by R K Lander
Vorn’asté smiled at the thought Gor’sadén had planted in his mind, shaking his head minutely to rid himself of the ridiculous image. Yet Band’orán’s face lingered stubbornly before his mind’s eye. “Band’orán is flawed—corrupt in some way I cannot pinpoint,” said the king.
“Or’Talán said as much, you know: Pan’assár told me.”
“Did he now? I thought Or’Talán had been close to his brother.”
“Band’orán respected his elder brother, but something changed that, something Or’Talán was reluctant to speak of. I never pushed him, but I know Orta was concerned for his—mental—stability. Said he would be joyous one minute, and brooding the next. Strange moods that did not seem to fit the moment. He was not always that way.”
“Well now ... ” said the king softly. He would have said more, but the sound of horses clattering into the courtyard below had both lords bending over the balcony railing, grey and blond hair lifting and entwining in the soft mountain breeze.
“Holy Aria,” whispered Gor’sadén.
“Alert Healer Anaré and his duty team,” said Vorn’asté hurriedly before swivelling on his heel and striding from the room. Gor’sadén was just behind him, his face turning briefly to the mighty wall painting of the Battle Under the Sun. He was soon gone, but the image reamined in his mind. Tall and strong, an Alpine warrior stood proudly upon an outcrop, his long, silver-blond hair blowing in the breeze; his face was grim and determined, a face more beautiful than any he would ever see this side of Valley.
Or’Talán, Alpine king of Silvan lands, one of The Three—his and Pan’assár’s brother, in all but blood.
Chapter Seven
CONVERGENCE
“Fifty-two years of silence came to an end the day King Thargodén summoned the forest. It was a dangerous time of tentative ties, for the colonizing Alpines extended their hand while the natives conspired. They would not leave the forest, would not be pushed back by the enemy, for then they would be twice defeated. The Alpines had claimed their lands, and the Deviants and Sand Lords pillaged it. They would be defended, or they would do it themselves. Their secret weapon was still hidden from the powerful, and thus it must stay for a while longer, lest they mock years of heart-breaking silence.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book I. Marhené.
Lorthil, leader of Sen’oléi, was deep in his memories, recalling a time long ago when he had first heard of the strange events that had led them to this pivotal moment. He had not been involved personally, but the tale had transcended the boundaries of Lan Taria only to become a well-known secret, one the Silvans protected fiercely. They never spoke of it, not openly, for who could say where the enemy lay? From where the danger would come?
But come it would.
It had been Narosén, the Spirit Herder, who first recognised him less than a year ago, had first seen in the boy the undeniable evidence of who he was and what he was destined to be, or so the Ari’atór had said. Fel’annár’s first mission as a novice warrior had led him here, to Sen’oléi, where he had left his mark upon them all. It had taken but a few cursory glances and knowing smiles amongst them for the word to spread. Their time was coming, and the forest was awakening, shaking out of its submission. The injustice done to them by a once-respected king would be reversed.
Lorthil took a steadying breath as he forced his mind back into the present and then looked down upon the missive in his lap. Turning it slowly, he admired the wax seal of the house of Or’Talán before cracking it open and unfolding the crisp yellow parchment. His eyes momentarily landed on Narosén who sat opposite him at their camp fire, the light collecting and then dancing off the shiny planes of the beads and stones that littered his blue-black hair. Beside them, Sarodén, the head forester, knelt and watched as Lorthil opened the paper and read.
When Lorthil finished, his eyes were just as bright as the fire that flickered before him, voice deceptively soft. “We have been summoned to Thargodén’s court.”
“We three?” asked Narosén with a frown.
“No—all of us. All our Silvan leaders.”
To the south-east of Sen’oléi, in the village of Lan Taria, Erthoron opened a similar letter. Beside him, Thavron, the forester, and Golloron, the Spirit Herder, watched in trepidation.
“There is to be a summit,” said Erthoron as he turned to his companions. “Finally—his time has come.”
