Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  “Well, I have much to do then. Keep me informed, Fel’annár. I would speak with Pan’assár personally once you have told him what we intend to do.”

  “You trust me then to do this?”

  “I do. I can see there are things you have not said, things you keep to yourself, and I will not delve into the wherewithal of that. You will tell me when you will,” he said, rising to his feet. “Our return is imminent, Fel’annár. I wait only for you to be fit enough to travel. There are plans to be made, a route to be agreed on, a safe route, and there are missives that must be prepared and then sent with the utmost secrecy. There are dangerous times ahead, Brother. I would have us do this together.”

  Fel’annár smiled, open and genuine for the first time.

  “Handir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Lainon. He is not dead. He has found himself—he is alive across the Veil. Hobin has told me so.”

  He froze where he stood, eyes flickering wide even as they filled with tears. He turned to Llyniel, voice quiet and strangled. “I will leave you two alone then, to talk and to . . . be Silvan . . . if you must.” He smirked through the shock on his face, and with a wave of his jewelled hand and with eyes that were far too bright, he turned abruptly and walked back to the palace.

  “Will you not comfort him?” asked Fel’annár.

  “Not now. He needs time alone. I will see him later. Lainon’s return is to be celebrated.” She smiled radiantly.

  Fel’annár watched her as she leaned sideways and plucked a single buttercup, and then twirled it between two fingers, eyes watching as the petals merged into a buttery ribbon of radiant yellow. He loved the way she looked at things—with deep curiosity and shining eyes. He loved her compassionate heart and sharp mind. He loved the gentle curve of her nose and her well-defined upper lip and . . .

  “I love you.”

  Her head snapped to him, eyes searching, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards, but there was wonder in her honey-coloured eyes, a hazy sort of peace that warmed his heart. He watched her face until she was so close he could no longer focus, and then the touch of soft lips caressed his own. He felt her breath on his face, a hand smoothing reverently down his hair. She moved back, just enough for him to focus.

  “And my heart is here,” she said, her hand covering his chest over the simple linen shirt he wore. “It has been—for longer than I care to admit. I told myself it was your body I wanted.” She smirked, and Fel’annár cocked an eyebrow at her. “Well, it was, but there was more. And yet I ignored it, told myself it was not the time for romance. I have a dream, one I will never relinquish. And then you told me yours, to be a Silvan captain. How could we reconcile our dreams with any kind of future together, Fel’annár? Always parted, never knowing if you would come back, and if you did, in what state I would find you. But then I saw you, I saw what Lainon had seen, what The Company see in you, and for all that I tried, I could no longer resist. When they brought you in from the battle I thought . . . I thought you would die.”

  Her voice faltered, and Fel’annár raised a hand, reached for her face, fingers combing into her hair.

  “I didn’t die. You saved me.”

  “I stopped you from dying. Aria brought you back. I bless that dawn, Fel’annár, the dawn of my eternal love for you.”

  Joy of the kind he had never felt surged through his body, and the Sentinel behind him raised its voice to the lands beyond. He wanted to run, open his arms to the world, and scream his joy, but he couldn’t do that yet, so he imagined it, and then her lips were upon him, hand tracing down his neck and to his chest. She shifted forwards until her body pressed against him. The kiss deepened, and Fel’annár moaned in bliss. She needed to stop—but not yet. He pulled her to him, sunk into her lips, felt the pulse of blood in her neck, hot and irresistible.

  She leaned back and smiled saucily, cocking her head to one side. “Soon, when you are better, we can show each other.” She smiled that Silvan smile that had always managed to melt him like butter in the sun.

  “Oh yes. I will show you.” He smiled. “Show you what it is to be Silvan.”

  She laughed and batted him on the shoulder, and for a while they simply sat, shoulder-to-shoulder, while Fel’annár drew her in his journal, but it wasn’t a buttercup he placed in her hands—it was his namesake. The vivid green flower after which he was named was in Llyniel’s hands, just like his heart.

