by R K Lander
Fel’annár’s head tipped sideways as he tried to read her, understand her. She had a family and had left them. “Your convictions are stronger than the love you hold for your family?”
She started, for a moment unsure of how she felt about Fel’annár’s comment. But all she saw in his eyes was confusion. “Not stronger. But my parents will always be there, enjoying their life of privilege while others are stepped upon, scorned, and belittled. I cannot stand by and watch that, Fel’annár. It is beyond my Silvan blood, in spite of my own feelings for my parents.”
“They may not always be there, Llyniel. True, we have endless years, but they can be sundered. You see this every day in your duties as a healer, and although they are not warriors, still immortality is not guaranteed. Do things change, now that your father is involved in this plan? Can you respect him for the risks he takes?”
“I’m shocked that he would do such a thing. I had not thought him brave enough, Fel’annár. Perhaps I just never understood his position; perhaps I had assumed it was easy to speak out, to risk it all for a dream.”
“You are brave,” said Fel’annár with a soft smile. “Perhaps it was your idealism that drove you to see only one side of his dilemma. Perhaps now you can return, try to see the other side, understand why he waited for so long, to the point that you thought he did not care.”
She had already decided to go back, but it was for Handir, not for her father. But she stopped herself from saying so, because in Fel’annár’s eyes she saw the unequivocal spark of hope that she would be reconciled with her father. He had never had his true parents as a child, could not understand that she would willingly walk away from them. She smiled, but her wilful eyes latched onto his. She had never seen eyes like his, and she watched as specks of light danced in a sea of green. There was something there, behind Fel’annár’s emotions, behind his defences, his hopes and his dreams, something she could not fathom.
And then her own uncomfortable questions were back, the ones that incessantly asked about her emotional reaction to Fel’annár’s poisoning, reactions she had ruthlessly hidden at the time. She had tried to convince herself that her feelings for Fel’annár were passing, an entertainment for the present, but when she had looked down on him, poisoned and shot, she had thought of the future, of a future without him, and her heart had squeezed her lungs, deprived them of air.
She allowed her eyes to focus on him, watched as he smiled at her, and something shifted in her chest, pulled uncomfortably.
Fel’annár was struggling with his shirt, and she moved to help him, fastening the clasps up his chest and all the while he watched her, so close he could kiss her.
“Perhaps we will do this together, then, once you have worked it out for yourself, Fel’annár. It is enough that you are willing to consider helping us, that you have not closed your mind to it. This is right, Fel’annár, and I know you know that,” she murmured, hot breath ghosting over his lips.
“Yes, this is right,” he whispered, moving closer until their noses touched. She didn’t move back, so he leaned further forwards, and still she did not move. He would not deny himself this moment of pleasure, this inexplicable need to press his lips against hers.
Llyniel closed her eyes in unbearable anticipation. The future be damned and she opened her mouth to welcome his soft, warm lips. Then her eyes flew open, and she snapped back, startled by the familiar knock on the door. Sontúr poked his head inside the room, and Fel’annár and Llyniel stood abruptly, smoothing down their clothes. The prince watched as he opened the door fully and then arched his princely brow.
“Are you administering the treatment, Healer?” he drawled.
Fel’annár smirked, and Llyniel turned to face him. “Of course. And you have interrupted the procedure.”
Sontúr barked in laughter, and Fel’annár snorted at her Silvan wit.
“Shame you won’t get much privacy in the time left to you here in Tar’eastór,” said Sontúr as he strolled into the room, the entire Company right behind him.
“Thank you for that,” scowled Fel’annár.
“My pleasure, Lord Fel’annár.” He bowed with a flourish.
“Lackwit,” muttered Fel’annár, watching as Llyniel smiled as she passed him and then left.
Pan’assár had found the tunnel before Macurian could destroy it, but that was not what concerned him.
It was the fact that he had failed to kill his objective.
