25

Instinct spurred Val and Alfea to the top of that quiet and brooding stone pillar, but they nearly collided with Lerendar, Beatriz and Filimar’s people coming the opposite way.

…and then there was Sawyer the griffin, who’d gotten away from Vikran…

…Pudgy, who’d been stuffed into one of Faleena’s faerie pockets…

…And most of all Bean, who very much wanted her mother. Then Andorin lifted the whole of Seahorse’s crew onto the clifftop with power he drew from that turbulent surf. So many greetings! Mostly restrained, on the part of the high-elves, others steeped in ages of sorrow and longing, as Someday unfolded at last.

Filimar approached that odd, skinny, half-naked girl; the former hawk who’d saved his life by attacking Lord Arvendahl; who could only be his rarely-spoken-of sister. They’d never met, but the kin-bond was there, and he knew her. Just like his mum and dad, he’d always kept a small dress and a toy in his own faerie pockets, just in case.

Now the young elf drew close to his golden eyed sister; moving slowly, holding out that beaded small gown and stuffed doll.

“Anneka,” he called to her, trying to sound calm and soothing. “See what I have, Neka! Look, it’s your doll, Red-hair Baby. Your temple dress, too. Remember these?”

The girl’s mouth opened. Her head bobbed in a strange, bird-like manner as she hopped warily backward. No longer able to fly. Afraid, but filled with deep longing. Though she did not know Filimar, Anneka reacted at once to Faleena and Tormun, who were there moments later. With spells that they’d hoarded for a lifetime, with favorite playthings and sweets, they at last lured Anneka back. Embraced, kissed and cleansed her, weeping with joy as others politely looked elsewhere.

She was a mess. Skinny, wild and dressed in tatters, her toes clutching soil and covered in blood. Did not know how to use her hands, and tried to take up the doll with one foot and her mouth… But she was there. She was theirs once again because Someday had finally come.

Val approached Filimar after a bit, one arm tight around Alfea (who was cuddling Pudgy and Bean, crooning and making all sorts of soft, silly faces).

“Your… sister?” he guessed. Safe bet, as she had typical Arvendahl raven-black hair, if not their blue eyes.

“Yes,” replied Filimar, looking like one who’d seen gods and monsters and unicorns. Who’d been threatened with darkness and beaten it back. “That is Anneka, who was lost many years before I was born. Mum and dad speak of her only on the day (every year) that she left… but I remembered.”

Valerian nodded.

“I am glad for your happiness, Filno. That your father lives and your sister is back. And… with granddad’s permission… that you are all now a part of our family and house.” For he’d meant that sincerely, adopting the exiles in Lord Tarandahl’s name.

“You’ve not met,” Val continued, “But this is my wife, Alfea, and this is our little one, Bean.” Then, as Pudgy wriggled and yapped at him. “Also, the most ridiculous excuse for a dog I’ve ever won at a fair... Pudgy.”

Filimar bowed to them all, smiling.

“My lady,” he said, “my life and heart’s service to you and your daughter, for all time to come.”

Alfea smiled back, very flustered and shy.

“Thank you, Fil,” she replied. “And I thank you a thousand times over for helping Van. He has told me of your great deeds and your courage.”

Filimar reddened. Then Sandor, Kellen and Arien rushed up, all ears at the news that they'd suddenly turned into Tarandahls, demanding an introduction and vying with each other to praise Alfea’s beauty. That led to an argument, as they fell to boasting of who’d do the most to win her smile… and then Val drew Alfea apart from the rest.

Managed to fob off his baby griffin and Pudgy (on Filimar, this time), and then pulled a quick privacy spell. Embraced his wife and baby again, just needing to let himself feel. Holding her close, he whispered,

“The things that Arvendahl said about you…”

Alfea looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It matters? His words have changed how you see me, Van?”

“No. Never! Nothing that warg-son vomited out could ever touch you, Fina. It’s just… I wanted to kill him for it, in your name. I wanted to make him take back every insult and lie, only dad got there first.”

Alfea shifted the baby, then reached up to place a hand on her young husband’s face, saying,

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“His evil words have not harmed me. Drive their venom out of your heart and your thoughts, Love, and let us by happy, for this is a wonderous day.”

And not done with marvels, either, for another airship appeared in the sky over Lord Arvendahl’s shattered hunting lodge. It was an imperial dreadnought, growing swiftly from a small silver dot to a sleek and powerful warship. Right.

Valerian watched it come, using slow time and recycling himself back to the unicorn’s peace, to work up a few handy spells. (Just in case.) In the perforated meantime, his grandparents, father, brother and Aunt Meliara gathered to face the newcomers, along with Reston, Andorin and Lord Tormun. A good thing, as it turned out, because the dreadnought anchored broadside to that hovering pirate ship, and then Prince Nalderick descended. He was flanked by a blonde, frosty sorceress and a uniformed naval officer; backed by a troop of grim warriors.

Val kissed Alfea, gating her, the baby and Katina back over to Starloft. (Again, better safe.) Next, he went over to join the others, standing with Dad, Reston and Lerendar, a snowy white owl back on his armored shoulder.

