by R K Lander
Handir listened to his father with growing concern, for although they were of like mind on this point, Handir had not realised just how volatile the situation was.
“You think it a possibility?” he asked.
“Yes, yes I do. If this slow but persistent scepticism persists, Handir; if those Alpine barons under Lord Band’orán are allowed to continue with their subtle poisoning, sooner or later, with the right guidance, the Silvans will turn on us.”
Handir’s eyes were wide, his avid mind a whirlwind of information. “I will do all I can, but our uncle’s influence at council is considerable.”
“I know, but we have Aradan, Handir—and we have you,” he smiled most uncharacteristically and for a moment, Handir felt grateful for his father’s words, grateful and utterly shocked.
“Father. If you know all this, why do you not come back? Come back to your people, show them the strength you once possessed, surely still do?”
The king’s sad smile took Handir back and he braced himself for the king’s answer. But it did not come and the sparkle in Handir’s eyes died.
“You did well,” sad the king before turning, and leaving in silence.
It took a moment for Handir to process the words of praise, but instead of enjoying the moment, it simply confused him, and he suddenly realised why; he did not know how to react. He should be angry with his father, for creating a child with a Silvan woman, for triggering his mother’s departure to Valley, for hiding the truth from them for all this time.
He spent the rest of that day pondering the question, for his father was an enigma. If he had, indeed, reached out in his own, mercurial way, then Handir would take his hand and try at least, to understand him, understand why he had done—whatever it was he had done.
He realised then, that the mystery and the scandal, the gossip and the hearsay surrounding the departure of their mother was, at least partially, the product of ignorance. He had not the information necessary to understand, and if he could not understand, why had he judged his father negatively? Was that not what his own brother, Rinon, had done with the Silvans? the very same attitude Handir had reprimanded him for?
His mind reminded him of his immediate dilemma—a decision had to be taken. Would he try to glean the truth from his father, the story of the queen’s departure, of his involvement with the Silvan woman, the reasons that had prompted him to create a child - or would he desist? But then—had that choice not been taken away from him just yesterday? Had Lainon not shattered any hope of a status quo in which the royal family would continue to live its life of stilted communication?
He had no choice, he knew that now. He had a brother, one that was oblivious to his royal heritage. He could not begin to imagine the shock of it, and the consequences it could bring should the Alpine purists hear of it and use it against the king. It would be an irresistible temptation for Band’orán to discredit Thargodén and indirectly promote his own claim to the throne, something he had been doing for many years without success. Something like this would be a heavy blow to the king’s credibility—Handir could not allow his great uncle to find out.
He visibly shivered, feeling his own conviction bolstered. Handir was no coward, even though he was not a warrior. He too, had a dream, one of unity for this colourful and diverse society that had somehow lost its way, lost the harmony that had once existed in his distant memories.
Chapter Eight
Into the Forest
“Immortal souls love immortally.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book I. Marhené
***
Deep in the north-western reaches of Ea Uaré, it was dark, even though it was not yet evening. There was a shadowy half-light that cast a greyish blue tinge to everything, making the forest seem unreal, like a vision from a vivid dream. It was treacherous too for the forest floor was nothing but a twisted, heaving knot of tree roots. It would be all too easy to get a boot stuck amongst them and twist an ankle, or worse. It was surprisingly hard to navigate and by the time the trees had thinned somewhat and Turion called for camp to be set up, the Western patrol heaved a sigh of relief as they set about their respective duties. Lainon though, had requested Fel’annár join him at a hearth Fer’dán was still nurturing.
“You know how Deviants come to be - you have heard the stories, I am sure. But heed me, Fel’annár. Do not overestimate your ability to fight them. This battle is not only one of bows and blades but of the mind,” emphasised Lainon, his eyes firmly anchored on Fel’annár, willing his novice to understand the importance of his words and not discard them as the product of an overprotective mentor.
Fel’annár simply nodded as he continued to listen avidly to the wise words of the Ari’atór Lainon, for none could possibly know more than a Spirit Warrior about the Deviants.
“The younger Deviants from the mountains are misshaped but not clumsy, do not be fooled. They can be surprisingly fast—and whatever you do, do not let them speak to you for they will unbalance you with their filthy words and then take advantage of your inattention.”
“Are all mountain Deviants like this? Or does it depend on which range they are from?” asked Fel’annár with a frown of concentration on his brow.
“They are all the same. Now, it is the cave Deviants that you need to watch for. They are larger, more powerful, and somewhat more intelligent. Their skill with blades is more sophisticated, but they will also use bows, clubs, scimitars and sling shots which they are surprisingly good at wielding.”
“What is the ratio of mountain Deviants to cave Deviants, Lieutenant?”
“A good question. Our scouts know there is a veritable army of mountain Deviants to but a handful of cave specimens but that does not mean there are few of them. Cave Deviants are frequently seen in bands of usually between ten and thirty at most, whereas mountain Deviants normally move in larger numbers. We also know that they seem to be organizing themselves; there is a pattern to their movements of late and some of our commanders claim they have established a hierarchy of sorts.”
