Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  “With difficulty, my lord. We are lucky to have an able chief councillor with us, but the story is a long one, one that started just over a year ago when the boy stepped out of the Deep Forest. We have kept the secret only because we have our king’s best interests at heart. We seek to break the news of a fourth child in such a way that it does not break him, so that his enemies cannot use the boy for their own reprehensible goals.”

  “You are saying the king does not know? Thargodén does not know he has another son?”

  “He did not know. Chief Councillor Aradan will have told him by now, as we were on the road here.”

  “And the boy?”

  “Lainon told him not a week past.”

  “Your actions seem—cruel,” said the commander, shaking his head in confusion.

  “Please,” said Handir, holding a hand up. “I told you it is a long story, one I would have your king understand. I am not here to scheme and connive, Lord Gor’sadén. Will you trust me?”

  Gor’sadén hesitated and then shook his head, thinking perhaps he had an inkling of what had happened. “The appearance of a royal child is of importance to the allies of Ea Uaré, prince. And then you seem to suggest there is unrest in the forest. My king must be informed.”

  “Of course, commander, yet I ask only one thing from you: that you allow me to speak to your king personally.”

  The commander breathed deeply and then turned from Handir, casting his face to the weak moonlight. “You ask me to trust you, prince, and I will—because you are a grandson of Or’Talán. But do not fail me. Speak to my king, explain what you must.”

  Handir nodded. “Can you arrange a meeting with him, then? Tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow, prince: now. This cannot wait.”

  Handir was tired, though inexplicably relieved at the return of the Silvan boy. He was not at his best, and yet Gor’sadén was right. The boy’s identity could not be kept a secret. By dawn the king would surely know of it.

  Handir nodded. “Very well. If you will give me an hour to collect my thoughts?”

  With a nod, the commander made to turn, but Handir stopped him. “Lord Gor’sadén, I counsel discretion. There are those who will see Fel’annár as a threat...”

  “And you do not?” asked Gor’sadén.

  Handir’s tone turned colder. “I do not know him, but Lainon does. He vouches for the boy, and that is enough for me.”

  Gor’sadén held the prince’s steady blue eyes, and just below the surface, he saw feigned indifference. He said nothing, though; instead, he bowed respectfully and strode back into the palace. He needed to think, but Handir’s words were still ringing in his ears.

  Gor’sadén’s loyalty to Or’Talán had never waned, even though that king had died. He wanted to help this scion of his brother’s house, but he would not go against the dictates of his own king.

  With a sigh, Handir turned to Lainon.

  “You have done well, Handir.”

  “Yes, well,” he said, straightening his tunic. “I saw no threat in Gor’sadén’s eyes. Indeed, I believe we have nothing to fear from him where Fel’annár is concerned. It is Pan’assár that worries me.”

  Footsteps drew their attention to the main path, and Lainon fixed his gaze on the figure that strode towards the barracks. He knew that graceful gait, could feel her presence in his own soul even though he could not see her face, and Handir, observant and shrewd as Aradan had taught him to be, did not miss the change in his chosen brother.

  “A friend?”

  When Tensári could no longer be seen, Lainon turned back to the prince. He seemed to hesitate, but Handir’s frank stare convinced the Ari’atór of the futility of lying. “My Connate; she is my soul mate.”

  “Did you know?” asked Gor’sadén, shaking the rain from his cloak and hanging it behind the door.

  “Know what?” asked Pan’assár from his chair by the fire.

  “Did you know that Thargodén had another son?” he asked, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. “A son that is Or’Talán incarnate?” he growled as he approached the fire and sat heavily.

  Pan’assár’s eyes were wide, fixed on the elf beside him even though his eyes conjured the silver-haired warrior that had all but danced on the battlefield. “No,” he answered softly.

  “How could you not know? A contingent of fifty warriors, on the road for five, six weeks, and you did not recognize the face of our brother?”

  Pan’assár could not answer, because, for the first time, he was seeing his own actions for what they had been. He had not seen this face because he had not approached the warriors at all. The idea suddenly seemed strange to him, so uncharacteristic. But it was true. “Galadan is a competent lieutenant,” he said at last.

  “And you? What has happened to you, Pan’assár? Could you not be bothered with them, then?” he asked with a curl of his lip. He sat forward, reached for a bottle, and poured wine into a glass noisily.

  “They are Silvan.”

  Gor’sadén frowned and turned to his friend. “What? Of course they are Silvan.”

  “They do not take kindly to Alpine commanders. They are fickle and flighty, know little of honour in battle.”

  Gor’sadén frowned and set his glass down. “What madness is this? What talk is this—your own warriors, Pan’assár? You speak of them as one would a lesser species.”

  Pan’assár hesitated. His hatred for the Silvan warriors had not always been there. It stemmed from Or’Talán’s death, he knew, and how could it not, for he was dead, a victim of his own warriors’ incompetence? The climate spread by Band’orán had then legitimized his hatred, given it form and substance, and Pan’assár had clung to it so that he could justify it. This talk of Alpine superiority, or what was the same, of Silvan inferiority, was normal at the king’s court, at the Inner Circle of Ea Uaré, yet it was unheard of in Tar’eastór. It had taken Gor’sadén’s outrage to rock his perspective, that and a mighty blow to the head.

