Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  Hence, Lainon’s smile was a little lopsided when Calen finally reached them.

  “A wonderful party, my friend! So many have come; so many lovely ladies!” he smirked as he gulped his wine, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

  “Then have fun while you can, for the night is young and you—are unattached,” said Lainon levelly, hoping that would prompt his friend to jump back into the fray. Alas, there was no such luck.

  “Your new friend is popular with the lasses. I will have to stake my claim on Elbanié—must be those eyes. I would bet my best belt that is Lássira’s son,” he said calculatingly as he sipped once more upon his wine.

  Amareth flinched and instinctively turned away, and Lainon’s body straightened of its own accord.

  “The grapes addle your mind, Calen—Lássira was not wed,” said Lainon carefully.

  “And what does that matter? There are plenty of bastards in this world, born outside the binds of marriage!” scoffed Calen, and Lainon was suddenly rigid.

  “I tell you there is no mistaking it—I am not blind. Nobody else has those eyes, Lainon. I wonder who the lucky . . .” Calen trailed off, his eyes growing impossibly wide as he slowly turned to Lainon.

  “Lainon,” he said seriously now, no traces of his growing inebriation. “Lainon you don’t suppose . . . I mean you know what they said of Lássira—Silvan lover of the king . . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” said Lainon a little too curtly, indeed he could see Calen flinch at his steely words and so he calmed his mounting anxiety. “Calen, that is ludicrous and you would do well not to repeat that; it could cause much harm.”

  “You are protective of him,” said Calen again, his gaze now shrewd and sharp. “Lainon, we have known each other for many years—do not take me for a fool. I know what I say and if his father is not—him—his mother is Lássira.”

  “Then for the friendship we share, Calen, do not repeat your conjectures,” said Lainon in a tone that brooked no retort. “Fel’annár has no parents, nobody knows who they were and that is the end of it—do you understand me, my friend?”

  Calen held the Ari’s dark gaze for a while before answering him.

  “I understand, I understand perfectly.”

  “Promise me,” said Lainon, his eyes boring into Calen’s, hypnotically almost. “I will not discuss this again with you but be warned. My loyalty to the king is far greater than my friendship with you.”

  Calen swayed backwards as if he had been slapped, a hint of fear in his bold eyes. “You cannot mean to hide this,” he whispered, eyes overly bright in his shock.

  “I will not discuss it,” repeated Lainon, his jaw clenching and Calen stepped down, nodding curtly. With one last, lingering stare at Amareth’s back, he bowed and left.

  Amareth let loose a mighty gasp of air, and Lainon turned apologetic eyes on her, but before they could discuss it further, Erthoron, the leader of Lan Taria and Silvan representative at Thargodén’s court joined them.

  “Amareth, and Lainon - it has been a while, Lieutenant,” he said softly, his eyes moving from one elf to the other and then scowling. “What has happened?”

  “Fel’annár is in danger of being identified,” said Lainon. “He is too much like his mother.”

  “Wait until he travels into the lands of the Alpine proper,” sighed the village leader, “for it will not be Lássira they associate him with.”

  “I know,” said Lainon, “I know.”

  Another figure approached then, Turion, his exquisitely carved breastplate catching the light of a waxing moon.

  “Lady Amareth?” he asked tentatively, to which she nodded, but said nothing. “I am Captain Turion, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I believe you have been Fel’annár’s commanding officer.”

  “That is correct my lady, although for this upcoming trip I cannot accompany him. He will be with Lainon, though.”

  “Turion,” said Lainon urgently, for he realised the captain did not know she had not yet been told of their plans. Luckily though, the two had worked together long enough to understand each other’s non-verbal communication and Turion nodded subtly at Lainon. It was time to tell her.

  “My Lady,” began Lainon. “There is something of great importance you need to know.”

  Amareth scowled in puzzlement but her nostrils flared, and Lainon immediately knew she was nervous. With a brief glance at Erthoron, he continued.

  “First you must know that Turion is aware of the facts and is sworn to our cause.”

  “Our cause?” asked Erthoron quietly, his eyes darting around them.

  “Yes. You see,” began Lainon, “from the moment Fel’annár became a recruit, you surely knew the consequences, did you not?” he asked, his eyes falling heavily on Amareth.

  After a moment of silence, she nodded. “Yes,” she said quietly, “Yes, I knew, and Aria is witness to my doubts but—I could not hold him back,” she said pleadingly. “I knew it would only be a matter of time but I could not keep him in a remote Silvan village—he is too—important.”

  Erthoron looked into his cup and Lainon simply nodded his understanding.

  “We too, know this and - we have a plan—so that both Fel’annár and the king do not find out from others, so that his existence is not used against Thargodén by those that would lead our land to ruin.”

  “You tread dangerous ground, Lainon,” warned Erthoron.

  Lainon nodded before continuing with his explanation. “The day after tomorrow, both I and Fel’annár ride to Tar’eastór as part of Prince Handir’s escort.”

  “You would take him there – into the very lands of his father? Are you mad?”

  “Not mad, my Lady. We would tell him of his heritage, before we arrive.”

