by R K Lander
“May I ask why you wish to travel personally, Commander?”
“It has been too long since last I spoke with Gor’sadén and Vorn’asté. Now seems a good time to re-establish our ties with our neighbours, and yet more than this, there is something in Gor’sadén’s manner that tells me this is important. He is worried and I would see to this myself.”
“I would accompany you, Commander. I do not know what Aria means to tell me, but I think perhaps there, I may find out.”
“No. Your feelings and your thoughts are not yet clear, Tensári. You must give yourself time to think and to understand. You must learn to feel Lainon in your mind once more. And you must consider why you resent the Ber’anor for being the cause of Lainon’s death. Because you do, don’t you?” he asked carefully.
“But how am I to know the truth if I cannot ask him, ask the Ber’anor? He may still be in Tar’eastór.”
“Yes. But you would accuse him, Tensári. All this is too fresh in your mind. Lainon has only just returned, and you are unaccustomed to the workings of Connates across the divide. You must rest for a while in Lainon’s renewed presence, commune with Aria until you understand, until your anger is spent and the way forward is clear to you. Only then will I allow you to return and to follow Aria’s bidding.”
Tensári wanted to reject his words, convince him that he was wrong. She didn’t need time. All she needed was to ask Fel’annár why Lainon had died, ask him why he had needed the protection of the Ari’atór—whether he had been careless.
Hobin was right. She would have been angry. She was angry, even though the joy she felt at Lainon’s return had pushed that anger to the back of her mind.
“I must prepare to leave.” Hobin had not given her answers as she thought he might, but he had given her a mission, one she began to accept as a necessary step before returning to Tar’eastór. She would venture out into the wilderness to think. She would commune with Aria, understand her mind if she could, interpret the vision she had had. She would learn to connect with Lainon, just as surely as he would be doing from the other side, and she would reach the source of her anger, understand it, quell it if she could.
“Thank you, Commander, for the freedom you give me to seek answers.”
Hobin turned to her, his strange eyes dancing from one side of her face to the other. She bowed from the waist, turned, and left the cathedral with the light of purpose blazing in her blue eyes, and Hobin watched her. His smile was gone, and his face seemed carved from black marble, firelight setting his blue eyes aflame. It would soon be time for Tensári to shine, but first, Hobin had his own mission to accomplish, Gor’sadén’s request aside. If Fel’annár was still in Tar’eastór, then Hobin needed to know if he knew, whether the Silvan Ber’anor had the slightest ken of what he was—and what was requested of him.
Tensári’s black-clad figure disappeared in the halo of light from the other side of the doors, and Hobin spoke softly, not quite loud enough for anyone to hear.
“May you find that path, Tensári, just as Lainon once did.”
One
Ever Present
“It was a time of turmoil, for the Deviants came in hoards, attacking our villages with the simple purpose of razing them to the ground. The brave warriors of Tar’eastór were over-taxed, patrolling for weeks on end, and with them was Fel’annár and The Company. There had once been eight, but now there were seven, for Lainon of the Ari’atór had been lost defending Fel’annár from a Deviant scimitar.
His absence was ever present.”
The Alpine Chronicles. Cor’hidén.
The thud of an arrow piercing flesh, a cry of pain from an elven warrior who was thrown to the floor with the force of the bolt.
A roar of anger, a plea for aid, the scream of a defeated soldier, the desperate sounds of elves and Deviants locked in combat, fighting and dying in the frigid cold. But Fel’annár did not flinch, even though he stood in the midst of the chaos. He couldn’t; he was the only master archer left, the only one who could eliminate the Deviant snipers that were picking off their warriors.
He sighted his next target, stance perfect; it had to be. His arm did not waver, it could not, and his heart did not feel; it must not. He would not allow that, and when the last sniper was down, he whipped out his long and short swords with a morbid sense of satisfaction and moved closer to Captain Comon and The Company’s position, where the fighting was at its worst.
