Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  Mark.

  The boy looked down at his own chest, utterly dumbfounded, unable to understand how he had been bested even before he had moved, for all he could see was the crown of Fel’annár’s head, and the long, thick plait that kept his hair from obscuring his vision. Fel’annár turned to face the gaping recruit, nodded respectfully, and then moved away, in search of his next opponent.

  It was over in minutes, and Fel’annár was left standing alone upon the field.

  “That one comes with ME!” bellowed Sar’pén yet again, “Alpine, or Silvan or—whatever!”

  “Nay, I need him in the Eastern quadrant, the terrain . . .”

  “No—I need him and I will make sure Pan’assár understands . . .”

  “Stop!” was all Lainon said and he was instantly obeyed.

  “None of you can have him,” said the Ari’atór slowly, “for you see, he is already spoken for.” It was a lie, but Lainon had his own plans—he would simply stretch the truth, so to speak.

  “By who?” asked Sar’pén angrily.

  But before Lainon could answer, the sharp, commanding voice of his friend told them exactly who it was who laid claim to the strange, Silvan warrior.

  “By me,” said the newcomer, taking a step forward, his face stern and commanding.

  “Turion!” exclaimed Lainon, to which Turion smiled widely now, offering his forearms that were heartily clasped by his long-time friend.

  “We shall see about that,” said the irritated warrior standing beside them, and Lainon could not resist one last comment.

  “Sar’pén.”

  “Lainon.”

  “He is Alpine,” he began, to which the lieutenant smirked in victory but it quickly vanished when the Ari’atór continued. “And he is Silvan,” he smiled slyly. There was a mischievous quirk upon his lips and Sar’pén returned it, nodding that he understood exactly what it was that was about to happen.

  The battle for The Silvan had begun.

  Chapter Five

  Strategy

  “Elves are immortal; time enough to be wise, to be just – time enough to be evil and tyrannical. In love though, we are all alike. Pleasure may be given freely but children are the fruit of an unbreakable bond, the physical manifestation of love that cannot be broken, even through death.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, Book IV, annex II. Marhené.

  ***

  Heavy oak doors thumped together, the click of the lock telling Lainon they were finally alone.

  “Turion!” he exclaimed, turning to face his old friend with a genuine smile. “It is so strange to see you away from your recruits, here in the city no less.”

  “Yes, well, the circumstances are extraordinary, Lainon,” said Turion with an uncharacteristic grin. It was then that Lainon realised what was different about his friend; he was alive—for the first time in centuries the Ari’atór could see purpose shining in his shrewd, Alpine eyes.

  “Do not tell me you have seriously come to claim your find. What of your work at the training barracks?” asked Lainon somewhat rhetorically, for he well knew he had. There was little else that could have tempted this extraordinary warrior to return to civilization after their years of service together in the North.

  “Does that surprise you?” asked the instructor, sitting heavily upon the couch and loosening his collar.

  “Yes,” said Lainon, and then turned to his friend once more, holding his gaze for a moment before speaking. “And no—we have much to speak of. I cannot tell you how—opportune your presence is, my friend.”

  Turion frowned for a moment and Lainon knew he had picked up on the import of his words; his friend was simply one of the most able judges of character Lainon knew.

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” asked the Alpine, sitting forward expectantly with his elbows on his knees.

  “Yes, yes you were right Turion but,” he paused for a moment, seeking how best to infuse his words with the feelings he wished to express. “But you see, I believe you found much more than a Silvan candidate for leadership.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Turion, his frown deepening. “Perhaps you should fill me a goblet of that wine before you speak, you seem—unnerved - if that is at all possible for you Ari’atór,” he said with a smirk.

  “When I tell you what I suspect – nay what I know,” he dropped off as he poured them both a glass of wine. “How long has it been since you last visited our lord King’s halls?”

  “Not long enough,” scoffed Turion, taking a long drink from his goblet. “I loathe the petty politics and gossip—all those ridiculous things that have nothing to do with the important things in life.”

  Lainon smiled, for Turion was quite the brute, albeit he was Alpine. He spoke plainly, with not a thought for propriety, unless he stood before his commanding officer, of course.

  “When you sent him to me, even before I read your letter, it was not the face of some green, Silvan boy I saw, Turion.”

  “What do you mean—I know he looks like an Alpine, but he’s not—not really, it’s . . .”

  “You don’t understand,” interrupted Lainon, holding up his palm. “What I mean is, . . .”

  A harsh rap on the door interrupted them, and Turion jumped, so immersed had he been in what his friend was about to reveal.

  “Come!” called Lainon, annoyance colouring his tone.

  A guard entered with a note which he promptly handed to Lainon, before saluting and leaving.

  “Gods, Lainon, out with it, what . . .” began Turion, but once more he was silenced.

  “A moment,” mumbled the Ari as he read. “General Huren has issued the list - the twenty candidates that are to be promoted tomorrow. We must claim our stake and quickly, before someone else beats us to it.”

  “Lainon, what are you talking about!”