Everyone knelt as the prince touched ground, though just a brief dip in Lord Galadin’s case. Firelord once again looked through his eyes, and that changed everything.

The prince inclined his head, greeting the god and the high lord, both.

“Shining One,” he said, very formally. “Thou dost me great honor, as does thine sword-arm. I have come to find and bear away the head of Falcoridan Arvendahl, he who was lord of Alandriel.”

Nalderick dared not demand. Not of Firelord, and not with a sea-elven prince standing by, one hand on the strings of his dulcimer. The god responded through Galadin, making pebbles bounce and the wind shift its course, as a swirl of bright petals appeared in the air.

“The one you seek is not dead. He has gone to the Heart of the Worlds. I have kept his body alive, to prevent his last-magic curse from taking effect.”

To his everlasting credit, Nalderick caught on fast, and kept his expression under control. He bowed his head again, saying,

“I thank you, Lord of Battles. The villain’s head is required to calm the wrath of Averna and… perhaps to save the life of a brave and beautiful girl. I do not command here, Shining One. I but ask.”

Then two others came forward, a slouching albino drow and a slim, crystal pirate. The drow had Lord Arvendahl’s head spitted like a roast on the upraised blade of his sword. The pirate had clamped a transparent hand over his larger one, seemingly trying to wrest that loathsome relic away from her unwanted partner.

“This is yours, I believe,” said the drow, not bowing or bending the knee even slightly. He wasn’t the sort; didn’t worship the god, nor acknowledge the prince. Just seemed amused and a little bit bored.

“We claim the reward, Your Highness!” cut in the pirate-lass, before Stupid could throw away twelve-million platinum. “Here is Lord Arvendahl’s head, as requested.”

His head, with one blue eye gone and the other half closed: with a tightly clamped jaw and long, black hair streaming loose in the wind. Very much, not entirely dead.

Nalderick didn’t relax, but he nodded slightly, signaling to his uniformed escort.

“Captain Prentiss, release the funds to the Flying Cloud. Lady Solara… and, by your leave, Lord of Battles… take the head.”

“Thou hast my leave, elven prince,” said the god in a thunderous whisper. “Know that so long as the body and head are preserved, so long the curse is held off from thine family and house. If these remains proceed to their final death, though, the empire crumbles. Choose wisely, elven prince. I have spoken.”

And then Firelord faded from Galadin’s eyes and his smoldering form. The abandoned elf was kept upright by Alyanara, Keldaran and Reston, with Lerendar, Valerian and Meliara gathered around him, as well.

In that awkward, potential-filled moment, Val took a deep breath and came forward. He had an oath to fulfil, and here was his chance. As the captain and mage went to work, he bent the knee, saying,

“A boon, Your Highness, if we have earned such.”

“Play on my team and help win that game, I’ll grant fifty,” muttered Nalderick. Then, more formally, “Speak, Valerian. What boon would you have of His Majesty?”

Val rose again. Glanced at his brother, then plunged on with the promised request. Gut clenching a little, he said,

“Sire… I would ask that marriage to a mortal not push an heir out of succession. That my brother Lerendar… who has won the love of a truly amazing woman… be allowed to remain second heir to Ilirian.” Becoming (some very far day in the future) its Silmerana, Warden of the North.

Nalderick smiled.

“Granted. That was a terribly old-fashioned law, anyhow. From this time forward, hear me all gods and powers, an heir may wed whomever he or she chooses: mortal or not. So may it be.” Then, as the gathered folk bowed and chorused response, “Alandriel has lost its noble family. They are in a bit of a fix.” Looking fiercely at Val, he snapped, “You, I need on my courtball team and the honor guard, along with two more. You cannot be spared. If there’s another, however, I command that he or she take control of Milardin. Change your name or not, as you wish. Makes no difference to me. Just get the place back into shape before His Majesty’s ride.”

Lord Galadin spoke as himself, then. The tall, silver-haired elf came to stand by his grandson, saying,

“My daughter Meliara is an oracle of the gods, wise in their ways and magically gifted, besides. She would do well upon the high seat of Alandriel, Sire... especially with advisors such as Lord Tormun and Lady Faleena.”

Nalderick looked relieved.

“Done. So be it,” he said. Then, turning to face the sea-elven bard,

“Prince of Averna, here is your were-gild; the payment demanded for Arvendahl’s crimes. Let the fact that it must be kept alive serve as promise that land will never again attack sea, on my word and bond as the prince attendant.”

Lady Solara drifted forward, dainty bare feet not touching the ground. With a slight flick of her pearl-topped staff, the sorceress wafted Arvendahl’s head across to the sea-elf.

“My thanks, Prince of Karandun,” said Andorin, receiving the awful thing with dignity (and a well-concealed shudder). “I shall see that it reaches the queen. You have my word and bond, as a prince of the old blood, that so long as peace remains between ocean and land, so long shall this head stay alive.” (But Arvendahl’s body was their trouble, not his.)

That a fated sword was still loose, seeking its wielder… that a contract for death still hung over Val and Filimar… that Sherazedan, the Mother, and Arvendahl’s shade were all gathered as one at the heart of reality… These were problems for later. Here and now, there was peace and rejoicing. Here and now, there was healing and love.