15. Twelve

I was to spend the day alone in contemplation.

The interior courtyard was emptied, and guards that I had handpicked were placed on every door, ensuring none would open until the sun set. I went to sit at the base of the Stoneriver clan tree at the center of the courtyard. It was a lychee tree with dark gray bark. In the summer, its boughs were heavy with the thorny red stonefruit.

Just as every clan had their sacred tree as a symbol of their clan's values and history, so too must a king. Under normal circumstances, the title of king was passed down from father to son, which meant the son performed his prayers before the same tree as his father.

But I had gone to war against my father. A tree split in two could not survive. I had to have my own sacred tree, one that the gods would reveal to me if I prayed hard enough, or so the old texts stated.

I'd never considered myself a particularly religious elf, invoking the gods only when it served me. If ever our gods did walk the same shores and mountains as us, they were long dead, their bones rotten fertilizer for our soil. I couldn't be bothered to pray to dead gods.

So, I sat with my back against the rough bark of the lychee tree, closed my eyes, and slept.

I dreamed of a place I had not been in a very long time: home. After the last civil war, my father renamed the Starfall clan house after his own newly formed clan, the Deepfrosts, but I never knew it as such. In my own mind, it was still my mother's castle. There were small reminders of her everywhere from the stain that never quite went away on the library floor where her guards were slain, to the marks carved into the kitchen doorpost marking her height. Her ghost haunted that place. The priests and my father assured me that wasn't possible, that her head had been buried in the royal crypt in the mountains, but I didn't believe them. Though I grew up never having known my mother, I felt her there with me.

Nowhere was that feeling stronger than in the Queenswood. There, a legion of plum blossom trees grew between two wisteria trees. There were cherry trees as well, but I'd never thought them as lovely as the plum trees. Unlike the cherry tree, whose blossoms bloomed for only a short time before dying, the plum tree stubbornly held onto her petals, even after the first snows fell.

In the dream, I walked through the grove while a snowstorm swirled. The wind tore at the delicate branches. Yet somehow, they stood defiant in the face of nature itself. Icy claws dug into my unprotected neck and face, numbing my nose and my ears, and the wind howled, but above the wind, there was a voice—a song—sang on soft, feminine lips.

I held my arm up, shielding myself from the onslaught of the storm, and trudged through the snow drifts until I came to the center of the garden. There, the wind was silent and the air as warm as a spring afternoon. Though the plum blossoms were encased in ice, the boughs were melting, the water dripping like rain.

Perched upon a rock at the base of another plum tree, was an elven beauty like no other whose face I had no recollection of, yet knew as well as my own. But she was not alone. My throat constricted when I saw Elindir. Framed by thousands of fallen pink petals, he was laid out on the ground gripping a sword, his skin pale and eyes closed.

No.

I ran into the clearing and fell to my knees beside him, lifting his body from the ground, but I was too late. He was already cold. I opened my mouth to shout at the gods, to curse them, or to beg for them to undo what had been done, but there was no sound. My voice had been stolen. I wasn't even capable of a whisper. Distraught, I pulled his broken body into my lap and held him against me, weeping and sobbing like a child.

A glint of golden metal forced me to lift my head from my dead sun's silent chest. My mother held in her hands a crown like the ones they wore across the sea, a simple band of gold with jagged points at the center and far too many jewels. She held it out to me as if it were a consolation prize. I reached for it, but as soon as I wrapped my fingers around it, I sensed another presence behind me. I turned my head just as a pack of white wolves trotted into the clearing, their fur matted and bloody. The one in front paused to stare at me before he bowed his head, but the feeling of unease did not leave me.

I turned back to take the crown from my mother, but she was gone. Aryn stood in her place, and it was no longer a crown being offered, but his blade. The wind whipped at his silver white hair, throwing it briefly across his face.

"Brother," I pleaded, or tried to, for I still could not speak.

I hoped at least that he would understand. Ayrn had always been so insightful, my most loyal supporter, the one I could trust above all others. He would never hurt me.

And yet his eyes were cold and full of malice as he brought the sword down and severed my head from my neck.

I jerked awake with a gasp and nearly struck my head on a low-hanging branch. I rolled my eyes to the sky. It was dark again, the sky alight with stars. I frowned and swatted the branch away, only to be confronted with Aryn's blue eyes. He was squatting in front of me, dressed all in black, his elbows resting on his knees. He'd even put on the black hood he wore to hide his silver hair, which meant he'd been purposely skulking about. If not for his ice-blue eyes, I never would have seen him at all.

