by R K Lander
“Good. Now, that said, I must congratulate you on a magnificent aim—you have earned the respect of my patrol, and that, is no easy feat,” said Turion with a smile, all the seriousness and the severity gone from his tone and his expression, and Lainon was surprised to see the hint of a blush on Fel’annár’s beautiful face.
Such contrasts warred within this one, mused the Ari’atór. So mature and intelligent, so naive and unsure, so solemn and disciplined, and yet so confident and—feral.
“And Fel’annár,” added Turion as an afterthought. “Do something with that unruly hair of yours!”
The patrol chuckled in mirth, but in relief too, the tense atmosphere suddenly dissipating and Fel’annár said no more. He simply sat, listened, and learned; of warfare, and of himself.
***
The early morning breeze felt crisp, and it was just what Aradan needed to clear his mind of the dreams that had plagued him all night, from which he had awoken with a start, his heart pounding erratically and his soul heavy with crushing pity and shared grief.
Unwittingly, Prince Handir had opened a door long shut, one he had bolted and chained lest the demons behind escape. It was useless though, for they had slipped through to his consciousness like a sluggish, poisonous haze, lingering hauntingly, unwilling to leave him be.
There was no mystery though, for he knew why that was. There had been something in Handir’s eyes, something the prince admitted to withholding, something which would only be revealed should Aradan promise not to speak of it. In good conscience he could not, for the boy offered no guarantees as to the nature of the information and yet—and yet he had to know. His considerable intuition told him it was important, hence the dreams.
Thargodén had been his friend for many centuries, still was, despite the dramatic change that had taken place in him after the queen left. The people attributed it to grief at the loss of his wife, but Aradan knew better. It was not the loss of his wife, it was the loss of his love. He felt the desperate urge to make Handir understand, force him to see his father as he had once been, show him that what had happened to Thargodén could have happened to anyone.
It had always felt so wrong that the king’s own children should treat him with such frigid disregard. He did not deserve it and yet, when Aradan forced himself to see it from the perspective of the royal children, he could do naught but to understand their bitter resentment. As far as they were concerned, their father had gone with some Silvan woman of no import and had earned the wrath of his queen, who promptly and silently left for Valley, her children to remain without the slightest of explanations other than that she could not stay. Their father, when repeatedly asked why she had done such a thing, had simply turned away, disregarding their need to understand. And so it had festered until the king was left with two princes and one princess who were little more than strangers to him.
With a heavy breath, Aradan rose and began his short trek back to the fortress. It was decided. He would take a risk and give Handir his promise. If there was some way, any way at all that justice could be done and Thargodén could, at least, regain one of his sons, then Aradan would see it done.
Lunchtime, and Aradan watched the king as he pecked at the midday meal, his face indifferent, as if he had surrendered his will and simply moved with the errant tides. Rinon sat to his right, eating heartily, his face completely straight and emotionless, his movements abrupt.
To his left, sat Handir, graceful and dignified, but there was a faraway look in the boy’s eye and Aradan knew he pondered his dilemma, still shocked perhaps at the morsel of information Aradan had not been able to keep from him.
“Have the new patrols reached their destinations, Rinon?” asked Handir in an obvious attempt at making the meal at least bearable and reduce the possibilities of a poor digestion.
“Aye. Our captains have already reported. They are in position and already fighting back small pockets of the enemy—they fare well it seems,” said the crown prince, always eager to talk of all things military.
“It was a good idea to promote the novices, Rinon. Perhaps now the Silvan foresters will be satisfied with the extra defences we have sent them.”
“They will never be satisfied, yet well they should be,” said Rinon as he skewered a piece of roasted meat too harshly, sending a nerve-grating screech of metal on metal straight into Aradan’s brain.
“Incidentally,” added the crown prince, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth. “Doralei speaks of a novice with the best aim he has yet seen. He shows much promise.”
Handir froze for a moment, before schooling his features and looking at his brother for the first time. “An Alpine?” he asked lightly, too lightly, and Aradan recognised that recurrent trait in his young apprentice’s voice.
“A half-breed it seems, but they call him The Silvan. I will make a point of watching out for him when they return.”
Handir simply nodded, but it was too late. Aradan had seen his surprise and was now irreversibly intrigued. He would sate his curiosity later, when he had Handir alone. And so it was that after the meal, Aradan invited the young prince to his study. Handir had simply nodded, thinking no more of it other than Aradan’s ongoing training, but when they arrived and the chief councillor offered him a glass of wine, he knew this conversation was not one of tutor and apprentice. With his hopes raised, he accepted the glass and sat before a long window that looked out over the beauty of the hidden Evergreen Wood, trying with all his might to look calm and collected.
“I have been thinking, Handir. Thinking and debating and I believe your self-appointed quest to be a good one. Tell me why you are doing this now, for you have my promise of discretion—I will say nothing to your father.”
Handir was shocked at the change and suddenly found himself debating the wisdom of confiding in Aradan. It was a moment that could not be undone – once he told Aradan what he knew, it would no longer be in his hands, he would lose control, but when he thought once more of the alternatives, he knew it was the right decision.
