She could never love Celedin.
But she wished, for his sake, that someone could.
20
NOW, SOME WEEKSafter the orc army had left, while Dathor was still considering how it was that he was going to sell an alliance with the Valaedor to the orc leadership, a letter arrived from Thelandel Chapel.
It was a problem, this letter, because it came by way of a servant from the Chapel on horseback, not through the post, which he had dealt with.
The post was delivered on the train, and he sent an orc to fetch it, an orc who was dressed as if he worked at the Peak, not as if he were part of the orc army, who claimed to be a new servant at the Peak.
Not that this was adequate if Dathor wanted to keep news of the fall of Foxglove Peak from getting out.
There were a number of reasons that the news may have already spread. Coming on the day of Aerhril’s wedding, doing it in front of so many people, keeping all the women captive in the keep, it had not been well thought out from the perspective of secrecy. There was no denying that people knew something was wrong, even if they had been prevented from coming past the gates at the end of the drive of Foxglove Peak, even if they had been told all manner of various stories—a illness, a quarantine, an accidental collapse of a tower, a madman servant opening fire on the groom and all the people in the chapel.
There was talk. He knew that.
In the village, even, some of the servants had gotten free and spread the tale of orc invasion.
Even so, this was not strictly his problem. He was to hold the Peak for the orcs, to be ready when called to support the army. It was not his job to keep the secret from spreading, to stop the rumors.
But when the servant arrived from Thelandel Chapel, the servant had no idea that Foxglove Peak had been overtaken by orcs.
He intercepted the servant himself, at the gate, took the letter and made to send the servant on his way.
“I’m to wait for a reply if possible,” said the servant.
He almost told him to go away without one, but then he changed his mind. “Wait here.”
“At the gate, sir?”
“There is sickness in the Peak,” he said.
“Oh,” said the servant in another voice.
“Wait here,” said Dathor.
He opened the letter himself. It was from Elrion’s daughter. She had been young before, eleven or so. She was seventeen now, the age that Aerhril had been when she started her flirtation with the girl’s father.
First the girl apologized for having missed Aerhril’s wedding, citing the fact that her father, of course, was insistent they never see any of them again, that he still held a grudge against Aerhril for what she had done to his orcs.
Dathor thought of that again, thought of how she’d completely sabotaged her own future just to spite him. It warmed him, now, the lengths of the two of them had gone for each other. He smiled to himself.
Elrion’s daughter wanted to visit Aerhril, saying that she could get away, claiming to be going elsewhere and could come for tea someday, that Aerhril must only reply that she was willing.
Dathor took the letter and went looking for Aerhril.
She wasn’t with the women. She wasn’t in her her bedchamber. He yelled for her and she appeared at the top of the stairs, seemingly coming out of his old room, the smallroom from when he had been a boy.
“What were you doing in there?” he asked her.
“Just a place to hide is all,” she said.
He supposed that made sense. He handed her the letter. “Quickly write a reply and tell her that there is sickness here and that she must not come, that no one is coming in or out.”
Aerhril scanned the letter and nodded. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Sickness.” She took the letter down to the sitting room on the first floor, sat down at the writing desk and quickly composed a note back.
Dathor took it back to the servant and sent him on his way with the reply.
