by R K Lander
“You think me a child, incapable of understanding the intricacies of rule; ignorant to the suffering of others. You think I cannot see what others do, only what my own mind perceives,” murmured the prince.
Thargodén was taken aback for a moment, but this was about honesty and he would not lie.
“Yes. That is what I think,” he said, before adding, “Am I wrong?”
“In part, yes. I know my weaknesses, Father, and I know my strengths. I know what I need, and what I did not get—from you,” he said.
Thargodén was surprised by his son’s insightful words. Had he truly missed this? “Speak freely, Rinon. Tell me what you needed that I did not provide for you,” he coaxed, albeit he thought he already had an idea of what his son would say.
“This,” he said as he turned to face his father squarely, and Thargodén admired his strength then. “I missed this one conversation. The truth, from your lips.”
“You were not exactly inviting, Rinon.”
“No, but I have the excuse of youth and inexperience—you—do not...” he trailed off meaningfully.
“No, that I do not. But my sadness was akin to grief, Rinon. Do not underestimate its power. I was immersed in the depths of my own misery, fuelled by the rejection of my children. An endless circle that feeds itself with its own shortcomings. I knew my queen was safe, and I thought Lássira was, too. I would not fade, but I was bereft—of everyone I had ever loved.”
“Then why now, when you have heard she is dead, why do you not fade?”
“Because in some way, I knew but could not accept. Something told me she was not alive, and I preferred to retire from the real world and immerse myself in a fantasy where she was still alive.”
“You were weak,” said Rinon flatly.
“If that is what you wish to call it, then aye, I was weak,” he conceded.
Rinon studied his father before he spoke again, a trait Thargodén had never before seen in his son.
“I admire your honesty. I must think on what has been said, my king.”
“Then think you must, Rinon. Come for dinner this evening, here, with Aradan and myself. There is still much to discuss,” he said.
Rinon nodded and turned to leave, but he stopped mid-stride and turned once more.
“For what it is worth, my lord,” he said, “I do not despise the Silvan people. My words were meant to cut you, not them.”
Thargodén held his son’s earnest gaze and nodded, but to speak would be to open the conversation once more and that he did not want. He did not want to spoil what had been achieved, and so Rinon left.
Alone now with his councillor, Thargodén watched as Aradan slowly approached him. The nearer he moved, the wider became his smile. “It is a start, Thargodén. It is a good start.”
Only then did Thargodén allow himself the shadow of a smile. “Yes—it is as though only now I am seeing my eldest son for who he has become. I have missed so much in my self-imposed isolation. I never saw how he had changed, how much he is capable of understanding. I have underestimated him.”
“Yes,” said Aradan thoughtfully, “just as he has done with you.”
The king nodded and then turned back to the window. “I thought I had lost him to Band’orán, Aradan.”
“As did I, Thargodén. There is hope. All we need to do is work in this new direction. Talk to him, delegate in him, trust him. Band’orán is persuasive, Thargodén. He will promise Rinon things he perceives the boy needs, replace his shortcomings, feed the embers of his hatred—stoke it until it flares back into flame. Have a care. The Inner Circle of Captains is defining itself, and I do not think we should rest in confidence.”
Four Alpine lords sat together in contemplative silence. Exquisitely-wrought armour, dull and unused, hung upon stone walls together with dusty swords, pikes, and faded flags. There were ornate vases, silverware, and candle holders, too, and in every corner stood sculptures of the high lords of old. It was magnificent history, proud remnants of a glorious past.
Faded, unused.
Band’orán, brother of Or’Talán, first king of Ea Uaré—the greatest she would ever know. His brother had been strong in every way. His heart had never interfered with his duty to his people, his own emotions had always been second to the love of his land, its people. Or’Talán had been the epitome of Alpine strength and leadership. Alas, he had been cut down in battle, and in his place had come his son, Thargodén, Band’orán’s nephew.