“Why the sudden change, Aradan? Yesterday you were adamant about not giving your oath. What has changed in but one day?”
Aradan held Handir’s eyes and the prince found himself suddenly drawn into their grey wisdom. First, he had seen that familiar, blank expression that any good advisor learned to wear; but as he observed more closely, fell deeper into it, he saw sadness—and grief. He was telling the truth; this change of mind was genuine, whatever had triggered it.
“This has gone on for too long, Handir. The suffering he has endured has changed your father so that he is unrecognizable, but a shrivelled shell of his former self. All that is left is his inherent strength, his will to continue leading his people—the king remains, but the elf, the elf is withering inside.”
Handir had never thought of it like that. His father had always been cool, sparing in his affection, strict in his attention to detail, although he remembered Rinon telling him many years ago that he remembered his father had not always been thus.
Drinking from his glass, he steadied himself before turning his eyes back from the forest and training them on the councillor once more. His nerves must have betrayed him though, because Aradan frowned deeply, apparently reading his emotions as clearly as if Handir himself had written them down and shown him.
“I have much to learn from you in masking myself, Aradan,” said the prince in understanding, “but this—this is—it is too close to home, too transcendental.”
“We are not in the council chambers now, Handir. We speak as friends. I will not judge you for that.”
“Lainon came to me recently,” he blurted, and then measured himself before continuing. “As you know, he has been collaborating in the novice project.”
“Go on,” said Aradan encouragingly.
“Well, he—found something—someone,” he said, glancing uncertainly at his tutor.<
br />
Aradan’s frown deepened and Handir steeled himself, pressing on.
“Aradan it seems—it seems Father had another son, with a woman that was not my mother.”
Aradan swayed backwards as if to avoid a blow, his eyes wide and gleaming as they searched those of his young charge, yet no words left his slack mouth; even so, Handir thought he could read them all in that moment.
“He is younger than I, but old enough to be a recruit, and good enough to be chosen as one of the early promotion novices. He is currently serving his apprenticeship with Lainon and Turion in the North-western patrol.”
There, he had said it—it was over and a wave of utter relief washed over him, his tense muscles relaxing for the first time in days and leaving him weak and shaky.
And yet the silence continued and Handir now observed his tutor closely. His eyes had dropped to the side, shock still rendering him silent but he could still see his distress, his turmoil and yet—there was no confusion at all.
“You may ask,” pressed Handir, “how Lainon would know such a thing, indeed I did. I attended the vow ceremony and I saw him, Aradan, I saw him from afar—there can be no mistake.”
“How can you be so sure?” whispered Aradan.
“Because his face is his credential—he is the very image of my grandfather, Or’Talán.”
“Lássira, what have you done,” whispered Aradan, as if he spoke into the wind.
Handir started at the comment, and a suspicion began to form in his mind and as it did, his head cocked to one side, words rolling off his tongue without his permission.
“You knew . . .”
“That there was a child? Yes. But Handir—he is supposed to be beyond Valley—with his mother in the Unknown Lands.”
“Gods,” whispered Handir, shocked at the unexpected turn the conversation was taking.
Aradan sprang to his feet in a flurry of robes, raking his hand over his blond hair in agitation, and then reaching for the wine bottle. Sitting clumsily, he topped their glasses and took a deep breath, glancing up at the prince in concern.
“Make yourself comfortable Handir, for there is a long, long tale to be told, one it is time for you to hear.”
Chapter Ten
Lássira
“It is a king or queen’s duty to ensure the continuity of their noble line and provide offspring which may rule, should their progenitor pass into the Source. A spouse must be noble, and of acceptable lineage to the Ruling Council.”
The History of Ea Uaré. Calro.
***
“Move! Angon, Lainon, with me! Fer’dán, Vor’en, Fel’annár, up!” came the urgent voice of command. Silence and stealth were no longer necessary, for the enemy was almost upon them.
The two archers scampered up the tree, dislodging dry husks from the bark and sending them flying as their heavy boots propelled them high into the boughs. Meanwhile, their companions drew their swords and waited on the ground. It was not a long wait, and soon enough, the first cave Deviants Fel’annár had ever seen came crashing forwards, their massive black scimitars drawn as they bore down upon the elves with a mighty howl that sent a spear of utter dread down Fel’annár’s spine—he would never get used to that keening wail, he thought.
Fer’dán had already fired an arrow, its twang alerting the novice to the fact that he had sat there paralysed for too long—again. Drawing, he shot once, twice, three times, each one killing one of the wretched, rotten souls with an arrow through the eye.
There were Deviants beneath the tree now and Fel’annár knew there was no angle for the shot and so, he began to target other, larger areas of their bodies. Their strength though, was unfathomable as they bore down on the elves below. He understood now – there was no time to aim, only to shoot as many arrows as he could and defend the swordsmen as best he could.
His arrows were now hitting shoulders and thighs, occasionally the neck, but all of them were incapacitating enough to allow his companions the upper hand. However, the once human abominations kept coming, their number greater than they had originally and the moment Fel’annár had awaited with trepidation finally came.
