Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  The refugees had gone into the cottages and flets of Sen’oléi, or to the village hall, where the healers had organised themselves as best they could. Lorthil, as their leader, was now in charge and had placed his foresters around the perimeter for tonight. Turion had sent two warriors into the woods to scout with an apologetic squeeze to their shoulders and then turned to the rest.

  “Dismissed,” was all he said, before adding, “I will be with Fer’dán in the Hall—Fel’annár, with me,” he finished.

  Lainon saluted his captain, and then turned to the warriors.

  “Come. Set up a camp by the river, let us see to ourselves,” he said quietly.

  ***

  “Fel’annár, you will allow Talúa to help you,” said the Captain, a warning in his eyes, but Fel’annár was having none of it.

  “Sir, look at them, they need her much more than I do,” he rasped, his voice coming back to him slowly.

  “Fel’annár,” said Turion, his voice rising enough to startle the novice. “You wish to be a captain yes? Then listen to me carefully. These people need a healer yes, but they need us to keep them safe—you are not expendable, you are what stands between them and certain death. It is a tactical decision, nothing more,” he lied.

  Fel’annár’s eyes were wide but he nodded his understanding and shut his mouth as the healer unbuckled Fel’annár’s harnesses and tunics, and finally revealed his wounded shoulder. Talúa frowned and tutted.

  “This is infected,” she said, her free hand moving to his forehead and then tutting again. “He will stay with me for a while, Captain. I will send him to you later, perhaps.”

  Turion nodded, his eyes lingering on Fel’annár for a moment longer. “Join us when Talúa gives you leave,” he warned, before turning on his heels and striding away.

  Fel’annár huffed and the healer smiled as she worked. “Heed your captain, warrior. We do need you, we will need you,” she said, her eyes gleaming in the half light as she worked.

  He awoke, fuzzy and disorientated, wondering when he had fallen asleep. He turned his head to the side and then startled, for sitting there, was Alféna, Eloran’s mother. She smiled down at him, and then turned to pour him a glass of water. Sitting up slowly, he accepted it with a grateful nod and drank. It was then, with a furious blush, that he realised he was naked and Alféna smiled.

  “Your clothes are already dry, I’ll bring them for you,” she said kindly. Alone for a moment, he realised his arm had been bound in a sling and that he had managed to acquire a most colourful set of bruises. He felt better, in spite of the fuzziness in his head, but he felt a little too hot and he knew he needed to sleep but he was loathe to do so here, in the Hall. He wanted to be with the patrol and so, when Alféna returned with his clothes, he dressed as best he could, and with a furtive glance around him, made for the main door.

  The wounded lay in makeshift beds scattered across the floor, attended to by their families and friends and they watched now as Fel’annár passed. Some had a smile and a thankful nod for him, while others simply stared, and Fel’annár could not rightly say what they were thinking.

  The patrol had set up camp in their usual spot close to the river, and soon Fel’annár was standing before them, one arm in a sling and the other carrying his weapons. They smiled up at him from around the fire, shuffling closer together to make room for him. Even Turion and Lainon sat with them tonight, and a pot of bubbling stew sat enticingly over their fire.

  Carefully depositing his weapons off to one side, he slowly lowered himself to the ground beside Angon and Lainon, grateful for the warmth the fire lent him and he shivered a little.

  “Talúa allowed you to leave?” asked Turion with an arched brow.

  “Alféna made no objections,” he rasped quietly and Turion frowned at his novice, saying no more for the moment. The boy seemed well enough in spite of the light sheen of sweat on his brow, that and the atrocious timber of his voice.

  They ate quietly and soon, tea was being brewed, the hot steam sending the rich aromas of chamomile and tisane into the air.

  “An itinerant patrol is due in tomorrow,” began Turion quietly. “They will stay here for a while, until these people can organise themselves once more. I wonder though, if Sen’uár has been permanently razed from our maps—the final count is sixty dead, including Sar’hén and Vor’ón.” The warriors looked down, deeply saddened by the terrible death toll. Angon’s words from the day before were in the minds of them all, yet no one gave voice to them.

  “We will honour them when we are home. Their sacrifice will be remembered,” he said softly, with conviction.

  “May Aria embrace them,” said one Silvan warrior, holding his wooden cup before him. The others did likewise and then drank, allowing the silence to blanket them once more.

  “Captain,” began Fel’annár. “How did the itinerant patrol know to come? When did you send for help?”

  “I asked Lorthil to send someone to the nearest outpost after the fire—seems he got lucky and ran across them. Perhaps they had already been drawn in our direction by the smoke,” he said and Fel’annár nodded as he sipped on his tea.

  “Fel’annár,” began Lainon. “Tell us of what you have learned on your first tour as a novice.” His eyes danced over the warriors, perhaps to check if his change in the conversation had had the desired effect. They were shaken by the loss of their companions, angry even at the powers, and Turion was strangely quiet.

  “So many things,” said Fel’annár with a rush of air. “Where to begin?” he croaked.

  “Is this what you expected it to be? the life of a warrior in the field?” asked one warrior.

