“They are called Seabirds, nothing more,” he told her.

They rode on down the beach which seemed to go on forever, stopping when the sun reached the highest point in the heavens to rest the horses, eat and drink, pouring water from their own water bags into shallow pans they carried for their animals.

“Why can they not drink from the sea?” Lara asked Rendor.

“Taste it,” he told her, and she bent down to dip her fingers in the wave that came up to brush her bare feet.

“It’s salty!” she exclaimed.

“It is,” he agreed. “The sea is where the Outlands obtains its salt. The Coastal Kings supply Hetar with it as well. They collect sea water in great vats, and dry it until only the salt remains.”

After their short respite, they rode on, for the winter’s day was short. As the sun began to sink toward the horizon Rendor pointed ahead, and said, “Look! We have almost reached the palace of King Archeron, my friends.”

“It is that close to your borders?” Vartan asked.

“We came over the border over two hours ago,” Rendor said.

“But there was no border station,” Lara remarked.

“We do not need it,” Rendor responded. “We know where the border is. The Coastal Kings keep to their side of it, and we to ours. It is easier that way. We keep to the same standards as in the Outlands,” he explained. “The rest of Hetar may have border stations and guards, but here along the coastland we think it unnecessary.”

They heard music, and looking ahead they saw a small procession coming out to meet them. It was made up of young men and women wearing draped fabrics and flowers. They danced, and played upon lyre, flute, cymbals and drums as they came forward to meet their guests and lead them to the king’s palace. The travelers rode up from the beach, their escort dancing and making music as they came, and there upon a great marble terrace Archeron waited to greet them. On a lower terrace they dismounted, and their horses were led away. Together Vartan, Rendor and Lara walked to meet the greatest of the Coastal Kings who stood with his son Arcas by his side.

Archeron came forward and took Vartan’s hands in his own. “Thank you for coming,” he said as their gazes met.

“It would not have been possible to refuse your gracious invitation,” Vartan answered. “I have a responsibility to the clan families of the Outlands.”

“Then you will accept a restoration of the old treaty?” Archeron said.

“If Hetar accepts a restoration of our original borders,” Vartan replied with a small smile.

“It does!” Archeron replied. “I shall notify the High Council immediately.” Then he drew his companion forth, “This is my son, Arcas. Our family will be his responsibility one day, and if he lives to be as old as I am he will find himself with the responsibility of all the Coastal Province.”

“My lord.” Arcas bowed to Vartan, but his eyes were fixed on Lara.

“You admire my wife?” Vartan said in a deceptively bland tone.

“I have never seen anyone so beautiful,” Arcas replied candidly.

“My lords, you embarrass me with your words,” Lara told them. Then, ignoring them both, she turned to Archeron. “You are a man of peace, King Archeron, and I am glad for it. One day Hetar will realize it as well, and be grateful.”

He took her small hand and tucked it into his arm. “Come, Lara, wife of Vartan, and I will show you my palace. We have prepared a banquet in your honor.” Together they walked across the terrace toward the white marble building. Its gold-leafed domes, and its slender soaring towers were now both bathed in the blazing colors of the sunset.

“Your palace is every bit as impressive as that of the Shadow Princes,” Lara told her escort. “I remember seeing Gaius Prospero’s home for the first time and thinking there could be nothing grander. Then I came to the Desert. But this!” She turned, her green gaze sweeping back to the beach, and the great sea beyond it. “What magnificence!” Then she turned again and smiled up at him.

The interior of the palace was light and bright. King Archeron brought them to a banqueting hall where the members of his court awaited them. Their eyes went immediately to Lara, admiring her fair beauty so similar to that of the coastal people, and yet so different. Vartan was taken aback, for never before had he known such luxury, but Lara, standing by Archeron, drew her husband to her side and slipped her hand into his.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she murmured to him.

“I could not have imagined that people live this way,” he replied low.

“This is my wife, Alina,” Archeron said drawing forward a woman with silver hair like her husband’s, but eyes of lavender.

“Lady,” Vartan said with a bow, “I must admit to being overwhelmed by such luxury. We Outlanders are simple folk.”

The Lady Alina smiled sweetly. “I am frequently overcome by the luxury myself, Lord Vartan,” she told him, her eyes twinkling. “I was not born into the noble families of the coast. My father was a fisherman. Our great extended family has those of both high and low station. Yet at the heir’s bride-choosing ceremony I was the one to catch my Acheron’s eye. Although I have been wed to my husband for over thirty years, I am still amazed by such wealth. Come, sit by me on the dining couch,” she invited him.

“Thank you,” Vartan replied, hesitant, but then he felt a gentle nudge from Lara, and so he sat. “What is a bride-choosing ceremony?”

Alina smiled as she explained. “When a young man in our society reaches the age of eighteen years each natal day thereafter is marked by a special ceremony in which eligible maidens are displayed before him. He knows instinctively which one is his mate. Sometimes he finds her in that first ceremony. Sometimes he must wait several years. If that is the case the same maidens are never brought before him twice. In this way we keep our bloodlines strong because the same families do not intermarry over and again.”

“It seems a wise custom,” Vartan said. “May I ask when the king chose you?”

“He was twenty the year I came before him in the bride choosing,” she answered, smiling fondly in her husband’s direction.

Lara sat with the king, but on a single dining couch at Archeron’s right hand sat Arcas, who immediately engaged Lara in conversation while his father was involved with his duties as host.