Ea Uaré had welcomed him, for the Silvan people easily accepted an Alpine king who bowed to their every whim. Or’Talán had betrayed them, had acceded to the wishes of the powerful and forbidden his son’s marriage to the Silvan woman, indeed Band’orán had been the instigator of that demand. How Or’Talán had waged his vengeance though, for Band’orán still suffered his brother’s wrath, every day, should he cast his eyes upwards to the portraits of the Great Hall.
Thargodén’s love for the native Silvans had slowly but surely whittled away their country‘s exalted Alpine culture, the purity of their race, and should it be allowed to continue, the Alpines of old, those who had crossed the mountain, would one day be no more, and in their place, a hybrid would appear, neither Alpine nor Silvan, a sad memory of what they had once been, trodden underfoot by the base ignorance of the Deep Forest dwellers. This was what he told himself; this is what he had come to believe himself.
Lord Barathon could no longer stand the sound of Lord Draugole’s fingers rhythmically tapping on the table before them. With a withering stare at Draugole, Barathon sat back, but his eyes did not leave those of his lord, his father, the one he believed should be king.
“Amareth is at court.” It was an unnecessary statement, for they were well aware of the presence of Lássira’s sister. “Well? Do we know why?” asked Barathon.
“Thargodén is silent on the matter,” began Draugole. “But is it coincidence, do you think, that the king should call a summit after all this time, and that Amareth should be summoned shortly afterwards?” he asked softly, and then turned to Lord Band’orán. “He knows,” said Draugole.
“Knows what?” asked Barathon in mounting alarm.
“Knows the Silvan bitch and her spawn are dead,” said Draugole with a flick of his wrist.
Barathon seemed relieved, but his brow remained deeply furrowed as he turned to his father who sat in the shadows. “Why did he not call for Amareth before now? Why now?” he asked, slowly standing. It was Draugole that answered him.
“And that is the question, is it not? Amareth knew of Lássira and her son’s death, of course. We informed her of the need for her silence, of the consequences should she pursue the matter. If she has broken her promise and told Thargodén what she saw, why is the king not drowning in grief, indeed why did he wait for so long to summon her?”
“Do not treat me like a fool, councillor. Cease this ridiculous questioning. If the king speaks to Amareth now, there is a reason for it. Something has happened now. An accusation, perhaps, a finger pointed our way?” he asked in mounting dismay.
“Of course there is a reason,” said Band’orán, voice low and strangely beguiling in its baritone. Barathon repressed a shiver, for sometimes his father frightened him more than he was willing to admit. He watched as the would-be king stood, towering above any other in the room, his black robes accentuating his shocking silver hair.
“If Amareth has accused us we would already be imprisoned, killed even. If she has told Thargodén of his lover’s demise and that of his bastard son, she has not said who did it.” He turned and walked to the window, his back to his three companions. “I believe we may have been misled; our envoy failed in his duty. I believe the bastard lives and the forest has protected him.”
“What? You cannot be serious. How could he have been so mistaken?” asked Barathon.
“Perhaps it was not a mistake, Barathon. Perhaps he was weak, could not bring himself to kill a babe.”
“I cannot believe that. He would not hav
e risked your wrath,” said Barathon, shaking his head at the mere thought of someone defying his father.
“Can’t you?” smiled Band’orán, eyes roving over his son’s new uniform, the uniform of a captain, a royal servant of the Inner Circle. It should have made the father proud and yet the smile upon his face was not a kind one.
Barathon looked away.
“I may be wrong, my friends, but I do not believe that I am. We must discern the truth, deploy all our allies, here and abroad, and should it be confirmed, we must take this Silvan half-breed before Thargodén can find him, before the Silvans claim him and use him against us. We must be ready. Our army must be ready.”
“It will be,” came a voice from the corner of the room. A strong hand came to rest on his chest plate, richly carved silver glinting in the darkness: the armour of the Inner Circle. “I will make sure of it. We have been waiting for too long.”
Or’Talán had been an extraordinary ruler, and Band’orán had never questioned his brother’s authority. Not until his son, Thargodén, had fallen in love and Or’Talán had made his biggest mistake, one Band’orán could never forgive.
