by R K Lander
He ran from the room, and Arané turned to Llyniel.
“Tell me what you think you have.”
“I can’t be sure, but I think we may have a chance.”
“Let’s hope it’s not too late,” murmured Arané as they both sat and Llyniel reverently laid her journal in the master healer’s hands.
Seventeen
Through the Eyes of Aria
“A dawn can herald many things. A new day in peace, the first day of a life—or perhaps the last. It can be dramatic, or it can be shrouded in cloud, visible only to the gods. But there is one dawn that we all remember, a dawn that heralded a day we would never forget.”
The Alpine Chronicles. Cor’hidén.
The dry hacking would not stop, and tears streamed from Pan’assár’s eyes. Two healers placed a bowl of steaming water before him, infused with ginger and tulsi. The commander did as he was told and inhaled the vapours. But still he coughed and then retched . . . and then inhaled again.
Sontúr winced. Pan’assár had suffered with these coughing attacks for the last two days, and when he was not hacking, his breath was laboured and he could not speak. And so he whispered—to Gor’sadén or Hobin in the beds beside him or to the healers who were always close by. But when it was time for the decoction to be fed to Fel’annár, it was almost always quiet, the air rife with stubborn hope and then utter disappointment when still he did not wake.
Sontúr approached Gor’sadén, who lay awake, lying with a mountain of cushions behind his back and under his leg. His face was pasty white and he sat as if petrified, and Sontúr couldn’t blame him. His leg had been skewered, and his chest had been crushed. The slightest of movements would cause excruciating pain, and so he lay there, murmuring words so that only those close enough to him could hear—not that they needed to. His question was always the same.
“Fel’annár?”
And then the healers would avoid his gaze and fuss with the bedclothes. Today, though, Sontúr met his worried eyes and sat in a chair beside his bed.
“You seem a little better, Gorsa.”
“Perhaps. Fel’annár?”
“There is no change, Gorsa. He just lies there and does not stir. We are feeding him the mixture Llyniel has created, but after two days . . . we must face reality.
“He can’t die, Sontúr.”
“He can, Gorsa. He may very well die.”
Gor’sadén closed his eyes and steadied himself. He had known it was bad, had held Fel’annár’s hand when he had fallen, had thought that he had died until the healers had come.
“Did you see him, Sontúr? Did you see him dance?” The whisper waned and Gor’sadén’s eyes closed in misery.
“I saw him,” replied Sontúr, standing and busying himself with the herbs that had been left for use on a small table. “How is the pain?”
Gor’sadén exhaled noisily, the only answer Sontúr got, and he mixed another potion of poppy. In the background, Pan’assár’s hacking continued.
“At least I know he will be well.”
“Yes. But he may have lasting damage to his throat, to his voice.”
“He is a commander.”
“Yes. I know,” said Sontúr carefully. “We will do what we can.”
“And what of Hobin?”
“He is doing well. However, it will be years before that leg of his is back to normal. He was lucky not to lose it.”
After a while, Gor’sadén managed to ask the question that had haunted his fevered dreams for the last few days.
“And mine? Will I lose my leg?”
Sontúr stopped his work and looked down at the commander. “I don’t think so, Gor’sadén. The damage was extensive, but Arané is a true master: we believe we have fixed it enough for you to begin recuperating your mobility, once the wound heals.”
The commander closed his eyes and allowed himself a deeper breath, wincing as he opened them and allowed his gaze to stray to the ceiling he now knew so well. For the first time in his life he prayed, the words just behind his thready breath. He prayed for Fel’annár’s return; he prayed that his own, new-found hope would not be snatched away from him. He prayed that Llyniel’s potion would work, but above all he prayed that he would not be left alone to mourn the son his heart had chosen.
Arané administered the tonic himself for the third time that day, and still, there had been no change. Fel’annár lay upon the bed, his breathing shallow and his skin pale and clammy. The master healer breathed deeply, his hope now tempered by the passage of time. The concoction had not killed the boy, but neither had it done anything for him. He ran his hand down his face and turned back to his patient, studiously ignoring the gazes of the commanders.
