by R K Lander
The water was cold, a sure sign that winter was deepening. It was still cloudless though, and blessed sunlight still kissed the land, but the chill was biting and he soon took his feet from the water and crossed his legs.
Why they had left before their arrival in the city he could not say and his disappointment had been all too clear to his mentor. Fel’annár was experienced enough to know that there was a reason for it, and he also knew that Lainon would not speak of it until he was ready, for the Ari was often tight-lipped, preferring the significance of silence to the clumsiness of words. He would wait—after all, surely he would be better off residing in this village than in the cramped barracks. He just wished he knew what was going on.
Was he still a novice? Where would he be sent now, and with whom? And why, why did Lainon not speak plainly with him?!
As he leaned back into the tree behind him, a sense of peace descended upon him and he decided that his first tour had actually gone well. Better, perhaps, than he could have hoped. Aye he had felt clumsy and inadequate at the start, but he had overcome and proved himself to his fellow warriors. Surprisingly too, his own illicit begetting had played no part in his life at all. There had been no antagonism, no mention of it and he had managed to forget—forget he had no father and no siblings, no mother or grandparents—only Amareth—and he smiled.
They love you.
He scowled, for there it was again. Was that his own mind, or was it the tree at his back?
Glancing back in annoyance, he felt the urge to chuckle and again, he wondered if it was his own mirth, or that of the tree. It was exasperating and then he remembered Narosén splitting his sides when Fel’annár had run to him, shouting that he had lost his mind. He did chuckle then, before sitting back once more, absently caressing the rough bark with his hand. Peace was upon him once more and another thought popped into his head.
Patience.
Now he knew. That had not been him, and finally, Fel’annár accepted the truth. He could hear the trees.
He was a Listener.
***
It was already past the lunch hour when Lainon met Turion before the great doors that led into the fortress and Thargodén’s court. Clasping forearms, they walked purposefully towards Lord Aradan’s office as they talked quietly.
“How are things at the barracks?” asked Lainon with a wry smile.
Turion’s face was sour for he missed his life in the countryside. But that had changed the moment he had been invested as a captain and accepted as a member of the Inner Circle. Turning his head towards Lainon, he huffed and the Ari smirked; the question had, after all, been rhetorical.
Knocking upon the carved oak door, they strode into the well-appointed offices of Prince Handir. A roaring fire crackled and hissed off to one side, and orange light illuminated the beautiful artwork that hung from the walls, one of them a portrait of Or’Talán, first king of Ea Uaré. Lainon stood transfixed, so much so, that he failed to respond to the councillor’s welcome.
“He was, indeed, extraordinary, was he not,” said Aradan solemnly.
“Forgive me, my Lord, ‘tis just, the resemblance is . . .”
“Striking,” finished Turion.
“Is he truly that alike?” asked Aradan softly. “Prince Handir saw him from a distance and stated there was indeed a likeness.”
“Then he must have been far away indeed, my Lord. King Or’Talán had the blue-grey eyes of our King Thargodén, but Fel’annár’s eyes are—green—suffice it to say. But that is the short of it, Councillor. No one that knew our Lord Or’Talán could ever ignore the Silvan’s true house, the nature of his lineage,” said Lainon.
“Where is he?” asked Aradan as he approached them slowly, his shrewd eyes anchoring on them both.
“He stays with me, in Dorolén, not half a day’s ride from here,” explained Lainon. “We thought it best to keep him away from the crowds, my Lord.”
“Well done,” said the councillor, before bowing to the figure that now joined them.
“Prince Handir,” gestured Aradan and the two warriors bowed formally. Lainon’s eyes lingered for a while on his ex-charge, remembering that this was Fel’annár’s brother—the thought seemed utterly absurd to him—the news was monumental and he suddenly doubted they could ever pull this off.
“Captain Turion, Lieutenant Lainon. At ease if you will, this conversation is private. Aradan, seal the doors.”
Moments later, the four elves sat around a small round table, fine wine before them, their faces cast in partial shadow, and where the warriors’ worked leather creaked with their movements, Aradan and Handir’s robes swished softly as they accommodated themselves in their plush chairs.
Swallowing his first sip of wine, Aradan sat forward, his long fingers stroking his chin as Handir spoke.
“Prince Rinon leaves two days hence, to the East where he is expected to stay for at least two weeks. It must be enough,” said the prince seriously, no preamble, no pleasantries, no—curiosity, realised Lainon. Either that or it was well hidden beneath the prince’s practiced mask of statesmanship.
“As for my father, he expects me to leave for Tar’eastór ten days from now,” he said, leaning back and taking a sip of his wine.
“The King was not loathe to release you while Prince Rinon is abroad?” asked Turion.
“Prince Rinon’s visit is to the local villages, not the outposts further North. It is not a dangerous mission; indeed, it is not a military mission but one of trade. He saw no conflict of interests; it is all set.”
