Traitor to the Blood

EPILOGUE

Aoishenis-Ahare-Most Aged Father-felt the call of Brot'an'duive from within the massive oak in which he rested. The tree had lived almost as long as him and was the eldest in the great forest.

He rested his aged body and too-long-extended life in a bower formed of living wood within the tree.

In the earliest days, the tree's hollow had been carefully nurtured to fulfill his future needs. He had lived so long that even the clans' elders no longer remembered the scant tales of where he had come from or why he had led his followers into seclusion in this far corner of the world. Wise in the way of the trees, he no longer walked among his people. His body clung to life only by the efforts of the great forest that sustained him through this ancient oak.

Through the tree's roots, touching others within his people's land, he reached out with his awareness to wander and watch within the elven forest. He heard and spoke with his Anmaglahk in other lands as well, whenever they placed smooth slivers of "word wood" taken from his own oak against any living tree.

He listened now, considering each word until Brot'an'duive had finished, then answered.

I am pleased. Come home.

The human warlord, Darmouth, was dead and his province left unprotected. Bit by bit, the humans turned on one another, and in the decades to come, the bloodshed would mount.

Most Aged Father sighed with relief, his breath a thin trickle between his shriveled lips.

He would protect his people. The ancient enemy grew stronger, turning in its slumber. He felt it in the earth, in the air, and the whisper of the trees. It would return one day, but it would not have the human hordes it had used the last time. He would see to this.

Not all that Brot'an'duive told him was good. Another of the Anmaglahk had passed into the earth, and tonight the people would mourn in the proper ways. But Brot'an'duive's last words had been the most disturbing and left Most Aged Father uncertain.

He let his awareness weave through the roots and branches and leaves of the forest until coming to a glade. There sat a woman of the people, alone and isolated. The forest had been told she was never to leave this place.

Humans found her alluring, and this served her. Her own kind called her beautiful as well, even those few who had seen the scars of claws on her back. White-blond hair hung loose around her tall, lithe frame where she sat against the trunk of an elm. Her large amber eyes were hard, and her triangular caramel face was void of emotion. She stared out into the forest, not even knowing she was watched.

Most Aged Father knew her sorrows, but his sympathy was smothered by her treachery. Even now, he was not certain of all she had done, let alone why.

Each dawn, one of the Anmaglahk brought her food and clear spring-water. The glade was kept warm and dry by sentinel trees. Clothing or simple amenities were provided to her as needed. Beside her was a basket of butterfly cocoons with which she whiled away her days making shimmering sheot'a cloth. She wore a cloud-white wrap of the fabric, fashioned by her own hands, rather than give anything she made to her people.

Most Aged Father spoke to her, using the chatter of leaves in a light breeze for a voice.

Cuirin'nen'a…

She sat upright. Almond-shaped eyes narrowed with spite, as she searched the trees to find where the voice came from.

Your traitor son comes home.