“Is there any truth to the stories of larger Deviants, and of the wild wolves that often accompany them?” asked Fel’annár, his eyes a little too wide as he waited for Lainon’s answer with bated breath.
“Yes, there is some truth in it. The more northerly patrols have reported strangely large individuals and hairy, stinking wolves, three times the size of their forest cousins. That is all we have for the moment as sightings have been rare, but they do exist.”
“Lieutenant, Captain Turion is looking for you,” said a warrior, briefly taking his fist to his heart in salute at his superior.
“Thank you, Angon,” said Lainon as he rose from his sitting position. “Fel’annár, accompany Angon to gather firewood and procure meat if there is any to be had; you are under his command.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Fel’annár with a salute as Lainon walked away and he was left alone with Angon, a veteran Silvan warrior he had yet to speak with, despite the distance they had travelled together.
“Come,” said Angon curtly as he led the way into the forest. “So, you are one of the early promotion novices—the one they call The Silvan?” he asked as he began to gather firewood.
“Yes,” said Fel’annár, stifling the smirk that threatened to blossom on his otherwise blank features.
“I am Silvan—you do not look Silvan,” said the warrior.
“That is precisely the—joke I suppose,” answered Fel’annár somewhat sourly.
“It is not funny,” said Angon simply, bending once more to pick up a piece of dry kindling.
Fel’annár, wisely, said nothing, for he was unsure of this warrior’s intentions.
“You are clearly Alpine—what have you done to deserve the name of The Silvan?” he said, his manner finally showing clearly in the colour of his words. Sarcasm, mockery.
Fel’annár anticipated h
is own adverse reaction and quelled it ruthlessly, taking his time before answering.
“I have lived and loved in my forest home,” he began steadily. “I am a novice because I wish to serve my Silvan kin,” he emphasised before continuing. “I am here to learn so that I may protect my people—my mother’s people.” His tone had risen steadily until his final words rang strong and heart-felt, and Angon was left staring at the young novice, at a loss for words it seemed, until he finally looked down, and when his eyes met Fel’annár’s once more, there was a smile in them that did not quite reach his mouth.
“Well boy, you are not easily cowed and that is a Silvan trait.” There was no apology and no more words were shared, other than a curt, “come,” and they were away again, in search of food for the patrol.
An hour later, they had returned to camp with a string of rabbits, but Fel’annár had not been invited to join the troop—again—and so, as was his custom, he sat alone, some distance away from them, checking the fletching of his arrows as if it did not bother him at all. It had been this way since they had set out, and although he could not say he was surprised, it rankled him nonetheless. He had heard the stories of course, was not ignorant of the fact that novices were not easily accepted by the warriors. They considered them a hindrance, albeit they understood their need to learn in the field, and in this case, Fel’annár had been promoted earlier than was usual. They would think him cocky and in need of a lesson and he could not say he did not understand—he was a liability.
“You, Silvan,” shouted a warrior, apparently of Alpine origin who sat before the early evening fire together with the rest of the patrol, save for Lainon and Turion, who sat a little further away at their own fire.
Fel’annár looked over his shoulder at them, struggling but succeeding in keeping his face blank and unconcerned.
“Bring water from the stream for our tea,” said the warrior, his comrades chuckling at their friend’s antics.
“Yes, Sir,” said Fel’annár patiently for he knew what they did. They were surely testing him and he would not fall to their bait—he had already endured Angon’s test and so, picking up a pail, Fel’annár started towards the stream, but he was rudely hailed once more.
“Use this,” said the warrior, watching as Fel’annár trotted back and picked up the smaller bucket the warrior handed him..
Back from the stream, he handed the bucket to the warrior, who, taking it, proceeded to turn it upside down, emptying it completely upon the ground before handing it back to their mortified novice.
“You did not rinse it out—clean it first and then fill it for our tea.”
“Yes, Sir,” was all Fel’annár allowed himself as he once more took the bucket and did as he was told, clenching his jaw to suppress his mounting anger.
This time the bucket was accepted and the warrior brewed tea as Fel’annár sat alone once more, and Turion and Lainon watched from afar with keen eyes.
Not that he had expected it, but he was disappointed when the tea was made and he was not offered a mug of it. It was cold and his hands were numb, and with no fire to warm them. Resigned, he continued to whittle new shafts for his stash of arrows, until another voice hailed him once more.
“Silvan. Skin these rabbits—we are hungry—make haste.”
Rising, he took the offered rabbits and set to work, carefully skinning them, and even returning to the stream to rinse them.
Taking the prepared rabbits, the warrior set to cooking them, and once again, Fel’annár was excluded from their meal. They ate with relish, indeed it seemed to Fel’annár that they purposefully exaggerated their slurping and their crunching, loudly sucking on their juicy fingers as they relished the wood barbecued meat. His own mouth watered and his stomach growled like a starved cat, although luckily, he was too far away for them to hear it. A small mercy, he thought sourly.
It finally came to a head when one warrior began to talk of child warriors who thought themselves special. Of inexperienced novices that were nothing but a thorn in their backsides. Of how they were all the same at the end of the day, that with his first Deviant kill, he would lose his lunch, just like everyone else.
