by R K Lander
“It is her way. She knows the weight of her existence; she understands the implications. For an Ari’atór it is natural to believe, but for others, it is a question of choice, a choice she does not judge—none of us do. It is logical not to believe, just as it is logical to feel the existence of divinity.”
“Did she . . . did she create this world?”
“We do not think so. We believe she guards it, guides it. She is Divine Guardian.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because she is good. She is the heart, Ber’anor. And yet bad things exist in this world, things she did not wish for, things she exists to defend us from. That is the job of the Ari’atór. We are her soldiers, Spirit Warriors, upholders of her will.”
“And how do you know her will, Hobin?”
“She tells us, Fel’annár. As clearly as you and I speak now. I feel her; I envy you,” he said suddenly.
Fel’annár frowned. “You shouldn’t.”
But Hobin smiled softly. “Fel’annár, I feel her, but you see her, her light, the energy . . .”
“That is what the trees see, Hobin. It is their world I see,” he said, shaking his head.
“Yes. And are they not blessed, Fel’annár? To see the light of Aria every day? To see the energy that pulses through this world? That light is everything good—it is Aria.”
“And why should I be able to see this? Why is it necessary for me to see it in order to embrace her dictates?”
“In what other way would you have understood, Fel’annár? How else was she to make you see what she requires of you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “But why take so long, why be so cryptic about it? I have had this dream since I can remember: a blue-eyed lady in the trees who looks down upon me as a babe. I used to think she was my mother, but then I saw her, too; darker hair, green eyes.”
“Did she speak to you?” asked Hobin.
“Eventually. She said I would shine for us all.” He said it so softly it was almost a whisper.
“You are frightened. And I understand you.”
“How can you, Hobin?” he asked, desperation shining in his still scintillating eyes.
“Because I, too, have had that dream, Fel’annár.”
Fel’annár stepped backwards, utter shock on his face. “What?”
Hobin’s unnerving face was right before his own, eyes searching him. “Because I, too, am Ber’anor.”
A wave of frigid cold rolled painfully through his body, and he stepped backwards again. “You had dreams, of Aria in a tree?”
“For me, she sat upon the mountainside, but yes, for many years I dreamed of her until one day, she revealed the nature of my service.”
“But you are Ari’atór . . .”
“Yes,” he nodded and then stepped forward, peering closely into Fel’annár’s eyes. “And so are you.”
Fel’annár stared back at Hobin, confusion warring with realisation. “No.” He shook his head, took another step backwards, even though he knew it was true.
“You are Ari’atór, in all but the colour of your skin, Fel’annár. Had Lainon not died performing his duty, he would be the one to tell you now.”
“He knew this?”
“He would certainly have suspected, but he would never have told you until the revelation of your purpose had taken place. Aria reveals her plans slowly so as not to cause pain or confusion, so that the journey from ignorance to knowledge is taken willingly. But there is no mistake, Fel’annár. Only Ari’atór are Ber’ator, Ber’anor.”
“But all Ari’atór are dark-skinned. Why . . . why is my skin pale?”
“That is a good question. It is one I cannot answer, Fel’annár.”
Ari children were born to any race; Silvan, Alpine, occasionally even Pelagian. It was impossible to know which parents would be graced with a Spirit Warrior, or perhaps Herder, but it was always counted a blessing, even though they knew their child would be taken at an early age, to Araria and training. Most parents would follow, stay until they were adults at least. But these children were always born with dark skin and slanted blue eyes and Fel’annár wondered if his mother had known. If Amareth had known.
“Then I have no choice in this? If I am Ari’atór, then I am bound to her will.”
“You do have a choice. Your destiny is not written. You can reject it, turn your back on all this. You will not be judged for it, because Aria is heart. It is for you to choose, Fel’annár. But you are Ari’atór.”