“Fel’annár! Fer’dán!” bellowed Turion through the chaos.
This was it, and with a sideways glance and a determined nod at his fellow archer, they both shouldered their bows and jumped to the forest floor, swords already drawn.
Fel’annár faced a one-eyed Deviant with a hideous slit down the centre of its head, and had just enough time to wonder if that was its brain he could see oozing out of one side. It smiled, showing its yellow, decaying teeth and black tongue. Fel’annár screwed his face up in queasy disgust for its breath smelt of all things putrid, and as its slithery tongue came out to lick its cracked lips, it was all Fel’annár could do to stop the rising bile at the back of his throat from spewing out of his slack mouth.
With a dodge to the right, he brought his sword around and found the liver, lunging into it as he had been taught. The Deviant squealed like a spring pig, before pitching forward, dead.
Swivelling on his heels he faced his next opponent, a Deviant that was so tall it looked down on him with a vicious smile, its gloved hand shooting out to throttle him, a strange clicking sound coming from its throat - not fast enough though, for Fel’annár had drawn his sabre in his left hand and sliced at the black limb, severing it completely and then following it with his eyes as it flew to one side.
He almost panicked when the Deviant made no noise at all, as if the loss of its hand meant nothing—and it did not. He needed to distance himself from it and the only way was to flip backwards. When he landed, he took advantage of the surprised beast and sliced through its stubbed forearm, the second chunk of foetid limb falling to the ground with a thud. Fel’annár’s head shot from the useless flesh and then back to the Deviant and still, it bore down on him and the novice’s eyes bulged in disbelief.
Bringing his sword up to protect himself from the black scimitar, his arms shuddered painfully under the sheer power behind the blow—he had to gain more distance. Swivelling on his heels, he side-twisted, and then turned once more, his sword gaining impetus until it found its mark and cut across the beast’s neck, watching in morbid fascination as the sharp edge opened skin and muscle, and then grated over the bone at the back. Its hideous head tipped backwards and dangled for a moment on leathery skin, before toppling to the floor with a ripping sound, closely followed by the frozen body that crashed to the ground in a cloud of dirt.
A cheer went up and Fel’annár startled, only to find his kill had been the last. The seasoned warriors of the North-western patrol had been watching him.
He felt his face flush as he went to clean the muck from his sword, more shaken than he ever imagined he would be. He was aware that his companions moved towards him and when he turned to face them, unsure of what they would say, Angon held up his right hand, the head of the dead Deviant firmly secured in his gloved fist by its long, ropy hair. Fel’annár stared at it for a moment in abject horror, the thick, dark blood dripping from it, its face forever frozen in twisted agony. It all came back to him, the squishing of flesh and blood, the grating sound of steel over bone and the ripping of skin. It was too much and he dropped to his hands and knees and emptied his stomach pitifully.
The warriors roared in laughter, slapping their thighs and each other’s shoulders as coins were exchanged, their howls of mirth never stopping, even when Lainon made his way through with a bladder of water, a wry smile on his face.
“Here,” he said in exasperation, slapping the novice on his back. “Drink!” he said, before adding, “You did well, Silvan.” With that, the lieutenant turned towards the men and smiled mischievously, for both Lainon and Angon had just earned a few coins.
Fel’annár had indeed, lost his lunch.
***
“So, this—Lássira—he met her before he m
et our mother?”
“Oh yes, many years before. It was a public affair, looked upon with indifference for the most part, for she was not of noble blood and that was of no concern to anyone, so long as they did not marry. Our society, back then when your father was still a prince, was much more liberal than it is today. Their relationship was seen as an informal dalliance the prince afforded himself and Or’Talán made sure that was the way it remained, in spite of the truth.”
“That they loved each other, but could not marry,” anticipated Handir.
“Yes—yet even if Or’Talán had bent the rules, something he was often wont to do, he could not. His own hands were tied for the Alpine nobles would never have condoned it. Had there been a clear Silvan leader at the time, had there been political equality it may even have been a convenient marriage, to bring together our multi-cultural society and I even tried that tactic with Or’Talán. To no avail though, for the Silvans had little say in matters of state, and the Alpines would have their way or veto the heir to the throne. This, Or’Talán would not accept and so he forbade their marriage.”
“Even then, the rift had begun then?” asked Handir sadly.
“Oh yes, even then. Now, Thargodén was devastated at the news, and Lássira—Lássira was heart-broken. They had both known it was a lost cause from the start, but they had clung to hope as lovers often do. The certainty of their doom was a cruel blow that Lássira struggled to deal with.”
“What do you mean?” asked Handir in mounting trepidation.
“She—began to fade, Handir. The knowledge that she could never belong to the only elf she had ever loved was tearing at her immortal soul. She became delicate, her health often failing and Thargodén was beside himself with worry. You see, although it had been forbidden for him to marry, he had vowed to take care of Lássira for all the days of his life, even if his father forced him to marry another, which we all knew he would, indeed within the week, your mother had been presented as the queen to be.”
