Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  “We cannot know, but it is our job to ensure that they take the news in a way that is favourable to us,” began Draugole and Band’orán turned his judgemental eyes on Draugole, nodding in approval.

  “Continue, Councillor.”

  “It is an outrage, of course. The presence of a half-blood son is to be censured, his misbegotten status used as proof of King Thargodén’s infidelity, of his faithlessness. We can rile our followers’ belief in the purity of Alpine blood, the inferiority of the Forest Dwellers. We can bend it to our gain, my lords.”

  “Indeed, Councillor, and that is what we must achieve today. If the king knows and wishes to recognise the half-blood, we make our stand against any concession the king may grant and we must work hard to garner the support of those who are indecisive. Do you see how it must work, Barathon?”

  “I do, Father—Lord Draugole.”

  “My lord,” continued Draugole. “I am not convinced of our crown prince’s convictions with respect to your endeavours. Our considerable efforts to draw him towards our beliefs and goals yield results that are often times unclear. His disdain for his father is clear, of course, and as such, I doubt any concessions from the king to his bastard son will be taken kindly by Rinon, but I am unsure as to whether he can be drawn completely away from his father.”

  “He is ambitious,” said Barathon as he shook his head, “and his arrogance worries me. I cannot see him meekly obeying your dictates, Father. When the time comes and our plan has been executed, he will want to rule for himself.”

  Band’orán smiled. “If Rinon does not bend to what logic dictates, he will bend to me. He loves his younger brother, Handir, but above all other things, he loves his twin sister.”

  “Maeneth? You would use her against him?” asked Barathon.

  Draugole’s eyes sharpened and turned to Barathon. “An official invitation to some such event the princess cannot turn away from, perhaps even her own brother’s coronation. She would not miss that, and once she is here, there are many ways for us to show Rinon that she is vulnerable. He may have to step down, forsake his royal rights to the throne in deference to the greater experience and wisdom of his uncle. After all, Rinon is a warrior more than he is a legislator. There would be no shame in that. Everyone has a weakness, Barathon. For Thargodén it is grief, and for Rinon, it is his twin. We only need Rinon for as long as it takes to prise Thargodén from the throne. After that, none of it matters. He will be in our hands.”

  Barathon turned to his father, who was staring impassively back at him, his irritation at his son’s naivety well-buried. “But what of Handir? Surely he will not sit by and watch all this. He has a shrewd mind, Father, and he’s close to Lord Aradan.”

  “True,” said Band’orán. “But you see, Handir is far away, and the return journey is fraught with dangers for one not trained in the ways of a warrior.”

  Draugole’s smile was soft, sad almost, and respect danced in his eyes. Barathon was slower to understand, but when his father’s meaning finally sunk in, Draugole saw the first stirrings of fear. He couldn’t blame the boy. His father was nonchalantly speaking of the assassination of his own blood, of a child who had sat at his knee.

  “Heed me now,” continued Band’orán, “we have spoken of whether Handir has informed the king about the half-blood, but it is just as important to understand whether the Silvans know. It is something I strongly suspect, and if they do indeed know, they will claim him as their lord, use him to gain the king’s favour, to rally their people, and that is something we cannot allow. That boy must not be permitted to step foot inside Ea Uaré, because they will protect him, as I suspect they have been doing for fifty-two years.”

  “And our allies in Tar’estór?” asked Draugole.

  “Sulén knows what is expected of him, Draugole. It should not be hard to dispose of him; Sulén knows what is at stake and is well-motivated to comply with my wishes. Once it is done—once Prince Handir meets with an unfortunate group of bandits and King Thargodén, already fading with grief, hears of the demise of his two younger sons—he will surely take the Long Road to Valley.”

  Band’orán smiled, but it did not quite reach his silver eyes, which were strangely devoid of emotion. They were his shield, his protection against those who would look too deeply and perhaps glance at his own grief, catch a passing glimmer of oddness in his soul. He could not let them see his simmering hatred, his lust for the power to change destiny—a power only kings could wield.

