by R K Lander
“Water collection,” he said with a jerk of his head towards the nearby stream.
"Well, I must return to my prince,” said Lainon, finishing his tea and standing. His piercing blue eyes glanced over Fel’annár and then stopped suddenly, eyes trained on the Honour Stone in Fel’annár’s hair, the one that he knew used to lie hidden under his braids but which today stood defiantly upon the end of a warrior braid, sitting upon his armoured chest for all to see.
Lainon said nothing, and as he passed a shorter Silor, walking unnecessarily close to him, his bright blue eyes gleamed steadily in silent warning to the rigid Alpine. Silor took an involuntary step backwards and then turned to watch the Ari walk away. Snapping back to The Company, his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, and once he had left, Galdith and Osír smirked in righteous satisfaction.
“Brothers?” asked Galdith.
“Aye,” said Fel’annár with a proud smile. “Lainon is of The Company,” he said slyly, and Galdith frowned, asking himself how a respected Ari’atór lieutenant had come to form a part of this—Company—whatever that was. He shook his head and reached for the first of his two Honour Stones, still hidden in his hair. Unravelling the lock, he attached the bead to the end of a side-braid and then started on the other, and all the while, Galdith stared at a smiling Fel’annár who watched his actions with a glint in his strange green eyes, the fires of his rebellion reaching out to Galdith and flaring in his soul.
When Lainon returned to his princely charge, he found him in the company of Pan’assár, talking over a map of the area they were currently travelling through. It seemed the commander general had taken it upon himself to instruct the king’s second son on his military decisions, as if the prince were a trainee officer under his command. Lainon well knew what Pan’assár thought of Handir’s decision to become a statesman rather than a commander like his elder brother, Rinon. It was not the Alpine way, he would say. A king’s son must be skilled in the ways of war if he was to lead their people, protect them. It was just as well that Handir had a sharp mind and learned quickly, and yet those very traits sometimes led others to underestimate him, just like Pan’assár was doing now.
Lainon wondered at the change in Pan’assár, for the Ari was old enough to remember his glory days. He had seen Or’Talán and Pan’assár on many occasions; indeed, Pan’assár had always been at the king’s side, his commander general, his right hand in all things military. Together, they shone so very brightly—not their gleaming hair and lethal blades but their souls: it was a light not dissimilar to that which shone in Fel’annár’s eyes, even though Lainon knew its origins were not the same. The light in Fel’annár’s eyes was something entirely different.
When the commander finally left the prince, Handir turned to Lainon.
“Well?” asked the prince.
Lainon shook his head. “It will have to wait for later. I could not get the boy alone.”
“Tonight, Lainon—lest Pan’assár see him and all is lost.”
“Tonight, then,” replied Lainon with a brisk nod. His stomach lurched, for the moment had finally come, the moment in which he would tell Fel’annár of his heritage. He was under no delusions; he knew what it would do to the boy whom he himself had recognised no sooner he had set eyes on him a year ago. He closed his eyes and saw Lord Aradan there together with Captain Turion, and he wondered if it was done—if the king had been told of his Silvan son.
Chapter Two
HERITAGE
“The child had always wanted to know. The adolescent had denied the question’s importance. The warrior had put it all behind him in order to move on. But the truth is like air, always seeking to rise despite our efforts to contain it.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book IV. Marhené
“Here, clean these.” Freshly-caught fish slapped against the ground at Fel’annár’s feet as Silor threw them and then turned to Idernon, his eyes cold and hard. “Can you cook, boy?” he asked flatly.
“Yes, sir,” said Idernon evenly despite his mounting irritation.
“When they are ready, bring them to the tent for our prince and his escort.”
“Yes, sir,” said Idernon once more, saluting before turning to Fel’annár, his lip curled in disgust.
“Son of Galomú,” spat Carodel from behind, and Fel’annár agreed. Silor was indeed a demon—rude and unfeeling. His tone was bad enough, but to mistreat the fish in such a way...it was not the Silvan way, and well Silor knew it. Food was to be treated with respect for the life that was given in return for their own sustenance.
