The roar of hundreds of different voices makes the pounding in my head intensify, so I stay prone for asecond longer.
I roll to my side and groan at the soreness. I flex my hands which is greeted by stiff pain that radiates through my arms and chest. Looking to my left, I see that the other Enduares were also laid out on the unnaturally plush grass.
My attention is drawn away when the wordsEnduar Kingrises above all others.
Taking a deep, aching breath, I slowly lift myself onto my elbow, ignoring the pulse of my brain against the confines of my skull. I rub my brow.
We are surrounded by tables with both bare elvish feet and leafy stumps on full view. My heart skips a beat when I also see ten large giant toes.
My eyes swivel up, and I blink at the giant woman who stands side by side with a dryad and an elf. When she catches me looking at her, she nudges her companions and points at me with a toothy smirk.
Just slightly behind her is a whole damned bear, though it is nothing like aruh’glumdlor. It lacks black fur, blind eyes, and spiky armor plates on its shoulders and elbows. These are all soft brown angles and razor-sharp claws.
If it weren’t for its paws, it might be considered endearing.
My head twists from side to side, and the room goes silent. There are hundreds of elvish women, maybe even more than a thousand just in this room with many more outside. I don’t see Thorne, but the dryads I presume who dragged us here are lined up behind a thorny throne at the front of the space.
This is not a small enclave. The sisterhood isn’t a small group of dissenting women.
It’s a whole civilization apart from Arion’s rule.
“Welcome to the Sisterhood de Bhaldraithe, Enduar King,” a female voice calls out. “Pity, I was hoping you’d wear your glasses to our meeting. I’ve heard they look quite striking upon your face.”
It’s curious how they call us by our new name.
As I gaze upon the woman, I am met with rigid, elegant beauty. She has silvery blond hair, and she bears a striking resemblance to Arion. There is no doubt that he is her brother, though his practiced decorum is nothing like what she exhibits.
Liana’s words about brothers and sisters in elvish courts return to me as I take in her smooth tresses. They are braided in a dozen smaller strands that knot over her neck and shoulders. They drip off one armrest while her legs hang over the other side of the throne.
This woman is a picture of cold, comfortable indifference—of danger. Daggers are laced up her legs, and she has one out that she twirls between her fingers.
I hurry to rise, despite the stiffness in my muscles and joints. It’s a feat to keep myself from going light-headed and falling over.
I dip my head as Ra'Salore, Ulla, and Niht rise as well.
“Thank you,” I say.
She stares at me with unblinking eyes.
“Are you… Lady Mrath?” I search for the appropriate title, ready to invoke the artifact,Cumhacht na Cruinne, as bargaining leverage.
I will be able to give this deal a clean shot at success.
One corner of her mouth tilts up.
“No need for formalities here, Enduar. I have no set title—some call me a nightmare, others call me friend. Some truly idiotic men once called me princess. But I’m sure you knew that.” She swings her legs back over the edge of the throne with predatory grace and reaches over for a goblet of wine being offered to her. “My sisters call me Mrath.”
I look around as she holds up her goblet, and the rest of the room toasts to her.
“Very well, Mrath. Where are my mounts?” I ask.
“Back at your camp,” one of the dryads says.
“Well, then, would you be so kind as to tell me what this place is?”
Mrath dips her head and smiles. “You are very polite for a man. I am sure that you heard of us as a band of murderers. It is not entirely incorrect, but it is also not right.”
I listen intently, not bringing up the rumors of their rebellion.
