The Ashanta were there to greet Hyam when he returned to his home village.
Bryna stood alongside Dally, sharing a smile that trembled with all the emotions it represented. Dally found it necessary to wipe her eyes, along with many of the others gathered there, but her emotions were her own. For her, the time held an almost overpowering sense of farewell. She knew more keenly than ever that this village was no longer hers to claim. She might return. She might dwell here for a night or a season. But it would always be as the outsider she had become.
By then most Ashanta had drunk of the elixir. One drop was all she had placed within the vast stone cauldron. The leader of their Assembly had drunk, and afterward he had stood there for a very long time, his face turned toward the sun, staring at nothing. Then he had ordered the Ashanta warriors to bring forward all those opposed to joining with their allies. Drag them, if necessary. Not all had retracted their demands for isolation. But most had. And now the Ashanta had another word for those who sought to hold themselves apart from their allies.
They were called the afflicted.
A new battle standard had been designed by the gathering of leaders. On a shimmering white background had been written one word in three tongues, Ashanta and human and Elven.
Unity.
The new standards lined the portal’s entryway as Hyam arrived on a pallet carried by four allies. Meda gripped one handle, as did Connell and an Elven warrior and an Ashanta guard. Shona stood front and center to greet them. When the weakened emissary smiled her way, she knelt by his pallet and wept.
They waited while Hyam and the new queen exchanged words none could hear. There was no hurry now. The valley was perhaps the safest region in all the realm, rimmed as it was by Ashanta Seers and patrolled by Elven scouts and guarded by Shona’s own troops. Across the valley from where they stood, a broad avenue was being carved into the forest. A similar highway was under construction through the forest fronting Falmouth Port. Many names were being tossed about by those who worked on the impossible road intended to draw together the queen’s two enclaves, separated as they were by over a month’s trek through hostile terrain and enemy-controlled fiefs. None of this mattered today. The road was started. It would be finished. Everyone gathered here was certain of that. It had become the symbol of a future. One built upon safety. And hope. And the enemy’s eventual defeat.
Hyam was a mere shadow of his former self. His frame was gaunt, his limbs pale as old bones, his eyes feverish. But his smile was genuine. As was his greeting when they brought his pallet over to where Dally stood. “The first thing I heard upon awakening was my wife calling me back to life.”
“I heard her as well, my lord,” Dally said. “It was a joy to meet her.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” His hand reached out and touched his wolfhound’s head. “Then I opened my eyes, and there by my bed stood Dama.”
Dally smiled at Hyam’s new wolfhound. “I am so glad you two have bonded, my lord.”
He continued to stroke the dog’s head. “You really must call me Hyam. What are titles between friends?”