Page 8 of Revenge of the Elf Lord

She nodded, an appreciative expression on her pretty face. “Good. I’m filing that away for future use.”

Her sister shook her head. “You know, you may be my sister, but I feel more and more sorry for your husband every day.”

“Don’t. He’s ornery and drives me crazy. I love him to death, but do men ever act their age?”

“Not in my experience,” Lamruil said. “Look at my brother. He never acts his age.”

“How can he? Ailuin’s older than Methuselah, and he was a doddering old man who was probably both deaf and blind.” Raisa rolled her eyes. “You two are impossible. I thought twins were supposed to be close to one another and get along—act more like one another.”

Ailuin walked into the room. “Oh, we get along just fine. He has his senile seriousness, and I have my young brashness. It suits us just fine on most days.” He moved over to stand behind his wife’s chair. Leaning over her, he kissed the top of her strawberry-blonde hair. “He just needs a good woman.”

Lamruil rolled his eyes. “Leave off with the woman. If and when I find my mate, it will be no one’s business but my own.”

“And hers,” Aleksandra smiled. Lamruil tilted his head toward her in deference.

“Lamuril, I was just on my way to see you.” Cyran turned to the co-regent, a man he looked up to like a brother. Even though Lamruil was only a few minutes older than Ailuin, his seriousness always made him seem much older.

Lamruil left the room without a word, and Cyran followed as he led him to their new battle room. In the center of the circular space stood a large wooden table—etched scrollwork wound around the thick legs and the table’s edge. A wrought-iron vine curved around the table like a centerpiece, creating a picture-framed effect. It was a magnificent piece.

Five matching high-backed chairs lined the walls on each side of the table, with the same design down their backs. The bookshelves along the entire wall behind the set were equally impressive, mounded with books and rolled maps. There wasn’t a single space left.

Cyran ran his hand across the smooth, brown-stained wood, admiring the craftsmanship of whoever made it. “This is gorgeous. Who made it?”

“Believe it or not, Heimdall carved it all by hand. No magic was involved. He has a similar piece in his home.”

Cyran let out a low whistle. “No magic, huh? Ten chairs...must have taken him a while.” Leaning closer to the table, he frowned as he studied the carved scrollwork and realized they were more like a combination of runes and hieroglyphs. “What does this say?”

Lamruil shrugged. “I’m not sure. Heimdall was evasive when I asked him. He would only say it was a protection spell in a very ancient language—one only he seems to know.”

“Then how does he know it if no one else does? How old is he?”

Lamruil glanced at him. “Older than most gods. I’ve often wondered if he was a primordial god but haven’t been able to prove it. The primordials are hermits and don’t like to be bothered about anything, so my curiosity will be unanswered for the foreseeable future. He pulled a map from the nearest shelf and unrolled it, placing small cubes to hold down the corners. “Have you ever been to Svartálfheimr?”

Cyran shook his head. “Not that I can remember. Haman used to take me to many places when I was much younger, but he wouldn’t always tell me where we were. I was supposed to be seen and not heard.”

Lamruil grimaced. “Sorry, I vaguely recall that about him. My father always said Haman was an amazing healer but a horrible father.” His brilliant blue eyes speared Cyran’s. “He loved you, you know. My father. He always considered you his third son.”

Cyran smiled, a bittersweet emotion filling his chest. “After my mother died, I was at the palace more than my own home.” He cleared his throat, amazed at the tightness now clogging it. “I loved your father, too. I used to dream about what it would be like to be his son. Knowing he was there for me got me through many bad times.”

Lamruil reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “I know. My brother and I tried to shield you. While you may not be blood, you are family—our brother, so don’t ever forget that.”

He pulled back his hand and pointed to a narrow land mass cutting through two large bodies of water. “Here’s the only way you can enter the dwarf kingdom. Freyja has confirmed both Shalendra and Soliana were last seen at the border town here.” He moved his finger to a colorful inn drawn on the map. “It’s the only place where people can get a bed for the night, but there are a few other buildings, like a general store and a blacksmith’s shop. Whenever our father took us on diplomacy trips, we would stop there. Ailuin used to bother the blacksmith, always begging for a sword.”

Cyran chuckled. “Sounds just like him. Do we have any intel as to where the two women went afterward? They just can’t have disappeared.”

“No, but?—”

“I know where the girls are!” a feminine voice called out.

The two elves turned to see Idunn enter through the heavy wooden door. Her medieval-styled aquamarine dress billowed out behind her as she hurried toward them. Her long, blonde braid swung over her left breast, but her wide, blue eyes held the two men’s attention. Idunn was always cultured and soft-spoken and calmed everything and everyone in her wake. Her love of cooking and creating delicious treats, drinks, and potions soothed even the most agitated souls.

Lamruil met her halfway, holding out his arms as she walked into a quick embrace. She stepped back and held out her hand for Cyran, who, with surprise, clasped it in his. “Idunn, what has you so concerned?” Lamruil asked.

She squeezed Cyran’s hand then let go and smoothed her hands down her dress. “Sorry, it’s been a…hectic day. Anyway, Freyja has been playing detective and discovered that Shalendra and Soliana were at the inn. Someone else, though, knew it too because the building burned to the ground only an hour after they left. She hasn’t figured out who it was yet, but you know Freyja. She?—”

“Won’t stop until she does.” Cyran chuckled. “Like a dog with a bone.”

Idunn raised one elegant blonde brow. “Don’t let her hear you compare her to a dog.” She moved next to the table and stared at the map for a moment, then pointed to the picture of a mountain near the border town. “The last time anyone saw them, they were being taken to this mountain, but no one actually saw them enter, so it’s a guess on our part.” Cyran and Lamruil moved beside her, each staring at where she pointed.

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