Lifting the bandages covering the horrific bite, his eyes travelled over the mangled flesh, wondering if it would ever fully regenerate—should he live, of course. It was red and angry . . . and then he swayed back with a frown. Bending further down, his eyes moved from side to side. There was no blood, only a thick clot over the deepest puncture. A clot.
He stood straight, so suddenly his hair flew about him, and then he walked stiffly to where Llyniel stood grinding herbs, gaze lost to infinity.
“Llyniel.”
Foggy eyes blinked slowly, and Arané’s figure sharpened before her.
“It’s working.”
“What’s working,” she murmured and then started. “The Junár?”
“There is a clot. He no longer bleeds. The unknown element has been counteracted. The echin, the star blade, the Junár bark . . . we have a chance.”
Llyniel couldn’t speak. She needed to see it for herself, and she walked stiltedly to Fel’annár’s bed, eyes peering down at him, Healer Mestahé at her shoulder.
“Thank the gods,” she whispered. Thank you, Rovad, wherever you are, she said to herself. But Llyniel knew as well as the rest of them that it was not yet time to celebrate. Although the decoction was working, the blood loss had been so great that Fel’annár might not be able to wake. They had solved the problem, but the damage it had wrought might prove too much for Fel’annár to fight.
For two more days they had fed an unconscious Fel’annár with Llyniel’s Junár bark mixture, and although his blood had clotted, he remained a prisoner in a place he could not escape from.
Gor’sadén had grown stronger, albeit he could still hardly move at all, and although Pan’assár still coughed and rasped, the irritation had calmed. Both he and Hobin had been released to their own rooms, but while the Ari commander was confined to his bed, not so Pan’assár, who spent his days sitting in an over-stuffed chair beside his friend’s bed.
Prince Handir was a regular visitor. He would talk with Llyniel or sit beside Fel’annár’s bed and endure the puzzled stares he received from Sontúr and Llyniel herself.
As the light of day faded, the people of Tar’eastór sung once more in soft, melodious voices. Their placid harmonies were meant to ease the mounting despair that was setting in. There were songs of comfort, prayers to Aria, muted thanks for the victory they had yet to proclaim. But at times it seemed to Gor’sadén that Bel’arán sang Fel’annár away, a herald to those in Valley to welcome him in honour.
Arané, in a last-ditched attempt to garner a reaction from Fel’annár, had finally allowed The Company to enter the infirmary—under the command that they were to bathe and change first and then stay out of his healers’ way. He bid them talk to him, call to him. If he had lost his way, perhaps the sound of familiar voices would show him the path back.
“I still remember that day we met you,” said Idernon, his voice soft yet loud enough for the rest to hear. “You were fighting, fists flying about even as the other boys gave you a pounding. I remember your face—feral, angry. An Alpine child in the heart of the Forest. You didn’t cry, even though I knew you wanted to.”
Healer Mestahé stepped closer as he rolled bandages, and Arané lifted his head from where he sat reading Llyniel’s book in his chair.
&
nbsp; “I took hold of them,” continued Ramien. “I bashed them together and knocked the wind out of them,” he said, showing them how he had done it with his hands. “They ran home wheezing to their mothers,” he explained, his mind reliving the scene, forty-five years into the past in Lan Taria.
Llyniel stood preparing the Junár decoction, listening to childhood stories meant to wake Fel’annár up. But she didn’t want to hear them, didn’t want to feel the crushing pity that was weighing her down. This was Fel’annár. This was the warrior, the elf she had loved almost from the moment she had cast eyes on him. She had never admitted that to herself, not until she had kissed him in the trees, but even then, she had not said it . . . and neither had he.
She needed to tell him before he left without her—before he took her heart with him to Valley.