  “Yes, and no. It is as hard as I thought it would be in some ways, yet in others it is much, much harder than I could ever have imagined. No amount of training or reading could have prepared me for—for this,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  “Most first tours are not this eventful, Fel’annár,” said Angon. “Mine was downright boring.” The others smirked, perhaps remembering their own experiences as novices.

  “I thought you were a liability to this patrol,” continued Angon quite unexpectedly, and there was something in his tone that made the others listen carefully. “I treated you as I would any other novice—and therein lies my own lesson,” he smiled, glancing at Fel’annár for a moment before continuing. “So you see, you are not the only one to have learned something. I have come to understand that what we do, what we have all been doing for so many years—is not all for nothing, it is not futile. We were simply waiting.” He trailed off strangely, and when he spoke once more, his strange mood had left him. “You are no ordinary novice, Green Sun. You are a warrior by rights, a Silvan fighter, in spite of that ridiculous hair.” He smirked, waving his hands about his own head as if he were shaking it out.

  The warriors chuckled, but Fel’annár simply smiled. He had set out to serve as best he could, to learn and not make a fool of himself and he had achieved that—and so much more, and for the first time in his life, he was proud—of himself.

  And so, their quiet conversation slowly drifted away as one by one, they settled down to sleep, and some of them to dream of better times to come, when common sense prevailed over politics and power games, and these lands were made safe.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Baptism of Fire and Water

  “Trees are conveyers of the Spirit, but some - the Sentinels – can interpret its will. A Sentinel to the forest is as a Listener to the Silvans.”

  On Elven Nature. Calro

  ***

  Fel’annár had awoken to an already bustling camp. They had left him to sleep he realised. He smoothed down his hair and pulled on his boots with difficulty, cursing the sling he was forced to wear. The lingering clouds had dispersed, allowing the timid winter light to warm him and somehow, everything seemed new to him. Why he would
think that he could not say.

  Approaching the fire, he nodded at Angon and Lainon who crouched before the flames, talking quietly. Lainon nodded, and then tipped his head to the food that stood covered over to one side. They had even kept by some breakfast for him and he smiled softly at the thought.

  “How is Fer’dán?” he asked as he began on his breakfast, crossing his legs and steadying his plate awkwardly with his elbow, and then eating one-handedly.

  “Not good,” said Angon. “I will spend some time with him today, speak to the healers.”

  “But he will be alright?” asked Fel’annár, as he ate. He didn’t expect the answer he got.

  “Not alright, Fel’annár. At best, he will be able to walk, but he will never again serve as a warrior in the field,” said Angon curtly, anger clenching his jaw.

  Fel’annár started and looked at the Silvan warrior in shock. “And at the worse?” he asked.

  “He may yet die—who can say,” said the veteran warrior, as if he were already bolstering himself for that possibility. Angon and Fer’dán were good friends, that much Fel’annár knew.

  The positive mood with which he had started the day was tempered and he ate more slowly, wondering what Fer’dán would do if he could not serve in the field—what he himself would do should such a terrible thing happen to him, Aria forbid.

  “Lieutenant,” said Fel’annár, swallowing a chunk of bread with difficulty before continuing, “what should we do today while we wait for the itinerant patrol?”

  “Nothing—rest, care for your kit, your weapons. We are leaving tomorrow, for home.”

  Home—home for Fel’annár was Lan Taria but he supposed he would have to go back to the city barracks. The fact remained that he was free—for the entire day. A bath! That was the first thing on his list – well, perhaps a cautious dip, he amended. Then he thought he would wander around for a while, enjoy his freedom. Later, he would visit the Halls, see Fer’dán and seek out Eloran and the twins—he had not seen them since his return from battle and there was a question he would seek to answer. It was a good plan, one that would take his mind off the grief that surrounded him.

  Picking up his pack, he walked towards the river, and with a quick glance around, he rid himself of his clothes and walked gingerly into the frigid water, wincing as his scrapes and burns stung on contact. Unwinding the bandages around his chest and shoulder, he sank lower with a sigh of utter relief, one which turned into a long groan of bliss when he tipped his head back and doused his hair.

  Ducking his head below the surface, he allowed himself to sink to the sandy bed, open eyes watching as the particles settled and another world opened up before him. The water was crystal clear and he smiled as he observed the fauna; small, colourful fish darted between the swaying plants that brushed tenderly over his ankles, their gills pumping water. It was another reality in which the inhabitants breathed water, not air and yet it was just here, inside his own, familiar forest—it was a strange thought, but it fit so well with his own dilemma.

  A world inside a world.

  Surfacing, he basked in the weak sunlight, feeling its warmth upon his wet skin. It was a moment of bliss he could not prolong though, and soon enough he was washing away the last vestiges of battle as best he could with his injured shoulder.

  He dressed slowly and then re-bandaging his hands but his shoulder would have to wait. Sitting now against the bark of a willow he allowed his mind to wander where it would. He thought of the river bed and the other world he had reached out to just moments before. It was certainly not the first time he had studied a river bed, of course, but something about it had caught his attention today and only now, he began to understand why. It was the perfect analogy, for Fel’annár lived in Ea Uaré, he breathed air and yet, with a simple duck of the head he could immerse himself in water and see what lay beneath it, move into another perspective. He sat up straighter, the dawn of understanding pulling him from the weight of fear and incomprehension.