  “So we are both going back to Ea Uaré, I to a family I do not know and you to a family you left behind. Can you forgive them, Llyniel?”

  She thought for a moment before she spoke. “Perhaps. And you? Can you forgive yours?”

  He stared back at her. Could he? Forgive Thargodén for creating him for the simple purpose of saving the one he loved? Months ago, the answer would have been a resounding “no”. But then he had met Llyniel and his heart had chosen. She had shown him what it meant to love, to know how it would feel should he ever lose her in the circumstances his father had lost Lássira. He wondered what he would not do to save her from death.

  “Forgive him, yes. But whether we can erase the years between us, whether we can ever be father and son . . . ” He shook his head. “I cannot say.”

  “We’ll do it together, then, shall we?” she said, knowing that they would need each other in the months to come.

  Fel’annár’s hand splayed and he intertwined his fingers with hers, squeezing almost painfully.

  “Together.”

  He pulled her to him and they kissed, long and languid, sealing their pact of friendship and nascent love, a union of kindred souls poised to fly away on a dangerous path of life. Together they had said, and as the soft breeze ruffled the pages of Fel’annár’s diary, the capricious wind chose a page upon which another lady gazed into infinity, her eyes just as bright and green as Fel’annár’s. She too had confessed her love, had held her own Green Sun in her hands, a Fel’annár of the Deep Forest, Silvan symbol of eternal love.

  That flower still existed, sitting between the aging pages of a similar diary—a diary that King Thargodén would open every day and remember his own, eternal love beyond Valley.

  Shadows made no noise and Macurian was no exception, even though he was blind in one eye and his left arm hung useless in a sling.

  He watched with keen, shrewd eyes as the lord standing before him sipped his wine and contemplated the privileged view beyond his window, framed with rich drapes. Sulén was rich—and he was ruthless. Dangerous in his aspirations, ones Macurian could well guess at. Just days ago, he would have respected the lord, but now, all he felt was pity for Sulén . . . and for himself.

  The lord turned from the window and then sat, depositing his jewelled goblet to one side and taking up a parchment in the other, obviously re-reading something he had already seen. He sighed and took his goblet in his hand.

  Macurian stepped from the shadows, and wine spilled over Sulén’s manicured hand.

  The Shadow smiled. “Lord Sulén.”

  “How dare you,” he murmured. “I could have you thrown in the dungeons for this trespass.”

  “But you won’t, of course.”

  Sulén stood, dabbing at his hand with a silken handkerchief. “What do you want?” he asked slowly.

  “A good question, my lord. As you can see, battle has left me . . . impaired . . . for a while at least. I must think on an alternative way to earn my keep.”

  “I think we can come to an arrangement. I will have my treasurer see to it.”

  “I would rather you saw to it personally, my lord.”

  Sulén stared back at Macurian, reading his cool, steady eyes.

  “Name your price, Shadow,” he murmured, turning away, eyes darting here and there for anything that might help him should he need to defend himself.

  “I want a fair price.”

  “But you failed. The Silvan bastard still lives.”

  “Yes. Yes, he does . . . and so do you. Perhaps you would be dead now
, were it not for him, and still you call him bastard.”

  “Are you telling me, now, that you have scruples, Shadow?”

  “Not really. I admire him, but that would not stop me from killing him.”

  “Then won’t you finish him?”

  “Perhaps, if you pay the price.”

  “I have already paid.”

  “You will pay tenfold should I tell your king all that I know.”

  “You dare to blackmail the House of Sulén?” murmured the lord, staring hard at the twisted Shadow.

  “I prefer to call it a transaction, my lord. But in answer to your question, yes.”

  It had been an attempt to intimidate Macurian, but he had not flinched at all.

  “Name your price.”

  “Your gems.”

  Sulén opened his mouth to protest, but Macurian stepped closer and the lord remained silent.

  “Don’t,” said Macurian. “Open it.” He gestured with his head to where he knew Sulén had stashed his fortune. He would rather have the coin, but he would never be able to carry such weight.

