by R K Lander
There was a violent battle raging in his mind. He knew the truth of it, but he simply could not bring himself to believe it, to say it, to put it into words. He could not even fathom how he felt about it all. There was anger—that was all he knew.
He heaved a mighty breath and raised his head to the early morning light, eyes still closed. It was cold, and that was the first thought that slowly began to pull him from the fog of dread and uncertainty—into the real world and the unbelievable truth.
His muscles ached, his head felt too heavy, and a dull throb pressed on the back of his neck. He opened his eyes nonetheless and then wondered what colour they would be, whether they still shone as if a demon spat fire inside his head. He had frightened them, and then he mentally scoffed at his stupid thoughts. He had terrified himself! He was still terrified.
He suddenly missed Narosén the Spirit Herder and his strange ways—his comforting words and knowing eyes. Funny, he mused. For the first time in his life, that ever-present question was no longer there, on his lips, in his mind, scratching at his vulnerable heart.
‘Who am I?’
He was Fel’annár, bastard son of Thargodén.
Their fire had almost died, and Ramien was fanning it while Carodel picked up a pail and headed for the stream. Idernon, however, was staring back at him, silent save for the eloquent friendship in his eyes. There was an invitation there to speak, but Fel’annár could not, not yet.
His eyes strayed to the trees that surrounded them, and he wondered what he would feel should he reach out and touch them.
‘No, don’t,’ he said to himself. He had done that last night, and he had been turned into some arcane wind spirit. He had wanted to run, but then, how does one run away from oneself? His gift had changed, evolved in some way, and the only pattern he could find was related to his emotions. He repressed a shiver, and then realised that Lainon was not there.
Turning back to Idernon, Fel’annár wondered what his friends were thinking now that they knew of his heritage. Would the truth change things between them? Nay, he berated himself, not The Company—they were his true brothers, they were his only family save for Amareth; that would never change, he was sure of it.
“Here,” said Carodel, ladling out the tea he had brewed and passing them all a cup. Even Fel’annár reached out for his own.
They sipped in silence for a while, until Idernon leaned forward and spoke softly. “I wish Lainon were here.” Carodel and Ramien nodded, but their faces were identical: pale and drawn. Fel’annár was a son of the king. It was completely absurd—unbelievable and yet—to the two most veteran members of The Company, however stunned they still were, it all, somehow, made absolute sense.
Chapter Three
PRECIPICE
“Sometimes beautiful, other times harsh, Bel’arán is a paradise to some, and eternal condemnation to others. Immortals may take the Long Road to the Valley of the Living, while others take the Short Road to the Valley of Death. There, the houseless soul resides, unaware of itself until it comes into consciousness once more and the body is restored. Only then can they continue their joint journey into the Valley of the Living. But the wait can be long, sometimes eternal, for not everyone returns. We do not understand why. Some say it is simply the way of nature, but others, the Faithful, say it is for the deeds done upon Bel’arán. These are the worshippers of a Higher Spirit.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book I. Marhené.
Breathe, relax, focus.
How do you tell a father he has a son he knows nothing about?
Easy, a mere trifle for one such as Aradan. Centuries of politics had honed his skills and sharpened his perception of elven psychology. He read eyes and interpreted hearts, he felt treachery in his bones and recognised lies, even the sugar-coated, hand-fed ones.
How do you tell a king that his lover perished?
Aradan had faced many trials as chief councillor to the king. He had watched inconsolable mothers as they rocked the lifeless bodies of their children, had seen tears of disbelief upon the innocent face of a babe, wrathful fathers unable to accept a warrior’s death. He had held the hands of dying elves, forced others into battle, soothed away a thousand pains and doubtless had caused just as many. So why was he breathing too heavily? Why were his eyes too wide as they contemplated King Thargodén as he dismounted and then freed his horse? There was a sadness about him, more than was usual, and Aradan wondered at the cracks in the king’s armour, the unguarded emotions, eyes open and inviting, pleading almost—to know, and perhaps rest.
Just that morning, the king, withdrawn and diminished for so many years, had called on him with wide, half-panicked eyes, and Aradan’s soul had plummeted into his boots. ‘The trees have proclaimed a new lord,’ he had said, and Aradan had momentarily allowed his fear to surface. Then it was too late to rectify, for the king had seen it, and his eyes had focussed sharply. ‘Tell me everything you know…’
He knew; the king knew Aradan held a secret. Something in the trees had told him, and it had taken all the chief councillor’s skill to avoid revealing what he knew, then and there. First, he had pleaded with his king and then he had implored his life-long friend: ‘wait, not here,’ he had said. He needed the king in peace and solitude, away from prying eyes, sharp ears, and inopportune guards. He needed to lead Thargodén to a place where he would be free to feel, uninterrupted by questions of state or by Band’orán’s cold, judgemental eyes.
But the king had insisted, and Aradan, in his desperation, had done something he never would have imagined. He had commanded the king, and to his utter surprise, Thargodén had acceded with a simple nod.
Not fifteen minutes later, the king had presented himself in simple riding attire with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. His impressive sword rested in his right hand, and his crown was gone, as was the dull gaze the king had worn for so many years. In its place was a face wide open to Aradan’s scrutiny, the once deadened, unfocussed eyes now deep and penetrating, full of emotions that were hard to endure.