“I remember once, in the north with Turion and Lainon,” began Fel’annár, his eyes momentarily glancing over to Galdith who sat close by. “The warriors—Silvan for the most part—would not speak to me at first. They mocked me, for they thought me Alpine despite the name I had been given. They laughed at my innocence and presumed I was a liability to the patrol. There was one warrior who was especially vocal—Angon,” he emphasised, his eyes slipping sideways once more, noticing Galdith’s sudden stiffness at the mention of his friend’s name. “He would send me for water and then throw it on the ground, claiming it was dirty—had me running around answering to their beck and call. I wondered how I could make them understand that I knew I had much to learn, that I understood their rejection of me as a potential hazard. That I wished only to learn and that I respected them. It seems like years ago now. I remember wanting to explain that I was not Alpine, that I was Silvan, too.”
“What did you do?” asked Ramien, reaching for a fish and starting to gut it with his hand knife.
“One morning, I took it upon myself to fish for them. I cleaned, skinned, and boned my catch, steamed them over an infusion of rosemary, sage, and dill, and then served the fragrant fillets over a bed of pureed roots and honey.”
Idernon's eyes widened as his tongue came out to lick at his lips, and Galdith snickered, elbowing Osír beside him.
“Well, what happened?” asked Carodel, irritated that he was being made to wait for the outcome.
“They were impressed,” said Fel'annár cockily, and Idernon laughed. “Angon stuffed his Silvan face and then belched louder than the mud geysers of Westmarch.”
Galdith guffawed, slapping his chest, and Idernon’s eyes twinkled.
“So you see, Silor is an ass, yes—but so was Angon—at first, at least. His treatment of me was, in a sense, no different to Silor’s disdain.”
Galdith held Fel’annár’s steady gaze, but he said nothing, and Idernon thought him wise not to.
“I say we cook this fish as you say, for our prince, for our commander and our brother Lainon, and,” said the Wise Warrior, drawing in the others who sat around, “I say we show Silor the fruits of our endeavours, show him we are not cowed by his skulking, that we rise victorious to his challenge.”
Fel’annár’s eyebrow rode high on his forehead while Ramien smirked. Galdith was shaking his head while Osír shook his hand as if it burned.
“Ramien, find roots, rosemary, dill, sage. What else?” asked Carodel impatiently, hands held out before him as if he would grab the answers from Fel’annár’s mouth.
“Honey. Don't forget the honey—Lainon may be able to help with that, or our field healer,” suggested Fel'annár, and in a flash, Carodel was bouncing away on a mission.
“Well,” said Idernon with a smile as they began to pull out the bones from the evenly cut fillets. “If this doesn't impress our would-be lieutenant, nothing will!”
“It will take more than this, Idernon. I will think of Lainon as he eats this; Silor be damned,” said Fel’annár.
Sometime later, the troop watched in silence as one, physically-Alpine warrior and three Silvan novices added the final touches to three plates of steaming, fragrant fish. Green shoots and tiny purple petals decorated the crunchy, caramelized skin that glistened invitingly. Picking up the decorated plates, the four boys then walked reverently through their darkening camp, as if parading a sacred tree shoot
, purposefully lowering the plates so that their creation could be observed, and, of course, smelled. The warriors craned their necks for a glance at the treasure, blue and grey eyes twinkling longingly in the failing light. They had never seen the likes upon the road, for it was always stew, dry bread, or cheese. There was no mocking laughter now, no snide whispering, only curiosity and the deep rumble of empty stomachs gone too long without good food. As for Silor, he was nowhere to be seen.
Soon, The Company arrived at the royal tent, plates balanced carefully in their hands and a satisfied smirk on their faces. With their mission accomplished, excitement took over, for they would serve the prince at his table—see royalty for the first time, up close. They gazed on the splendour of the tents and the ceremonial guards that stood at rigid attention in their shining armour and exotic helms, pikes reaching far past the decorated tarpaulins. Through the open doorway, they could already see the rich opulence of fabrics and carpets and delicate lanterns that glowed softly. The sweet smell of burning resins wafted from the gently swaying tent. They gaped in rapture, even Idernon, despite his having seen it all a thousand times in his beloved books.