“Rolf Fairplay was right,” he said softly. “You are the most beautiful woman in all of Hetar. I would have paid what the Head Forester paid for you, and more!”

“You would have wasted your monies, my lord,” Lara replied. “It is said I have a destiny to fulfill. I would have run away from you as I did the Forest Lords. It is not meant that I be a slave.”

“You would not have been!” he declared passionately. “I should have freed you the morning after our first night together. You are not meant to be the wife of a crude Outlander chieftain. You are meant to live in a palace, and be showered with all manner of luxuries.”

Lara laughed. “If that were so, my lord Arcas, then I should be exactly where you describe, but I am not, am I? Prince Kaliq gave me the freedom to choose where I would go when I left him. I chose the Outlands because that is where my instincts told me I should go.” She reached for her goblet, and sipped delicately at the wine.

“Are your instincts never wrong?” he asked her as he ran a single finger from her elbow to her hand, and his violet eyes met hers.

“No,” she told him coldly. “Have you any idea of how insulting you are being, my lord Arcas? For now my destiny is in the Outlands with Vartan of the Fiacre. It will not remain there. I understand that, but I also know that you will not be a part of that destiny other than in a peripheral fashion. I am sorry. It is obvious you have always gotten everything that you desired as a child, but you are a man now.” And Lara turned away from the king’s son.

He stared at her, surprised. No one had ever spoken to him in so blunt a fashion.

A trumpet sounded, and Archeron leaned over to tell Lara, “I have a surprise for you, my lady. I hope it will please you.” He pointed to the doors of the banqueting hall.

Lara’s green eyes widened with pleasure, seeing the new arrivals as they came forth from the cloud of purple mist. She arose to greet her mother, Ilona, who came into the hall in the company of her mate, Thanos. Running forward, she embraced Ilona, to the faerie queen’s delight. “Come and meet my husband, Mother,” she said.

Vartan was already on his feet, wishing desperately that he was clothed in something more elegant, but he owned nothing elegant. The company here was much too rich for him. He was eager to leave and return home to Camdene. Lara brought her mother to him. He took his mother-in-law’s hand in his, and kissed it. “I am pleased we have this opportunity to meet, Queen Ilona,” he said.

Ilona looked the Outlander over carefully, her green eyes assessing him physically, and peering deep into his heart to see if he truly loved her daughter. What she saw pleased her, but it also worried her. Vartan did indeed love Lara-perhaps too much. Still, it was not yet time. Let the Outlander have his happiness while he could. “I am pleased to meet you, Vartan of the Fiacre,” Ilona replied. “This is my mate, Thanos, the father of my son, Cirilo, Lara’s baby brother.”

Thanos, a courtly faerie man, bowed politely.

“Are you pleased with my surprise?” Archeron asked Lara.

“Very much so,” she answered. “It has been some time since I last saw my mother.”

“I am happy then to have engineered this reunion,” Archeron replied.

Another dining bench was brought, and the faerie queen and her mate reclined upon it as the meal was now served. There were all manner of creatures from the sea, some broiled in delicate wines and served upon beds of greenery with lemon slices; red clawed creatures that had been boiled in their shells, and served with drawn butter; small rounds of succulent flesh set in dainty shells in a delicious cream sauce. Neither Lara nor Vartan had ever seen their like. They carefully watched how their hosts ate these foods, and followed suit. There were silver baskets upon the table piled high with fresh breads kept warm by means of heated stones, and bejeweled silver bowls of newly churned butter.

Vartan particularly enjoyed the red shelled creatures, cracking them open to extract the meat, dipping it into the drawn butter. He ate heartily.

Lara leaned over to speak with her mother. “I do not know what to do,” she said softly to Ilona.

The faerie queen did not ask about what, she simply said, “What does your heart tell you, daughter?”

Lara sighed. “I do not think I have ever heard my heart speak. I have been told I have a faerie’s cold heart.”

“But you are human as well as faerie, daughter,” Ilona replied. “And faeries do not always have cold hearts, Lara. That is a choice we make so we may protect ourselves in a world where magic is more often feared than not. My heart was warm for your father. You were born of the love I had, still have, for John Swiftsword.”

“I sense I will need a cold heart for what is to come, Mother,” Lara said.

“It is not time,” Ilona answered. “I tell you this though I probably should not, but I cannot bear to see you so indecisive and unhappy as you wait to meet your destiny, Lara. I honored your father’s request, and kept from you as a child although I knew your fate. I have done little for you, but this I can do. You have time, my daughter. These next few years are yours to do with as you please. Have the child you desire to give Vartan. It will comfort him when you must leave him. Let yourself love him.”

“But when that moment comes?” Lara said.

“You will do your duty, my daughter, because you were bred to do it whether you knew it or not. As a leader you must know when to show mercy as well as strength. If your heart is always cold, how can you? I have looked into Vartan’s soul. From the moment he laid eyes upon you, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, was his life. He adores you, and to refuse to accept such homage, such passion, would be foolish. Revel in it! Return it! You will not be the weaker for it, but rather stronger, for unconditional love builds strength in those who will accept it. And you will need all of your strength for the road ahead.”

Tears slipped down Lara’s beautiful face. “I have wanted to love him,” she admitted, “but I feared to do so would weaken me.”

Ilona reached out, and gently brushed the tears from her daughter’s cheeks. “No. Love does not weaken. If my love for your father had weakened me I should not have been able to leave him to return to the duties I owed my mother, and my faerie kin.” Her green eyes suddenly twinkled. “I can see that Vartan is much man. No faerie girl would waste him.”