Elven Hunters met them at the far end of the valley and escorted them back through the woods to Arborlon. An escort was unusual for visitors, but it was clear from the moment they gave their names to the watch that they were expected. The road to the city was broad and open, and the ride through the afternoon hours was pleasant. It was still light when they arrived at the city, coming out of the shadow of the trees onto a stretch of old growth that thinned and opened through a sprawl of buildings onto a wide bluff. Arborlon was much bigger and busier than Leah, with shops and residences spreading away for as far as the eye could see, traffic on the roads thick and steady, and people from all the races visible at every turn. Arborlon was a crossroads for commerce, a trading center for virtually every form of goods. Absent were the great forges and factories of the deep Southland and of the Rock Trolls north, but their products were in evidence everywhere, brought west for warehousing and shipping to the Elven people living farther in. Caravans of goods passed them going in and coming out, bound for or sent from those less accessible regions—the Sarandanon west, the Wildemn south, and the Troll nations north.
Quentin glanced about with a broad smile. ‘This is what we came for, Bek. Isn’t it all grand and wonderful—just what you imagined?”
Bek kept his thoughts to himself, not trusting them to words. Mostly he wondered how a people who had just lost a King to assassination could carry on with so little evidence of remorse—though he had to admit he couldn’t think of how they should otherwise behave. Life went on, no matter the magnitude of the events that influenced it. He shouldn’t expect more.
They passed through the city proper and turned south into a series of parks and gardens to reach what were clearly the Elessedil palace grounds. It was late by then, the light failing quickly, the torches on street poles and building entries lit against the encroaching gloom. The crowds of people they had passed earlier had been left behind. Home Guard materialized out of the shadows, the King’s own protectors and the heart of the Elven army, stoic, silent, and sharp-eyed. They took the travelers’ horses away, and the Dwarf and cousins were led down a pathway bordered by white oak and tall grasses to an open-air pavilion somewhere back from the palace buildings and overlooking the bluffs east. High-backed benches were clustered about the pavilion, and pitchers of ale and cold water sat on trays beside metal tankards and glasses.
The Home Guard who had escorted them from the road gestured toward the benches and refreshments and left.
Alone, the pavilion empty except for them, the surrounding grounds deserted, they stood waiting. After a few minutes, Panax moved to one of the benches, took out his carving knife and a piece of wood, and began to whittle. Quentin looked at Bek, shrugged, and walked over to help himself to a tankard of ale.
Bek stayed where he was, glancing about warily. He was thinking of how the Ilse Witch had orchestrated the death of an Elven King not far from that spot. It did not give him a good feeling to think that killing someone in the heart of the Elven capital city was so easy, since all of them were now eligible targets.
“What are you doing?” Quentin asked, sauntering over to join him, tankard of ale in hand. He wore the Sword of Leah strapped across his back as if it was something he had been doing all his life instead of for less than a week.
“Nothing,” Bek replied. Already Quentin was evidencing the sort of changes that would affect them both in the end, growing beyond himself, shaking loose from his life. It was what his cousin had come to do, but Bek was still struggling with the idea. “I was just wondering if Walker is here yet.”
“Well, you look as if you expect Tails Rohk to appear again, maybe come right out of the earth.”
“Don’t be too quick to discount the possibility,” Panax muttered from the bench.