The king did indeed want to know everything, and yet Aradan could see he feared it all the same. It was as if he knew that whatever Aradan would say, this day would somehow change the course of his life, a course that had turned dark the day the queen had taken the Long Road to Valley—the day the king had lost the loving regard of his children. His lover, too, had gone to Valley, and even though such had been their joint plan, Thargodén had died inside himself. Today, after all this time, something had shifted in the failing king’s mind, something fundamental, but it was malleable, and Aradan needed to press his advantage.
They had ridden out then, under the disbelieving eyes of courtiers and warriors with only the king’s personal guard on their heels. They had not travelled far, indeed they had cantered for less than an hour to reach this place, a spot Aradan knew the king had once favoured.
“I have missed this,” said Aradan, casting his eyes around the sunny glade, turning full circle and coming to face the king. He held out a skin of wine in his hands.
Thargodén smiled softly. “You are a good councillor, Aradan, but a better friend. I know of your sorrow these past years. I can see it in your eyes, and I am sorry for that,” he said, reaching for the skin and taking a sip.
“The trees have reached you in a way in which I have not been able,” said the councillor, hoping to prompt the king into a sustained conversation and garner the truth, to know how much the king might suspect before he delivered the news. It worked.
“Have I been that absent, my friend? Have I neglected my land so much?”
“Yes,” said Aradan carefully. “I knew that you were not, perhaps, aware, but while you have administered the lands you have not ruled. I have done as much as I could, but I am not you—I am not king. Your uncle Band’orán has taken good advantage and has strengthened his position at court. Those that adhere to his claims of Alpine superiority are growing, for he appeals to their sense of lost splendour, the inherent pride of
our ancestry, Thargodén. It is popular talk that is permeating.” Aradan snorted as he flapped his hands around him. “Add to that the promise of wealth that Band’orán claims he can bring with new trade routes with the humans...it is a recipe for success, but his vision of how this land should be ruled is not yours—not mine nor that of the Silvans.”
“You believe his following has become—troublesome?”
“Yes, although perhaps not to the point of no return. If we react now, the trouble can be undone, at least so that it becomes—irrelevant.” It was a sweeping statement, and Aradan hoped his own scepticism had not coloured his words.
“And what of the damage to my family, Aradan? I see Rinon every day, his descent into bitterness, and all I have done is stand there and watch it happen. His heart is still here, but it is numb, too far-removed, and I dare not think on Maeneth.”
“Your daughter was ever the strong one—the only one who could ever command our crown prince. I do not believe you will lose her.” Aradan's fond smile slipped as he continued. “You were not yourself, Thargodén. You were too much inside yourself, inside your own thoughts and emotions, and I will not be the one to blame you for that.”
“Wallowing in self-pity, you mean?”
“No, not that. I do believe you were lost. It is true, though; there is much work to be done to bring your sons back to you, Rinon especially.”
“It was his mother than left for Valley, Aradan. He blames me for that, and he is right to do so.”
“Perhaps,” mused Aradan, but there was a spark of rebellion in his clear blue eyes. “Band’orán’s influence on Rinon is worrying; it is turning him—fuelling his negative emotions for you, using his anger and channelling it towards ideas of Alpine dominance. It will need addressing, Thargodén. Handir, however, is different,” said Aradan as he steered the king to the base of a gnarled oak and invited him to sit.
Thargodén did, smiling as he thought on his second son. “Yes, he is more like the queen, whereas Rinon is—he reminds me so much of my own father.”
“Perhaps, in a more volatile way. Handir, now, has excelled in his calling as a statesman, and after Damiel's guidance in Tar'eastór, you will have a valuable advisor at your side, Thargodén; he is a fine, loyal son.” Aradan took the flask from the king and took a long drink. His eyes searched his friend’s face, knowing that this was, indeed, the moment he, Turion, Lainon, and Handir had discussed so many times over the last year, and yet he found himself struggling for a way to broach the subject. Even as he pondered the question, the king spoke softly beside him.
“I have a measure of ability with the trees, strange though that might be for an Alpine. Lássira used to say it was what first drew her to me.” He smiled but his eyes remained distant. “In these last, unfortunate years I have listened to them more than I have to the elves I dwell amongst. I cannot hear their words, but I do feel their emotions, some times better than others. Then they simply confuse me with their constant whispering.” He chuckled weakly. “I often seek comfort in their song, for around me I find only suffering, and my own dark memories.” His face turned back to Aradan then, and for a moment, he seemed to feel pity for the councillor. “Yet today they were clear, Aradan, clearer than they have ever been. Say what it is you have kept from me; say what my heart already believes.”
Aradan stared back at his friend in mounting understanding, his brow deeply furrowed. Turion and Lainon floated before his mind’s eye, and he wondered if Lainon had told the Silvan boy of his heritage.
‘Courage, councillor,’ he said to himself, his mind taking him away from the moment and perching him atop a high, jagged mountain, poised upon the brink of a gaping chasm, arms extended, head tilted to the sun.
