But she had drawn her sword—only the attackers were many. As a child, he had not seen them all before he was yanked away, before he fell … He did not remember striking his head, but he remembered the waking. Rough hands, harsh voices, cords binding him, too tight.

He had never thought to be here again, in this dire place—he looked again at the peaceful trees, the empty dell with the little outcrop of rock to one side, as beautiful as the rest, except for his memories. He knew tears were running down his face.

“Sir king—is there aught—”

“It happened here,” he was able to say after a few moments. “We were riding, just down there. They rose up from the ground, men in dull clothes. She cried out—I did not know why. She grabbed me from my mount, but that hindered her—”

“Sir king—” Their faces around him now were as strained as those he remembered, but not in cruelty or anger. He saw love and compassion instead, mingled with amazement that he remembered.

“I must … stop here awhile,” he said. He dismounted. His knees nearly failed him, but he stiffened his legs and managed to walk down the gentle slope. Walking helped: he was not a terrified child on a horse now. He was aware of the Squires behind him, but he ignored them; they did not press closer, leaving him space. His memory called up details he had long forgotten—the sound of his mother’s breathing, her horse’s squeals as swords struck, the smell of her blood as she took wound after wound. He had been facedown over her saddle bow, clinging with his hands to the horse’s harness, unable to help. He could not have helped by being upright; he knew that, but …

It was as if he could see the course of the fight still marked on the ground. Here exactly she had cried out and snatched at him, tried to wheel her mount away … but more had risen from concealment, hemming the horse in, grabbing its reins, striking at it, finally slicing deep into its legs, crippling it. He had a last remembered glimpse of her—a memory that had lain deep-buried all these years—her face turning to him as he fell and then … nothing.

Mother … I lived. I am here. She had been full elf; he could not hope that in some afterlife she knew that. Elves died, when they died, without any spirit to survive. But he said it again anyway, this time aloud. “Mother, I lived. In spite of all. And I am trying to be what you and my father wanted, a good king for all in this realm.”