A narrow path lay before them, winding away through the grasses and beneath the boughs of the birches.
“Be welcome,” their guide said, “and follow.”
Laren glanced at her companions and saw their expressions of surprise and awe, even on the face of the Weapon, Fastion. Her own must look much the same.
“I presume you are taking us to see someone in authority,” Zachary said, “but to whom? I should like to know before we are presented.”
The Eletian woman paused, the white feathers bound in her hair drifting about her head. Laren thought she detected surprise, as though the Eletian expected complete compliance from her guests and no questions whatsoever.
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “You will meet one among us that your folk would call a prince. We name him Ari-matiel, for he is Jametari, our northern star, Santanara’s son, and my brother.”
Laren exchanged a significant glance with Zachary.
“Perhaps you have heard his name before,” the Eletian said.
“Yes,” Laren replied. “He held one of my Riders prisoner.”
Now the Eletian looked annoyed, though she tried to conceal it. “The Galadheon. She was no prisoner.”
“That’s not the way it sounded to me,” Laren said.
General Harborough flicked his gaze from the Eletian to Laren. “I thought you said these people were to be trusted.”
“I never said that,” Laren replied. “I believed, however, and still do, that they would not dare harm us.”
“We intend you no harm,” the Eletian said, “nor did we come so far to quarrel over an insignificant encounter of this summer.”
Before Laren could protest, Zachary said, “To you, perhaps, it was insignificant. To us, it was not, and you would do well to remember that in dealings with my people. But we agree we did not come here to quarrel. Please lead on.”
The Eletian hesitated, a look of displeasure on her face, but said no more. She turned and guided them into the verdant depths of the tent. Laren took a deep breath, thinking that Karigan’s description of some Eletians and their haughtiness was not far off the mark.
They followed the meandering path through the birch grove, crossing the stream using strategically-placed stones that did not wobble when stepped on. The path wound on longer than seemed possible, as if the tent had no end, but Laren could not swear they were still in a tent.
“How can this be?” General Harborough murmured, glancing up at the roof of entwined tree boughs.
Laren did not provide an answer, for she had none, though she did know that to Eletians, magic was second nature, or rather it was their nature, and perhaps this tentless tent was an expression of it. Without magic, the Eletians would fade from the world. This was one of the bits of information Karigan had gleaned from her “insignificant encounter” with Prince Jametari this past summer.
Laren glanced at her other companions. Zachary looked intrigued, and maybe even delighted, by his surroundings, and she saw no fear in him. Lord Coutre was grim with his heavy white brows drawn over dark eyes. If Laren could judge his thoughts, it was that he refused to be deceived by the Eletians. He was as suspicious of their motives as General Harborough.
Colin’s expression was neutral, though his gaze darted about as if expecting some assailant to leap out from behind trees. His years as a Weapon made such habits die hard. Fastion’s demeanor was much the same—edgy and alert.
Eventually they halted before a group of Eletians standing within a semicircle of birches, and here the stream trickled again into the tent—or wherever they were, and beyond the birches and out of their ken.
The Eletians were simply clothed in the hues of nature, and none wore weapons or armor. Laren did not doubt that despite the seeming lack of armament, the king’s group was keenly watched by those who would defend their prince. But if there were watchers, they were well concealed.
One very like their guide in stature and coloring stepped forward, and this Laren took to be the prince, brother to their guide. He wore startling white, a long over-tunic belted with silver and green gems, and embroidered white on white with a leaf design. He wore loose white trousers long enough to partly cover his sandaled feet.
“Welcome,” he told them. “I am Jametari.”
Zachary stepped forward, his posture erect, and held out his hand in greeting, which Jametari clasped. “You and your people are welcome in Sacoridia.” General Harborough did not appear pleased by his words.
Jametari nodded graciously, then to his servants he said, “Seating for our guests.”
The Eletians brought each of the king’s company chairs made of woven tree boughs. Laren didn’t think they could possibly be comfortable, but to her surprise, hers was. The only one who refused a chair was Fastion, who stood in a watchful attitude behind the king.
Jametari sat facing them while the other Eletians receded into the shadows of the trees. Refreshments were brought forth, drinks and golden cakes that melted like honey and cream on the tongue. The drink was clear and cold with the distant tang of dew-laden berries. It refreshed Laren, lifted her cares and awakened her. She felt it to the roots of her hair, and all the aches and pains that had bothered her throughout the day subsided. Whatever the drink was, it was more efficacious than willowbark tea. If she had a chance, she would find out what it was.
Zachary and Jametari made light talk over their refreshments, sizing up one another. Zachary was asking their host about his travels.