  The Silvan caravan had arrived at the city gates not two days ago and had set up their tents, their cooking pits, and even their training circles. There were makeshift pens for their animals, and even now, bakers were kneading dough for the day’s bread.

  Thargodén’s impressive stone gates lay close enough for the Silvans to see the guards high upon the walkways, helms gleaming under the winter sun. Beyond the battlements, spires and domes jutted skywards, powerful and imposing, so foreign to one from the Deep Forest. This strange architecture did not seek to emulate nature as Silvan designs did. Instead its purpose was to contrast with it. It was not ugly to look upon, but it was unnerving, a stark reminder of the differences between Silvans and Alpines.

  Today, the first Forest Summit would commence, and it fell to two Silvans to give voice to the entire forest, a forest of people who had been subjected to Or’Talán’s authority centuries ago when he had crossed the Median Mountains from Tar’eastór and colonised the land. They had been indignant at first, but soon enough, Or’Talán had endeared himself to them. He had no intention of subjugating them, he said, but of helping them to move forward in peace and equality. His strong leadership had led to the creation of a mighty army, in which Silvans and Alpines had fought and commanded equally, one that had successfully kept the enemy at bay for many years. But that had changed the moment Or’Talán had forbidden his son, Thargodén, to marry Lássira of Abiren’á. That was when the true prejudice had started, when the disdain and the discrimination had begun to hold the Silvans back.

  Band’orán had started it, and perhaps now, Erthoron of Lan Taria and Lorthil of Sen’oléi could finish it.

  The soft crunch of boots, and Erthoron and Golloron of Lan Taria turned to face Lorthil and Narosén of Sen’oléi. Village leaders and Spirit Herders sat before the fire in companionable silence while Golloron prepared them tea.

  It was times like these when Erthoron wondered at the wisdom of their native political system. Having a group of three ruling elves for each village had many advantages in times of peace and harmony, but that was no longer the case. The time had come to force the king’s hand, force the Alpines into understanding that something had to change, and yet they lacked that one figure, that leader who could speak for them all, rally them all. Their enemies at court, the Alpine purists, knew this. It was the Silvans’ one disadvantage, and only one elf could remedy that.

  But he was not here.

  “Finally,” began Lorthil. “The time has finally come.”

  “Yes,” answered Erthoron slowly. “But we must be cautious, brother, for while there is reason to rejoice at this new opportunity, things will surely worsen before they improve; keep this firmly in your mind, Lorthil. The consequences of what we do now may be disastrous, to our people and to him.”

  “I know,” smiled Lorthil, holding up an appeasing hand. But allow me this one moment,” he said slyly, before turning his eyes to the trees. “So many years of silent contemplation, the decades of patience. It has not been easy, and the simple promise of our secret hope stepping into the light . . . no more deception or skulking in the dark, no more lies. I am not alone in these sentiments, Erthoron.”

  “I wonder. I wonder how things have been for young Fel’annár. He must surely know . . .” mused Lorthil.

  “I believe he must,” said Erthoron thoughtfully. “And I cannot help but wonder whether he can forgive his people for having deceived him his entire life.”

  The four elves turned their eyes to th
eir small fire. It had been a necessary evil, something they had learned when Lássira had been murdered. Still the facts lay like bitter milk on their tongues. How they had tried to convince Amareth to tell Fel’annár of his heritage before he had ventured into the world in search of his dreams! But she had been adamant, and their silence had endured. Amareth did, indeed, hold her secrets, and Erthoron wondered if she would ever reveal the entire story of what had happened during the weeks after Fel’annár’s birth.

  “There has been no news from Lainon, in spite of his promises,” said Erthoron. “This concerns me, and I wonder if Aradan is as much in the dark as we are about what is happening in Tar’eastór. We must seek private counsel with the chief advisor during the summit. It is entirely possible that he has had word but has not been able to safely inform us.”

  Lorthil nodded, accepting a mug of hot tea from Golloron while Erthoron sighed deeply, brows furrowed as he reached for his own mug and continued voicing his thoughts.