He had hired three expert archers to accompany him, had chosen an opening with nothing but a handful of low-lying boulders for cover, had found the tone flute deep in the treacherous areas of the city, knew it would panic their horses, throw them so that escape was not an option. And then, just in case something failed, he had used canimbula, for which they had no antidote—Macurian had made sure of that.
How the hell had he failed?
He remembered the first time he had thought to strike. He had not even been able to make the shot because the boy had seemed to sense him, had been alerted in some way to his presence. Macurian had sought answers and found them in the form of an overly exuberant warrior who had spoken of the boy’s ability to sense the trees. He had told the story of how The Silvan had warned of danger by simply placing his hand on the bark of a tree.
Sceptical though he was, Macurian had made sure to strike where the boy had no trees to touch. Now he understood that the warrior had been wrong. The Silvan had not needed to touch the tree to be warned of the danger. He had simply sensed it.
Since his failed attack, The Silvan had disappeared into the palace and had not shown himself at all. And yet even if he did, Macurian would not strike again until he found a failsafe way to finish the job.
What he needed was a weakness. Everyone had them, and he wondered now . . . what was The Silvan’s weakness? And how could Macurian use that against him?
By now, Silor would have realised he had failed, would have seen The Silvan or at least had word of him. And if Silor knew, then so did Lord Sulén. It stung to have failed, and the completion of this job was now a matter of personal pride.
He had people to speak to, plans to make, but above all, he needed to watch from the shadows—discover The Silvan’s weakness.
Sulén wanted the boy dead because he was a threat to whatever plans the lord had, and Macurian had always wondered why such a powerful lord feared one lone warrior.
Now, though, he thought Sulén was right to fear him.
The Ari’atór had arrived, but Commander Gor’sadén had never expected Supreme Commander Hobin to answer his call personally. The stunned guards had informed him not an hour past and Gor’sadén had sent a runner to inform the king of Hobin’s unlikely presence in Tar’eastór. It had been decades since he had last seen the leader of the Ari’atór and his reasons for coming now were surely not good. He bore ill news and Gor’sadén’s mind was already preparing itself for almost every eventuality.
He had called Pan’assár away from his investigations into the assassination attempt and the three other captains on the Strategy Council had arrived just minutes ago. They stood now, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, until the doors to the map room opened, and the imposing figure of Hobin strode towards them.
“Commander Hobin, you are most welcome in Tar’eastór, although I confess I had not thought you would personally honour us with your presence.” It was a question, and Hobin nodded that he understood.
“It has been many years since I visited the Motherland, Commander, and I confess to being intrigued by the current turn of events,” said Hobin, stepping forward. He had not answered Gor’sadén’s question, not that it surprised the commander. There was a reason for it, though.
Hobin climbed the steps, eyes travelling downwards and to the features of the land.
“You asked if we have experienced an increase in the number of humans crossing the Last Markers. We have, and yet the number of Deviant killings has not increased. There is a discrepancy, Commander. The
Deviants would appear to be hiding themselves away.”
“Then how are they escaping our notice?” asked one captain.
Gor’sadén turned to him, nodded, and then faced Hobin. “We may have a problem, Commander. Come.” He gestured to the walkways around the map and explained as they walked.
“Here, at Queen’s Fall, is where the fighting is taking place. We have been familiar with these caves for many years. They are deep but narrow, insufficient to house a large number of Deviants. However, this new threat that we have detected is coming from here, Crag’s Nest, precisely where the fighting is not taking place.”
“That is unusual, yes,” said Hobin, the first hint of emotion on his dark face—confusion.
“And this brings me to the other reason I called upon the Ari’atór,” said Gor’sadén. “We have reason to believe that there is a new threat, some creature that may be organising the Deviants.”
Hobin scowled back at Gor’sadén. “What creature?” he asked carefully.
“We don’t know, Commander. A Listener has sensed a presence through the trees. They speak of a creature that is not so rotten. They call it Beautiful Monster.” Gor’sadén waited for Hobin to process the information. He would be sceptical, critical, perhaps, that he should have given credence to such a ridiculous claim.