“It seems to have been easier than we had foreseen,” added Aradan, “and I must admit that makes me wary. The only setback so far has been the Crown Prince’s desire to meet The Silvan, and that has been easily set aside for now, for said Silvan is, supposedly, still in the North. You did well to keep him away from the city, Lieutenant,” finished the councillor with a nod of approval at Lainon.
“I must report a—surprising—development,” said Turion, placing his goblet on the table before him.
“Oh?” asked Handir with a scowl, sharing a momentary glance at Aradan. “Has something happened?”
“Well,” said Turion, “you could say that, my Prince.”
“Come, Turion, do not leave us in the dark,” said Aradan, worry now clearly etched on his wise face as he sat forward, his shrewd eyes searching those of the Captain, noticing his tired eyes.
“The Silvan, he - he has a gift.”
“A gift,” said Handir flatly, his eyes straying to Aradan once more.
“There is evidence to suggest that he, eh, has some sort of—green magic—my Lords.” His voice had been soft, as if his tone could somehow take away the import of his words.
“Green magic,” repeated Aradan, his voice equally monotonous.
“My Lords,” began Lainon, his eyes seeking and attaining Turion’s permission to continue. “All we know at this time is that this gift has manifested itself for the first time on this mission. It is some sort of, sensitivity, to the trees. He senses danger well before the rest of our warriors, and he knows things that others cannot.”
“There is nothing certain at this point,” continued Turion, “but it is something you both should be aware of. So far, he cannot control it, and there may be further developments we are currently unaware of.”
A deep breath preceded Aradan’s next words. “The king too, has a measure of ability with the trees, although he is not a Listener. Alright, now is there anything else that may interfere with our plans?” he asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“Yes,” said Lainon. “We suspect at least one elf may have an inkling as to who Fel’annár is. It was not immediately obvious to us, but we cannot rule out that possibility.”
“What did you do to draw attention to him?” asked Aradan somewhat curtly.
“It is not about what we d
id, my Lord,” said Turion a little too abruptly, “but what Fel’annár did. The boy,” began Turion. “The boy is extraordinary. He is young and inexperienced in all things and yet he fights as the warriors of old. There is a quality about him that inspires—love and—loyalty. Our entire patrol expressed their wish to serve with him again, in spite of his rank as Novice, and, if I may, that includes my good Lieutenant Lainon—and myself,” he said. There was surprise in his words and in his eyes. Lainon glanced back at his friend, his strange, slanted eyes glinting in the shadows as only silence followed the Captain’s words.
“Well, Lainon? Is this true?” asked Handir. Although his tone had been neutral, his voice seemed to echo around the room unnecessarily loudly.
“Yes, yes it is true. Yet even if you were to demand of me an explanation I could not give it for I cannot explain it myself.
Silence, again.
“What happened out there?” asked Aradan, sensing there was much more to the tale than the warriors had offered up.
“It is a long story, my Lord,” said Turion. “I will submit my full report later today before General Huren. We have important tactical information and news that should be conveyed to the council. There has been a great battle.”
“Is it that serious?” asked Handir, bending forwards so that he could better read the captain’s eyes.
Turion stared back at the prince, his face blank. “Sixty civilians slaughtered, two of my most veteran warriors and a village razed to the ground, my Prince.”
Utter silence followed Turion’s words and Handir sat back, and then slowly closed his eyes. It was the first sign of empathy they had seen from him. It was not much, but it was a start, Turion supposed.
“Well now,” said Aradan, his tone bringing them all back to the present. “Commander General Pan’assár has requested to see you both tomorrow morning, briefing for our upcoming journey.”
“Pan’assár?” asked Turion, clearly surprised.
“Yes,” said Aradan. “He is to lead Prince Handir’s caravan.”
“But, what about Captain Turion?” asked Lainon with a scowl. “I had assumed . . .”
“Then you assumed incorrectly, Lainon. When a member of the royal family travels, it is the Commander General who oversees the journey personally.”
Turion looked to the floor and closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked at Lainon there was an apology in his eyes. “Pan’assár is Alpine—with a capital A,” he said, his tone somewhat dark and sarcastic.
Lainon stared back at Turion. It was true then, what he had heard. Pan’assár was the Commander General, their best warrior and leader, but those that served under him spoke of his cold demeanour, his cutting manner and often times cruel words. He was respected but feared, obeyed yet not from the heart, but from the mind.
“But he knew Lord Or’Talán, was one of the Shining Three - he will recognise Fel’annár,” said Lainon, a note of alarm creeping into his voice.
“We could not avoid it,” began Aradan. “It is custom and had I contested that decision I would have raised suspicion. We must work around this. The caravan is large and armour will be worn. We need to keep the boy away from the front.”
“He will need protection, help—someone to make sure he is not discovered before he can be told the truth,” murmured Turion.
“Idernon and Ramien.”
“What?” asked Turion distractedly.
“We must send Idernon and Ramien as the caravan’s novices,” explained Lainon.
“Can novices be sent on such a mission?” asked Handir.
“Yes, it is not unheard of,” said Turion. “But Pan’assár will not like it, especially because they are not Alpine.”