His eyes wandered from his brother’s portrait to another that hung from the high stone ceilings of the council chambers. Such beauty, such light and loveliness shined from her extraordinary grey eyes, eyes that had always haunted him, always would. Or’Talán was the only one that had known.
Anger straightened his features, twisted them back into his mask of well-being and authority, his shield of arrogance and superiority slipping into place with practised ease.
Velvet robes hugged the body of a royal uncle, a lord councillor, an illusion to many, for beneath the fine cloth lay the honed body of an ancient warrior, a warrior that no longer served in the field but had not forgotten his skill, his mastery; a warrior that trained in solitude and silence. It was his way of keeping his errant mind at bay, his way of disciplining himself, of beating back the strange shadows that lurked in his mind since she had left, since his brother’s wilful treachery.
Today, though, he would meet with humans who had come to the southernmost port of Pelagia and over the mountains that shielded the sea from the forest. It had taken them over two months to travel from Prairie to the Pelagian sea and then to this strange, wooded land that he knew beguiled them. He would concede that the Silvan people boasted a beautiful land, mused Band’orán, one that now belonged to the Alpines, a land that would soon be his to rule, to safeguard against the diluting of their pure blood, against their slowly fading culture.
He and Draugole had worked hard to bring humans to Ea Uaré; it was the fruit of years of talks, promises, and proposals, and their tenacity had brought them now to the culmination of their association. Band’orán would sign a trade agreement that would consolidate his power over the Merchants’ Guild. He would be the key the humans must use to trade their goods, and the gate keeper to the elven merchants to exchange their own produce. Royal intervention would be cursory: few taxes, no added labour costs, just profit. Wealth was welcome, of course, but it was the power this agreement afforded him that had set this plan into motion. The Alpine and Silvan merchants, powerful lords, would second Band’orán in his political claims, for to not do so would be their own downfall, the end to a beneficial trade agreement in theory and the most lucrative business the forest had ever seen in practice. All Band’orán had to do was uphold the veracity of the official agreement—easy enough, for during Or’Talán’s reign, Band’orán had been his foreign ambassador. He well knew how to strike one trade agreement and then another, beneath the surface, out of sight. Only then, tomorrow if all went well, would he have the leverage, the necessary numbers to implement his plan and restore this land to what it had once been: Alpine lands, rich, prosperous lords, and ready labour. All that was left was to begin his final attack on a failing monarch, rally his followers and associates, and take the throne for himself. If they did not adhere to his ethical views on the superiority of the Alpines, they would adhere to the promise of wealth.
He smiled. It was the way of things. The powerful commanding the weak, the rich guiding the poor, and in return, the Alpine lords would defend the land. It was a fair deal, he told himself, one that would soon become a reality. There were meetings to arrange, goods to display, deals to be agreed upon, and through it all, while king and land congratulated themselves on a deal that would open new trade routes, Band’orán would laugh at their naivety, their ignorance, reaping the harvest of his keen mind, feeding the merchants in exchange for their support in his ascension to the throne.
Impediments? he asked himself with a slow smile; not for long. If his theory was correct, if the bastard lived, still, it did not matter. What could one boy do against an army of loyal nobles? Nothing. If he did, indeed, draw breath, Band’orán would find him before Thargodén did. One way or the other, his path would soon be clear and he smiled again as he turned back to the portrait. The woman smiled down upon him, but where before he had seen only love in her eyes, now he thought that it was pity that shone there. His smile faltered, for the shadows had returned.
Smoothing a hand down his tunic, he turned and strode away.
Chapter Eight
THE COMPANY
“The Company was baptised even before the advent of their warriorhood. It was a union of souls joined in hardship, transcending childhood, embracing adulthood as brothers. Their skill, loyalty, clarity of purpose, and self-sacrifice would mark the foundations of a legendary patrol. It was the spark behind their gazes, though, that spoke of understanding, that to be a warrior was about love of king and land, love for their people, love for the gift of life—love.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book IV. Marhené.
