Page 38 of The Sundered Blade

“Welcome back, Your Majesty.” A man in a neatly pressed guard uniform and polished boots bowed low before Kyrion and received a graceful tilt of the head in return. “We are honored to have you here, as always, and I believe you will find that we have several other guests who are eager to greet you.”

“Eager isoneword for it.” The stern female voice belonged to a tall, lithe, night elf in a dark, formal cloak, who stalked forward out of the crowd with a younger woman at her heels. “I feel that irritated is perhaps a better one.”

“Greetings to you as well, Mother.”

Vaniell’s gaze fastened on the night elf woman with something approaching horror. This was not one of the confrontations he’d imagined having. And even if he had, the woman before him did not appear to be the forgiving sort. Her dark eyes were deep and stern, and the lines around her mouth made her look grimly disapproving. And if her graceful movements and collection of weaponry were any indication, she was likely to prove every bit as dangerous as Kyrion himself.

The night elf behind her suddenly chuckled, a sound of unrestrained amusement. “Oh, but this is delightful. Do tell him exactly how annoyed you are, Mother. I promise to enjoy every minute of finally getting to see Kyrion in even more trouble than I am.”

The younger woman’s skin was a darker gray than Kyrion’s, and her hair was nearly white, but otherwise the two resembled one another strongly. Other than her wickedly teasing grin, perhaps.

“Wyn and I have been awaiting your arrival,” the older woman said. The lines in her face softened marginally as she looked at her son, scanning him as if to reassure herself that he was unhurt. “I anticipated your return rather sooner than this, and there was some concern that your errand may have resulted in a mishap.”

Kyrion’s expression eased into something that was almost a smile.

“I am well, as you can see. What brings the two of you to Arandar?”

“Discussing the terms of our treaty,” she said briskly. “After Garimore’s invasion, it seemed prudent to determine the details of our mutual defense clause.”

“I came because I was bored,” the young woman announced. “But where is Leisa, and who isthis?”

She turned lavender eyes on Vaniell and scanned him up and down in an appreciative style that, in another time and place, might have moved him to at least attempt a flirtation.

“This?” Kyrion regarded Vaniell with a raised brow, as if trying to decide how best to proceed. “You were afraid I had encountered a mishap… I suppose you could say this is it.”

“Only a mishap?” Desperate to put off the necessary explanations, Vaniell turned wounded eyes on the night elf. “I thought I would rate at the very least a catastrophe.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I would be hard pressed to label you as even a mild inconvenience.”

Wyn’s jaw dropped. “Kyrion? What is happening?”

But rather than answering, Kyrion looked around at the crowd of overly attentive listeners. “I suggest we move our conversation indoors. We have a great deal of information to relay, and little time in which to do so.”

“We?”

“Yes.” But then Kyrion would say no more until their small group made their way into the palace, following the guide of a uniformed servant.

In comparison to the palace at Hanselm, the interior of Farhall’s royal residence might have been dismissed as positively shabby. But to Vaniell’s eyes, it was something far better—a home. There was no particular degree of wealth or ostentation on display, merely a functional residence filled with well-designed and well-kept furnishings.

And when their group finally paused in front of a perfectly ordinary door, the servant stepped back and permitted Kyrion to knock, just as if they were visiting friends.

“Enter.”

At the sound of that familiar voice, Vaniell actually winced. But it was too late to back out. Too late to make his excuses. The door was already opening, to reveal not a formal receiving room, but a comfortable study, with a fire burning in the hearth and a pair of desks occupying one side of the chamber.

And behind one of those desks…

“Kyrion!” A familiar dark-haired man rose hastily from his chair and moved towards them with a smile. “What a relief. We were concerned when you did not return sooner. But where is…”

In the midst of his question, Danric finally looked past Kyrion and saw Vaniell.

He stopped in his tracks, lips parted, hands fallen limply to his sides. For the space of a few breaths, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

There was no naming the emotions that crossed his brother’s face. There were too many, and they were too entangled with one another to identify them. Fear, loss, anguish, hope, relief, frustration… Vaniell could not even tell for certain whether the bad outweighed the good.

“I’d almost begun to wonder whether you might be dead,” Danric said at last into the silence, a slight tremor in his voice. “Whether you’d finally irritated someone enough that they decided to silence you for good.”

“I’d be lying if I claimed no one has tried.” For once, Vaniell was having no luck at all reading his brother’s mood.

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