The Goodbye

King Arion’s Hall had stood at the centre of the four realms for as long as anyone could remember. It stood there when the four elven kingdoms were still one.

Upon arriving, Loren, flanked by Mariselle and Tristan, had been stopped by guards at the entrance, lances crossed.

“Humans aren’t welcome in King Arion’s Hall,” one growled, giving Tristan a sidelong glance.

Loren pulled herself up to her full height, which admittedly was not very high.

“He’s with me. Unless, of course, you wish to deprive the future Queen of Windrider of her own manservant.”

“He’s not even human,” Mariselle said, trying to keep a straight face. “He’s just got funny ears.”

A steward met them at the entrance and smoothed the way.

“My Lady of Greenborne.” He bowed just a bit too deeply before gesturing inside.

They passed through a corridor to the great hall, lined with men and women in rich robes, all watching with the predatory interest of a crow watching a worm. The effect of Tristan’s discomfort was contagious. Eyes followed him, whispers trailed in his wake.

“Manservant?” Tristan said, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his coat. 

“Well, I had to say something,” Loren whispered.

The great hall stretched around them, its stone floors worn smooth by centuries of diplomatic feet. Loren had been here twice before. Those visits had been formal affairs for some treaty or other, where she stood behind her father and tried not to fidget.

This time, she was the treaty, which sounded far grander than being exchanged between kingdoms like an especially decorative goat.

Loren lingered near a pillar, trying to look as though she belonged. She was a princess of Greenborne. She had every right to stand in King Arion’s Hall. The fact she had adjusted the gold circlet in her hair at least six times was beside the point.

Tristan was the first to move. He made a beeline for the nearest exit. Loren followed, catching him in the stairwell.

“You’re not staying?”

“I don’t belong here.” He shook his head. “It’s different now, Loren. You can feel it, can’t you?”

She did. She hated that she did.

“Father expects you to stay with us. At least until our escort to Windrider leaves.”

Tristan hesitated. She was startled by the weariness in his eyes.

“I’ve done what he asked. I’ll find my way back.”

Loren wanted to argue but she saw the futility in it.

“At least say goodbye to Mariselle.”

They found her by the tall windows of the great hall, looking down into the courtyard where the Windrider escort was assembling.

Two columns of cavalry, lean, dark-haired riders on restless horses, their red and gold livery immaculate, every buckle gleaming against the day's grey.

Mariselle saw Tristan’s face and straightened, pretending not to care.

Before she could protest, he pulled her into a rough hug.

“Don’t disgrace the family,” he murmured in her ear.

“Too late for that,” Mariselle whispered, but she squeezed him back.

When he let go, she blinked rapidly and looked away, as if distracted by something on her boots.

Then Tristan turned to Loren. He hugged her and it was both familiar and not. He had grown, or maybe she had shrunk.

“I’ll write if I can,” he said.

“You won’t,” she replied, and he gave a lopsided grin.

“No. But I’ll think about it.”

When he let go, the world felt bigger and emptier. Then he was gone, down the stairs and out of sight.

Mariselle sniffed. “I’m going to miss him.”

“Not as much as Sybille,” Loren said, and turned back to the hall.

A delegation from the Frostborne court swept past, dressed in furs, faces tattooed, their ambassador’s pale hair braided tight. The ambassador inclined his head in polite acknowledgement.

Once upon a time, her mother, a Frostborne princess, had stood in King Arion’s Hall awaiting an escort to Greenborne, feeling very much like a decorative goat herself.

No one in the elven realms expected princesses to marry for love. They married because King Arion had decreed it so.

Loren had been betrothed to the Prince of Windrider, the eastern realm she understood about as much as she understood the language of fish, since she was a child.

The negotiations had been conducted years earlier between their fathers and a slew of diplomats. But now his father was dead and Windrider law decreed that the prince must be married before his coronation.

Unlike Sybille and Rowan, Loren had never actually met the Prince. There had been some whisper that he refused to travel outside his kingdom. They had never exchanged letters, or sent messages by owl, or stoat, or whatever creature the east used to send messages.

He was said to be fond of music and poetry. Not a warrior, which suited her fine. The few warriors Loren had met were all action and no conversation. By comparison, a prince who wrote poetry seemed practically romantic.

She looked down into the courtyard where the horses stamped and snorted in the brisk air. Soon she would be riding one of those horses, galloping across the eastern steppes to a court she had never seen, to marry a man she had never met. 

The thought sent a flutter through her chest that might have been panic, if she were the type to panic, which she absolutely was not.

Well, perhaps she was panicking a very small amount.

Heat prickled across her skin. She found herself desperate for the cool, damp air of the forest canopy.

Loren slipped out to the terrace, fingers grazing the stone walls.

No one noticed her leave. No one but one man.

He stood across the great hall, a falcon perched on his shoulder.

He had been watching her as she stood in the hall, her chestnut hair lit by a shaft of coloured light spilling through the windows.

Small. Unsure of herself. Anything but defiant.