Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  Silence now, save for his own movements—his heart and his breath but he did not feel his body at all—was only aware that it moved, calm and coordinated, and his eyes saw everything; strange though, he mused, that there was a green and purple tinge to everything—as if he was looking through painted glass.

  Everything seemed to move so slowly, everything except his blades in both hands, that whirled and swirled and hummed around him in a strange, rhythmic song that did not distract him at all, rather it centred him even more.

  It was suddenly that his body came back to him, heavy once more, and he realised he had stopped moving. He blinked once, twice, the strange colours slowly dissipating, only to reveal Lainon and the North-western patrol standing silently before him, and on their faces, was what Fel’annár could only later describe as—consternation.

  ***

  Fel’annár woke with the first timid rays of autumn sun, hardly having slept at all. Nodding at the duty guard who stood silently, he moved to the side of their camp and sat cross-legged, alone. He needed to think, to straighten out the turmoil in his mind because after the events of the previous evening, he was, quite simply—scared. Yet more than even this, he sensed the warriors averted gazes and their quiet avoidance.

  Slowing his breathing and closing his eyes, he desperately searched for a plausible answer to what had happened. It had all started with pressure at the back of his neck that had him thinking he had a headache, but the pain was not a familiar one. And then, quite suddenly, an overwhelming wave of pure anxiety had slammed into him, almost stealing his breath with the force of it. He remembered trying to pinpoint the source of it but he could not. It had been too sudden, too strong. None of his own, childish worries could ever warrant what he had felt and he knew it—it had come from without, not from within.

  He remembered almost panicking, and then words rolling from his errant mouth.

  Something is wrong.

  He heard the words as if someone else had spoken them and he shivered, the anxiety still tearing through him mercilessly. He wanted to cry.

  Something is wrong.

  He had repeated it, and was aware that he was frightening his companions, but he had lost control and it terrified him.

  He had heard their bird calls, faintly in the background, but Fel’annár already knew.

  Something is wrong.

  He felt light, as if he floated upon a cloud, and yet at the same time strangely heavy, his chest weighing down his otherwise floating body—it was absurd.

  He opened his eyes in exasperation, hearing now as the camp came to life. He should carry out his duties but his mind was still a swirling, heaving mess of disjointed memories and impressions. There was no more time though, and so he slowly rose and walked back to his companions.

  Water boiled over a fire and Fel’annár shot an apologetic glance at Fer’dán, who simply nodded solemnly, watching as the novice sat—not quite able to meet his gaze.

  A mug of tea was placed in his hand and he looked down stupidly at it, before looking up into the frank stare of Lainon, who gestured to him that he should drink it.

  He took it numbly to his lips and drank slowly, his mind turning inwards again, still aware enough to know he was being watched.

  “I am sorry, brothers,” he said quietly, his eyes firmly fixed upon his mug in shame.

  Silence followed his words, before Angon spoke.

  “What? You are sorry?”

  “Angon,” said Turion, holding his hand up for silence, and then jerking his head to the side.

  As one, the warriors rose and left the circle of fire, leaving Turion, Lainon and Fel’annár alone.

  “I have shamed myself, Captain. In the one thing I wanted most in this world and I have failed,” whispered Fel’annár, still unable to lift his eyes from his mug, the urge to cry in utter frustration angering him for the weakness he thought it implied.

  “Fel’annár. Have you no recollection of what happened last night?” asked Turion. “Can you not remember the battle?”

  “I remember—I remember feelings and sensations. I remember hearing my own heartbeat, I remember fighting but not the details. I remember my failing eyesight and hearing, I remember terrible weight and dizzying lightness,” he trailed off, aware that his tone had been steadily rising. He scowled deeply, his eyes finally rising to meet Turion’s worried eyes.

  “It does not make sense,” he said slowly, his eyes pleading with the captain for an explanation.

  “No,” began Turion carefully. “From that perspective, it does not. But listen to me, Fel’annár, and take good note as you always do.”

  The novice nodded dumbly, his face the very picture of abject misery. “From our perspective,” he emphasised, “from where we stood, you have not shamed yourself, child.”

  Turion watched as Fel’annár stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Fel’annár, what we saw last night was a warrior the likes of which most of us have never seen—most, except me.”

  Fel’annár’s expression changed to shocked puzzlement, his head cocking to one side.

  “Child, there is little I or anyone else can teach you about the martial arts. You fought as the mighty warriors of old, like Gor’sadén himself, and the Gods confound me for I tell you I know not where you have learned to fight the way you do. You did not shame yourself, Fel’annár—Hwind’atór—you saved the day.”

  Fel’annár’s eyes were round, utter shock leaving him stupefied and unable to formulate a single sentence.

  “Now, after what I have said, I will tell you this”, continued Turion. “You seem to have a—gift—Fel’annár. I know not the nature of it and I believe you are completely unaware of it—but you do have it. Whatever it is, it seems to be manifesting itself for the first time for I sense your anxiety, your fear.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said eagerly, hoping that Turion would cast some light on it, ease his fraught mind.