The shriek of polished metal upon rusted iron grated on their ears, but it did not deter the Alpine warriors of Tar’eastór, even though they had been fighting almost constantly for the last weeks. They bore down upon the rotting mass of Deviants that had thought to surprise them, their elven faces twisted into snarls of hatred for an enemy that was relentless, ruthless.
“Behind you,” warned Fel’annár as he moved closer to his captain to engage another Deviant, whose massive scimitar swung unnervingly close over his head. Shocked, he flipped backwards to gain space and time and then moved to the side and scored a blow to the Deviant’s shoulder. But that only served to enrage it. Roaring in unbridled wrath, the beast bore down on Fel’annár with such strength it sent him stumbling backwards. What was wrong with him? Yet even as he asked himself he knew the answer: he was tired, his concentration slipping, and this opponent was not going down easily.
Swivelling his right sword to the left, he whirled around and sliced into its other side, garnering another unearthly shriek that vibrated painfully in his ears.
He moved in from the front this time, but the beast’s counter blow was so strong it was all Fel’annár could do to keep his sword from flying out of his sticky hand; he was off balance once more, and the nascent tingle of dread began to take hold of him.
Fel’annár raised both blades and brought them down upon his enemy, but they were blocked, and for one strange moment, bright green eyes locked with the cloudy but challenging gaze of the Deviant. There was hatred and cruelty there, as there always was; he had expected that, but Fel’annár hesitated, for there was something more, something he could not place. His brow twitched in confusion, but before he could ponder it any longer, the handle of the Deviant’s blade caught him in the side of the head with a heavy thud, sending him stumbling backwards and then, to his utter horror, to his knees. He was down, and he desperately blinked to clear his reeling mind, not fast enough to avoid the boot that crashed into his mid-section, sending him gasping to the floor. It was all he could do to roll out of the way as the scimitar came down upon him, missing him by mere inches, a blessing in disguise, for the beast had placed so much weight behind the blow that it overcompensated. Fel’annár had just enough time to plunge both swords into its mid-section.
Gasping, he fell alongside the dead Deviant. He groaned as he tried and failed to get his feet below him, and the shouts of victory around him seemed muffled and far, far away. He stopped where he knelt, shaking his head once more before trying again—and promptly crashing to the ground. Something wet trickled down the side of his head.
A strong hand clasped his forearm and hoisted him aloft, but he reeled to one side and the hands were back on him, steadying him. He could not tell where he was; he could feel his feet below him, but it felt as though he was lying down—his eyes were deceiving him, and his stomach flipped miserably.
Someone took his arms, and he felt himself lifted, the tips of his boots dragging over the ground until his saviours stopped and he felt the solid earth beneath his back. He stared upwards, into a treeless sky, breathing too fast. Damn it, he cursed bitterly. His mind was working just fine, if only his eyes would cooperate.
“Hwindo . . . how many?”
Squinting at the fat, swimming digits that danced before his eyes, he tried to focus on the fuzzy objects, and his stomach roiled. With a groan he closed his eyes and the world began to spin. He bent to one side and retched.
The strong hand was back, pushing him down to the ground. He could feel the pressure on his back again, y
et his eyes told him he was sitting up. He knew what would come now, and so he lay still, eyes open, bearing their involuntary movement as best he could. It would pass; it always did.
He felt something soft press firmly against the side of his head and then someone was bandaging. Every so often they would crouch beside him and touch him, speak to him. “Don’t sleep,” they would say, and he would not; he knew the chances of not waking after a concussion. He wondered if it was Sontúr, but turning to look would hurt, so he lay there, one hand absently stroking a shrub just beneath the thin layer of snow.
The Deviant’s face was before him once more. He saw the gleam of malice and morbid enjoyment, one he had seen so many times, and yet it had suddenly changed into an emotion that he could not place. But then it had walloped him on the head and Fel’annár had killed it. Those rotting eyes had dimmed and its life had ended before he could solve the mystery. To Fel’annár’s fuzzy mind, there was something very wrong about how the Deviants were acting, but he could not focus. All he knew was that something had changed, something important, and the incessant song from the trees was perplexing to his confused mind.