A guard at the door raised his eyebrows, then turned to announce their presence and gestured for them to enter. They ducked and were soon before a makeshift table, at the centre of which was Prince Handir, flanked by a somewhat distracted Lord Pan’assár and then Lainon, who visibly flinched and then paled alarmingly when he caught sight of Fel’annár.
The four bearers of dinner were oblivious, though, as they carefully placed their culinary masterpieces before the lords, then stepped back and bowed formally. Three moved to leave the tent but hesitated when the fourth stood frozen where he stood, eyes latched onto the blank gaze of Prince Handir who stared back, his goblet frozen midway towards his mouth.
Lainon's heart raced as he tried and failed to catch Fel’annár's eyes. It was no good, for they would not budge from those of his royal charge. As luck would have it, Pan’assár was marvelling at the steaming fish before him, caught in a cloud of tantalising aromas and unaware of the silent drama that was playing out just beside him.
It was Idernon who pulled hard on Fel’annár's arm, sending him stumbling awkwardly to the side. It worked, and The Company ushered a stunned Fel’annár from the tent.
Handir turned to Lainon, a warning flashing in his eyes as he lowered his head towards Lainon and whispered urgently in his ear. “Do it, and do it quickly...”
“Fel’annár, Fel’annár!” hissed Idernon. “What is wrong with you? Your first ever meeting with royalty and...”
“Stop! Shut up, Idernon, do not speak!” shouted Fel’annár, and Idernon took a shocked step backwards.
Ramien persisted. “What is wrong with you?” he whispered as Carodel came to stand beside him. Indeed, it was the Bard Warrior who placed a calming hand on Ramien and Idernon's shoulders.
“Peace, brothers. There is surely something we do not understand. Leave him be, and calm yourselves.”
“And what would you know?” growled Ramien, who, far from backing down, took a menacing step towards the Bard Warrior.
Carodel held his ground despite Ramien’s imposing frame. “Sometimes, distance allows one to see things more clearly. I know nothing except what I can see, as plainly as I see you,” he said, looking up into Ramien’s glinting eyes. “Fel’annár?” asked Carodel softly, turning away from the Wall of Stone.
Shiny green eyes met Carodel’s blue irises, a silent ‘thank you’ barely discernible behind the turmoil of roiling emotion and utter confusion.
“It was Prince Handir that I saw,” muttered Fel’annár almost to himself, his breathing not quite right.
“What?” asked Idernon.
“On the night I was invested a novice warrior, I saw an Alpine lord from afar. I thought perhaps he was there for us all, but then our eyes met, and I thought it strange that a lord should stare at me, one that looked a little like me. I even sketched him in my diary. In that tent,” he signalled with a finger, “is an Alpine prince—the same lord—so tell me,” he asked softly, “why would a prince of the realm seek me out on the day of my investiture?”
There was silence after that, for no one had an answer to Fel’annár’s desperate question; indeed, they did not seem to understand why it was so important.
“Perhaps you read too much into this,” said Ramien. “Why has this upset you so? It is not unheard of for royalty to witness investitures.”
“Of novices? No—warriors, perhaps,” said Fel’annár, closing his eyes in an attempt to quiet the rising panic in his mind. It did not work, and he opened them again only to find Lainon standing before him.
The Ari’atór cleared his throat, and Ramien, Idernon, and Carodel whirled on their heels as if they had been caught in some childish mischief.
Lainon’s eyes slowly moved from one to the other until they rested on Fel’annár, who stared back at him with such intensity it made his heart skip a beat.
“Come,” was all he said.
They followed the Ari’atór obediently, Fel’annár lost in a stupor of utter bewilderment while Ramien, Idernon, and Carodel shared a worried glance. They had tried to wrest importance from the matter, but Lainon’s appearance had them flummoxed, and suddenly it was not only Carodel who understood the significance of the moment.
Soon, they all stood upon the bank of a nearby river, as far as they could be from unwanted attention and partially shielded by a copse of trees.