“We walked to the nearby river to hide the evidence of your fight, but your nose had grown fat and puffy and so we devised an excuse, elaborate and so plausible to the mind of a seven-year-old. We told Amareth we had been taunting the chickens in the baker’s garden, but that one of them had turned on us and chased us, its feathers all puffed up, wings flapping as it gaggled like some forest banshee. It was really angry, we said, and Fel’annár, in his terror, tripped and fell over, bashing his nose on a stone. But Amareth had somehow seen through the subterfuge and you were punished—again,” said Idernon with a soft smile. “No chicken for a whole cycle of the moon.”
Mestahé was quietly snorting in one corner, but his eyes were overly bright, and even Arané’s jaw clenched with repressed emotions despite the countless times he had seen himself in similar situations.
“Ramien and I sat under the tree in your garden the following day, waiting for you to go to the school house. I remember you stopped short, suspicion shining in your eyes. You couldn’t believe we were there to help you, but we were,” said Ramien.
Idernon smiled, eyes momentarily glancing over the rest of The Company, who stared back at him in expectation.
“On that day, at that very moment, The Company was born. It was the moment we learned to fight—not with our fists, for we already excelled at that. Nay, we learned to fight for what we wanted, for what was right. There were no more cruel words, no more loose fists or pilfered lunches. We were The Company: we stood up for ourselves and we have never stepped backwards. You—must not step away, Fel’annár. You must stay and fight as you always have. You must come back to us so that we can fulfil this purpose we have.” He bent low, next words whispered into Fel’annár’s ear.
“Wake up, Hwind’atór.”
Idernon turned away, catching Galadan’s intense gaze as he did so.
A cleared throat—Mestahé.
A long, tired breath from Ramien. “I’m going for a walk. I won’t be long,” he said, and Idernon watched him as he left, knowing the memories that would be playing havoc with his friend’s emotions.
They slipped into silence once more until it was time for the next dose of Junár, and before long, Ramien returned with a potted plant in his arms.
“Here. He’ll be horrified when he wakes up to find himself in this place with no plants.”
They watched as he placed the pot on the bedside table. He leaned back, tilted his head, and then reached out to place it a little closer to Fel’annár’s head.
“Better,” he nodded in satisfaction.
Those of The Company looked away while Mestahé sniffled from where he stood in one corner. Nobody spoke until the evening had slipped away and the dark of night was upon them.
Galadan dreamed of their near-fatal journey to Tar’eastór, of that strange moment in which he had called Fel’annár “my prince.” Galdith remembered the tiny face of his infant daughter, before she had been slaughtered by Sand Lords at the Battle of Sen’uár—and how he had thought Fel’annár an Alpine. Carodel remembered Fel’annár’s flushed face singing along to one of his tunes while Sontúr remembered his own sarcastic humour and how it made Fel’annár laugh, and all the while, the deep dark of night stretched on in silence.
Pan’assár’s heart was heavy in his chest, though he had returned a Kah Warrior, worthy of its symbols at last—had purged his guilt and atoned for his sins. He had become fond of Or’Talán’s grandchild, but more than this, he knew what the boy meant to Gor’sadén, what it would do to him should Fel’annár succumb. His eyes turned to the healer in the corner, the one he knew loved Fel’annár. He had hated her, too, until he had seen her, understood her, and finally came to respect her. What would become of her if Fel’annár died, he wondered. His own king’s face came to his mind and then the green eyes of the woman he had loved—the woman his own heart brother had inexplicably forbidden his son to marry.
A cry of shock jolted them all, and Arané clambered to his feet, heart beating wildly.
“What is it?” He looked around for the source of the disturbance. Mestahé stood frozen, eyes on Fel’annár’s bed, and the master healer slowly turned. Ramien’s potted plant had grown three times its size, had burst its clay pot and toppled onto the bed beside Fel’annár, and around his inert fingers, tiny roots had coiled.
Arané walked stiltedly towards the bed, the rustle of cloth around him.
“By all that is holy . . .” he muttered.
“Sweet Aria,” exclaimed Carodel.
Llyniel’s eyes travelled from the coiled roots and up the limp arm to Fel’annár’s face. She felt his brow and leaned down to feel his breath.
“His breathing is steadier; he feels warmer.”