Nim’uán. Beautiful monster.
But how can a “monster” be “beautiful”?
He might have slept but couldn’t be sure.
“Fel’annár?” came the familiar voice of Ramien. “We’ll be back at the barracks soon; I think we have all had enough,” he said softly, wistfully, only just loud enough for Fel’annár to hear. There was no answer, though, for Fel’annár’s skull had begun to hammer between his ears, every thud a wave of eye-watering agony that stole his breath. It was all he could do to control his breathing and his treacherous voice that begged to be freed so that it could express the pain he felt.
When next he woke he saw leafless boughs swaying softly over his head, heard the sounds of bubbling water and clinking cups, murmuring voices around him. His eyes slowly focussed on the sky beyond the winter trees, and he remembered how it was he had come to be here.
They had been sent out a scarce week after they had arrived from their previous patrol, a patrol Fel’annár would never forget. It had been his first time battling in the heights, the first time he had seen Incipients. The first time he had lost a brother.
Lainon.
They had returned, but he had barely had enough time to recover his strength before they were riding and fighting once more. The forces of Tar’eastór were hard-stretched; they had been needed in the field, and in truth, Fel’annár had been glad of it.
No time to think of what he had lost, of how he had lost him. Lainon’s death had been so very strange.
His heart was so heavy it hurt and in his mind was nothing but confusion for what was happening to him—this uncontrolled gift of his that was becoming stronger, that was changing and developing, manifesting itself in ways he had not anticipated. It still frightened him, that lack of control. Lainon had known that.
But Lainon wasn’t here. He’d gone to Valley.
They had only meant to be on a week’s tour, but by the time they had regained the ground they had lost to the enemy, one week had become two, with only fleeting visits to nearby villages. By then, the late winter avalanches had threatened the outlying villages, and the patrol had stayed to help.
They had all suffered injuries, were battered and bruised, tired and hungry, mentally exhausted. They had taxed their strong bodies as far as they were able, and now, Captain Comon was leading them back. He would deliver his report on enemy numbers, movements and engagements, information Commander Gor’sadén would then use to plan their ongoing strategy against the Deviants. Fel’annár wondered if he would be able to give voice to his own thoughts about what he had seen and felt—and then he wondered whether they would even believe him.
Deviants felt nothing but hatred, didn’t they?
Deviants weren’t beautiful, were they?
And still the song went on in his mind.
Nim’uán. Beautiful Monster.
The following day, they broke camp and took the western road to Tar’eastór. Fel’annár bore the riding with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, for the sun had come out, reflecting on the crystal white snow and setting his head to pounding like the summer drums of the Deep Forest. Every time they stopped, Sontúr would provide him with a steaming cup of some repulsive herbal tea which would ease his head for a while at least.
Two days later, they were out on the High Plains, fast approaching the wooded ascent that led to the citadel of Tar’eastór. The broken patrol of Alpine and Silvan warriors kicked their mounts into a canter, but still they were mostly silent, for service such as theirs came at a high price. There was no desire to speak of meaningless things, no inclination to humour or song, for they could think only of the heavy losses they had suffered: twelve immortal souls they had all known well. Captain Comon would now break the hearts of their families, their soulmates, and their children. He would solemnly hand over the swords of the fallen so that they might be passed down through the generations, their wielders remembered.
Hot water and fresh food awaited, sleep and perhaps oblivion. He should have been content, but with their arrival at the citadel, his own, studiously-buried thoughts would be back: Lainon, Handir, the imminent missives from King Thargodén of Ea Uaré.
