Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

Silence followed his question and the Ari furrowed his brow while Fel’annár smiled ruefully, and Narosén’s intelligent eyes seemed to understand. “You never knew him then?”

  The Silvan shook his head, before elucidating. “All I know is that he was Alpine, but Amareth would never tell me of him. I have always believed he was some exile, perhaps, that he had done something shameful for no one seems to have known him, or if they did, they would not tell me of him.”

  “It must have been hard,” prompted Narosén.

  “Yes. But it is no longer of any consequence. I am what I am. My father played no role in my childhood and so who can say he was ever my father?” he reasoned softly.

  “You have a point, yes,” conceded the wise Ari. “But you must be curious. You must ask yourself what he was like, or is like, for he may still be alive. You must ask yourself why he never played a part in your life.” Narosén was walking a fine line, he knew, but he would probably never get another opportunity to ask the boy.

  “No,” said Fel’annár after a while. “I am no longer concerned with that. I used to feel shame, anger, but those days are gone. I have accepted it,” he said bravely, but Narosén had not missed the defensive look, the hardened jaw and the steely glint in his eye. This was indeed, dangerous ground, but what could he say? That the boy was deluding himself?

  “Perhaps,” he said simply, but his own expression was clear enough to Fel’annár, who simply held his gaze and nodded faintly.

  Fel’annár knew he had not been believed, but at least he had managed to curb any further, uncomfortable questioning. Narosén decided that it was enough for today. After all, there really was very little doubt left in his mind.

  ***

  Fer’dán had been asleep when Fel’annár went to visit, and he had not missed the worried expression on the healers’ faces—it was not good and his heart clenched. Fer’dán had been good to him, had laughed at his antics and had taught him as much as he could. He had felt the deaths of the other two warriors, but if Fer’dán joined them in Valley, his grief would be much deeper.

  Emerging from the Hall, he ran into Alféna, giving her a soft smile. “Have you seen Eloran, Alféna?” he asked.

  Alféna nodded and pointed to a path. “He will be that way, playing in the trees no doubt.” she smiled fondly and she suddenly reminded him of Amareth. “He looks up to you, Fel’annár. I do not know what happened that day when you saved my children because he will not speak of it. It must have been hard for him I think, to not want to recount his adventure.”

  Eloran’s terrified face came back to Fel’annár as she spoke, when he had grabbed the children and the boy had cowered against the trunk of the burning tree, his face set in a mask of terror.

  “It was hard, and he is still young—although he will not want to admit to that,” he said with a fond smile. “We leave tomorrow—I want to say goodbye.”

  Alféna nodded and then reached into the pocket of her skirts.

  “I want you to have this,” she said, holding up an amber stone. It was small but beautiful, for there was a water mark that swirled around it. It was transparent and opaque, a gift of nature that she held in the palm of her hand, and then gestured for him to take it.

  “I can’t …”

  “You must. It is an honour stone and you are Silvan.” Her smile then was wide and beautiful and tears welled in Fel’annár’s eyes. “This is for my children – that you may always remember my love and gratitude, and that others may know that you are honoured.”

  Fel’annár bowed his head and then reached out to take the stone between two fingers. “I don’t know how to wear this,” he said.

  Alféna smiled. “Step closer.”

  Fel’annár did and she took the stone from him. Reaching for a side braid, she pushed the tip into the stone until it came out the other side and then rebraided the end. She brushed a hand down his arm fondly in silent farewell and then, with a soft smile and a nod, she was gone.

  An honour stone – he had read about them but had thought the tradition lost. He would ask Idernon when next they met and he breathed deeply, the deep emotions Alféna had evoked only slowly receding.

  He soon found Eloran perched high up in the boughs, alone. Hoisting himself up with some difficulty, he climbed and then called up. It would not do to startle the boy.

  “May I join you?”

  Eloran did startle, flinching involuntarily and Fel’annár frowned at his strange reaction.

  “It’s a lovely day. Why do you spend it alone up here?” he asked, accommodating himself on the branch.

