by R K Lander
“And they were married?”
“Yes, they were married, but Thargodén could not hide the truth from your mother.”
“And she took the Last Road?”
“What? NO! No. She was not naive, Handir. She knew their marriage was one of convenience, she knew Thargodén held no love for her . . . I am sorry,” added Aradan as he saw the deep hurt on his young apprentice’s face.
“The point is that they continued to see each other, secretly, for many, many years. Meanwhile, the queen duteously bore two sons and one daughter and Thargodén came to respect your mother very much. But you see,” he said, leaning forward now as his hand went to his chin, “she did not only respect him, but came to love him. She loved him so much she bore his children and became the perfect queen. She bore his infidelity with quiet dignity; all she asked was that he be discreet and not humiliate her.”
Aradan took a steadying breath, glancing at Handir to judge his mood before moving to the final part of the tale.
“Gods,” whispered Handir as he rubbed at his face. “They were found out then?”
“No. Thargodén was nothing if not cautious, for by then his father was long gone, dead at the Battle Under the Sun. He was king now. Besides, his respect for his wife would not allow him to compromise her in that way. No, it was Lássira. She was slipping, slipping into grief so far it frightened her. With each day they saw each other, deep in the forest, she was paler, weaker, frailer of health and spirit; she was dwindling and they both knew it.
Thargodén, with a heavy heart, bid her take the Last Road – away to Valley. He pleaded day in, day out for her to save herself but she could not leave him, even if she was doomed to meet with him under these secret, somewhat sordid circumstances. Thargodén toiled relentlessly with the problem, indeed I was there, every bit a part of his suffering.
“The child.”
“Yes—the child. That was to be the solution. They would create a child so that a part of Thargodén would always be with her, get her safely to Valley, a safe passage if you will, her last life line. And so, soon enough, the news came to us in secret that she was with child. She would begin her journey to Valley and give birth to the child there, in the Unknown Lands.”
“They conceived a child for the wrong reasons,” muttered Handir.
“No, Handir—you underestimate the terrible loss of love—to love that one soul mate and confront the finality of their death is a terrible thing, and conceiving a child seemed an acceptable way of avoiding that tragedy. You must look at this in perspective.”
“And you thought that is what happened? That she would be waiting for him beyond Valley with her child, their child?”
“Yes, that is what I thought, Handir, as does Thargodén. That his son is here, tells me that she never crossed and so she is either alive and no longer fading, or she succumbed before she could cross.”
Handir sat, allowing Aradan’s last words to sink in. And then a question popped into his mind.
“Aradan—how did Mother find out? I mean that is what must have happened, she found out a child had been created.”
“Yes, she found out, although we never knew how that came to be.”
“But who would benefit from such a thing? The purists would simply let it be, for an Alpine king and queen sat on the throne; it would not be in their interest, surely?”
“Apparently not, but who is to say there were not—personal—interests? That someone from that faction wished to take the throne for themselves?”
Handir started, before he blurted out, “Band’orán? Nay he would not be so bold!”
“Your great uncle would not force the issue, no, but if he saw an opportunity to allow things to simply—spiral—he may well have taken it. Unfortunately, we have no way of discerning the truth Handir, only that someone else knew, and saw fit to tell the queen.”
“So, you know nothing of this boy then?” asked Handir.
“Nothing.”
There was an awful silence for a while, before Aradan’s soft voice broke it. “What, what is he like, Handir?”
“He is . . . difficult to describe, Aradan; that and I only saw him from a distance; but I will tell you this much. He is quite simply—beautiful. I do not know what his mother looked like, but she must have been stunning. His eyes . . .”
“Are the colour of summer moss?” said Aradan gently.
Handir stared at Aradan, before nodding. “Yes, just that, Aradan.
Minutes passed in silence, before Aradan spoke once more.
“I am glad you told me, Handir. And I can see why Lainon came to you with this. The situation is potentially volatile at the least,” said the councillor, back to business now.
“I know, Aradan. Lainon was aware of all this, I assume?”
“Oh yes. He was your guardian, of course. He ran many errands for Thargodén. He knew Lássira.”
“What worries me the most, Aradan, is that this boy is, in Lainon’s words, the best novice warrior he has ever seen. That and his extraordinary looks will draw attention to him. All it will take is a veteran to see his face and declare him Or’Talán reborn. So far, he has lived in his village, deep in the heart of Uaré but now, in the king’s militia . . . it is surely only a question of time before someone asks the wrong questions.”
“Yes, and there is no telling how the king will react, first to the question of whether Lássira lives or not, and secondly, what he will do with the boy. And then there is Rinon.”
“Rinon would see him as a threat. Another brother, a bastard, Silvan brother. I cannot see him accepting that at all. Maeneth, however, would probably be overjoyed!” snorted Handir, his lovely sister’s face floating in his mind’s eye.
“There is one more thing,” said Handir, deep in thought. “The boy has a nick name; they call him The Silvan, the one Rinon mentioned at lunch. My brother has taken it upon himself to seek the boy out when they ride in—we cannot allow it, Aradan.”