I scowled, flashing my teeth at him. "There had better be a reason you're interrupting my prayers."

"I was not aware snoring constituted prayers," he replied, his voice muffled by the fabric.

"I don't snore."

"Not as loudly as Ieduin, that's for certain, but you do snore. Especially when you're dreaming." The cloth over his mouth hid his smile, but I could hear it in his voice.

I sighed and pushed some hair back from my face. The memory of Elindir's fingers in my hair fluttered through me, but I pushed it away. That was for another time, another place. "Why are you here, Aryn?"

Aryn rose from his crouch, his eyes never leaving mine. "The Runecleaver host has mobilized. A large army is marching south. Taratheil has called his banners, and the Seashore and Ivygrass clans have answered, pledging their swords to his cause."

I sighed. Neither pledge was surprising, but it still wasn't pleasant to hear. We had only two allies so far, and my father outnumbered us greatly. With the Runecleavers marching, it meant I had very little time to finish my hunt in the Spine.

"And what of the Redrocks, the Northfires, and the Longclaws? Where do their allegiances lie?" I asked, though I feared I already knew the answer.

"They remain undecided, for now."

"And there is no sign any of them intend to answer my summons?"

Aryn shook his head, the movement so subtle I almost missed it in the dark. "They seem content to wait and see which way the wind blows before committing their forces."

I let out a heavy sigh, my breath misting in the chill night air. The dream still clung to me like a damp cloak, sending tendrils of unease down my spine. But I couldn't afford to dwell on visions and portents, not with war looming on the horizon.

I rose to my feet, brushing bits of bark and leaves from my tunic. The lychee tree loomed above me, its branches reaching for the star-strewn sky like gnarled fingers. For a moment, I imagined I could feel the thrum of ancient magic in its roots, a whisper of the gods' will. But it was fleeting, drowned out by the relentless drumbeat of reality.

"Then we have no choice," I said, my voice hard as steel. "We must press on with our plans. I will complete my hunt and then we march south to Calibarra."

Aryn inclined his head, a gesture of silent agreement, and he turned to go.

I called out, my voice echoing in the stillness of the courtyard. "Aryn, wait."

He paused mid-step, his black cloak swirling around his ankles. When he turned back to face me, his eyes were questioning beneath the shadow of his hood.

I crossed the distance between us, my boots crunching softly on the fallen leaves. Up close, I could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched around Aryn's eyes, the price of his tireless service. A pang of guilt twisted in my gut, but I pushed it aside.

"I have another task for you," I said, pitching my voice low despite the absence of any other living soul in the courtyard. "One of vital importance."

Aryn's gaze sharpened, his posture subtly shifting from weary to alert. "Name it."

I glanced up at the lychee tree, its branches creaking like old bones. The dream still haunted me, clinging to the edges of my mind like cobwebs. But I couldn't let superstition guide my hand, not now. "I need you to ride south to Clan Duskfell."

"Duskfell?" His eyes widened. "Gods below, why would you even consider them before the Northfires or Longclaws or even the Redrocks? They're so small they're practically defunct. And the rumors that come out of the Obsidian Keep…" Aryn shook his head.

"Do you really believe they're necromancers and cannibals? Come now, Aryn. You can't believe everything you hear."

"I believe there is a grain of truth in every rumor," he hissed in a low whisper. "Even if it isn't true, people will talk. Think carefully, Ruith. Do you really want to ally yourself with such people?"

I shrugged. "You said so yourself. We are not in a position to refuse help."

"I still fail to see what value Clan Duskfell can bring. We should be pursuing the Longclaws. They may not have the numbers that the Wolfhearts have, but they are renowned warriors. If I send word north now—"

"There is no need to send word," I said firmly, cutting him off. "You'll be going to the Obsidian Keep personally to win me the support of the Duskfells."

Aryn was silent. He knew better than to argue with me when I gave him an order, and as his king, I didn't owe him an explanation. But as his brother…

"Aryn," I began slowly, "never before have I asked you to trust me blindly, but I must ask it of you now. You must believe me when I say we need the Duskfells more than we need the Redrocks and the Longclaws to win this war. I would not send you if I had another option. Trust me when I say I would rather have you by my side than at court in the southern reaches. But this is no longer about what I want. It is about what we need, and right now, I need you to ride for the Obsidian Keep. Win me what support you can there, brother. At any cost."