“I am Count Eolair, Hand of the Throne. We come from the High King and High Queen in the Hayholt—in old Asu’a. We have been sent to find Prince Jiriki and his sister Aditu, and to speak to them.”

“Prince Jiriki,” said the stranger, but his smile was close to a smirk. “So. And why should we take you to trouble them?”

“For old friendship’s sake, if nothing else, I hope,” said Eolair. “But there is another, more urgent matter—”

“Why is he asking us all these questions,” Morgan demanded. “Doesn’t he understand that it’s the king and queen of this entire land we’re talking about? That I’m the heir? Listen, you, we want to speak to this Jeekee.”

“The name is Jiriki, Highness.” Eolair gave him a significant look. “This is why your grandparents sent me, my prince. Please, let me . . .” The lord steward turned back to the Sitha. “We have one of your people with us, very ill and in need of care, back at our camp. You sent her to us, but she was attacked and shot with arrows—poisoned arrows.”

“What?” The Sitha’s catlike face sharpened into a mask of anger. “You have shot another of our people?”

Morgan was about to tell this puffed-up idiot that he didn’t understand anything, but Eolair was making the face at him again, so he remained resentfully silent.

“No, we who serve the king and queen in the Hayholt did not shoot her. We do not know who did. She was found, injured and senseless, near the castle. We have nursed her as well as we can, but she has passed beyond our healers’ craft.”

For a moment the Sitha only stared at Eolair, his face a mask made even harder to read by the fading light. Then he let out a whistle, although Morgan did not see him purse his lips. A moment later a dozen shapes stepped from the shadows on all sides—Sithi, male and female, all dressed in similar rough clothing, all with arrows nocked on the strings of their bows.

“Send your soldiers to bring our injured kin to us. You two stay here.”

“We need to speak to . . .”

“What you need will be addressed later,” the flame-haired Sitha said, cutting Eolair’s words short. “I am Yeja’aro of the Forbidden Hills, and you are trespassers who may not make demands. But if you bring our kinswoman swiftly, and come along without trouble, I promise to return you here safely, whether the ones you seek wish to meet you or not.”

The Erkynguards looked confused, but since they were surrounded and outnumbered, they did not seem particularly eager to start a fight. “Go back to the camp and bring the Sitha-woman on her litter,” Eolair told them. “Quickly.”

After a bit of hesitation, the soldiers turned and rode back toward the camp.

“You two will have to leave your horses behind,” Yeja’aro said. “They will not be able to travel where we go.”

“Is it far?” Morgan couldn’t help asking.

Yeja’aro gave him a flat look. “That depends on how it is measured.”

It was growing dark quickly. Two of Yeja’aro’s hunters produced sticks of wood that suddenly burst into flame, although Morgan had no idea what lit them. By this light they waited as the forest evening deepened into night. Morgan thought he had never in his life experienced anything quite as eerie as being watched for so long by all those silent Sithi.

When the soldiers finally returned, this time with the horses bearing the Sitha-woman’s litter, they were accompanied by Sir Porto and all the trolls. Porto hurried to Morgan’s side. “The Erkynguard captain said he and his men are waiting just down at the edge of the trees,” he whispered. “If you need them, just shout.”

Count Eolair heard him and carefully shook his head. “We will not need the captain and his men, Sir Porto. And be aware—the Sithi have very good ears.”

Yeja’aro had been standing over the Sitha-woman’s pale, motionless form. When he looked up, his expression seemed to have tightened into an even deeper anger. “Your men would be sentencing you both to death if they attacked.”

“Nobody is attacking,” Eolair said. “These men are here in large part to protect Prince Morgan, our royal heir. We are a peaceful mission, and we want only to speak to your masters—”

“Masters!” said Yeja’aro with sudden fury. “Ha! Do the Zida’ya have masters now, like mortal men? Are we to have kings and slaves and such?” He stared at Morgan and Eolair for a moment, then his face turned expressionless once more. “We will take you with us now. Say your farewells.”

“I would like to come too,” said Binabik. “I am knowing Prince Jiriki and his sister of old, and am proud to be calling them friends.”

“And I am pledged to help this mortal prince find his destiny,” Snenneq said. “I must go too, because I have made a pledge!”

The Sitha looked at Binabik’s wolf-steed Vaqana. It clearly puzzled him, but he only shook his head. “What you might have pledged, or how you might name the members of House Sa’onserei, means nothing to me,” said Yeja’aro, and pointed to Morgan and Count Eolair. “No others will accompany us but these two.” And nothing Binabik or Snenneq could say would change his mind.

To Morgan’s surprise, in the midst of all the other danger and confusion surrounding them, he actually found himself feeling sorry for both Binabik and Little Snenneq, who looked absolutely miserable that they could not go along.

“But for how long will we be gone?” Eolair asked at last. “How can our men wait for us if we cannot tell them how long?”

Yeja’aro shook his head in irritation. “There is no answer. If you wish to come with us, come. If you do not wish to, do not. But if it is you who have harmed this woman Tanahaya,” he gestured toward her litter, “and you have told us lies about it, then we will find you no matter where you are and destroy you.”

Morgan was torn between wanting to tell this self-important fellow a few things and his earlier urge to get out of the vicinity as quickly as possible. Stymied, he looked to Eolair.

“We will come with you, Yeja’aro,” said Eolair. “We wish to see her healed as much as you do.”

Qina reached up and touched Morgan’s sleeve. “Remember Sedda sent token to you, Prince Highness,” she said so quietly he had to bend down to hear better. “The moon mother saw you on the mountain. She watch out for you.”

Morgan did not know what to say, and only nodded his head.

“Do not fear, friend Morgan—we will all be waiting here,” said Snenneq. “In the same place, until the time of your returning.”

“He is speaking truth,” said Binabik, his round face stern. “Your safety is being our sworn promise to your grandparents. We will be waiting.”

“But hurry back, Highness,” Porto added. “The king and queen will have my head if you don’t.”

As Morgan and the count finished their farewells, four of the Sithi took up the handles of the litter and carried it silently away into the forest shadows.

“Walk now,” demanded Yeja’aro. “You two follow one of the torchbearers. I know mortal eyes are weak, especially after the sun has gone to her bed.”

“You heard him,” said Count Eolair with a less than happy smile. “Time to go, my prince.”

Morgan was afraid to look back at old Porto and the rest as he left them behind, worried that in his fearful state he might do something that seemed unmanly. He did his best to walk like a man who was not afraid as he followed the light of the Sithi torches into the ancient forest.

47 Hidden Chambers