Galdith’s eyes moved between the singular spectacle of roots that had entangled in Fel’annár’s fingers and the healer who assured them Fel’annár was better.
“The Sentinel,” murmured Galdith.
“What about it?” asked Sontúr.
“We take him to the Sentinel.”
“He’s going nowhere,” said Arané.
“Brothers,” pleaded the Silvan. “If one plant can bring an improvement, imagine what the Sentinel may do for him. We have to try.”
“I won’t allow it.”
“He’s right, Arané. You have nothing else to try. We do. What is the worst that can happen by taking him into the night?” asked Idernon.
The healer stared back at him, unable to refute the argument. Fel’annár would die one way or the other—he had convinced himself of that already. “I’ll come with you. Mestahé, warn the guard outside. Clear the way. We don’t want to draw attention to him.”
The healer nodded and then left the room, whispering quietly with the guard. Moments later, Ramien, Galadan, Carodel, and Galdith bore the stretcher that carried Fel’annár out of the room, his body bundled in woollen blankets. Arané, Llyniel, and the rest of The Company followed, while inside the infirmary, all Gor’sadén could do was watch in frustration as they left to attempt their one last chance to bring Fel’annár back to life . . . or give up the fight and let him slip away. Pan’assár could sense his helplessness, knew he wanted to be there, to whatever end, but that was still not within Gor’sadén’s capacity, and so he stayed beside his friend. They would wait together, deal with whatever happened together.
And so they waited, useless words held at bay until troubled sleep took them both.
Fel’annár lay on his stretcher, a mountain of pillows behind him, which in turn lay against the impressive trunk of the Sentinel in the king’s gardens. Idernon had placed one of Fel’annár’s hands over the roots, a gesture Fel’annár often adopted absently.
Llyniel watched The Company from where she, Arané, and Mestahé sat a little further away. This was a moment for these warriors to share, she realised. She would be intruding if she were to lie down beside him as she so desperately wanted to do, but Idernon turned to her then, eyes searching hers, as if he pondered something important. She watched him patiently. Idernon was much younger than Galadan, a warrior, not a lieutenant, and yet he had always been Fel’annár’s second in command. The others understood this as clearly as
she did, as clearly as she had seen his disapproval of their relationship—even though the Wise Warrior thought she had not seen it. But looking at him now she wondered if he had realised. He slowly held out one hand, a gesture for her to join them, and her heart jolted. Rising to her feet, she walked the few paces that separated them and sat beside Idernon, giving him a grateful nod and then turning back to Fel’annár.
Perhaps some had thought the tree would move, that branches would gently brush his cheek and bring him back to life. Perhaps they thought the tree would glow—or that roots would emerge from the depths and spiral around his body, infuse him with some magic.
But nothing happened, and so they sat, and they waited, and then they dozed. They didn’t see the hazy tendrils of light that floated lazily around them, sailing over them and then converging upon Fel’annár. The colourful ribbons played with his hair and circled his limbs, as if they would pick him up with their translucent arms and fly him away . . .
He knew he existed, yet he couldn’t remember his name, wondered where he was and whether this was Valley, for he could not feel his body, could not feel the hard ground beneath him. Perhaps this was his spirit form. Perhaps he had died and was waiting to find himself.
Energy passed through flesh, into his blood, into his very essence. It surged through his veins, pulsed inside his body, and he remembered. He was Fel’annár; he was Hwind’atór, brother of The Company.
But then a crack of tenuous light appeared before him, his eyelids opening to the twilight canvas that was slowly lightening to soothing lavender. He could almost smell it as the deep purple leeched to rosy grey and then a blush of shocking scarlet streaked through it, and it was powerful, bold, invincible.
He had never seen a dawn such as this one.
Those shocking colours seemed to ignite his soul, and his breath paused in his lungs as the first slither of sun broke the horizon, rising a master, absolute commander of the day. He tilted his head towards it, felt his open eyes smile, an oaken embrace behind him, holding him with tender care. He could feel every leaf upon every twig upon every branch, shimmering cobwebs dripping with dew. They told their story to the wind and the sun—to him.
