The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) by T L Greylock

When they have engaged, those of us hidden among the trees will launch our assault on the Guardians.” Finnoul turned the kin north again. “We should not linger here. Lorcan has many eyes.”
    It was not until they had nearly reached Finnoul’s mountain home that Raef was certain they were being followed. Something darted beneath the treetops, staying out of sight, but Raef, peering over his shoulder, could see leaves and branches stirring in the absence of wind. He whispered this to Finnoul, who changed course, not so dramatically as to make it obvious, but enough to keep distance between them and her home. Instead, though it was dark, they returned to the ridge where they had started the evening and landed on its highest point.
    In the dim light, their pursuer abandoned the protection of the trees, guiding a kin up the slope to the ridge. Raef was not surprised to see Aerath’s face.
    Finnoul exhaled and a low grumble came from deep within the orange kin’s throat as Aerath’s blue kin circled above them. Finnoul reached for the bow she kept strapped to her kin and notched an arrow on the string. She did not draw it back but her intent was plain.
    “I will shoot you from the sky if I must. Did Lorcan send you, Aerath?”
    “He does not command me.” The blue-green kin hovered now and Aerath’s voice was sharp in the gathering dark.
    “But what will keep you from telling him where I have been this night?” The bowstring inched back.
    A delay, this time, before he answered, and his voice was less brittle. “If you have to ask, then perhaps I was wrong to come at all.”
    Raef saw Finnoul close her eyes but the bow stayed up. “Then come down here, Aerath, and let me look you in the eye.”
    “Your words are folly. We both know I will not join you.”
    “I know no such thing.” Finnoul’s voice was soft.
    The silence between them was deafening. When Aerath did speak, Raef was glad for the swift twilight that had consumed the alf’s features, for it seemed to him the words were meant for only one pair of ears.
    “I will not. But neither will I tell Lorcan where I saw you. Goodbye, Finnoul.” His kin rose up, its wings fanned against the shape of the moon, and then plunged down into the valley. He was out of sight in an instant.
    Finnoul did not speak again that night and Raef did not venture to draw her into conversation. His own mind was filled with thoughts of Eira, of her careful distance, of her lips on his. He tried to push those thoughts away, summoning instead the image of his father and the vengeance that simmered within. He had to hold onto it, had to put it before all other thoughts of home, but it shamed him to find that the spark of anger did not flare as it should have, that it was content to murmur in the darkness.

    Another day passed, another day of Finnoul’s quiet. She kept to herself, wandering far afield and leaving Raef among her followers. Raef watched Ylloria prepare medicines, watched her choose her plants with care, learned how to gather the roots without causing damage and which flowers were best for masking foul-smelling compresses. He practiced with his unwieldy, unfamiliar blade, trying to establish a measure of comfort with its balance and its lightness. The ambush drew near and it would have to serve, but Raef, though Finnoul’s friends seemed pleased, impressed even, that he carried it, found that his heart was not in the blade. Thannor gave him pointers and they crossed swords at dusk until Raef felt he could defend himself.
    Finnoul returned that night but had still not regained her former vitality. The rebels shared food and drink but this was a grim meal without the joy of the island feast. The alfar went their separate ways, filtering into the night until only Raef and Finnoul were left to fly up to their mountain roost. Before they took to the sky, a dragon-kin screeched above them and dove into the clearing. The rider was Annun and he nearly stumbled to the ground as