“Nay. You must write to Lainon and warn him. What did Lainon suggest, by the way?”
“He wanted me to keep him informed of any talk, of any suspicions that may arise. He knows he will have to tell the boy soon enough but he needs to know that he will not be jeopardising his charge, or indeed the king, by doing so. I sense in him a desire to protect the child, Aradan, almost as if he were a younger brother.”
“This is, convoluted, Handir, the ramifications are endless and we must not take rash decisions. We must sit for a while and digest what we have learned, observe those around us and above all, we must listen—listen to every bit of news that comes from the field. The slightest indication that rumour is starting is when the king must be told, before he hears it from someone else and thus, the boy must also be told, and when that happens, I suggest he not be here. We must get him assigned somewhere abroad, so that he is not caught in the storm that will surely be unleashed.”
“That makes sense, yes,” mumbled Handir. It was then that his face changed from one of deep thought to dawning realization. “You know, I could always ask my father once more about the possibility of traveling to Tar’eastór as part of my apprenticeship with Lord Damiel.” He turned to Aradan as if he had just solved a great puzzle, the hint of a smile upon his lips.
Aradan smiled back, nodding slowly as he did so. “That would be interesting, yes. You would need a patrol to accompany you.
“It is perfect, Aradan,” said Handir, his eyes no longer dull but sparkling with excitement. “I prepare the king and then precipitate my journey when the need to act becomes paramount.”
“Alright,” said Aradan as he stood. “We wait and we listen; you meanwhile, will speak to the king and remind him of your desire to travel, I will put in a word for you. When the time comes, your journey must be made—only then will I tell the king, and Lainon will tell the boy he has a family.”
Chapte
r Eleven
Awakening
“Aria is not a Creator but the executing hand of Creation. She is the essence of this world, the power that moves air and water, moves stars and people’s hearts. Aria is energy – the soul of this world.”
On Elven Nature. Calro.
***
The enemy lurked close by and the warriors remained alert as they sat around a small fire, drinking tea and sharing muted conversation, most of it revolving around Fel’annár. The novice had become an integral part of their circle and with acceptance came confidence—and then the questions came. How old was the average Deviant? Why was their skin green around the joints? Could the physicians not invent some sort of cream to block the stench? And what was that funny clicking sound?
The warriors did not mind though, for they had rarely worked with a novice who took so much interest in his training, who asked such poignant questions with eyes shining in curiosity and respect. He was also a source of endless entertainment for the veteran warriors, for there was a freshness about him. He was yet untainted by his experiences in the field, still trusting and open, and yet they all concurred in that he had greatly changed over the weeks they had served together. Still, he had vomited with his first close-up kill, something they still chuckled about for the poor boy had been unlucky, his first Deviant unwilling to go elegantly to its death.
And yet there was one thing they were not aware of at all, unless one looked closely enough, as Turion did. He had worked with these warriors before, albeit many years ago. He remembered their dour, curt ways and yet now, weeks into their patrol, they too had changed. Their eyes seemed lighter, they smiled and even made jokes, most at Fel’annár’s expense.
Turning his attention back to the conversation, Turion heard Fel’annár enquiring as to the wisdom or otherwise of shedding one’s boots at bedtime. There were chuckles and some knee-slapping as Angon attempted to explain why he, as a Silvan warrior, would personally never do such an unwise thing. Turion snorted and Lainon smiled and the others huddled round for the explanation, but Fel’annár’s attentive gaze suddenly faltered and he leaned back, as if he had heard something he had not expected.
“Boy!” joked Angon— “I am imparting great wisdom here; the least you can do is pay attention,” he said in mock irritation, but it had been enough to draw everyone’s attention to the now completely blank stare of their novice.
“Hwindo . . .”
Nothing.
“Fel’annár!” hissed Lainon, waving a hand before the unseeing eyes.
“What is wrong with him?” asked Angon, perplexed.
“I do not know,” answered Lainon with a frown, sharing a worried glance with Turion.
“Fel’annár?” tried the captain softly, and then started when the boy finally spoke.
“Something is wrong,” he mumbled, his lips hardly moving at all.
“What, what is wrong?” prompted Lainon in mounting trepidation.
Turion, meanwhile, let out the caw of a blackbird to request a status report from the warriors on duty. After a prolonged silence, the guard’s answering call resounded in the otherwise deathly silence—all was well, he said.
Turion turned back to Fel’annár, who seemed to be coming back to himself, his eyes blinking repeatedly as if they stung him.
“Something is wrong,” he repeated, shaking his head from side to side.
“Fer’dán reports nothing, Fel’annár,” said Lainon.
Fel’annár slowly held his hand up before his own face, horrified now to see it visibly shaking before he repeated, “Something is wrong.”
Angon could stand it no longer and stood, his hand upon the pommel of his sword, for his finer hairs were standing to attention and his skin crawled painfully—there had been something in the boy’s voice, in his conviction he simply could not ignore.
