It didn’t feel as if anything of that time remained as she stood just inside the doors and looked down the Council table past the stern faces of the members of the High Council to the careworn face of her aged grandfather. Emperowen Elessedil had been King a long time. He had come to the throne in his twenties, well before the time he was expected to rule, made King by fate when his parents had died in an accident. He had been King now for the better part of eighty years, and his age was catching up with him. He no longer played games with granddaughters and grandsons, no longer even smiled. In the twilight years when peace and contentment were expected, he was struggling with illness and the pressing demands of a transfer of power in which he no longer had faith.

His heir apparent sat next to him. Phaedon Elessedil, his only son and Afrengill Elessedil’s older brother, was a moody, passionate man whose character and disposition were ill suited to what was expected of a ruler of the Elven people. He was not well liked and certainly not loved, and those who supported him did so out of fear or ambition. He was a poor choice to lead his people, but by chance of birth and rule of law the issue was settled. The best his father could do at this point in his life was to prolong the inevitable, although he probably continued to have hope things would somehow work out.

Aphenglow knew most of this from talks with her sister and the few visits she had paid to her grandfather in the time she had served with the Druid order. Because of her diminished status, she could say little about her grandfather’s decision to allow Phaedon to succeed him on the throne. But she knew it was a mistake the Elves would live to regret, even though the mistake was not of their doing.

Phaedon looked bored and indifferent. He was studying something off to his right, but unless it was one of the members of the High Council there was nothing there to study. She shifted her gaze to the King’s left and the more welcoming countenance of Ellich Elessedil, who gave her a small nod and a smile.

The other members of the Council offered a variety of looks, but none of them seemed particularly encouraging.

She felt very out of place and very much the intruder in the black Druid robes of her order. She should have worn something less confrontational, she chided herself, and immediately regretted it. She was the representative of her order and should not appear otherwise.

“Welcome, Aphenglow,” her grandfather greeted her, his voice civil but very weak. “Do you wish to speak to this Council?”