  The boy shrugged. “Everyone’s busy and our visitors are so sad. I want to help but I am just in the way,” he complained.

  “I know the feeling,” said Fel’annár. “I still feel it sometimes. When you are younger than the rest, they will always use it as an excuse to exclude you.”

  “How old are you?” asked Eloran with a slight blush.

  “Fifty-one.”

  “What? How is it that you are already a warrior?” he asked, his eyes wide and disbelieving, but not in a bad way.

  “I am still a novice, Eloran, but I am considered young, even for that.”

  “But then there is only twenty years difference between us,” the boy said, almost to himself, his eyes sipping to the side. He was calculating something.

  “Yes,” said Fel’annár with a smile. “We will be great friends, Eloran, you will see.”

  The boy’s face snapped back to the novice before him and he smiled, open and unafraid for the first time. “You think so? We’ll see each other again then?” he asked enthusiastically and Fel’annár’s heart melted.

  “I will make sure of it,” he smiled, but then he remembered why he had sought the boy out and his face straightened.

  “Eloran, I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “That day, up in the tree, when I grabbed your brother and sister. You started, you shied away from me—you seemed—afraid,” he trailed off.

  “I was,” said the boy hesitantly.

  “It’s alright, Eloran—I was scared too, I was just wondering . . .”

  “No,” he whispered, his brow furrowing deeply. “I don’t think you understand—you see,” he said and then moved so that his mouth was at Fel’annár’s ear. “I was scared—of you.”

  “Of me? Why?” asked Fel’annár with a scowl, completely perplexed.

  “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

  “What do you mean?” whispered Fel’annár, a sinking feeling slowly invading him.

  Now it was Eloran’s turn to frown, as if only now he was understanding something. “You have strange eyes.”

  “Well, they are very green—and a little slanted, but—why would that scare you, Eloran?” he asked softly.

  The Boy’s mouth worked of its own accord for a moment but no words passed his lips. He took a deep breath and then somehow found the courage to look into Fel’annár’s strange eyes.

  “There was light behind them, like a green sun,” whispered Eloran, as if he were sharing some great secret.

  Fel’annár swayed backwards until his back hit the trunk behind him, staring incredulously back at the boy. Had the boy meant the fire had reflected strangely in his eyes? Or perhaps the tears in them had created some strange, optical effect—what an odd thing to say, mused Fel’annár. But try as he might, he could not shake the idea that the boy spoke quite literally. He remembered the shining light, the pulse of blue and green energy as he stepped on the impossibly narrow branch . . .

  Eloran was tugging on his sleeve and his eyes snapped back to his young friend. “It scares you too, doesn’t it?” asked the boy in dawning understanding. “Didn’t you know?”

  Fel’annár shook his head. “I didn’t know,” he said dumbly, “and yes—I am scared too
.”

  “It’s funny to see, but I didn’t know you then and I do now. You’re not a bad elf, you are not a Deviant spirit or a forest banshee,” he clarified with a smile. “You are Fel’annár of the funny eyes, novice warrior. I think I may be like you when I am older—a warrior – like my father.”

  Fel’annár had not seen his father and knew then that he must be dead.

  “That stone was his. He wore it always and my mother has kept it safe. I am glad you wear it now.”

  “You will be a good warrior,” said Fel’annár with a smile, his heart warming to the idea that perhaps he had had some part in the boy’s wish to serve.

  “So, we are friends then, Fel’annár? We’ll see each other again?”

  The novice smiled wide and mischievous. “When I am captain, I will seek out a warrior by the name of Eloran—perhaps he will want to serve in my patrol as a novice.”

  Eloran smiled so wide Fel’annár thought his face might split in two and then gave him a thumping salute and together, they giggled at their improvised plan.

  Walking back to the settlement, they parted ways with another salute, this one more solemn. “Don’t forget, warrior—I will find you,” said Captain Hwind’atór seriously, and Eloran squared himself and saluted.