  “We must instil upon our people the need for caution, Lorthil. We cannot walk into Thargodén’s court showing anything but mild interest, at least until he has openly explained his reasons for calling the summit, until he clearly acknowledges Fel’annár’s existence.” The Silvan leader cast his eyes over the colourful sea of tents that were dotted around the flat land before the city gates. Soft singing floated around them and the ever-present rhythm of drums pulsed in the background. Wherever he looked, his people smiled, their chatter quick and animated.

  “I understand them, Erthoron,” Lorthil said. “If the king does proclaim Fel’annár as his son, it will be difficult to contain our people’s enthusiasm, difficult to hide the fact that we have always known who he was. The king may not take kindly to that,” he warned and then drank.

  “Perhaps not, and neither will Band’orán.” Erthoron snorted. “Once his existence is made known, there can only be two outcomes. Success or failure: the return of all the noble Silvan houses at court and the reinstatement of the warlord, or rebellion. And yet it is difficult to contemplate a revolt with no central leader,” he added, shaking his head. It will be all too easy for anger to lead us astray, Lorthil, and then who will pull us all together? We should create a council of our own, perhaps, with one visible leader.”

  “That takes time, my friend,” said Lorthil, stabbing at the fire with a twig. “And yet we must at least contemplate it. The alternative is to submit to the will of those Alpine purists, and I will die before I see my forest lost to them.” He adjusted his position on the ground, and Narosén watched him closely.

  “And I. But will our people feel the same way? Will mothers and fathers risk the future of their children for a dream?” asked Erthoron wistfully.

  “It is not a dream, Erthoron. It is our right. And here we are, full circle. We need Fel’annár here with us. You have known him since he was a child and may feel he is still too young and inexperienced to accept such a heavy burden, but my people, Erthoron, they remember the fire and the fanfare of Sen’oléi, and so too do we remember Sen’uár. My people believe in him. Leadership is in his blood, my friend. Those tales have spread throughout the land and our people wait now, to proclaim him as our leader, our warlord. I do not think we can silence them now, even should we ask.”

  “You both know that Fel’annár may not wish for this,” said Golloron softly. “He is a warrior; the wiles of court will not interest him. All he ever wanted was to be a captain.”

  “But our proposition is not exactly one that would keep him at court. It is more a representation, if you will; it will not interfere with his calling as a captain. Besides,” said Lorthil as he stabbed at the fire with the now charred remnants of his stick, “if he does accept, he will be more than just a captain. We must make Fel’annár see the merit in this plan we have—it is paramount to our people, his people. These are our lands, lands that harbour guests, guests that are free to stay or leave but not to impose their ways, not to eradicate our culture or belittle our people. We must not allow it. Not anymore. We have stood by silently for long enough.”

  Erthoron nodded. “I wonder what Handir, Aradan, and Lainon will think when they learn there is more to this than they had originally thought. They seek to restore the king upon his throne by gaining the consensus of the Silvans, but I do not think they understand the price of that consensus. I hope they will realise that this is the only way for the Silvans to live peacefully with the Alpines,” said Erthoron, his gaze drifting sideways and to the trees beyond.

  Narosén threw his tokens onto the floor and then pushed them around with his fingers, twisted locks hiding his painted face from the fire’s glow, but then he sat up straighter, as if someone had whispered in his ear. The others listened, tuning their senses to the husky whispers of the trees.

  “The forest is alive,” said Golloron, and beside him, Narosén closed his eyes. Erthoron could only wonder what the Spirit Herders could hear, what they knew and did not say. All he could see was the gleam in their brilliant blue eyes, and the soft breeze that played with their dark, beaded locks.

  Yet if Erthoron were to express his thoughts, he would say that something carried on the air, as if the Forest held its leafy breath, restless roots swirling beneath the loamy ground, searching for a way up and into the light, just like the Silvan people did now.

  The Forest slept no more, despite the winds of winter. Awake now, it would surely no longer be silenced.