  “Patience then, Hwind’atór. Let us watch and wait and discover this thing together. Do not be frightened, for I believe that what happened to you yesterday is a good thing.”

  A desperate, somewhat strangled groan escaped the novice, for it hadn’t felt good at all and he said as much. “I cannot fathom it. I was not myself and yet I was. It was as if my body—acted of its own accord—as if I had no—control—over what I did, saw or heard.”

  “Can you be more precise, Fel’annár? Can you remember any details?” asked Lainon, leaning forward in anticipation.

  Fel’annár took a few moments to think. “I remember my, my eyesight was strange—there were blue, green and purple edges to everything. I remember my muscles, the way they flexed and relaxed, which ones moved my weapons, my eyes. I could hear little more than my own heartbeat, my own breathing, everything else was—muted—even the screams and the shrieks.”

  Lainon and Turion shared a puzzled stare before the captain continued with his questioning.

  “Alright. I think we have a start. At least one thing seems certain, Hwind’atór. You are most intuitive, for you felt the presence of the enemy long before any of us did. This may or may not be connected with what happened to you in battle. If it happens again, you must try to control it, and for that you can count on us but do not hide it.”

  “I won’t,” he said after a moment. “I am still confused but—you have helped me to calm myself at least.”

  “Good,” said Turion with a reassuring smile.

  “Just—just one more thing, Captain.”

  “Yes, what is it?” asked Turion as he rose to leave.

  “Why are you calling me Hwind’atór?”

  The captain smiled before glancing at his lieutenant and then back to the young boy standing expectantly before him, looking a little less pale than he had been before.

  “Because after what I saw last night, I cannot he
lp but call you thusly for it is true—you are the Whirling Warrior,” he said, a cheeky grin on his usually stern features. “Your friends have named you well.”

  Fel’annár’s eyebrows rose to his hairline and he turned to face Lainon in silent question.

  But the Ari’atór simply smiled, nodded, and went about his business, leaving behind a flummoxed, yet strangely relieved novice warrior. He had not shamed himself, and his captain had compared him to the greatest warrior alive: Gor’sadén of Tar’eastór.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Path Ahead

  “To the East, Tar’eastór stands proudly atop the mighty Median Mountains, home of the great Alpine elves who write lore, and are the best sword masters, or so they say. They are versed in the healing arts and prone to logic and the art of rhetoric. They are all these things and yet no one would claim they are humble, for that would be deceitful. These elves are great warriors, leaders; glorious in battle.”

  The Silvan Chronicles. Book III. Marhené

  ***

  Lainon

  I have much news to share with you, promising news for the most part, all with which you must be kept abreast.

  After much thought upon the matter, I have confided in Aradan and he is now fully aware of the situation. He, in turn, has told me the story of Lássira, a story I know you were aware of, and were not at liberty to discuss with me.

  I now also understand the question that must be asked, for if The Silvan is here, where is his mother?

  Aradan and I are now working closely together. He wishes only that Thargodén may redeem himself at least with me, that somehow my father can become the elf he apparently used to be, the one I cannot remember having met. As for myself what do I seek? Perhaps to understand—my father, my mother, how I should feel about having a half-brother—who can say, for I certainly cannot.

  The only worrying development so far is a comment that Prince Rinon made at table not a week past. Word has come to him of the exceptional military skills of The Silvan, and he has vowed to keep an eye out for him when he returns to the city. This cannot happen, of course, for it is as you say; his resemblance to my Lord Grandfather is uncanny. To this end I have devised a plan, one I believe may be suitable to all.

  I have previously told my father of my interest in tutoring in Tar’eastór under the venerable Lord Damiel. I plan to remind him of it, and then execute my journey when need dictates we reveal this secret. We would somehow ensure that The Silvan is part of the entourage. This is when Lainon must speak to the boy, and Aradan will do likewise with the king.

  It will not be easy to coordinate, and Rinon is likely to precipitate things—we want neither my father nor the Silvan lad finding out the hard way.

  How goes the patrol? Send news and your thoughts on our plans.

  Handir.

  Lainon folded the parchment and then burned it over the fire. Their plan was bold but he was strangely glad that Aradan was in with them. He had worked closely with the advisor for many years while guarding the king’s second son. He was a good elf, a friend to the king and although of Alpine origin, was not sympathetic to Band’orán’s notions of Alpine domination. Lainon would confer with Turion and write his reply as soon as he was able, yet what to say? That Handir had a half-brother with some strange power? That he had fought like a devil possessed and scared the very wits out of their most veteran warriors? Nay, he would say nothing for it was not yet relevant. He scoffed to himself then, for how could something so transcendental be ‘irrelevant.’ The idea was absurd, but it was too much to reveal as yet—the players were unaware of their roles and until that changed, it would do no good to complicate matters beyond what they already were.

  Raking his eyes over the patrol, Lainon lingered for a while on an apparently serene novice who now spoke timidly with the troop. He knew the warriors were still wary of the boy—unable to explain in any coherent way what they had seen. Some turned to talk of spirits and possession and although they did not really believe that, the seed of doubt had been planted. Lainon knew the time had come to veer towards the North. It was time to show Fel’annár, or Hwind’atór as they were now calling him, that not all battles were fought with blades.