  “I will be ready, Sir.”

  ***

  The Western Patrol packed up camp while Turion spoke to Lorthil. Their main concern was how far South the Sand Lords had dared to travel. Lorthil was not surprised it had happened, for their previous incursions had gone unpunished and he begged Turion to convince his superiors of the need for an outpost. He was right, Turion knew. This part of the forest was not adequately protected and he would do all in his power to change that. He would have to instil their need on General Huren, for decisions such as these would need to be taken at council.

  “Lorthil,” began the captain, “I will speak to my superiors; this entire quadrant needs much more protection than it is getting. I cannot guarantee you will get it, but I do promise to try my very best.”

  Lorthil stared back at the captain, before nodding slowly. “We will await news then,” he said calmly. “But I do not think they understand, and I do not think they care enough to even try.”

  Turion’s face remained inscrutable but eventually, he too, nodded slowly and then bowed. “We thank you for your hospitality, Lorthil.”

  The leader bowed back and then his eyes travelled to Fel’annár, who was adjusting the strap of his quiver. “We shall speak highly of your service to the Silvan people, Captain. We will tell Erthoron so that the Battle of Sen’uár may not be forgotten.”

  Bowing, the captain moved back to his patrol, while Lorthil and Narosén approached the unwitting novice, waiting for their presence to be addressed, and when the boy did, finally, raise his eyes to meet him, the two Silvans bowed from the waist, eyes glancing over the amber stone in Fel’annár’s hair. It was a silent tribute to his bravery, or so Angon thought as he watched the exchange, smiling wickedly at the furious blush that slowly blossomed on their novice’s face.

  “Remember, Hwind’atór,” said Lorthil with his hand over his heart, “remember this place for this is your home.” It was the greatest of honours a Silvan could bestow and Fel’annár smiled solemnly, bowing back to the leaders of Sen’oléi, a place he would never forget for it was here that he had come to understand himself. He would return, one day when he was captain, he thought.

  Alféna walked towards him with Eloran at her side. Standing on tip-toes, she kissed Fel’annár on the brow and then stepped back to allow Eloran a word. The boy simply smiled and then saluted, and Fel’annár returned it.

  “Until we meet again, warrior,” said Fel’annár, to which the boy answered, “I will be ready, Captain.”

  Turion’s brow arched imperiously and Lainon simply watched, smiling softly. And with that, the Western Patrol moved out in single file behind their captain and lieutenant. They were homeward bound, as fast as Turion could push them.

  Lorthil’s words lingered uncomfortably in Lainon’s mind. He would speak to Erthoron, the Silvan representative, he had said. They would surely send messages to the king and before that could happen, the Western Patrol must be home; Lainon needed to warn Aradan and Handir.

  He might be wrong, but he would wager good coin that the leaders of Sen’oléi suspected more than they let on.

  There was no more time left.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wheels of Destiny

  “Many things had been lost with the advent of the Alpines, amongst them the bearing of Honour stones. Our Alpine commanders forbid our brave warriors to wear them and so they kept them in pouches or boxes, their pride hidden away; dormant.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, Book III. Marhené.

  ***

  The journey back had been surprisingly uneventful, soured only by the ailing Fer’dán, who had not improved at all. They had passed a small village and as luck would have it, Lainon had been able to send a letter to Aradan by messenger. In it, he had briefly explained his suspicions that Narosén and Lorthil would soon recount the events that had taken place and their novice’s part in it. Their plan must now be put into action or risk failure even before it had begun.

  As they journeyed on, the troop remained mostly quiet, for although there were many stories to be told, their hearts were not in it, for Fer’dán’s fate was still uncertain. There would be time enough, they reckoned, and so they pushed on, enduring as best they could the brisk pace Turion had set.

  The village of Oran Dor boasted a master healer, and Turion handed Fer’dán into her care, for the journey home had been agony for their warrior. He would have a better chance of recovery here and so, with sad goodbyes, they left him behind. They had also been provided with horses and the warriors were ecstatic—yet none more so than Turion and Lainon.