Golloron smiled before turning his eyes to Thavron. The young forester was a childhood friend of Fel’annár and had only recently been informed of the truth, the secret of the Silvans, for Thavron, just like Ramien, Idernon, and all the younger members of their society, had been left in the dark just as Fel’annár himself had.
Thavron had not liked it at all and had spent a week in silent brooding, marvelling at how they had all managed to keep the truth from him for so long. Finally, he had come to understand the wherefore of their subterfuge and had grudgingly accepted their deception as a necessary evil. Still, it had stung, and he knew Fel’annár would struggle to understand.
However, it was Amareth who occupied their thoughts now. She had been summoned by the king himself, and it left them in little doubt as to the subject of his enquiries. He must know, they said. He must have found out, for once Fel’annár had stepped foot outside Lan Taria, he would not have gone unnoticed; anyone who had known Lássira could not fail to see her eyes, and those old enough would see them upon the face of the first king of Ea Uaré.
They could only trust to Thargodén’s forgiving nature, trust that he would not feel betrayed, that he could, perhaps, see things for what they were. The Silvans had wanted to protect their child, a child that should have been a prince, a Silvan prince. The Alpines had tried and succeeded in avoiding the ascension of a Silvan queen, had surely forced Or’Talán’s hand in prohibiting the union of his son and Lássira. The once respected Alpine ruler had betrayed them, and now was the time for justice. Fel’annár was of the forest, he was Silvan, and for them he should stand, just as they had done for him in his own time of need.
Days later, the Silvan and Ari leaders set off towards the south and the first Forest Summit. Their optimism was barely contained, and yet so, too, was their concern. Amareth had already left, escorted by the king’s personal guard; she would arrive well before them, alone before whatever dictates the king might see fit to impose.
Her journey had been swift, with barely enough time to iron out her thoughts and decide on the best strategy to adopt. What she did know was that Fel’annár’s identity had become known to the king, for why else would this summit have been called? Why else had she been summoned and escorted to the king’s presence, if it was not to interrogate her as to the fate of Lássira, to ask her of Fel’annár? The question was, what were his intentions?
She remembered the Alpine monarch she had met so many years ago: strong and wilful, noble but unyielding. If she lied, he would see it; indeed, what was the point? She no longer had anything to lose, no one left to protect. Fel’annár’s identity would be common knowledge soon enough. She had known that the moment he had stepped upon the path of a novice warrior.
But what if Thargodén banished the boy to appease the Alpine purists? Or’Talán had bent to their demands; why wouldn’t Thargodén? What if he imprisoned her for keeping the truth about Lássira from reaching him? For keeping the presence of his son from him?
Anxiety had taken a firm hold on her, and try as she might, she could not free herself of it. The only thing that helped to ameliorate its effects was the promise of freedom. When all was said, once she revealed Fel’annár’s improbable story, she could finally rest, live again—for herself.
This was it. The door lay before her, protected by ceremonial Alpine guards that stood tall and imposing, and beyond lay her sister’s soul mate, the king who would have taken a Silvan peasant as queen, would have, had his loyalty to his king and father not come first.
Crossing the threshold, her eyes fell upon two elves. One, th
e king, just as beautiful as she had remembered him, and beside him, Aradan, an elf she had met on many occasions when Lássira had been courted by Thargodén, and then after, when everything turned strange.
“Amareth,” came the soft voice of Thargodén.
“My king.” She bowed respectfully, strangely glad to see him. Her eyes watched as he glided towards her, arms open. Why her eyes filled with tears she could not say, but his embrace was comforting, and she revelled in it for a moment until he pulled back and looked at her.
“You bring memories with you, of lighter days.”
“I am glad to see you again, my king.”
“Thargodén. Here, there is no formality between us.”
“Thargodén,” she said with a nod before turning to Aradan. “Lord Aradan—it has been long,” she said with a forced smile.
“Aye, that it has, lass. You look worried.”