“Thargodén, we believe Lássira may be—dead.”
Aradan watched his friend's face, which was, as yet, as blank as it had been for countless years, and for many moments it stayed that way until the king looked to the ground and nodded his understanding. Turning to the side, Thargodén tilted his head towards the sun and allowed its timid heat to illuminate his rigid features as if it could melt them—indeed, his blank, stony face slowly became pliable, sagging into sadness, grief, and acceptance, one after the other.
Aradan was once more upon the brink of the gorge, watching himself step out onto nothing, tipping forwards and then slowly falling—floating, cloak billowing noisily around him, falling through some unknown aether, his heart in his mouth.
“Lássira...” whispered a voice so soft and yet the word lingered upon the air, and Aradan wondered if there was magic in it, if, perhaps, Thargodén had spelled it so that it would carry as far away as she surely was now.
The king mumbled quietly into the breeze, words that were not meant for Aradan, but he heard them all the same, and his own eyes closed. When he opened them again the world was a blur of crushing sadness and the unbearable weight of pity for his friend.
Thargodén stood slowly. "I have not felt her presence for fifty-two years, Aradan, and although I hoped and prayed that it was my grief at her absence that gave me sombre thoughts, now that you have told me—I know I was simply deceiving myself. I have been lost for all those years, lost in my endeavour to find her, to place her on the map of my imagination. I have finally lost her and the child we both selfishly, stupidly thought would save her.”
Aradan started visibly, his mind quickly following the king’s understandable conclusions. It was blindingly logical, and Aradan pushed forward, for he could see the king falling, plummeting to new depths in his grief. The surety of her death would take the last vestiges of his king’s motivation to rule.
“Thargodén, you may ask how I came about this knowledge,” he said, slowly coming to stand face-to-face with his friend. The king's head cocked to the side, and then he nodded, as if it had only just occurred to him.
“Lieutenant Lainon and Captain Turion came to me after an incursion into the north-west, an incursion with the novices—remember the plan we devised? To send the more advanced recruits into the field?”
“I do, go on,” said the king.
“They came to me in confidence because one of those warriors had, inadvertently, drawn attention to himself. You may remember one day at the breakfast table with Rinon. We spoke of one they call The Silvan...”
“Aye, Rinon wanted to meet him,” remembered the king, his eyes darting from one side of Aradan’s face to the other, as if he did not know where to look.
“I could not allow that, Thargodén.”
The weightlessness of Aradan’s free fall was coming to an end, and he felt the nearness of unyielding rock beneath him. The ground filled his sight, and he closed his eyes, bracing for impact.
“That boy, that child has, or so they say, the face of an Alpine and the heart of a Silvan. Thargodén, they say his eyes are the most vivid green, and his face—his face is that of your father...that boy is your son, Thargodén, The Silvan is Lássira’s son,” he finished, and then swayed back where he stood, eyes wide, heart thumping out of control.
Thargodén's eyes rounded, overly bright with unmasked shock. Aradan thought he would speak, but he did not; instead he simply stared at Aradan as if pleading with him to anticipate the questions that would not leave his frozen mouth. Aradan held up a hand, frantically searching for a way to order his own thoughts.
“The first thing I will say is that there can be no mistake. He is fifty-two years old, a newly-appointed warrior and has lived all his life, until last year, in Lan Taria, under the tutorship of Amareth, sister of Lássira.”
“What if he is Amareth's child? I mean...” mumbled the king.
“No, by her own admission this child is the son of Lássira—she knows the truth, but she has not disclosed Lássira's fate; Lainon says she will not speak of it. Thargodén—do I stop or shall I continue?” Aradan needed a sign, a signal that the news was welcome, but the king did not answer, could not, and he abruptly turned his back on Aradan, his silken skirts swishing around h
is calves.
“Thargodén?” called the councillor, but the king held out one arm for silence.
Although the king had, in some subconscious way, known that Lássira was dead, he had not known that his child was in Ea Uaré. He was utterly shocked, and Aradan could do nothing but stand by and watch, powerless to ease his friend’s suffering.
The world stood still and Aradan with it, poised over the Great Forest he had come to love so well. He had never heard the trees, but that day he thought perhaps that he had, just that one time, for grief snaked around his soul until it mingled with the dawning mists of hope.
It was beautiful.
Chief Councillor Aradan had fallen asleep, despite his best efforts to remain awake. The wine and the stress of his conversation with the king had obviously taken a bigger toll on him than he had thought, mused the councillor wryly. Indeed, after Aradan’s revelations, the conversation had stretched on into the night, and they had fed their fire generously. They had reminisced on earlier days when Thargodén had been prince and had been free to roam the forest he had grown up in, that he had come to love and understand far more than those of his father’s generation.
They had cried, too, in the privacy of their camp, barely repressed tears of longing, of regret, of frustration, and misunderstanding.
Rising slowly now, he stretched his sore muscles and cast his eyes around the area. Thargodén, however, was nowhere to be seen, and so Aradan picked up their packs and walked towards the king’s guard. He watched as she turned and saluted, silver vambraces catching the early morning sun.
“The king?” asked Aradan, to which she simply nodded in the direction he should take.