His mind was in disarray, thoughts scattered, bouncing here and there. He was Ari’ator, just like his grandfather, Zendár. Fel’annár had always been a warrior, even when he was a child, and now, he finally understood why. It was in his blood, in his Ari blood. A shaky smile pulled at his lips despite his confusion, and he turned, walking to the full-length windows, eyes gazing past the glass and to infinity. He felt Hobin move beside him.
“I thought myself strange, Hobin. So different from everyone around me. Always thinking of warfare and training, of being a captain. I was obsessed, they said.”
“And now you understand, finally. You are not strange, Fel’annár; you are Ari’atór. This is in your blood, despite the colour of your skin.”
Fel’annár nodded, a sense of finality settling on him—not heavily though. It was more like a soft, warm blanket that soothed his soul, and he smiled timidly. The heat in his eyes had cooled, and he turned to Hobin, nodding his thanks. But then a thought popped into his mind.
“Commander . . .”
“Hobin,” corrected the Ari.
“Hobin. How did you come to understand the nature of your duty, as Ber’anor?”
Hobin stared back at him while he considered how to tell Fel’annár how it had happened. “I had a dream, a dream I could not fathom. I was lucky to have a friend to help me work through its implications.”
“Will you . . . can you tell me what it is?” asked Fel’annár hesitantly.
Hobin nodded slowly. “I can, although it is something I do not readily reveal.”
“Because you wouldn’t be believed?”
“Yes, for the most part, but also for the unwanted attention it can garner.”
How Fel’annár understood that! Still, Hobin had not told him, and he stared back expectantly at the commander.
“It is my duty to guide others. Guide those chosen by Aria to understand their path and accept it, should they so choose to.”
Fel’annár’s eyes widened. It was Hobin who had stood upon the walls, the catalyst of his final dream. Hobin had come to the Motherland purposefully, so that he could guide Fel’annár on his path as Ber’anor. He felt overwhelmed, but through the mists of his thoughts and his slowly collecting mind, another question begged to be answered.
“Hobin, what happened . . . when Lainon died? What was that blue light that lingered between us?”
Hobin considered the young Silvan before him. He was the most powerful of all the Ber’anor he had met, but he was so young. He wondered if the boy would understand, but a question had been asked and Hobin would not leave him in the dark. Fel’annár had loved Lainon—this he could see, and Lainon had loved the boy just as fiercely—Hobin had known that from the moment he saw the Giving.
“There are three of many things in this world, Fel’annár. There is the spirit, the material, and the guide.”
Fel’annár’s eyes roved over Hobin’s face, over the decorations, and Hobin nodded.
“This here.” He pointed to the three half circles on his forehead. “This represents the spirit while this, here . . . ” He pointed to the wavy lines across one cheek. “This is the material.” He concluded by jutting his chin skywards, decorated with a single line and three spots on either side. “And here, this is the guiding hand—or light as some call it. The blue light that you saw, which left Lainon and entered you, that was his guiding light, the light every Ber’ator possesses which makes them Divine Protector, a small part of Aria, of the energy tha
t guides them on their path. Lainon was your Ber’ator. His guiding light was yours to keep.”
“But he’s dead, and yet that light stirs in my mind . . .”
“He is not dead.”
Fel’annár’s wide, disbelieving eyes snapped to Hobin beside him. He briefly wondered if the Ari’atór spoke figuratively, but no, he spoke literally—the rare smile on his face told Fel’annár it was so, and his eyes filled with tears that fell over his bottom lids and down his face unchecked. He turned back to the window, nostrils flaring.
“You loved him well, and that is as it should be. The bond between Ber’anor and Ber’ator is never broken; the guiding light is eternal, just as soulmates are eternally one. The greatest Ber’ator stand upon the borders of Valley, and I wonder if perhaps Lainon will take his place there one day.”
“The Last Markers? They are Ber’ator?”
“Yes. Perhaps you will see them one day. I would show you, tell you their stories.”
“I would like that,” said Fel’annár, still struggling to control his emotions. All his questions had been answered. He understood Lainon’s death at last, understood that he had returned, alive. He breathed deeply, a calm sort of peace descending over him—despite the enormity of it all, despite what still lay before him. Hobin’s sudden question brought him back to the present.
