Blair's frown deepened as he studied the silent elves riding beside Finrod. Yesterday they'd left the mountains behind, pushing hard toward the King's Road with the Temple only three days distant. He'd tried conversation, remarks about the weather, the terrain, but received only those strange whistles they exchanged between themselves.
"Why don't they speak?" Blair asked, his throat dry from the dust. "And what's with the whistling?"
Finrod shifted in his saddle, sunset glinting off his features, too perfect to be human despite the glamour. "Kumar rides left, Arbor right," he said, indicating each with a slight nod. "They're sworn to me until our quest ends. After years together, they've created their own language, whistles, hand signals, even the way they sit their mounts."
Blair shifted uncomfortably. "Are you truly the stone seeker Tartus spoke of?"
He couldn't help staring. Elves belonged in bedtime stories, not riding beside him on common roads. Their silence about the prophecy left him uneasy, wondering if they served some hidden purpose.
"I expected a simple guide," Finrod said, eyes dropping briefly. "Now I discover you're Prince Blair Willow. Everything changes."
Blair's fingers tightened on his reins. The crystal amulets that disguised the elves as human men were their only shield against unwanted attention. He drew a steadying breath.
"Our path is clear," he said with forced confidence. "First to the Mistress of Fire at the Temple, then east to Dragon Rest for your stone. The King's Road is fastest and keeps us from the Waste."
The words sounded certain. His heart was not. Was he following destiny or running from his royal obligations?
Finrod moved his horse closer, voice dropping to a murmur. "What drives King Vardon's son to pose as a common guide?"
The question hit like a blow. Blair recoiled, putting distance between them, yet something in Finrod's ancient eyes made the truth spill forth.
"At seven, I overheard my father say, 'The third jewel will never be king.'" Blair's voice hardened. "I mastered laws and letters, but stood invisible beside my brothers. Bitterness drove me to weapons training, but court jealousy relegated me to squire duties."
He paused as a merchant wagon rumbled past, then continued more quietly. "I trained in secret, tracking, hunting, surviving, then became the first Willow ever to slip away without permission."
His laugh held no humor. "I took the name Luthor, guided travelers, made my living. Found a child lost in the Waste and suddenly had a reputation. Now I'm told I must chase prophecy to Dragon Rest. I fled one predetermined life, why follow another?"
Finrod's eyes caught the firelight. "You chose this path, Blair. You could have refused my gold, never met Tartus, disappeared into the wilderness."
Blair's jaw tightened. "I spent your coin. My honor binds me."
"Your honor is what you decide it is," Finrod said. "Destiny may guide our first steps, but we choose what principles to uphold."
Blair turned away, heart pounding. A twig snapped; he whirled to find Finrod standing behind him, unnaturally still.
"Your choices thus far have shown wisdom," Finrod said softly. "But complete understanding eludes us all. Even after a hundred seasons, I grasp less of my own path than you do of yours." He gestured toward the fire. "Eat. We must move before full dark."
As Finrod stoked the embers and set water to boil, Blair stood frozen, those words echoing: a hundred seasons, and still uncertain.
Blair woke to the sound of hooves, his neck stiff from sleeping upright. His nightmare lingered, two faceless women pulling him toward a chasm with only a narrow bridge between.
He blinked at the dawn-lit camp. Finrod sat with Kumar and Arbor, but something was wrong. Arbor's skin gleamed green in the firelight, his features elongated and inhuman. Finrod caught Blair's stare.
"Fear not," he said calmly. "The crystals hide us from distant eyes. Arbor merely scouted in his true form."
As Blair watched, Arbor slipped a chain around his neck and shimmered back into human guise. Blair's pulse raced. Two secrets to guard now his royal blood and the elves' existence.
Finrod's eyes crinkled. "You spoke in your sleep battle cries, oaths, even women's names."
Kumar snickered behind his cup. Blair's face burned.
By midday they approached Riop. Farmers herded goats while merchants loaded carts. Blair stared at the activity with a hollow ache. "Six hundred fifty seasons of Willow rule," he muttered, "and our greatest legacy is watering stations."
They slowed at a caravan of Zingari wagons blazing with color, bound for Homestead's jubilee. Finrod eyed the bright cloth with suspicion.
"Pickpockets," Blair warned, though he secretly envied their freedom.
A barrel-chested merchant in orange and green hailed them. "Inspect our wares? A song perhaps?" Nearby, a woman in blue lace perched on a wagon seat, one leg swinging, her black hair tumbling over her shoulders. Blair straightened, suddenly conscious of his travel-worn appearance.
Finrod declined politely, they only had time to water their horses. Blair approached the merchant, his accent thickening. "Heard any news from Riop? Strange death at the Temple?"
The merchant, Logan Kuazar, leaned forward. "Trouble indeed. A wizard rose from sacred flames and snatched a virgin mid-trance. Some whisper he'll steal more children or raise the dead."
His daughter Kaleen's face paled. "Stay clear of the Temple. It's the most dangerous place now."
Blair nodded thanks, mounted, and urged his horse after the elves. He didn't look back, but her warning followed him, tangling with his dream's dark premonitions.
Night had fallen when they reached the Temple of Lashnar. The massive gates loomed before them, ancient runes carved into the stone glowing faintly in the torchlight. Their horses' hooves crunched on gravel, each step an affront to Kaleen's warnings about unseen watchers.
By the gate, a hunched figure huddled beside a meager fire, steam rising from a wooden bowl. He regarded them with beady, suspicious eyes.
"Dismount," he grunted. "No rooms left. Stables full, use the picket lines behind the oak. No fighting, no drinking. Magik enforces the rules."
Blair slid from his saddle. "We're bound for the fair," he lied smoothly. "Seeking work, gathering news."
The man shrugged, jabbed a gnarled finger toward stakes beyond the wall, and returned to his broth.
Inside the grounds, shielded lanterns cast uneasy shadows. Dozens of pilgrims huddled around small fires, their faces masks of fear unlike ordinary travel-weariness.
A toddler broke free from his parents and tottered toward their horses. Blair scooped him up before he reached the skittish animals, returning him to his embarrassed parents, who whispered their thanks.
Rather than join the main encampment, Blair and the elves built their own fire. Finrod studied the anxious pilgrims.
"Their faith is shattered," he observed quietly.
Blair nodded. "Never in recorded history has the Making ceremony been interrupted. They believed Lashnar's protection absolute."
Finrod placed a hand on Blair's shoulder. "Your people need a leader who cares."
Blair looked skyward, throat tight with unspoken limitations. His position in the succession left little hope of making a difference.
"This journey may be your true purpose," Finrod said. "Tartus's prophecy holds more than we yet understand."
When Finrod suggested they find the Mistress of Fire by revealing Blair's identity to the temple elders, Blair's shoulders tensed.
"Is there no other way?" he asked, hands clenched.
"It will be fastest," Finrod replied simply.
Finding no alternative, Blair stood and strapped his sword across his back.
"This is Comet," he said, drawing the blade. Firelight danced along its curved edge. "It's been in my family for six hundred fifty seasons, carried only by royalty." He offered the hilt to Finrod. "I earned it by besting my father in combat when I was eleven a tale that's followed me ever since."
The blade's balance was perfect, the leather grip worn by generations of Willow hands. From hilt to mid-blade, the word "comet" was engraved in flowing script. Blair sheathed it with practiced grace.
"This will prove my identity," he said. "In a kingdom this vast, few would recognize my face."
Finrod's eyes reflected the flickering flames. "You must tell me that tale of besting your father. It sounds... remarkable."
Blair turned toward the Temple, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The pilgrims' fires dotted the darkness behind him, small defiant stars against the gathering night.