Her eyes fell to the floor before coming to rest on Thargodén. “Should I be?” she asked, suddenly unable to hold the king’s gaze.
Silence stretched between the three before the king finally spoke. “Nothing you can say will endanger you, Amareth, yet there is deceit in your eyes.”
She closed them for a moment, as if she could shield herself from his scrutiny, and yet she had known he would see it—the guilt. “I do not seek to deceive you, Thargodén, not anymore.”
“But you have,” said the king confidently as he sat, gesturing for Amareth and Aradan to do likewise.
“Yes—by omission.”
The king stared back before briefly glancing at Aradan.
“Amareth,” said Aradan as he leaned forward. “We know the child is here, in Bel’arán, and I must ask you...Is Lássira dead?”
Thargodén breathed deeply, as if bracing himself for a blow. Perhaps he had already guessed, she thought, but suspecting is not the same as knowing, and Amareth knew that her answer would hurt him deeply. “Yes.”
Aradan looked to the floor, and Thargodén stared wide-eyed at her, as if she should continue, but she could not, not yet. It was Aradan who drove the conversation forward. “Tell us, then. Tell us why she did not leave for Valley as we had agreed.”
Amareth struggled for a moment with her own emotions, for the memories were flowing back into the present in a rush of sensations. Images flashed before her of things she had worked hard to overcome, things she had buried, as much for herself as for the safety of Fel’annár. “She could not,” she said at last. “That last conversation, in which it had been decided she would travel to Valley and give birth to your child—it set her to thinking, so much so that she left on her own, into the Deep Forest to ponder her predicament; she could not be found for many days. Finally, when she returned of her own accord, we sat and we talked; me, Lássira, Erthoron...she told us ... ” Amareth broke off for a moment, swallowing thickly. “She told us she could not give birth to the child in Valley, that he was a Silvan child, destined to be born in the forest amongst the Sentinels.”
The king’s sharp intake of breath was enough to break her will, and the first tear escaped her though she angrily wiped it away. Aradan rose to retrieve a decanter of wine, which he then placed on the table.
“She told us she had thought long on it, that she felt, deep in her heart, that it was the right thing to do. Once he was born, only then would she take him away down the Last Road and to safety. She never explained why, Thargodén, but she was adamant.”
“Here,” said Aradan softly as he pushed a glass of wine towards her. His eyes then caught those of Thargodén. There was turmoil behind them, turmoil and shock.
“After all the scandal, and then her impending motherhood, she removed herself from the village and found a place no one else would ever find, for her connection to nature was unusually strong—this you knew, of course. She hid herself away, and I, together with Erthoron, saw to her needs, providing for her in her self-imposed exile. She did not wish for company, only for silence and the company of the trees.”
“Why did you not come to me for help?” murmured the king.
“She forbade it. She would not tell you of her decision to defy your will, she would not prolong your suffering with her presence upon Bel’arán. She thought perhaps that you had found a measure of closure with your plan for her to leave, that you would be comforted that she was alive on the other side, and that you shared a son ... that you could hold to the promise of seeing them again.”
“You should have told me,” he whispered.
“I could not. It was not my decision to make, Thargodén.”
Silence met her statement, and so she pushed on, the mellow wine lending her a modicum of comfort.
“And so, the child was born, and as he opened his eyes and looked out upon the world for the first time, it was not his mother he sought out, but the tree that housed them. He held out his tiny hands, as if he could grab at the bark, and then he smiled, Thargodén, stunning green eyes sparkling with such joy I had not thought a new-born capable of. Lássira cried for love, and Erthoron and myself looked on in amazement. We knew then, that he was special...”
“What do you mean?” asked Aradan.
“Aradan—when you see him, you will understand.” She smiled then as thoughts of Fel’annár filled her mind. “A more beautiful child has never existed,” she began, eyes losing their focus. “When he grew and became a young adult he was simply stunning to look upon, but it is his eyes, Thargodén—his eyes are those of the forest. They are Lássira’s eyes.” Amareth looked down then, her wide smile lingering for a while until it faded along with the memories.