Turion called back to Fer’dán and they all waited, their breath caught in their throat lest the simple rush of air mask his answer. This time, it took longer than it should have, but when it did reach them, it was an alert warning. That meant one of two things; that there was a threat still far enough away to give them time to prepare, or—that Fer’dán was unsure.
“Break camp. We move now, prepare your weapons,” said Turion urgently, turning once more to a slowly rising Fel’annár, still, apparently not completely back to his usual self.
The boy stood before the grey, waning light of a darkening forest, and of a sudden his long hair and strange green eyes seemed brighter than they ever had. He was a vision to behold in that moment, for some pent-up power seemed to surge through him and to the surface, not quite breaking free. If Turion had looked behind him he would have realised he was not alone in his impression. He startled then, as Fel’annár spoke once more, his voice unsteady, vulnerable.
“What is wrong with me?” he whispered as his eyes suddenly focused and a cold shiver ran down the length of the captain’s spine.
“Nothing,” he lied. “Come, we break camp—we are leaving,” he said curtly, waiting for the boy to move before jogging to the fore and leading them out. There would be time enough to broach the subject—later. For now, Turion trusted his instincts. They would move to higher, safer ground before resting for the night. Such deep silence spoke of Sand Lords, not deviants – their enemy was shrewd and cunning, not mindless and impulsive.
The patrol began their cautious trek through the wood, their senses on full alert. Whatever it was that had happened to their novice, it had frightened them all, leaving them with the uncertainty of whether the boy was right, that there was danger; after all, Fer’dán had not been sure and it had been that fact alone that had finally set them to moving once more.
Their eyes swivelled from one tree to the other, up and then down as the light became dimmer and dimmer and the forest seemed to close in around them, tower over them, purposefully intimidating them. They were seasoned warriors but there was something about this night that unnerved them all, especially Fel’annár, who remained silent and withdrawn, occasionally checking his own hand which still shook despite the fact that he had managed to calm himself somewhat.
Lainon cast worried glances at him, and Turion turned back to check his patrol more than he usually would.
The hoot of an owl stopped them all dead in their tracks—Fer’dán signalled a proximity warning.
“Positions,” hissed Turion, watching as each warrior took up his designated place, Fel’annár climbing the nearest tree, slower than he usually did. The captain resolved to keep a close eye on the boy for he did not seem to be himself as yet. Distraction and his first battle with Sand Lords could be a recipe for disaster, he knew. Lainon would be thinking the same, no doubt.
All too soon, the soft clinking sound of foreign metal invaded the unnatural silence and the warriors were thrust into a silent, frantic conversation of hand signals and bird calls, conveying orders from the ground to the trees and vice versa. Position, numbers, weaponry . . .
The cry of an eagle preceded Fer’dán’s shadow as he finally joined the patrol.
“Sand Lords—at least twenty-five . . .”
Fel’annár tried to avoid the calculating stares of his fellow warriors but he felt them burning holes into him all the same. He had been right, something indeed had been off, but how had he known? What strange malady had taken him that it had set his head to thumping, his vision swimming and his hand shaking? Anxiety took hold of him for a moment and his breathing became erratic. ‘Stop,’ he scolded himself; ‘Stop lest you make a fool of yourself,’ he repeated silently. Closing his eyes, he remembered his own invented exercises to centre himself before training. They had failed him on his first encounter with Deviants but he wasn’t giving up. Applying the technique now on the threshold of his second battle would be a challenge at the least, but try he did. Closing his eyes, he collected himself, forgot the lingering anxiety of the
strange turn he had taken and breathed deeply. In his mind, there were only Sand Lords now. His hands did not shake, there was no anxiety, only the enemy and his weapons. His heart beat was steady, muscles ready to wield his weapons. The pressure at the back of his neck no longer hurt. Opening his eyes, he calmly watched from the trees as the first, cloaked warriors showed themselves and he shot, a shriek alerting the other trespassers to his dangerous presence, and with another arrow, another fell to the ground in a heap of fine cloth and metal.
Elven shouts mixed with the clipped cries of the cloaked invaders and where once there had been ominous silence, now the cacophony of battle reverberated in Fel’annár’s ears. Strangely though, his emotions were not affected. He was aware only of his muscles as they flexed and relaxed, pulled and rolled, and when he was called to the ground his eyes sought only the enemy, his flashing blades carefully calibrating, his limbs executing his moves to perfection.
The sounds of battle soon dimmed and the whoosh of his blades became louder, the beat of his heart ever present as it ticked strangely steadily, even when he pierced the bellies of his foes and severed their armoured legs. His eyes now registered not only his foes before him, but his companions around him.
An effortless change from blades to bow and he had drawn and killed a Sand Lord that bore down on Angon, only to swivel sideways and shoot once more at another that threatened to slice into Fer’dán with a scimitar.
His body calmly informed him that he should bend backwards and draw his swords once more and effortlessly, they were back in his hands—long sword and sabre—and he whirled them around before stabbing forwards, into the eye of a great, lumbering warrior.