  Crown Prince Rinon rapped on the king’s door, nodding curtly at the guards as he passed inside and waited for his father to address him. Aradan stood at the king’s side, his formal robes of state lending the councillor an air of authority. The experience and wisdom that always sat behind his eyes was reflected now in his attire, and the occasion called for no less. However, if Aradan was splendid in his finery, the king was beyond description. Rinon watched the attendants working on the finer details of the king’s hair and crown, adjusting the fall of his mantle and the sheen of his jewels as he stood, back to the door. Rinon bowed even though he knew the king would not see.

  And then the monarch turned to face him and Rinon’s heart sped out of control. A blast of raw power slammed into his iron defences. He faltered.

  “Crown Prince Rinon.”

  “My king.” Rinon allowed his eyes to drift over the elf he had not seen in over half a century. This was Or’Talán’s son, his own father. A king stood before him, not some grief-stricken elf with a fading soul that Rinon told himself he despised. He could not help the unnaturally long stare, and then barely managed to contain a flinch when the king finally spoke.

  “Come,” said Thargodén, gesturing to the hearth. “Sit with me before we begin the summit. Aradan,” he invited with a tilt of his head.

  Rinon nodded curtly and then sat in an armchair beside his father, eyes lingering on the monarch’s hand as he poured wine. The familiar, rough-cut emerald hung from his index finger as it always had, a symbol of the Alpines of Ea Uaré. It was an odd piece, for of all the jewels the king had at his disposal, he chose to wear this emerald. It was irregular and unpolished and it looked broken to Rinon’s eyes. But his father was fond of it, and Rinon never bothered to ask why. Still, he grudgingly admitted his father looked quite stunning, powerful in his jewels and brocades, as natural as a squirrel in its fur, and a surge of unwanted pride rolled through him.

  He brushed it off.

  “Have you ventured past the walls this morning, my prince?” asked Aradan, accepting the goblet the king held out to him.

  “I have, Councillor. It is a heaving mass of Silvan colour. Uncle Band’orán will be ecstatic.”

  Thargodén’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

  “Your summons has been a great success, my king; all the village leaders have come, each with their Spirit Herders and foresters. Even Miren’s village is represented, and for that she is driving me to insanity,” said Aradan.

  The king smirked. Aradan’s wife was a character not easily forgot
ten. Daughter of one of the few remaining noble houses of the Silvan people, the tribal leaders of Sen Garay, the woman was prone to filling silences with her incessant chatter. She was a breath of fresh, Silvan air, so long as one did not expose himself for too long. Still, Thargodén envied his friend for his lovely wife. She was such an unlikely match for his intellectual councillor, but Thargodén understood that attraction all too well. That natural wildness that hung about the Silvans, their unashamed display of emotions and passions, their giddy love of life had been equally irresistible to him.

  And then his thoughts of Miren and, ultimately, of Lássira led him to think of Aradan’s absent daughter. She had left with harsh words of censure, and Aradan never spoke of it.

  “The appearance of my youngest son and my acceptance of him will be made known,” said the king suddenly.

  Silence settled around the three elves. Aradan already knew this, but Rinon stared disbelievingly at his father.

  “You cannot be serious. Publicly announce you have a bastard son? Recognise that you were unfaithful to your queen?” he asked, his incredulous face searching his father for signs that he had misunderstood.

  “You think they will not find out, Rinon? They say he closely resembles my father. It will not be difficult to draw conclusions considering the public nature of my involvement with Lássira. It is better they hear it from me rather than be left to discover him by chance. That would give them the impression that I do not care.”

  Rinon stared at his father and then turned his head to the crackling fire. Aradan watched him closely, analysing the prince’s feelings he did not hide well.

  “Does the boy have a name then?” asked Rinon after a while, as if he did not care.

  “Fel'annár,” said Thargodén simply.

  “Well, you don’t get more Silvan than that,” he scoffed.

  “You do not approve, of course,” said Thargodén with a twitch of his lips.