  “Turion—that boy is from Lan Taria,” said Lainon as he rounded on his seated friend. “A half Alpine-Silvan orphan or bastard who was raised by his aunt, Amareth. He is the best warrior I have ever seen, even before training. He has bright green eyes—just like his mother’s . . .” the last word leaving him in a rush of air, a fierce whisper that set Turion’s skin crawling as understanding slowly dawned. Turion’s eyes widened and sparkled and Lainon knew he still did not fully understand what he was trying to tell him.

  “It was not the face of some Silvan recruit, Turion—it was the face of Or’Talán, father of Thargodén King. That boy is of royal blood.

  He is Thargodén’s son.”

  ***

  General Huren sat behind his desk, the list of new recruits upon his desk together with a veritable mountain of petitions from a whole host of lieutenants, vigorously expounding their reasons for requesting their choice of warrior. That in itself was not an issue; it was the fact that they all wanted the same recruit, the one they were calling The Silvan.

  ‘Who is this boy?’ he asked himself as he rubbed his chin. He had not been present at yesterday’s trials, indeed he hardly ever bothered, but this time, it seemed he had missed something of import.

  ‘What now?’ he wondered. He did not have the time to read through so many missives, so many clever arguments. He was needed at headquarters in a scant few hours and details of tomorrow’s promotion ceremony must be completed.

  He sighed as he leaned back in his chair, his hand moving to his throbbing forehead and kneading it irritably.

  A knock on the door, and Lieutenants Lainon and a strangely pale Turion entered his study. Huren was glad for the interruption, even though it meant he would still be in his office at the midnight hour.

  Standing, he returned the salute he was given, before smiling and holding his forearms out.

  “I am glad to see you Lainon, and you, Turion! What has dragged you out of your beloved country barracks!” he said with a smile.

  “
Ah! That is the reason we have come to see you, General,” replied Turion.

  “No, no, do not tell me you too have come to claim The Silvan! By Ari and Sethá, who is this boy? My desk is full of messages and demands and, ‘oh, you owe me . . .’ or, ‘is it not my turn?’” he mocked theatrically, before turning back to a now smirking Turion.

  “It does not surprise me,” smiled Turion. “You did not see him on the field then?” he asked tentatively, already knowing the answer to that, for if he had, this veteran general would not have failed to see the resemblance, even though he himself had not seen it. Turion had been away for too long but this general saw the royal family regularly.

  “No, no I did not, so you tell me, then. What is so special about him?” asked the general resignedly, gesturing to the two lieutenants to sit.

  “I met him at my barracks not a month past. I knew from the moment we first spoke that he would be a fine candidate for leadership.”

  “He is Silvan, I assume, given his nick name.”

  “He looks Alpine, Huren, but calls himself a Silvan. The point is that he shows great potential—and I would be the one to show him to the limits of his possibilities—if you will allow it,” finished Turion, his eyes fixed on the general, desperately trying to read Huron’s first impressions.

  “You have been training boys for the last few centuries, have rejected promotion so that you could continue to do so. I do not doubt your educational qualities Turion, but you are all out on recent military affairs.”

  “I am good, Huren, this you know. You yourself offered me a promotion to captain because you knew I was fit for the position.”

  “But you refused.”

  “Yes—because I believe in what I do. Becoming a captain would mean leaving the job I love so much; that is why I refused.”

  “And now? Should I agree to let you train this—Silvan—will you accept the promotion? Think carefully now, for should you agree, you will not be able to return to your former post. We need all the commanders the Forest can yield. There will be no going back, Turion.”

  Turion looked up sadly, pausing for a moment before nodding. “I understand, and I agree. Calenar is ready to step into my position at the barracks.”

  “He must be special indeed,” said Huren with narrowed eyes, his shrewd mind clearly at work.

  “Yes—yes he is,” replied the soon-to-be captain carefully.

  “Well, I lose a lieutenant, but if he is as good as you seem to think,” he began thoughtfully. “Take him for a year and train him—do your best and if you can—bring back a Silvan warrior fit for leadership training.”

  “One year . . .”

  “One year. After that we shall see. Now, however much I appreciate your company Lainon, will you tell me why you are here?”

  “Because I am going with them,” said Lainon simply, to which Huren tipped an eyebrow at the impertinence and muttered something under his breath, before standing, his eyes riveted on his two best lieutenants.

  “Yes,” he said tiredly, “yes I believe you are.”

  ***

  The barracks were alive, and the soon-to-be novices waited for the dawn and a new beginning, as warriors of Ea Uaré. They would also receive their assignments and now, they speculated on where they would go, who they would serve with, who would command.

  Of course, it was the Silvans that lead the festivities, even though most of them were Alpine, indeed tonight, it seemed that discrimination was a far-away thing, for blond heads mixed with the auburns and chestnut hair of the Silvans as they danced and they drunk. The lads of The Company sang a merry tune to the sound of a woodland lyre, much to the delight of the other young recruits who clapped and stomped their feet to the beat of a forest drum that accompanied.

