Free Master Of The Planes (Book 3) by T.O. Munro Page A

from Feyril’s realm on that first mission to seize the Helm from Morwencairn.  Two had died on orcish swords by the banks of the Nevers.  These four were all that remained in the provinces of the Salved Kingdom of the elven dignity.  The rest of Feyril’s diminished people had either travelled with their lord and lady to the blessed realm or, by diverse paths, found refuge in the isolation of the Silverwood.
    Tordil nodded.  “You mean to send me to Marvenna!”
    Niarmit gripped the elf’s arm adding physical pressure to the force of her argument.  “Remember, she told us ‘send word when you have found the murderer.’  When Quintala killed Kychelle she struck down not just her grandmother, but the first glimmers of active alliance from the Silverwood in over a millenium.  Three thousand elven warriors stood ready to serve our cause.”
    “And Marvenna turned them about and led them away again, the instant she heard of her aunt’s murder.”
    “Exactly.  But now we know who did it we can move Steward Marvenna to honour Kychelle’s last command, maybe to be more martially active in the affairs of the Petred Isle than Andril or Kychelle ever were.”
    “I would wish there was someone else,” Tordil said hopelessly.  He glanced over his shoulder.  “Perhaps the queen’s seneschal would be a more apt emissary.”
    “That would be a little indelicate, Captain,” Giseanne observed. “Given that it was the last holder of that office who stabbed the steward’s aunt in the back.”
    “Besides,” Niarmit played the ace in her argument.  “The wards of the Silverwood are impenetrable to any not of elven blood.  If I sent Kimbolt he would fall into a slumber before he got a half a mile beyond the treeline and then wake a league from the forest edge with scattered wits and empty memories.”
    “The experience might improve him,” Tordil muttered in a leaden voice of defeat.  “When would you have me ride out, your Majesty?”
    “Today, we have lost too much time already.”
    Tordil swallowed hard.  “There was another time, your Majesty, when you chose between keeping me by your side or a seneschal.  I think we all know how you have lived to regret the choice you made.  The princess too.”  He nodded towards Hepdida.
    “Kimbolt is not Quintala,” Niarmit said briskly.
    The elf sighed.  “As your Majesty commands but if I may make one plea.”
    “I will always hear you Tordil.”
    He nodded towards the Helm.  “Keep that by your side, my queen.” He raised a finger at the scowl that creased her face.  “I am not asking you to wear it, but you do not know what the future may bring.  If you had not had it in your hands, then Quintala’s lightning spell would have destroyed Lady Giseanne.  You are right, you are all right. I do not understand its enchantment.  Maybe its once great power is all twisted to evil, but better such power is kept nearby.”  He grinned, “and at the very least you can always throw it at any courtiers who annoy you.  I would be amused to see Lord Tybert attempt to juggle it.”
    Niarmit smiled back.  It was an easy assurance to give.  She had no intention of wearing the thing but, as it was unlikely to accidentally fall on her head, there was no harm in acceding to the elf captain’s request. “Of course Tordil.”
    He nodded.  “Then I will go and make ready for my journey.”  With a curt bow, the elf was gone.

***
    Vesten surveyed the disorder in dismay.  “What are you doing?” he exclaimed.  “The governor will be incensed.”
    The red robed wizard looked up from the scattering of crates which his two nomad warriors had flung around the small wine cellar.   “I’m just checking the supplies,” Galen said.
    “But these are the governor’s own private supplies. You have no business to be examining them,” Vesten wheedled.  “How did you even get in here? This door is always locked.”
    Galen smiled.  It was not an improving or