Now Fel’annár knew for a fact that that would never happen, he would not allow it. He was well-prepared for that moment and although he could not deny a pang of apprehension at the mere thought, he was sure enough of himself to handle it.
And so, it continued well into the night, until it was time for his watch and he sat forlornly upon a boulder, hungry and thirsty, his senses stretching out to the forest, albeit with one eye upon the sleeping warriors huddled together, their cosy fire crackling softly. He wondered when he would finally become a part of their group for he missed the camaraderie, and Idernon and Ramien came to mind, their companionship and their support—perhaps he was not as strong as he thought he was.
Light footsteps told Fel’annár that Turion was approaching. He did not take his eyes from the fore though, and simply acknowledged his commanding officer with a softly spoken “Sir.”
“I found this sitting by the fire, unaccounted for. I thought you may be interested,” he said, a tinny clink alerting Fel’annár to the fact that Turion had left an object at his side.
Looking down, he saw a single leg of rabbit and a mug of water. With a glance at Turion that was more a request for permission, the captain nodded and then watched as the young novice’s hand shot out and grabbed the tiny morsel of meat, taking it to his mouth and sucking, his eyes rolling backwards and then closing in what could only be described as ecstasy.
With a soft chuckle, Turion waited until the admittedly frugal meal was devoured and when only the bone was left on the plate and the water drained, the novice wiped his greasy lips and then smiled at his captain.
“You have done well with the warriors, Fel’annár. It would have been all too easy to lose your temper and complain to me, or Lainon. It is what they were waiting for you to do—testing your loyalty as a warrior.”
“I understand, Captain. It has not been so bad, save perhaps for the lack of warmth and a friendly smile. I can handle that, Sir.”
Turion smiled ironically. “What about the blankets? The swaps in guard duty? Missing arrows? Empty canteens? You do not mention these things and that speaks in your favour, except perhaps in that you underestimate my powers of observation.”
Fel’annár smiled in defeat for it was all true, in fact his life had been passing uncomfortable for the entire trip out. He had expected to be put to the test, but perhaps not quite in this way. “I knew that you knew of some of their—antics—and I believe that you kept out of it purposefully; it is necessary, perhaps, that a commander allow his warriors to organise themselves—to an extent . . .” he trailed off, his face looking at Turion for confirmation that he had not overstepped some unspoken boundary for he wanted to know.
Turion sat looking at the novice for a while, and Fel’annár fidgeted, wishing he had just stuck his boot in his flapping mouth. Luckily though, the captain had not taken offence at his words and instead, had read his intentions for what they were—curiosity.
“Very good,” he smiled softly. “But a word of advice. It is not a test of endurance, but one of reaction. If you continue the way you are, it will not stop. You, must stop it, and the only way to do it is to tell them something,” he finished, his eyes twinkling in challenge. Fel’annár’s eyes watched carefully, his mind considering his captain’s words. ‘Tell them something’. Tell them what? he asked himself, but Turion was already on his feet and with a nod, he walked back to the camp.
When dawn brought with it another day, the warriors found a pail of fresh water already boiling on their rekindled fire, and chestnuts crackling over the hot coals. Twelve freshly prepared trout fillets lay upon a clean rock, not a bone to be seen, and the warriors of the Western patrol glanced over at the young novice with renewed respect. The boy sat sharpe
ning his sabre, apparently uninterested, and Angon smiled.
From afar, Turion elbowed Lainon beside him, smiling to himself in satisfaction. ’Well done,’ he thought. The boy had understood him for his message to the warriors was clear. He respected them, in spite of the difficulties they threw at him.
Now, all that remained to be seen was how the warriors would react.
***
How many times Handir had found himself in this very same situation during the past few days he could no longer count, and always, the outcome had been the same—indecision, doubt, fear.
This time he sat upon a stone bench, away from the bustling crowds of his father’s court for he needed to think—he needed to concentrate and decide on a tactic that would get him the information he needed without earning his father’s wrath.
But then, he scoffed, how does one go about asking one’s father about how he cheated on his wife, one’s mother, especially when said father was a king? It was absurd, for if you added to that that said king was the son of the mighty Or’Talán, well he may as well douse himself with pig fat and set a torch to it.
The first step, supposed Handir, would be to find a way of bringing up the subject without sounding combative, a way of making his father comfortable enough to talk about it. It was a monumental task Handir was not at all convinced would work; in fact he was sure he would fail for there was a deep secret confined in the depths of his father’s heart. Aradan, perhaps, would be better equipped for the task.
Aradan, the king’s most loyal councillor was indeed deep in the king’s confidence and Handir suddenly wondered if it wouldn’t be wiser to confide in his mentor, spilling the problem in all its glory and then wait with bated breath at the words of wisdom Aradan would surely have.
There was a risk though, and that was the elf’s staunch loyalty to the king. It could well lead him to tell the king of the Silvan child and he could not risk that. But what if he simply asked about the circumstances surrounding the queen’s departure? What if he left out the fact that Handir knew he had a brother, that his father’s secret child had been made known to him?