“Nim’uán . . . ” repeated Hobin, brows drawn together in thought.
“When I asked the Listener to tell us where he had sensed this creature, he said it came from here, around Crag’s Nest. I was surprised he did not say it came from Queen’s Fall, where Deviant activity is at its highest. So you see, we have the fighting here, but the Nim’uán here. Two separate areas.”
“They may be separate events,” said a captain. “On the one hand, we have increased Deviant activity around Queen’s Fall, and on the other, we have the arrival of some new beast. They don’t have to be connected.”
“No,” agreed Hobin, “but that would be highly unlikely, Captain. The key is in their unusual behaviour. Deviants are not engineers, they do not build homes, they do not plan in such a way. They do not care for their own comfort. So why adapt those caves and take shelter inside them? Incipients would, perhaps, do that, but not fully-turned Deviants. If they are adapting those caves, something drives them. And at the same time, we have a Nim’uán. It cannot be coincidence.”
The captain remained silent, and Pan’assár nodded at Hobin.
“This is likely a diversion,” said the Forest commander. “Whatever this thing is, it thinks—is strategic. If it is purposefully drawing our attention to Queen’s Fall, we must be ready for the danger to come from elsewhere.”
“I concur,” said Gor’sadén. “Our scouts should be back within two days. We will meet again to discuss their findings. Meanwhile, I am reinforcing our defences beyond the Downlands. Extra patrols must be deployed here, here, and here.” He pointed on the map. “Are there any further suggestions?”
No one answered, so Gor’sadén turned to Hobin. “It is clear that you had no knowledge of this thing, Commander. I would have you attend our Strategy Councils while you are here. You will stay until the question is resolved?”
“Of course. It is the Ari’atór’s duty to find out what this thing is, and then destroy it. You may certainly count on my presence,” he said with a nod.
“King Vorn’asté would be honoured by your presence at his table this evening,” said Gor’sadén. “And both I and Pan’assár would relish the opportunity to speak with you.”
“The honour is mine, Commander. Until later then.” He bowed, first to Gor’sadén, then to Pan’assár, and then he turned to leave, but he stopped himself, one final question rolling from his tongue.
“Commander Gor’sadén, the Listener is Fel’annár, correct?”
“Yes,” he replied, repressing his urge to frown. He remembered Comon’s report of the battle in which Lainon had been killed. The Ari’atór had come, led by Hobin himself, but Gor’sadén had not realised he had met Fel’annár, that he knew of his gift.
Hobin nodded. “Then we must be ready to face a new creature, a new Deviant, perhaps. Something we have not yet encountered.”
“You know Warrior Fel’annár?” asked Gor’sadén evenly.
“I met him—at a time of great personal duress. An extraordinary warrior, as I am sure you already know.”
Gor’sadén nodded, his suspicions confirmed. Hobin had a hidden agenda, one that included Fel’annár, and Fel’annár was his apprentice. He considered it his solemn duty to find out what it was—why Hobin, Supreme Commander of Araria, had come to Tar’eastór himself.
It was late evening, and Fel’annár sat on the window seat in his rooms, his journal open in his lap and a stick of charcoal in his hand. Behind him sat The Company, mostly quiet except for Carodel’s incessant murmuring—some new song he was inventing lyrics to.
His hand moved over the blank page, short lines and then longer, a finger smoothing over them and smudging, shaping, creating a face his mind remembered so well. That haze was suddenly back, flitting over his vision, and he wondered again, if he should speak to Sontúr about it. It might one day hinder his aim.
The simple line drawing was gaining depth. Long, twisted locks, skin darker than any Alpine, any Silvan, eyes brighter, deeper, more expressive. His charcoal moved over the line of lips he had first drawn as straight, but then he turned one corner upwards, as if he smiled, and Fel’annár mirrored it, even though there was deep sadness in his eyes.
Lainon had rarely smiled.