  Before long, Sulén was handing over his family’s considerable collection of diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires, jaw clenched and bloody intent in his eyes. Macurian had wrapped them in filthy cloth, nodded and then left, as silently as he had come. Sulén stared after him, his sharp mind enumerating the various things that Macurian could possibly do, but all of them contemplated the possibility that the Shadow would betray his trust. He looked about his study and then to his desk and the scrolls that lay there. There was sensitive information inside them, details he would need to replicate and hide away. He left the room in a whirl of fine cloth, in search of his secretary and his son, Silor. They would extract only the necessary information and eliminate all traces of names and then burn the scrolls. There were contingency plans to make, missives to write.

  Minutes later he was back with Silor and his secretary. As Sulén strode to his desk, his heart plummeted to his boots, because where before there had been three scrolls upon the carefully waxed surface, now there was nothing—but wood.

  “Oh gods.”

  The others watched him in confusion, but Sulén saw the words floating before his mind’s eye, saw the orders and the promises, the names that would incriminate him but not his lord. He briefly wondered if the Shadow had taken them only to ensure that Sulén did not have him arrested or killed. But there was another possibility—that Macurian did have scruples, that he would present those scrolls as evidence against Sulén.

  “We leave for Ea Uaré at dawn.”

  “What . . . why?” asked Silor. “Macurian has our jewels; he’ll finish the job. Why would we leave?”

  “You fool!” spat Sulén, grabbing his son by the front of his tunic and shaking him, eyes round and trembling. “He has more than our jewels. He has the missives, the ones Handir never received, but more than this, he has my unfinished missive to Ea Uaré.”

  Unfinished . . . uncyphered. Silor finally understood, and Sulén released him.

  Straightening his tunic, he bowed. “I will see to it, Father.”

  Macurian would ride to Prairie, he decided. Humans would pay a pretty price for the services of one such as him, mutilated though he was.

  He was still dangerous.

  He had told Sulén that he would kill the Silvan in exchange for his family gems. It wasn’t the first time he had lied—wouldn’t be the last. He patted the bag of jewels that lay heavily in his panier and then kicked his mount into a canter. He passed through the gates and then cantered down the slopes, and as he passed the ruined trees, he bowed his head in silent respect and left the Motherland behind. As for the scrolls he had taken from Sulén’s desk, he had left them upon an elegant table, inside an elegant suite of rooms, designated to a prince of the Great Forest.

  “Is he dead?”

  “He may be, but at the time Lord Sulén wrote this he was still alive,” replied Councillor Draugole.

  “Damn that baseborn Silvan,” said Barathon. “Still, I am sure our allies will see to it soon enough.”

  “Perhaps,” murmured Band’orán. “Still, we must assume the worst and prepare for the possibility that he will try to return.”

  “And we will be waiting for them,” said the warrior who shared in their council. “We wait for Pan’assár’s return—if he returns, and then we make sure our captains vote against the return of the warlord. In all truth, there is merit to the idea of waiting these two months. It gives us more time to persuade the reticent . . . and for the Silvans to calm down, let their anger subside before we deny them once more.”

  “Well then, it is all but done,” said Band’orán as he stood and turned to his avid audience. “Our long years of planning and strategy are finally coming to a head. We have the majority vote of the Merchant’s Guild and the overwhelming cooperation of the Inner Circle,” he said, nodding at the formidable warrior, who returned his look with a smile. “Lords Sulén and Ras’dan have only to complete the task entrusted to them and then they will join us. That is when the second colonisation can begin. The seeds of discord have germinated and the Silvans grow weaker by the day. All is in place for when our prince tries to return, and if the bastard is with him, we will deal with them both once and for all.

  “Take my hands, my friends, for it is time to make of Ea Uaré a land of Alpine splendour—with new lords, new princes, and a new king that will take our glorious people into a prosperous future, the likes of which Elvendom has never seen.”

  The warrior stood, a gleam in his eye that spoke of pride and hunger for a power that had been denied him . . . but that would soon be his. Whether or not Pan’assár made it back alive, he was finished. The Three were a relic of the past.