  She stood silently. There was shock on her face but if Lainon had expected her to object – he was wrong.

  “Better that he is abroad then – he will be safer,” she mumbled.

  Now it was Lainon who frowned. “You see the danger then? That his existence may be used against the king, hinder Fel’annár in his military career?” Lainon had not expected her to be quite so understanding.

  When Amareth spoke her next words, they left Lainon, Turion and Erthoron speechless and with the fine hairs at the back of their necks standing on end.

  “The real danger is not to his military career, Lainon – is to Fel’annár himself. If he were to stay here – he would be hunted down and destroyed .”

  It was Turion who put an end to the shocked silence.

  “What is it that you know that we do not?”

  It was Erthoron who replied. “Captain. We always knew that should Fel’annár step into the light, there are those that would do him harm and yet, so too did we know that he would leave.”

  Both Lainon and Turion’s eyes widened at the implications. “Who told you this?” growled Lainon. “Who dared to threaten you?” he trailed off, his eyes widening in sudden realization, turning abruptly to Amareth. “It was the same one, wasn’t it? The same elf who told the queen . . . who?” he whispered.

  “We do not know their names but they were Alpine,” said Amareth. “They said they spoke for many at court, that a royal bastard would not be tolerated.”

  “Band’orán’s followers, I would wager on it,” said Lainon urgently. “This is unexpected. Band’orán knows there was a child, that Fel’annár is here, in Bel’arán; perhaps we should . . .”

  “Never!” growled Turion. “Now, more than ever; I am determined to do what is right for the boy. We cannot cage him in, we cannot stunt his destiny. This must end, and it ends with the truth. No sooner you are on the road, Lainon, and you tell him. Aradan and I will see to the rest, to the king.” He would brook no argument it seemed and Lainon nodded curtly.

  Amareth nodded, but there were uns
hed tears in her eyes. “The king? When he hears of what really happened, he will fade, Lainon. He will weaken and they will take advantage. They will place Band’orán on the throne as they have ever wanted to do.”

  “That is a possibility, Amareth,” said Lainon calmly. “But think of this. The king may not react as you say. He may take an interest in his son. Not all the Alpines at court are disloyal to Thargodén; the majority are with him. It is the Silvan people who float in the middle of this, Amareth . . . do you not see? Do you all not see? Fel’annár is The Silvan. He has already won them over and will only become stronger in their eyes, albeit he is blissfully unaware of it as yet. It might just be enough to deter Band’orán’s followers from threatening his life for if they do, the Silvan people would not tolerate it and that—is not in Band’orán’s interests . . .”

  Turion, Amareth and Erthoron stared at the Ari for long moments, before the village leader finally broke the silence.

  “Well-reasoned, Lieutenant. Well-reasoned indeed.”

  “Lainon,” said Amareth, her hand lightly touching the lieutenant’s forearm. “I would have your promise – that you will see him through this. You cannot begin to understand just how much this will affect him. I – we,” she corrected, “have led him to believe his father was an outcast, that he did something passing ill to be ignored in death, not because we said as much but because we said nothing at all. It was the only way to keep him safe, keep him in Lan Taria while he was young and vulnerable. I wager he thinks his father dead because that is the only way he can understand his absence. Fel’annár is a tough boy but he will flounder, Lainon, of that I have no doubt. Deep down he wants what he never had – he wants a father but he will never admit to it.”

  “And now I am to tell him his father is the king,” said Lainon flatly. He breathed heavily and cast his gaze to the trees above. “You have my promise, Amareth. I will watch out for him, I will make a brother of Handir if I can, protect Fel’annár from Thargoden’s line in Tar’eastór.”

  “It seems an impossible task for just one elf,” murmured Erthoron, “even for you, Lainon.”

  But Lainon smiled then. “I am not alone, Erthoron. I have The Company,” he said and his eyes slipped to Amareth. Her own lips parted and then the corners tugged them upwards.

  “I trust you, Lainon. I have always trusted you. You are the only person that can do this. I cannot – never could. He will hate me for keeping the truth from him, he will struggle to understand my motives and that is my sacrifice, one I will never regret making – for my people, for Lássira, for my son.”

  Turion raised his goblet in silent salute and Erthoron nodded. Lainon simply watched her and wondered. If Lássira had been anything like this woman, Ea Uaré would have had a formidable queen at Thargodén’s side had hatred not stepped between them and torn them asunder.

  Lainon knew then, the true nature of his goal – he would bring them back together – not the king and Lássira, but the king and the son they had created between them, for of that union, great things would surely ensue.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Culmination

  “Change had come to the Silvans in the form of an honour stone, worn defiantly by one Silvan warrior. To the king, that change came from the trees. It was the beginning of a new dawn for Ea Uaré.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, Book III. Marhené.

  ***

  “There is a missive from Erthoron that must be discussed, my King. We should meet first thing tomorrow to discuss it, if that is acceptable?” prompted Aradan.

  “Of course,” came the monotonous answer, soft and apparently unconcerned.

  “With both princes abroad, my Lord, I have asked Colophon to assist us with their administrative duties.”

  “Good,” came the equally unemotional response.