A deep breath and he turned to the window, to the deep blue sky and the black shadow of the citadel before him. Windows glowed with candle light that would soon be doused, and stars began to twinkle more clearly in the darkening sky. There was a soft melancholy in his heart and time seemed to pass strangely, too slowly, he thought as his eyes travelled over the high roof-tops and domes, the spires that sat at the four corners of the citadel and the ramparts not too far away. And then his eyes fixed on a figure that stood high on the walls, cloak swaying softly in the breeze. It was nothing more than a silhouette, and yet it was a familiar one. It could have been Lainon standing there, in spirit form, watching over him. His eyes welled with tears.
But no, it was not Lainon. This figure was too tall, too strong. But he was Ari’atór.
Fel’annár cocked his head to one side in thought. The figure reminded him of a great black bird poised for flight, or perhaps some dark god contemplating the lands he ruled over. He shook his head, mentally smirking at his fanciful thoughts. It would be one of the Ari patrol Galadan had told him arrived just that day to discuss the Nim’uán. It was a simple Ari soldier taking an innocent evening stroll.
Idernon’s voice made him jump, and he closed his eyes to steady his thumping heart.
“Can I see?” asked the Wise Warrior, peering over his shoulder at the sketch of Lainon. Fel’annár held it out to him.
“You’re getting better at it,” he said quietly.
“It’s been so long since I opened this journal. Perhaps because it’s so full of the past,” said Fel’annár thoughtfully.
“The past is what makes us who we are, Fel’annár. It is what makes us how we are. You cannot separate the past from the present.”
Fel’annár’s brows rose, not quite sure he understood his friend, and so he shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t be bothered with philosophy right now.
“Has the song of the Nim’uán stopped? Can you still hear it?”
“It is soft and distant, almost gone but not quite,” he said, turning his eyes back down to the drawing of Lainon. He smiled softly and closed his journal reverently, buckling the leather straps that wound around it.
Idernon nodded, returning to his chair and his book. Fel’annár didn’t seem to want to talk any time soon. He was lost in his thoughts, pondering on the loss of Lainon, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was also about the Silvan healer. Fel’annár wasn’t the romantic kind, not that
he didn’t enjoy himself from time to time—he did, but he wasn’t Carodel. In fact, he had never seen his friend overly interested in any lover he had ever had, not even Dalia back home. Still he was not sure of the nature of Llyniel’s relationship with Fel’annár, not sure how he would feel if Fel’annár did harbour feelings for her that went beyond those of a simple distraction.
He wondered if he should just ask, but Sontúr beat him to it. “And where is Lady Llyniel?” he asked lightly from the other side of the room, conspiring eyes briefly catching those of Idernon. Carodel’s eyes snapped to the prince while the rest of The Company stared at Fel’annár. He smiled but didn’t look at any of them.
“With Prince Handir . . . or at the Halls.”
“She’ll be back later then?” asked Sontúr with a sly smile. “Perhaps for a Silvan nightcap?”
Fel’annár did look up then and at his impertinent friend. “A warrior can hope.” He grinned and then shrugged, and Galdith let out a long, high-pitched howl and Ramien yipped along with him. Fel’annár chuckled at their antics, shaking his head fondly and then not quite managing to stifle a yawn. This lingering tiredness would surely be gone with a good night’s rest and so he turned, bid them all goodnight and disappeared into his bedroom.
And so, The Company left amidst quiet murmuring, except for Galadan and Idernon who were on duty that night. Alone now, they sat in two identical armchairs before the roaring fire, the flickering orange light dancing over their faces. It reminded Idernon of the late-night celebrations in the Forest, when too much dance and drink turned one thoughtful and nostalgic.
Galadan’s voice, although soft, seemed overly loud to him.
“They tried to kill him”.
“Yes. Fel’annár’s intuition was right, again.” Idernon smiled. “He leaves none indifferent, does he?”
“He does not. You have grown beside him, but those of us who have met him in adulthood . . . I don’t think you quite understand who he is, what he is,” said Galadan almost absently.