  Everyone could do that; it was a simple case of diving beneath the water—but what if there were elves who could not dive? What if some strange being existed that could not touch water—they would never see what lay beneath, never experience the wonder of it.

  Was that what happened to him? Were the colours, the feelings and the light of the trees simply another slant on the same world? A slant that not all could see yet existed nonetheless?

  With a deep breath, he relaxed back and closed his tired eyes. A great sense of relief flooded him then and he smiled because it was a plausible explanation; not magic, not supernatural but simply another facet of the real world. It was a comforting thought.

  The first time it happened, he had sensed danger long before it had shown itself, and the second had been in battle with the Sand Lords. The third time had been when he had seen the sentinel, and then when he had saved the children. Finally, just before the battle of Sen’uár he had known exactly where the enemy was.

  ‘It is a gift.’

  Every time it happened, something good had come of it, in spite of his fears.

  ‘Do not be afraid.’

  Could he use this new perspective to his advantage? Perhaps it was not a danger to his plans but a tool. It sounded absurd even to his own ears. What was he to do? Speak to the trees? he snorted in genuine mirth, but then a thought popped into his mind.

  ‘Why not?’

  He started, and then struggled to decide whether or not that thought had come from his own memory of Narosén’s words. ‘Trees do not speak, Fel’annár’, he ground out to himself in exasperation.

  ‘Trees do not speak, they communicate.’

  He stood abruptly, spinning around and pinning the tree with a wide, disbelieving glare, and then strained against the cough that threatened to double him over. ‘It was me and my own thoughts’, he said to himself, a dialogue with myself, nothing more.

  Chuckling out loud now, he sat back down and leaned back once more, this time more confidently, a challenge to himself almost. It lasted but seconds though, before his body went ramrod stiff and he froze where he sat.

  ‘Child of the trees . . .’

  He scrambled to his feet once more in a flurry of hair, only just resisting the urge to run, anywhere, far away from where he was now but he forced himself to think. Narosén, Narosén would help him and with that, coughing and raking his now shaking hand through his wet, unbraided hair, he strode into the village in search of the Spirit Herder, for Fel’annár was sure, sure that he was, effectively, losing his mind.

  ***

  Narosén roared in laughter, deep and strangely addictive, and the Ari’s face changed so drastically Fel’annár would hardly have recognised him—he was a study in contrasts, completely unpredictable. Sadly, he himself could not see the humour at all and so he sat before the shaking Spirit Herder, an indignant frown upon his brow as he waited for the mirth to abate, coughing once more and drawing the Ari’s attention.

  “Forgive me, young Fel’annár.” He chuckled as he settled himself upon the ground where they sat. “I do understand your worry, do not misjudge me, but nay—you are not losing your mind, child!”

  “But how can you know that?” asked Fel’annár, “I cannot even identify my own words when I speak them to myself, cannot even understand if those thoughts are mine or those of some other . . . entity . . .” he said, waving his hand in agitation. “’Tis as though I were possessed!” he exclaimed indignantly and then coughed again.

  “Nay, stop, Fel’annár.” Narosén giggled, which soon turned into another wheeze of laughter, sending his body crashing back into the tree behind him. It soon passed though, although the chuckles continued for a while longer. Finally though, Narosén leaned forward and touched Fel’annár lightly upon the knee.

  “I do not claim to have this gift but I do know something of it—I too, can sense them, but not in th
e way you do.”

  Fel’annár listened, intrigued now by what the Ari said. “So you truly believe it is an ability—to hear them, I mean?”

  “Something along those lines. Aria has a hand in this, that is all I know for certain, that and the fact that this is a good thing, child, something you must use to your advantage, in your service to this land—you are blessed,” said Narosén finally, serious yet joyful at the same time, and when he saw that the boy would say nothing, he continued.

  “Captain Turion seems fond of you,” he said, watching his young companion from the corner of his eye.

  “And I of him. He has been good to me. In truth both he and Lieutenant Lainon have been the best tutors I could ever have wished for.” And it was true, albeit it was the first time Fel’annár had said as much to anyone.

  “It is not a frequent thing, I believe, to have two commanding officers that take your training and welfare so to heart—they see something in you,” said the Spirit Herder, too casually perhaps, indeed Fel’annár afforded him a sideways glance before speaking.

  “And I do not wish to disappoint them, Narosén. I just want to understand this. If I am to have it for the rest of my life, I need to understand it, control it,” he whispered with a sour scowl.

  “Did your mother never hint at anything when you were a child?”

  “Nay,” said Fel’annár. “Amareth has always been strangely quiet in that way.”

  “Amareth? You mother?” asked Narosén.

  “Nay, my aunt. I lost my mother when I was just a babe.”

  Narosén’s shrewd eyes held the striking green irises for long moments before he sat back and lowered his head.

  “And what of your father?” he asked casually.