Ahead, through the trees, he could see more light and rode toward it, noticing as he did how the trees formed a colonnade and framed a view as he came near enough to see it. A glade, open to the sky, spangled with flowers, the air alive with wings—butterflies, orange and red and gold and white. In the center, a small pool reflected the sky, fed—he saw as he neared it—by a spring below. A single flowering tree arched over it, fragrant white blossoms glowing in the sun. One petal, then another drifted down to the water and sailed slowly across and then along the rivulet that ran out the other side.

Kieri’s throat felt tight. The beauty was overwhelming, as the Lady’s had been when he first saw her. Beyond mortal … and yet surely the trees died, and the ferns … or had the elves sung them into immortality? He did not know … He felt he wanted to breathe in forever, taking the beauty into himself, and then exhale a song to sustain it.

He rode on across the glade and into the forest again … the forest ever changing with the rise and fall of the ground, the different trees, the variation in the lower growth. He came upon streams gurgling gently over gravel or rushing loudly down rapids. Sorrow came upon him after a time, that his mother and grandmother were not there so he could thank them for this beauty.

When the light faded, he stopped; his Squires, respecting his mood, made their simple camp in silence. When they would have lit a fire, he shook his head. They ate cold rations. He dreaded the need to dig … but found that the ground opened a little of itself to receive their waste and then closed over again. He wondered at that—if the elvenhome was truly gone, how could that happen?

They were several days into the journey when he stopped suddenly. His throat closed; his sight dimmed; pain tightened his chest. He struggled to see past the darkness … The way here descended gently through trees more widely spaced. Ahead was another glade. He dragged a breath in, and as his sight cleared, he knew.

“It was here,” he said aloud, startling himself with his voice.

“Sir king?”

He could not answer. He could not move. Memory rushed over him, powerful as a river. As if in a dream, he was that child again, delighted in the beauty they rode through, unaware of danger—until his mother cried out. He had turned in the saddle to look at her—she had snatched him from his mount to hers. That instant’s delay in drawing her sword … his adult self saw what his child self could not, that he had hindered her even after she dragged him over the saddle bow.