“I have something to say,” began Lainon carefully, his eyes gleaming in the half light as they lingered on one and then the other until they landed squarely on Fel’annár. “Idernon, Ramien, Carodel—I charge you now with the duty of keeping Fel’annár focussed—he will need you in the days to come.”
Again, Lainon felt panic welling at the back of his throat, squeezing it shut.
“Fel'annár. I know of your heritage,” said Lainon slowly, “I have known since the first time I saw you at the city barracks. I remained silent until the time was right so that the import of it would not affect you at the worst possible time ... and for other reasons I will one day explain. It is my duty to tell you now, to tell you all I know.”
The novices stared in shock, but not so with Fel’annár. His expression was one of dread. His heart knew something that his mind was yet to process, but whatever it was, Fel’annár seemed to understand that it was something that would change him. Amareth had withheld the truth from him, and Fel’annár had always understood there was a dark secret in his past, one that haunted him, even though he had denied it a thousand times. In his mind he saw her now, auburn hair and honey eyes, eyes that welled with unshed tears of sorrow, of pity, of guilt, as if it were Amareth and not Lainon that stood before him, as it should have been.
It should have been her.
“Fel’annár, would you hear what I have to tell you?” Lainon asked slowly, his eyes searching for signs of how to proceed.
“Of course,” said Fel’annár lightly, but his voice wavered. He could feel his eyes darting around in his head, his body recoiling as if he expected a blow, one he could not run from, one that would wound him and yet he could not flee.
He saw Golloron smile softly in the pre-dawn glow. ‘You will come to know yourself...’ and then he saw Lainon’s face the first time they had met—the lingering stare, the masked shock which he had not recognised at the time. He saw Narosén of Sen’oléi as he spoke strange words, ‘… you are ours.’
“It was at the city barracks that I came to know who you are, for you see, Fel’annár, you resemble your father, even though you share the very same face as once your grandfather had.”
Fel’annár’s head snapped back to Lainon, back to the present.
“My father is dead.” He could feel his jaw clenching, irrational anger biting at the heels of his curiosity, of his need to know. Whether his father lived or not, he was dead, for what difference was there to a son? His father had never been prese
nt, never made a difference to his life, had not once sought him out in fifty-two years. And yet why would Fel’annár be angry if he truly thought him dead? It was because he had always known, on some deep, subconscious plane, that he had been abandoned, that he had not been wanted, had never been important in his progenitor’s life.
“He is not dead, Fel’annár. He lives.”
Idernon raked a shaking hand through his tousled hair, and Ramien’s jaw worked furiously while Carodel watched them all in confusion. They were all bracing themselves in their own way for the long-hidden truth that would surely be revealed, because intuitively they knew that was what Lainon was preparing—a mighty blow that would shatter Fel’annár’s hard-found peace. Ramien's eyes filled with unshed tears, not of sorrow but frustration and fear, and he watched as Fel’annár’s arms wrapped around his chest as if he would protect himself.
“I have no father,” said Fel’annár, feeling stupid even as the words left his mouth.
“Everyone has a father, Fel’annár, and yours is alive,” whispered the Ari.
“This cannot...” began Fel’annár, taking one step backwards as if the distance could somehow stave off the moment, dilute the truth, but Lainon held up his hand, eyes darting for a passing moment to the others, a silent plea for help, to catch him should he run.
“Fel’annár, believe me, please. There is no mistake. I know, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, who your father is.”
Silence, and Fel’annár finally moved, arms dropping to his sides, his fear and vulnerability giving way to the implacable onslaught of anger and pride. His posture straightened and he lifted his head, eyes glinting, daring Lainon to continue.
Lainon leaned forward until he could almost reach out and touch the boy’s face. “Fel’annár, your father—your father is Thargodén, king of Ea Uaré.”
Silence.
Nothing seemed to move at all. Even the soft evening breeze had ceased its gentle dance as Lainon’s last words rang in their ears, their meaning yet lost on them—as if they had not been understood until a strangled gasp escaped Ramien. Fel’annár, however, stared back at Lainon, his eyes bright and round, and then—he chuckled.