  Closer now, and the weather was biting cold, despite the radiant sun that bathed the forest in a myriad of golden hues that sparkled in weary green eyes and Fel’annár smiled for the beauty of it, despite his own lingering discomfort. Yet his smile was no longer that of an innocent young lad, fresh out of a remote Silvan village, wonderstruck at the sights and sounds of the city outskirts. It was the smile of one who was wiser, more experienced, less naive.

  The months he had been away, towards the West and ultimately to the North, had been exciting and yet shocking; satisfying yet melancholic, and something else he had not expected; it had been frightening.

  He had heard the keening wails of Deviants and the guttural roars of Sand Lords; he had killed scores of them in every imaginable way, and yet only when he had finally witnessed the death of innocents and the suffering that lay in its wake had he truly began to understand the nature of horror and the growing rift between Silvan and Alpine elves.

  He had learned so much: about life as a warrior in the wilds, about discipline and leadership, about nature itself and his own growing perception of his nascent ability. He had learned to control his emotions and had not once thought of his illegitimate begetting, and of course, he had learned to braid his hair in pure Ari fashion.

  The forest became more populated the further South they moved. Foresters, farmers and children walked here and there, even waved at the dusty warriors as their horses took them through the glades and dells. Any who watched them pass understood the hardship they had seen for it was plainly written on their faces, and confirmed by ripped and tattered uniforms. They had seen battle and endured, and the citizens of Ea Uaré watched them proudly.

  “My Lord! Welcome home!” someone shouted from afar. Wondering who they hailed, Fel’annár turned his head, only to find an elf looking straight at him, his hand over his heart.

  Fel’annár stared for a moment, before looking behind him, in search of the Lord, but there was no one there, only a puzzled Angon who stared back at him, perplexed. Fel’annár
pulled a face and shrugged his shoulders, and then turned to the fore once more, his eyes taking in the new sights and sounds. They were close to the city now, and the familiar surge of excitement grabbed him and he smiled. He was still able to enjoy life, he realised, despite the things he had seen and done, of his grief and his fear.

  At the front of the line, Lainon and Turion shared a worried glance. There was no doubt in their minds as to what had just happened. They were not even at court yet, and someone had already mistaken Fel’annár for a member of the royal family.

  “We cannot go any further, Turion, ‘tis madness,” whispered Lainon.

  “By rights he should reside at the city barracks,” began Turion thoughtfully, “but you are right, of course. We are pushing our luck. The boy already has a reputation, The Silvan, remember? I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “I wonder if you could provide the boy with a bed for a few days. Your adopted village is not far from here. You would be close enough to attend your duties in the city, yet far enough to reduce the risks of Fel’annár being recognised. Can it be done?” asked the captain, his gaze resting heavily on Lainon.

  “Yes,” said the Ari cautiously. “We would have to take him off active duty, register him as wounded perhaps. He could regroup once the Tar’eastór party is ready to depart.”

  “Then that is what we must do,” murmured Turion. “We must speak with Lord Aradan and Prince Handir no sooner we arrive. See to it, Lainon, and send word to the barracks.”

  With a nod of agreement, it was decided, and soon enough, a puzzled Fel’annár left together with Lainon amidst heart-felt goodbyes and boisterous hugs. There were promises shared too, of serving together once more, for the impact the young novice had made upon them all, although especially on Angon, went much deeper than anyone realised at the time.

  ***

  The next day, Lainon had ridden with the sun, bidding Fel’annár rest until the evening, when he would be back with news from the city, and so, he sat in nothing but his breeches and a light shirt, his feet dangling in the slow trickle of the stream that ran parallel to the humble Silvan settlement on the northern outskirts of the city. Here, the residences were nestled in the trees, and Fel’annár decided he liked this. He marvelled at the crafted stairs that wound around the thick trunks, the ropes and pulleys that connected one platform to the next, and to their water supplies below. It was ingenious and he resolved to find books on engineering and village planning.