“Do you know what it is that you are charged with?”
“I do,” said Fel’annár after a while, turning to face Hobin. “Although those it affects have no idea . . . and even if I told them they would not believe me. I am to restore the forests of Ea Uaré. Bring her people together, restore harmony where now there is nothing but discrimination and injustice. I pray you will not ask me how.”
Hobin didn’t. “That is a mighty task, Fel’annár. You will need help, you will need to recruit the collaboration of others.”
“Yes. Prince Handir and perhaps Commander Pan’assár.”
“Do they know what you are?”
“No. They know only that I am a Listener, and the commanders know I have a gift. That is the short of it.”
“You will not tell them?”
“No. It seems unnecessary at this point, yet I will tell my brothers of The Company. They need to know if they are to follow me in this. And then perhaps I will tell Gor’sadén . . .”
Hobin nodded, satisfied it seemed. Tensári was not ready, and Fel’annár needed protection . . . every Ber’anor did. He did not expect Fel’annár’s next question.
“What of Tensári? Now that Lainon is restored?”
“Tensári is . . . was . . . angry for a while, resentful. She is not yet ready to leave Araria, but I wager you will see her again, sometime soon.”
“She blames me.”
“In a way, and yet she knows the truth, Fel’annár. She knew Lainon was your Ber’ator. For now, though, she must learn to connect with her Connate, just as Lainon must learn from the other side. This is one of the boons of being Ari’atór, Fel’annár. Should a Connate die, the one that is left behind is broken, half-dead, just as with any other elf, but all Ari’atór find themselves, sooner or later, and when they do, that grief is gone as the Connates learn to feel each other across the divide. We are blessed in that our grief will end, be it tomorrow or a thousand years from now. For others, though, that grief may even be eternal.”
Fel’annár considered Hobin’s words and could not help but think of his own father and mother. They were not Ari, not Connates but soulmates. Lássira had died, and the king’s grief might well be infinite.
“Hobin. Did you . . . did you know my grandfather, Zendár?”
Long moments of silence followed Fel’annár’s question, and Hobin’s face seemed to momentarily crack, stony features becoming as expressive as his eyes for just an instant, long enough for Fel’annár to wonder what he had said to upset the commander. There were deep emotions hidden under layers of responsibility and command.
“Yes,” he said quietly, a stiff smile glancing over his lips. “Yes, I knew Zendár. I did not know he was your grandfather. I will tell you about him one day.”
Fel’annár watched him. He wanted to ask, wanted to know everything that Hobin did about his mother’s father, the other Ari’atór in his line, but Hobin’s reaction had been strange. He opened his mouth slowly. “Is he dead?”
“No.” The word had been loosed no sooner Fel’annár had finished his sentence.
“Not any more. He is beyond the Source. Alive.”
“Did he have family, apart from his daughters? Do they still live?” asked Fel’annár, head only half turned to Hobin as both stood before the full-length windows that looked out over the dramatic landscape beyond.
“Yes, he had family. As far as I know they are still in Bel’arán. A wife, a son, and two daughters.”
“One died,” said Fel’annár before Hobin could continue. “My mother died.”
The commander breathed deeply. “When Zendár took the Short Road, I believe they returned to the forests of their birth. I pray you will be reunited with them, one day. You have a grandmother, an uncle and an aunt.”
Fel’annár’s eyes were wide, his mind rushing far forwards, wondering when he would be free to find them, the uncle and grandmother he had never met. But then what would he say? Would they know about him? They must surely, he mused. But then why had they not come? Why had he never met them? Why had Amareth hidden him away as she had? Turned her back on her own family?
He turned his head fully to Hobin, studied his severe profile, the rigid expression on his face and the broiling, swirling emotions in his eyes. There was much suffering there, thought Fel’annár.
“I will need your guidance, Hobin.”