  Idernon watched them, a flurry of hope sparking in his mind. Segregation had been present here in the city, but there were almost as many Silvans that returned the ill treatment they received. On the one hand he thought it logical, a defence mechanism; but then, how could the wheel of injustice be stopped? How could the inertia be broken? he wondered. If you give as good as you get you will always have—he realised—always have racism.

  With a deep breath, he raised his eyes from the forest floor and trained them on Fel’annár who was in the middle of a line dance that was fast and furious. There was joy on his face, unmarred by the weight of his mysterious past, uncaring of his troubled childhood.

  He smiled, but it was a sad smile because the moment was fleeting and because he knew that the only way to truly heal his friend would be to tell him—tell him who his mother was, who his father was—give him a history and allow him to understand why he had never been allowed to know.

  Taking a swig from his bottle of wine, he cast his eyes further afield and to the candle-lit barracks beyond the Silvan revelry. Lainon would be in there with his friend Turion and it suddenly struck Idernon how strange the pair were together. Turion, tough and direct, caring yet unwilling to show it, his face was always straight and his eyes unreadable. Lainon too was straight-faced and Idernon thought it was a trait with leaders—yet the Ari’atór´s eyes were a blazing pool of emotions he did not seem willing to hide, or perhaps he couldn’t. Idernon had seen many things there; surprise, respect, hatred, compassion and then, just this evening he had seen something else as the lieutenant watched Fel’annár. He had seen apprehension.

  Idernon shook himself mentally and tipped the bottle once more, the liquid sloshing inside. All that was left to know was who they would be assigned to, and where. Idernon’s chest suddenly felt heavy, because there was a chance he would be separated from Ramien and Fel’annár, and try as he might, he could not imagine his life without them.

  “You are quiet,” came Fel’annár’s even voice at his side, even though it did not match his messy hair and flushed face.

  Idernon glanced in his direction, a rueful smile on his face. “I fret about where we will be sent,” he said truthfully.

  “As do we all,” replied Fel’annár, watching the crowd as he spoke. “Aria forbid we be separated in this first step in our adventure but should it happen, Idernon, should that happen remember this; we are The Company! We will always come back to each other.”

  Idernon turned to meet his friend’s confident face and he smiled in genuine joy, his face lighting up so beautifully that Fel’annár chuckled. “Tomorrow is for us, to take our vows and become servants to the king. What comes after that we do not know, cannot know. Enjoy the now, Idernon, claim it for your own.”

  The Wise Warrior held his friend’s gaze for long moments, thinking that just yesterday, their roles would have been reversed and it would be Fel’annár fretting about the possibility of separation and yet here he was, bold and confident, alive and excited and just a little wiser, a little closer to becoming what Idernon had always known he would be.

  A leader.

  ***

  The party had finished, the recruits no longer able to stay awake after the excitement of the day and now, Turion sat with Lainon in his office, a flask of wine between them and the remains of their shared dinner upon the table.

  The hearth crackled and hissed, and Lainon drank deeply from his glass, his strange eyes shining a blue deep enough to unnerve any who did not know him.

  “What now?” asked Turion, almost to himself. “We cannot tell the king until we have at least an inkling as to how he will react and in this I cannot give counsel. I have been out in the forest for too long.”

  “Agreed,” said Lainon. “And you are right, we must wait. Our king’s mind is absent and if it weren’t for Aradan, this realm would be on its knees. This is what the people say and I believe it. I would not see Fel’annár’s military career over before it has begun because rash decisions are made by a weakened king and I do not need to remind you of his elder son’s—singular—disposition. Rinon is one of a kind. I do not thin
k he will take kindly to what he may perceive as opposition. The boy is already unsure of his father’s feelings for him; it is also said he sympathizes with Lord Band’orán and I wonder just how deep in his confidence our crown prince is.”

  “If we cannot tell the king, neither can we allow Fel’annár to encounter the royal family—they will surely see what you did, Lainon.”

  “Yes. We would have to tell him before he ever came into contact with the boy and as you say, there is no telling.”

  “You know our royal family well. What do you think are the most likely outcomes?” asked Turion.

  “The king would, perhaps, send him far away so that he does not meet his children. The king’s relationship with them is already strained; he will not risk losing them altogether. And then there is the possibility that he would fear for the boy should Band’orán hear of him – which he would,” said Lainon.

  “You think he would be in danger?” asked Turion, puzzled.

  Lainon held his friend’s gaze for a while before answering. “I think there is a possibility, yes,” he said quietly and Turion was shocked into silence, until another question begged his attention. “Does he even know? The king, I mean. Does he know he has an illicit child?” asked Turion.

  “Yes, yes he knows. You will remember the scandal with the Silvan lass, the one Or’Talán forbade him to marry?”

  “I do. It was with her then?”

  “Aye. With her, Turion. I can say no more, my friend, only that we must not underestimate the dangers that young Fel’annár may unwittingly find himself in.”

  Turion nodded slowly, wondering what it was his friend had lived through, for he had been Handir’s personal guard at the time, would have seen and heard many things.