“See that it is done,” said Aradan.
“Who are Idernon and Ramien?” asked Handir.
Lainon smiled. “They are The Company,” he said with a sly smile, to which Handir cocked his brow, and Lainon left him wondering.
Chapter Eighteen
Catharsis
“So avid were we for but a spark of hope that would shake us from our long sleep, a glimmer of something that would awake in us the splendour of this Silvan nation. It came suddenly, in the shape of one amber river stone that sat defiantly upon the end of a warrior’s braid.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book III. Marhené.
***
Fel’annár stood in his new uniform. Black breeches and heavy boots and then a knee-length brown leather tunic. The vambraces were black, like his boots and the buckles made of silver. The straps of two harnesses crossed his chest and from his leather-clad shoulders, a bow lay to one side and the pommel of a broadsword to the other. There was something else though, something he knew he should not wear but that felt wrong not to. Alféna’s Honour Stone sat at the end of a side braid. It would be hidden for the most part but would surely be visible when he walked or moved. It was a risk he was prepared to take for how could such an honourable thing be deemed inappropriate? It sounded to Fel’annár like the purposeful destruction of Silvan culture, repression of their identity.
Lainon and Turion had said nothing on their journey back but Fel’annár knew that other commanders would not be so indulgent. Nevertheless, in this one thing he would defy them.
Walking towards a lone beech tree, he placed his palm against its trunk as he remembered Lainon’s words from the day before. They were off on another tour, only this time he would be required to leave Ea Uaré for the Alpine kingdom of Tar’eastór in two days’ time. It would be his longest journey yet, and he was unsure how he felt about it. He would be walking into the very seat of Alpine power; a Silvan novice that looked like an Alpine. It was begging for trouble - madness. And then his training would be disrupted for Lainon was assigned to the prince; he would have no time to spare. There was something else, though. Tar’eastór was surely the birthplace of his father. The thought was mercilessly suppressed; he would never think on that again.
His father was dead, even if he still lived.
There were advantages too, he told himself. The greatest warrior ever known resided there, Commander General of King Vorn’asté’s army – the mighty Gor’sadén, one of the Shining Three. He had read the stories, devoured them as a child and remembered them now as an adult. He was a living legend together with Pan’assár and the deceased Or’Talán.
But then what did that matter? He would probably never even see the elf, let alone talk to him, ask him of the battles he had waged, the strategies he had employed.
He chuckled out loud as one finger brushed over the rough bark.
‘Have faith.’
Faith? It was not faith that would help him – it was himself, it always had been.
‘Aria sees you.’
Does she? And why can I not see her?
‘You do.’
Fel’annár pulled his hand back from the bark, as if it had burnt him and he frowned as the words echoed in his mind. He was distracted from any further thoughts as the corner of his eye spotted a group of children huddled together, obviously masterminding some devious plan—Fel’annár knew for he had done just that with Ramien and Idernon so many times in his own childhood, when being warriors was still a fantasy in the distant future.
They played some game it seemed for they crouched in the bushes, plotting and planning as they waved their tiny hands and whispered furiously between themselves, casting furtive glances his way—as if he could not see them. They were talking about him, he realised, and a smile blossomed on his face for the first time that day.
Looking around for any sign of Lainon, he was, once more, drawn to the children as the whispering became louder, and before he knew it, one boy had broken from the main group and was slowly creeping towards him. The boy’s face was rigid, eyes wide and searching as he made his skittish way towards the imposing blond elf.
“Gre
etings, warrior,” said Fel’annár seriously. “What are you tracking?” he asked, and the imp stopped dead in his tracks, his head whipping back to his friends in mounting panic, as if he had suddenly been caught in quicksand.
The whispering was back as they flapped their arms, signalling to their friend that he should continue his quest and so, bolstering his courage, the young one continued his tortuous way forwards under the puzzled yet amused gaze of Fel’annár.
Soon enough, he was just a few feet away, staring, his mouth hanging open. Before he had been scared but now, he was curious, for the boy’s eyes strayed from the large green eyes to the thick locks tightly secured in a high ponytail at the back of Fel’annár’s head, and then to the amber stone at the end of an archer’s braid.
“Are you, a—are you . . .”
“Speak child, I do not bite; well not usually,” smiled Fel’annár lop-sidedly.
The children behind snorted in laughter and shoved each other roughly, but their eyes never left the scene before them, admiring their friend’s bravery no doubt.
“A—are you—are you The Silvan?” he asked in awe.
Fel’annár was taken aback. How could this child possibly know the nick name he had been given? He was new to this village, nobody knew him in Dorolén except Lainon, and the Ari had not used that name here, he was sure of it.
“Yes,” he answered simply, and to his utter surprise, all vestiges of fright and apprehension disappeared, replaced now by the biggest, toothy grin Fel’annár had ever seen on the face of a child. His eyes sparkled and he squealed in delight, bouncing on the spot where he stood, all pretence of being an imposing warrior and tracker gone in the wake of childish delight.