  ***

  “Was there something else, Aradan?” asked the king, his voice listless, tired.

  “Yes, my Lord. I wish to discuss the possibility of Prince Handir tutoring with Lord Damiel of Tar’eastór for six months. I know he has already put the idea to you, but I wish to add my voice to the project. He will do well, I am sure.”

  “Is it necessary? He already seems to be excelling under your own guidance,” said the king as he moved to stand before the full-length window of his study, his eyes once more on the Evergreen Wood, as if he were addicted to it, unable to wrench himself away from it for any significant amount of time.

  “He is, indeed. But Tar’eastór will pose new challenges for him. It will prepare him well for moments of crisis, and there is no one better than Lord Damiel in this.

  The king snorted. “Indeed, I have been on the receiving end of his negotiating skills—he is clever, shrewd and most learned.”

  “Add to that,” continued Aradan, “the political benefits of renewing talks with the Alpine Lands; I think there are many good reasons to send Handir. He will represent us well, renew our alliance with the elves of the Median Mountains, meet with your cousins.”

  “It would be a good test for him,” said the king, his voice still monotonous.

  “Aye,” smiled Aradan. “I would suggest waiting for a few more months, perhaps until after the year-end festival. If you accede to the idea, I must make haste and write to King Vorn’asté, so that suitable preparations can be made for our prince.”

  There was a long silence as the king considered the possibility of Handir leaving for an extended stay. Of the two brothers, he was the only one that was, at least, courteous with him. And yet Thargodén had lost all hope of ever redeeming himself in his sons’ eyes; too much time had passed without the slightest hint of affection. But then, he scoffed, why would they? Had he given them any cause to be affectionate towards him? Had he so much as touched them in all this time? Had a kind word or an encouraging nod? Nay—he had done nothing, he realised bitterly. What was the point? They would never forgive him his trespass—the terrible sin of loving one he had never been allowed to have. It was a useless idea and he knew it. Only hope would make that possible, and Thargodén had none.

  With a heavy heart, he simply nodded at his councillor and friend. Aye, he would allow the boy to travel. He may be incapable of mending the rift with his children, but he could make the boy happy, in this one thing at least.

  “With one condition. I want a company of fifty with him; Handir is no warrior.”

  “I will see to it of course. A messenger will leave for Tar’eastór tomorrow. Do you wish to send any further correspondence, my Lord?”

  “I will send a message for Vorn’asté, of course. If Handir is to stay in his house, I would have his personal assurances on the matter. I should also send along something for our cousins, as you say,” he added, a trace of disapproval flitting over his otherwise blank face.

  “A wise move, my Lord,” said Aradan with an arch of the eyebrow, for Thargodén was not partial at all to his cousins in Tar’eastór, and Aradan could not say he disagreed. They were Alpine, had never approved of Or ‘Talan’s move on Ea Uaré. They found it distasteful, not because he would effectively be colonising those lands, but because he would live amongst its natives.

  “Thank you Aradan,” he said, the hint of tiredness back once more. The advisor cursed the Gods for his friend’s misery, for no one had deserved it less than this Alpine king who sacrificed so much for Ea Uaré. Indeed, every breath he took was an act of bravery, of service, for if it were not for The Great Forest and The Evergreen Wood, this extraordinary elf would have faded to nothin
g centuries ago.

  And so, despite his success in assuring Handir’s trip, he left with a familiar weight on his chest, and no small measure of contained frustration. This king was surrounded by family, family that seemingly cared not at all for him, that showed no emotion, had not the slightest consideration for his well-being. Others, he mused, had no family and had suffered for it all their lives.

  ‘Do not fail me, Handir,’ he begged. ‘Bring the light back to this family, to our king.’

  ***

  Handir

  So far, all goes well. There have been some issues that will need addressing, but nothing regarding the boy’s identity. For you, however, there may soon be. I calculate another few months in the field. After that we will return home and the boy will become a warrior, albeit he will not be expecting it so soon.

  Regarding Rinon, it is, indeed, a problem. Perhaps we could orchestrate things so that the boy will not be deprived of the moment he has been waiting for all his life. If we could celebrate a vow ceremony while your brother Rinon is abroad, I would be most appreciative of the effort Handir. I know this is something that should not concern you. I ask only as a personal favour to me; he deserves it. I would not have Fel’annár sacrifice that which he has worked so hard to achieve.

  Lainon

  Finishing the letter, Handir looked up to the heavens for a moment and then tossed the parchment into the fireplace in his rooms.

  “Well?” asked Aradan impatiently.

  “Fel’annár . . .”

  Aradan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “What of it? You would speak of plants — now?”

  “Not ‘it’ but ‘he’. It is the novice’s name.”

  “Ah—a Silvan name indeed,” he commented lightly, but his eyes watched Handir. The prince had not wanted to know his name, he thought. He would think, perhaps, that by simply knowing it, the boy became real, that he could no longer pretend he was inconsequential.