Handir strode down the central aisle of the Healing Hall, Lainon’s steps behind him almost silent. Stopping just outside the crowd of healers that were bent over the injured warriors, Handir took a moment to observe. He saw three sets of boots, a lax arm and chestnut locks. Warriors of Ea Uaré, those who had stayed behind to protect him. His eyes filled with tears he would not allow to fall.
“Healer,” he called.
“Not now, my lord,” came the irritated reply; indeed, Tar’eastór’s master healer did not even turn to the prince.
“Tell me at least how many have returned.”
Arané frowned and then turned his head to the prince, even as he worked. “Eight, my lord.”
The number rang in Handir’s ears, but Lainon’s hand on his shoulder anchored him, and his eyes continued their search. He had seen Pan’assár, unconscious but alive, yet so far there was no sign of Fel’annár’s silvery locks. He turned to Lainon and startled, for blue eyes shone fiercely back at him, closer than he had anticipated. There were deep emotions in his sworn brother’s eyes—for the boy he supposed.
Handir turned back to Arané, watching as he cut up the sleeve of a wounded warrior; beside him, Prince Sontúr himself was tending another warrior with an obviously broken leg.
“Are there no more? Any able-bodied warriors?”
“In the recovery area, prince. I would not call them able-bodied, but they do not require immediate assistance,” offered Sontúr as he worked.
With a nod that neither Arané nor Sontúr saw, Handir and Lainon turned to the seating area they had passed on their way in, but still, there was no silver hair, only brown and blond. Handir’s jaw tightened as he approached Lieutenant Galadan and two other warriors. They sat slumped in low, cushioned chairs, faces turned to the roaring fire before them. A Silvan warrior stared into the orange flames, eyes absent in spite of Handir’s presence; he was asleep, perhaps, as was an Alpine warrior at his side. Galadan though, was surely awake, for there was a slight tremor to his arms and hands.
Handir placed a hand on his shoulder, making the lieutenant startle. He made to stand, but Handir shook his head, and instead, he crouched down. “What happened, lieutenant?”
Galadan raised a shaking hand and raked it through
his messy hair. “The battle was—coordinated, I believe,” he said softly, as if he were still trying to iron out the implications in his own, addled mind. From the corner of his eyes, Handir registered the arrival of Commander Gor’sadén, who stood quietly beside them, listening to Galadan’s somewhat stilted initial report.
“A planned attack, you say?”
“Perhaps, my lord. Forgive me, I...”
“There is nothing to forgive, lieutenant. But go on.”
“We lost most of the escort then, on two battle fronts. Commander Pan’assár was incapacitated and those of us able enough did what we could to get the rest to safety.” His voice was flat and soft but loud enough for all of them to hear.
“You three brought them in?” asked Handir, his skin prickling painfully at the implications.
“Four, my prince, there were four of us.”
Handir’s eyes slipped closed. “He was lost...”
“No, my prince! No, not lost. He hung behind us. It was the only way...”
“What do you mean?” asked Gor’sadén, taking a concerned step forward.
“To protect us, he fell back to shield us from attack. Your warriors search for him even now.”
“Who is the missing elf, Galadan?” said Handir, ruthlessly schooling his emotions.
“Fel’annár—The Silvan is missing,” murmured Galadan.
Handir stared back in shock, as if someone had struck him. It was Lainon who stepped forward now, a blue fire blazing in his eyes.
“Galadan?” prompted Lainon, his curt voice startling them.
“It was the only way, lieutenant. An Ari’atór searches for him even as we speak.”
Gor’sadén watched them, saw the fury in the Ari’atór’s eye, and the calm stare of a lieutenant who knew his decision was correct.
It was when the commander looked back into Prince Handir’s eyes that he came to realise the significance of the moment, for what he saw there was not concern for the fate of a warrior. It was fear, the same fear that shone in Lainon’s eyes.