“And you will always have it, Fel’annár Aren’Zendár.”
That evening, Fel’annár sat in his rooms with The Company, knowing that he could put it off no longer. Their conversation was quiet, muted almost, their usual banter absent, but still they did not press him and for that he was grateful. He had needed time to allow his mind to temper itself—for his new knowledge to find its place. And yet in spite of the gravity of what he would reveal, his joy at Lainon’s return could not be hidden, and so Fel’annár sat in some strange place between joy and apprehension. He had thought one and a thousand times of how he would tell The Company of his nature and duty . . . so that it would be believable. But he had failed to find that formula. He knew he was asking of them a leap of faith and both Idernon and Sontúr would not be able to jump it. He had hardly been able to jump it himself.
“The woods call to me. Shall we heed these poor Alpine trees and lend them some company, so to speak?” His tone was light, but his idea to tell them in the trees was not random. He needed to show them, needed them to see—help them to believe, just as Aria had done for him. He just hoped he wouldn’t frighten them in the process . . . or himself!
“You want to sit in the trees outside the gates—at sundown in the frigid cold? Are you mad, Silvan?” asked Sontúr.
Fel’annár smirked. “You Alpines and your roaring hearths. Have you no coat?”
“Of course I have a coat, but what is the point of sitting in the cold? Oh, and did I mention there is an assassin after your hide?”
“Stay if you wish,” he said with a smile. “But I have something I must tell you all, and there is no other place I would rather be.”
They all stood then and Sontúr dashed from the room. “Wait for me!” he called over his shoulder. Minutes later they were striding through the main gates and into the surrounding woods. They were silent, but Fel’annár felt strangely confident, eyes moving from one tree to another as they passed until they came upon a sprawling oak. Hauling himself upwards with one arm, he watched as the other Silvans and Galadan followed with practised ease. Sontúr though, remained on the ground, looking up at them in annoyance.
Finally, he tutted. “Help me up, you Silvan tree hamsters.”
There was a giggle and then two strong arms
reached down and hoisted the Alpine prince aloft. Before long, they were navigating their way up the central trunk until they found an expanse of thick branches upon which they could all comfortably sit—albeit Sontúr sat somewhat stiffly, back firmly pressed against the bark behind him. Galdith patted the Alpine reassuringly on the thigh, but the sour look on the prince’s face did not ease.
Fel’annár settled back, bending his legs and resting his wrists on his knees. He sniffled in the silence. It was cold, but he wasn’t going to admit to that. He breathed deeply, still unsure of how he would tell them, how he would show them. He said the first thing that came to him.
“Lainon is ever-present in my mind, but recently I have felt that presence more acutely. I thought it was simply a part of what it means to grieve for someone, the onset of acceptance that he had gone. I was wrong.”
He could feel their eyes on him, silent and impatient, and he pressed on. “Commander Hobin put me right. He said . . . he said Lainon has found himself, that he is alive in Valley.”
A gasp, a strangled exclamation, a triumphant shout and meaningful silence but his own joy was contagious, and he felt their hands on his arms, on his head. They all knew how important Lainon had been to Fel’annár—indeed he had been important to them all, but none had shared that bond of brotherhood that Fel’annár had with the Ari’atór.
“So that’s what all the mystery was about!” said Carodel. “Why didn’t you just tell us!”
“Because that’s not what all the mystery was about,” he said, and The Company shared a perplexed look with each other—all of them except for Galadan and Idernon.
“I’ve had a dream since as long as I can remember. Idernon and Ramien have always known. It is a dream of a lady in a tree. I used to think she was my mother, but I was wrong. This woman would smile down at me, a babe who wiggled and gurgled up at her. For years I saw the same tree, the same lady, the same baby. Until last year.”
“You saw your mother.” Idernon nodded. “I remember.”
“Yes. I saw her dark hair and green eyes, and I knew she was not the blue-eyed lady in the tree. After that, again and again I would see her smiling eyes, but she never spoke . . . until just a few months ago.”
