage chronicled on the map he carried within his robes. He strongly believed that whoever arranged for the King’s assassination had done so to keep him from underwriting the voyage. Until a new King sat upon the throne, the Elven High Council would be unlikely to do much more than tread water. What saved Walker from being blocked entirely was the old King’s quick action in recording, almost literally with his last breath, the agreement they had struck regarding the map so that the Druid could act on it without having to wait around.
And, if the Druid’s suspicions were correct, whoever had recruited the Elven assassins had probably determined to make the voyage, as well.
Steady and unflagging, Obsidian flew his master and Walker south for the remainder of the afternoon over the dense tangle of Drey Wood and the watery mire of the Matted Brakes. As sunset neared, they passed the Pykon’s solitary spires and crossed the silver thread of the Rill Song into the deep woods that fronted the Rock Spur. The light was beginning to fail badly as Hunter Predd guided his mount to a goodsize clearing. There, he sent the Roc back into the trees to roost, while he and the Druid made camp. They lit a fire in a shallow pit, laid out their bedrolls on a carpet of soft needles beneath an ancient pine, and cooked their meal. Druid and Wing Rider, they sat as if a part of the forest shadows, dark figures in the deepening gloom, eating in silence and listening to the sounds of the night.
“Strange day,” the Elf remarked, sipping at the ale he shared with his traveling companion. “Makes you wonder about the way life works. Makes you wonder why anyone would want to be King.”
Walker nodded, straightbacked within his black robes, eyes distant. “The Wing Hove must have thought the same thing a long time ago.”
“It’s true. It’s one reason we have a council to make our laws and decisions for us, not just one man.” The Wing Rider shook his head. “Killed by his own people. He wasn’t a bad man, Walker. Why would they do it?”
Walker’s gaze fixed on him. “They didn’t. I saw their eyes. Whatever their motives in acting against the King, they were not the men they had been even a few days ago. They had been mindaltered in some permanent way. They were meant to attack the King, to kill him however they could manage it, and then to die.”
Hunter Predd frowned. “How could a man be made to do that?”
“Magic.”
“Elven?”
Walker shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. If they had lived, I might have been able to tell. Dead, they could give me nothing.”
“Who were they? Not gardeners, surely?”
“No one could identify them. Elves, but not of Arborlon. Hard men, who had led hard lives, from the look of their hands and faces.
They would have killed other men before this.”
“Still
“Still, they would have needed some incentive to kill an Elven King. Whoever recruited them provided that incentive using magic.” Walker held the other’s gaze. “I’m sorry to drag you out again so suddenly, but there wasn’t time to wait. I think our castaway is in danger. And it won’t stop there. I’m going to need you to fly me a few more places in the next week or two, Hunter Predd. I’m going to need your help.”
The Wing Rider drained the rest of the ale from his cup and poured himself another serving from the skin pouch beside him. “Tell you the truth, I was ready to leave anyway. Not just because of the King’s dying, but because cities and me don’t much agree. A few days are more than enough. I’m better off flying, whatever the risk.”