Fel’annár’s eyes strayed to his right, still expecting to see his dark warrior brother Lainon close by. But he didn’t; he had died, defending him, and he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, closing his eyes lest his emotions betray him. His only comfort came from a tiny part of his mind where he imagined Lainon’s blue light had lodged itself, the light that had detached itself when the Ari’atór had taken the Short Road. Funny, he pondered, because that light, that place in his mind felt brighter, bigger for reasons he could not yet fathom. Still, it calmed his anxious mind and the pounding in his head.
They had stopped to rest, and Sontúr was back with his concoction. It was hot enough to make him wince, and now, as they continued on their final leg back to the city, Fel’annár remembered the enigmatic Ari’atór commander, Hobin. When Lainon had passed on, the commander had called Fel’annár ‘Ber’anor.’ He didn’t know what that was, but he knew that, should he ask Idernon, he would find out. But he hadn’t asked, because there was something about that word, something about the way Hobin had spoken it that had given Fel’annár reason for pause. And then Lainon’s cryptic last words came back to him, about completing some task together with Prince Handir, his half-brother. He had not understood those words and had spent hours pondering their meaning. But to no avail. All he had been able to do was break the news of Lainon’s demise to Handir, tell him what Lainon had said. But the prince in his grief had said nothing, and the meaning of those last, precious words had been lost.
“Fel’annár.”
His eyes snapped to Idernon beside him, only now realising that he had been sitting askew in the saddle. He straightened his back, and the Wise Warrior nodded. Forcing his mind back into the present, one last thought came to him—the missives that would surely arrive from Ea Uaré and, in them, the king’s dictates. Was he free to return to Ea Uaré? Was he repudiated? Exiled even? Would the king want to meet him? Would Fel’annár want to meet his father?
A deep breath later, he shook his head to rid himself of his incessant questioning. He felt Idernon beside him and Ramien behind him. He could hear Galadan and Galdith’s quiet banter and Sontúr, whose brow would surely be riding high on his forehead at the bawdy words of Carodel’s soft melody. The Company, his brothers, the only elves who knew him well, knew his secrets and his ambitions, even his fears. They followed him as a warrior would a brave captain, and he relaxed into their strong and steady presence, even the one in his mind.
Fel’annár didn’t need a family he had never known.
He already had one.
Prince Handir, second son of King Thargodén of Ea Uaré, sat at King Vorn’asté’s breakfast table, enduring the calcu
lating stare of his mentor, Lord Councillor Damiel. The king, too, watched him with the same questions in his eyes; Handir knew what they were thinking, could see it all too clearly. He had made a mistake, and the question was, would Handir remedy that, now that Comon’s patrol was approaching?
The missives from Thargodén had arrived just days before Fel’annár had been sent back out on patrol. There were messages for the king, for his chief councillor, and his commander general, and Handir had delivered them personally. But the two scrolls addressed to Fel’annár remained upon his desk in his rooms. Untouched. Undelivered.
He should have sought the boy out, should have given him the messages. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.
Lainon would be angry with him.
He was angry with himself.
He was still reeling with Lainon’s loss, unable, as yet, to understand how he, Turion and Aradan would continue with their plan to restore Ea Uaré without the Ari’atór, the instigator of their undertaking. In order to cease the ever-growing racism and stop the Silvan people from turning their backs on their Alpine king, they needed Fel’annár on their side so that the king would be stirred back to life—so that he could rule again as he once had and pull back their nation from the ever-growing schism between Alpines and Silvans. And yet Lainon had hinted at more, had implied that there was more to Fel’annár’s participation than the return of the king. And herein lay Handir’s problem.
What had Lainon seen in Fel’annár beyond a young warrior with a promising future and some heightened sensitivity with trees? He was just a boy whose existence had embittered his own . . .
He stopped himself. It would do him no good to walk the road of resentment. He had already done that; it had served no purpose. Instead, he reminded himself of the reasons that had brought him, Aradan, Turion and Lainon together. It was for Ea Uaré, his forest home, and for its subjugated people. He did it for his father, his duty as a prince. He did not have to like the Silvan boy.
