He told himself that it was all going to be all right, because the servant would have believed that there was sickness here and that it was only going to Elrion’s daughter, anyway, who would conceal it from her father, who would never set foot in Foxglove Peak again, so great was his anger at everyone here, but especially Aerhril. Well, also with him, he supposed, for what he’d done to Nathre.
He told himself that, again and again, and he mostly believed it, except the fact the worry kept resurfacing, so he must not have truly believed it.
And then, four days hence, who was at the gate but Elrion himself.
“It is you,” said Elrion, dismounting from his horse. “I said you’d gone over the pass, and they said you were here, and that it was most definitely you, and I had to see it with my own eyes, and here you are, and it is you.”
“There’s sickness here,” he said.
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” said Elrion. “Which is why I’ve brought Igbar with his herbs and concoctions to help.” He beckoned and the orc appeared, leveling his gaze at Dathor, his nostrils flaring. “Well? Open the gate.”
Dathor swore under his breath, but there was nothing for it. He opened the gate, escorted them up to the Peak, shut them in the sitting room on the first floor, told them they’d be received by the lady of the house soon, and then lockedthem both inside.
Was he going to have to kill Elrion nae Nilriane? If so, perhaps he might relish it, at least to some degree. But Igbar? What was to become of Igbar, the orc who loved Elrion like a father, the orc who was loyal to him even though the man used him, the orc who was so brainwashed that he could not see that he was being abused? Dathor could not kill Igbar. Neither, however, could he let Igbar go.
And what about Elrion’s daughter, left behind at Thelandel Chapel?
This was a right mess.
“DO YOU HAVEtea?” Dathor was saying, his shadow falling over Aerhril’s cards as she played a game in the dining room that afternoon.
Aerhril was playing with Raclahad and Hafindel, since Hafindel had still not left. She looked up at him, wondering why he would ask such a strange question. “Tea?”
“There must be tea,” he said. “And it must be in the kitchen, along with the tea service.”
“I suppose,” she said.
“Can you brew tea?” he said to her.
“I…” She shook her head at him. “Well, I likely can, but I’ve never been taught to do it. If you are saying that we would all be happier here with a bit of tea each day, I’m heartily in agreement. I’m sure Hafindel knows how to brew tea.”
Hafindel smirked at her. “It is not difficult.”
“Good,” said Dathor, furrowing his brow. “Then go and brew some. And then we must go to the sitting room, and you must see if you can get rid of them.”
“Who?” she said.
“Elrion and Igbar, who have come to minister to the sick here at Foxglove Peak, since I sent that wretchedly stupid letter to them.”
She sat up straight. “Truly?”
He put a finger in her face. “If you tell him anything, anything at all, I shall have to kill him. I would much rather you go in there, pretend nothing is wrong, and then convince him to go of his own volition.”
Aerhril blinked at him. “Elrion? I haven’t spoken to him in years. Not since all of it happened. He hates me.”
“Who doesn’t hate you, fair elf?” he said with a shrug. “Get rid of him. Get tea.”
But it was all ridiculous. Even with Hafindel’s help, they could not manufacture a proper reception in the sitting room, because they did not have anything besides tea. Well, there was sugar and milk. The cows in the barn were still being milked and the grain mush was improved by milk, but tea was usually served with sweets, biscuits and sweetbreads and cakes and the like. At the very least, scones. They had nothing of that nature made up, and it would have taken far too long to make it, even if they could have spared the refined flour, of which there was very little in their stores. The orc army had taken most of it.
They were obliged instead, to go with the tea only.
Aerhril brought Raclahad, though for what purpose she did not know. Perhaps she thought that Elrion would be a bit less awful to her if her sister was there as a buffer.
The door was locked, and they had to unlock it to enter. Dathor was with them, but he stayed out of sight as they entered. He was going to listen at the door, to make sure she said nothing to Elrion that would indicate that orcs had overtaken the keep.
When they entered, Elrion and Igbar stood up.
“Well, being received by the stewardess herself,” said Elrion, and his tone was not kind. He did hate her. “We are simply here to see the sick, not as a social call. And do tell me why have we been locked inside?”