  “Very well, my Lord,” said Aradan, hesitating for a moment before turning, leaving the introspective king to himself and his thoughts.

  The heavy oak door clunked shut and Thargodén closed his brilliant blue-grey eyes for a moment, before opening them once more and turning to the window behind him.

  Winter was advancing and with every day the weather became colder and the landscape waxed brown and grey—so like himself—he mused. Cold and grey, withered and exhausted—alone.

  Rinon and Handir were abroad—everyone had gone—and he remained, rolling as would a boulder with the inertia of an empty life, one that made no sense except to administer the land his father had colonised and then prematurely left in his care. It was his only motivation to continue in Ea Uaré. It was enough, but he was profoundly unhappy.

  To his three children he meant nothing, their respect for him fuelled only by his status as King. He had lost them in all the ways that mattered, their regard for him spanning from civil to downright cruel.

  Any attempt he had made to be the father he had once been, to show his love for them had been countered by their disappointment in him, for precipitating their mother’s departure to Valley. He had left them bereft and they would not forgive him.

  He had lost them and his only hope for happiness was when he too, finally stepped upon blessed soil and kissed the hand of his true love and, perhaps, the child they had created together, the one that had served to save her life, to deliver her into the healing lands of Valley.

  How long would he have to wait? How long before he could allow himself to disconnect from this place, leave behind his children, and set foot upon the Last Road?

  But he could not, for however much they reminded him every day of his sins, of what he had done to them, he could never leave them behind. He could never do what the queen had done. There was nothing in this world that could move him to sever his connection with his children.

  He looked down, his nostrils flaring subtly for a moment before raising his eyes once more, only to settle upon a small book sitting between two larger tomes upon a dark, dusty bookshelf.

  Slowly, he moved towards it, his hand reaching out tentatively until his fingers brushed over the small, weathered book. His index finger hooked over the top and softly, he pulled it out, until it finally rested in his white, manicured hands.

  He looked away for a moment, but his eyes were drawn back to the diary, and with a heavy breath, he opened it.

  There, upon the ancient paper, was a drawing, one he himself had rendered, partially obscured by a dried flower. It was brown and brittle, where once it been a supple, vibrant green—just like her eyes. She had gifted him with this, revered flower, one that symbolised eternal love to the Silvan people. He had cherished it once and yet now, to look upon it was to be reminded of what he had lost, the eternal death of his heart.

  Finally, he allowed himself to admire the features that had mesmerised and captivated him since he had first seen them, tears welling in his burning eyes and his heart clenching painfully. One shaking hand reached out to trace the outline of the face, the wave of chestnut locks, the slant of her legendary eyes, the strong brow and the high cheekbones.

  “Lassiel.”

  Thargodén’s finger brushed softly over the full pink lips, marvelling for a moment at the characteristic shape of them. “Will I ever see you again?” he whispered, a lone tear finally escaping him. It burnt a trail down his pale face, like the shallow cut of a sharp blade, the one that stabbed him in the heart every day when he thought of her.

  He closed the book with a harsh, angry thud and strode to the shelf once more, replacing the diary in its almost hidden home. Turning, his face was stern, the tear swiped away angrily as he came to stand before the open balcony of his rooms.

  The Evergreen Wood rolled away into the distance, its beauty calming his grief enough to make it bearable once more.

  ‘Strange,’ he mused, stepping onto the mighty plateau and walking to the very end of it so that he seemed to be hanging over the forest, the trees below and around him
. There was a song on the air, from the trees he was sure—he had not heard them for so long.

  Concentrating, he tried to discern the feelings they evoked for only in that way could he understand them. He wasn’t a listener but he was sensitive to their moods.

  Pity, sorrow, forgiveness, understanding, excitement.

  Excitement?

  Furrowing his brow in concentration, he tried again. The same emotions came through clearly but there was more . . .

  Joy—why would they sing such a thing? Their land was assailed by Sand Lords and Deviants, the people and the trees were suffering. Why would they sing of bliss? It was almost offensive.

  Patience, understanding, reprimand, joy . . .

  He shook his head in frustration, trying one more time, and then a thought occurred to him. Were they mocking him for his moment of self-pity?

  Fool, grief, pride, victory, Lord . . .

  “What . . .” he said aloud. Turning suddenly on his heels, his skin prickling as he strode back inside, he made urgently for the door of his study, flinging it open until it thudded against the wall behind.

  “Aradan!” he shouted, before turning back into the room and to the window, trying one more time to understand the strange song of the Evergreen Wood.

  Patience, pride, courage, Forest Lord.

  Thargodén’s eyes bulged. Did they speak of him? Had they called him Forest Lord?

  “My Lord,” hailed Aradan as he entered slowly, concern written on his face for Thargodén had not shouted in many, many years.

  “Aradan. Do you hear the trees?” asked the king urgently.

  “No, I never could, my Lord,” said Aradan carefully, trying and failing to read the conflicting emotions on his monarch’s face.

  “Do you hear nothing at all?” he shouted in frustration, and all Aradan’s senses were alert. Thargodén never lost control, never shouted, never expressed deep emotion, be it good or bad. Whatever had happened must have been transcendental.