“There is something else...” deduced Thargodén as he, too, sat forward, his eyes riveted on Amareth.
“Yes. Thargodén—when you see him, if you wish it,” she amended, “you will see your father looking back at you. He is Or’Talán in all but his eyes.”
Thargodén looked away, obviously torn in his emotions. Amareth had rather thought he would be glad, for he had revered his father, had been a loyal prince to him even unto his own undoing, but there was no mistaking the resentment in his eyes for what Or’Talán had denied him; it was a cruel twist of nature.
“Wait,” began Aradan. “Before we continue with that side of the story, tell us of Lássira’s fate. Did she fade, then, after the child was born?”
Amareth looked back at him in sadness, but the sadness promptly turned to anger and her jaw clenched with repressed ire. “No,” she said, her voice a little too loud, anger seeping past her defences.
Thargodén stood in a flurry of robes and looked down at her askance.
Bolstering her strength, she, too, stood slowly until she was before him, eyes burning and defiant. “She was murdered...”
‘…she was murdered…’
Thargodén shot up, his silver hair flying around his head, sweat beaded upon his pale brow, eyes wide and round.
“Lássira,” he whispered, before raking a hand down his chest and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. It was still dark as he came to stand by the long windows, the view beyond breath-taking beneath the full moon, its blue breath illuminating the giant trees of the Evergreen Wood.
‘… a single blade through the heart…’
His breath fogged on the window as a hand came up to caress the glass, as if he would walk through it, transcend the barrier that held him from the wildness of nature beyond, away from his own reality.
‘… the child could not be found. We thought him dead until two weeks later, when he inexplicably appeared in the protective embrace of the trees...’
“How could that be?” murmured the king, watching as his hot breath steamed the window.
‘Thargodén. Amareth is right, there is a traitor amongst us.’
“A traitor, yes.... and when I find him, when I can prove it...” Thargodén turned from the window, a look of such determination upon his face that it seemed almost to have turned his beautiful features to stone, sucking the life from them, leaving them grey and
grim—it was the face of one who seeks bloody retribution. Band’orán was surely behind it, yet he doubted Lássira had died at his hand.
His thoughts turned to his Silvan son.
‘… when you see him, if that is your wish, you will understand...’
The unmistakably Alpine features softened and ice-grey eyes darkened to midnight blue.
‘… a more beautiful child has never existed...’
The tired face smiled then, for the mother had been peerless in her beauty, especially her legendary green eyes. The king’s stony features softened, melting into pliant flesh once more, and he looked down at the rough-cut emerald on his right hand.
‘… she was murdered...’
Eyes closed slowly, as if to shield any who looked on, protect them from the cutting, burning agony in his soul. He had known she was dead, but now he was plagued with the sorrow of her suffering, knowing that she had been persecuted and then executed—all for the love of him.
Thargodén’s dreams and contemplations from the night before still floated chaotically in his mind, but he could not allow them to affect him, not now when his heir was about to arrive. He needed every ounce of resolve to purposefully hurt his son, and Thargodén knew that was what it would take to regain control of his crown prince. Rinon was as wilful as his own father had been, worse still because his anger fuelled his disdain. Thargodén had witnessed it many times and had not had the strength to contest it, to address it—until now.
Rinon of Ea Uaré would recount his sojourn to the eastern villages, and then, Thargodén would tell him of his brother, his half-brother.
The outcome of their meeting today was no mystery to the king, yet there was a tempest clamouring at their doors. Thargodén needed Rinon at his side, on his side in order to rally his people and undo the damage his uncle had wrought during his own, prolonged absence. He needed to distance Rinon from Band’orán’s toxic influence and subtle manipulation. He needed to show his eldest son that by stepping on the Silvans and their beloved forest, the Alpines could never gain their trust or their love.