  It was time for General Huren to shine now—beside his new lord and king, Band’orán.

  Amareth watched Erthoron and Lorthil from where she sat at a small fire, which crackled and hissed in the early evening twilight. Golloron and Narosén were there, too, heads bent over as they listened and shared silent understanding. She knew of what they spoke—of a new Silvan council, one that truly represented their people.

  The king had vetoed the result of the royal council, had been brave and had promised much in doing so, but the Silvans no longer believed him, no longer saw him as the leader of their nation. It was Band’orán who held sway over the majority of Alpines, they said. To the Silvans, the second vote was meaningless, predictable, just like the vote the Inner Circle would take on the return of the warlord.

  A part of her wished that they would just accept things for what they were. But then she knew that was wrong, just as she knew that, in following their hearts and striving for justice, they might be forced to isolate themselves inside the woods, close them off to the Alpine invaders. They may have their Silvan Council, but who would lead them?

  Stay away, my son. Don’t come back.

  She had no way of knowing whether Fel’annár was still alive. If he was dead, she would take the Long Road, leave the forests of her home for good, even knowing that they would, eventually, succumb to the power and wealth of the Alpines. But if Fel’annár was still alive, should he step into this conflicted land it would sentence him to a life of persecution by those who followed Band’orán, and only Amareth knew the extent to which Band’orán would go. The first time he had tried to kill Fel’annár, Lássira had fooled his assassin and paid the price. But they would find him the second time around.

  She cast her eyes around their camp. They were just inside the forest proper, on the outskirts of Sen’garay. They had been met by crowds of Silvans come to hear the outcome of their demands, but questions had not been necessary.

  Their patience had come to an end.

  She closed her eyes with the first beat of a base drum. Deep and hollow, like a lost elf, alone in the dark.

  The lonely beat continued until it was joined by a double drum, a higher tone, a faster rhythm. No longer alone, a timid light in the cold
of night.

  The Silvans called for unity.

  Another beat joined the base and double drums, a melodious descant that shifted in tone, lending a complexity to the weave of tribal music.

  The Silvans called for justice.

  The higher tonal drums began their own lilting beat, interchanging rhythms and tones, and the chorus surged louder, defiant, like a wave rising to meet the cliffs.

  They proclaimed the return of the Silvan people.

  Representatives of the once noble houses of Oak and Beech, of the Winter Wolf and Silver Deer stood defiantly around the fires, hearts swelling with pride for who they were—what they had once been and would once more be. Their souls flared in their chests, like silver blades under the midday sun: a Silvan blade held boldly aloft. Theirs was an angry challenge from a proud people who had found their voice, a people who called for a leader to take back what was rightfully theirs . . . what should never have been taken.

  They all stood now, even the children, not just here in their makeshift camp but everywhere, thundering drums spreading throughout the Forest, their message travelling far and wide, over oak and beech, fir and ash. From Oran ’Dor to Ea’nanú, Lan Taria to Abiren’á and Sen’oléi, even unto the barren wastes of Sen’uár where none were left to hear. Cups and plates, twigs and stones, clapping hands and stomping feet, their riotous clamour was a reflection of one collective heart, a Silvan scream of defiance, of rebellion, of proclamation.

  But so too did it travel south and to King Thargodén’s palace. It wove around the high spires and domes like a wind of change, of warning, a hand outstretched, not in harmony but rejection.

  Your votes mean nothing.

  King Thargodén stood like a marble statue before the vast expanse of forest beyond the windows of his offices, his crown prince at his side, equally silent. Aradan’s head turned away, the face of his only child in his mind’s eye, looking back at him in disappointment. Barathon and Draugole sat plotting while Lord Band’orán smiled into the distance, in his eyes a gleam of satisfaction and determination, anticipation for the conclusion of his plan, which had spanned almost a century. To him, those drums were not the rebellious cry of a people shaking free from their subjugation. They were the sounds of impending celebration. Thargodén’s Silvan spawn would be crushed under his thumb and Band’orán would rise a king, as it should always have been.