  He did not answer Gor’sadén. He couldn’t, and yet, his hatred was still there.

  “Another son. Don’t tell me his mother is the Silvan slut Thargodén had once deluded himself about marrying.”

  “Silvan slut...”

  “It was that Silvan peasant girl, the one Or’Talán forbid him to marry. She was the one who turned our king; it was she who buried him in life, led him to ruin and disgrace. She wanted to marry a king—she a Silvan nobody—would not let him go so that he might marry a suitable Alpine lady. She would have tricked him into having a child so that he would marry her. She would make her half-breed child a prince. Yes, it all makes sense. It is common knowledge that she sought the throne; her people were ecstatic, thinking a Silvan would sit next to our Alpine king on the throne. Thank Aria that Orta had the good sense to forbid it.”

  Gor’sadén rose slowly, his disbelief unmasked. “Can you not even consider the possibility that it was all much simpler than that? That they loved each other?”

  “Nothing is that simple. You think it mete, then? To conceive a child, unwed, with a commoner? Are you mad, Gor’sadén? A royal bastard is a menace if left alone to his own devices, a Silvan one at that. He could well destroy all that Or’Talán achieved, shatter the kingdom he fought so hard to create.”

  “I don’t understand you, Pan’assár—this hatred. What fault lies with that boy? How was he to change the events that led to his existence?”

  “He shares her blood. He will seek gain from the other side of himself, mark my words, Gorsa.”

  “You cannot know that...”

  “Experience. She was ambitious, and he will be no less!”

  Gor’sadén’s face was now but inches from Pan’assár’s. “He risked his life to save what was left of your prince’s escort, yet more than this, he is my brother’s blood, and I will not raise a hand against him. ‘Half-breed, fickle, son of a whore’—he is Or’Talán’s grandson, damn you!”

  Pan’assár’s eyes were aflame with his own fury.
“And I will not lift a hand to help him, do you hear me?”

  Gor’sadén was shocked, confused, and utterly thrown by his brother’s visceral hatred, and for a moment, he hesitated. “I hear you,” replied Gor’sadén, quieter now as if he had just lost a great battle. “I hear you, and I am sorry for that. You have changed so much. You have fallen, brother, fallen from your glory, and I wish I did not have to see it.”

  Pan’assár’s anger vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and he held Gor’sadén’s pitying gaze. “You know not of what you speak.”

  “I know you, brother. This is not you. This is some foul spirit that has taken your soul and twisted you out of all recognition.”

  Those words cut him like no blade ever had, for to lose his brother’s regard was, perhaps, the worst thing, and yet, as the forest commander sat there, reeling from the news, exhausted by his own anger, the underlying guilt he had sensed in himself surfaced once more, stronger.

  He knew what it was. He sensed on some level that he had been at fault for the loss of his warriors, but this guilt was older. It had started the day Or’Talán had died.

  “Prince Handir will brief us in thirty minutes, in the king’s study. Will you come?” asked Gor’sadén tiredly.

  “Of course,” said Pan’assár. “I have my own questions, my own concerns. That boy is a menace, and I would make sure Prince Handir is aware of the danger he represents.”

  Gor’sadén simply shook his head, wondering if he had done right to insist Handir brief them immediately and not wait until the morning, when they had all had time to digest the unbelievable news. But Gor’sadén could not have predicted this attitude in his friend. It was something new, totally unexpected, and so very, very disappointing.

  Commanders Gor’sadén and Pan’assár walked towards the king’s study, nodding as the few remaining guards and servants bowed or smiled in pride, for here was a sight that had not been seen for centuries: Gor’sadén and Pan’assár, side by side once more, and yet their faces were grim as if they marched to a war council.

  “I must warn you that Lord Sulén came to visit me with this—Silor, his son, it seems. He claims Lieutenant Galadan was victimizing him.” Gor’sadén had thought to mention it later, but it occurred to him that this was a way of distracting Pan’assár, or at the least, taking the bite away from his obvious anger and outrage.

  Pan’assár huffed and then shook his head. “I have often accused Galadan of being too soft with the Silvan troop and praised Silor for his hard handling of them. I knew Galadan did not agree, but that lieutenant is fair to a fault; Silor’s claims are unlikely. But tell me, this Sulén, is he always this impertinent? Complaining to a foreign commander when he should have come to me?”

  “Oh, yes. He is a thorn in the king’s backside. A staunch conservative, ever aware of his lordship, his kinship with the line of Thargodén. They are distant cousins, some—eight times removed,” smirked Gor’sadén.

  Soon enough, the two commanders passed through the double doors that led to the king’s study. Inside, Vorn’asté was speaking with his second son, Prince Sontúr, and also with Chief Councillor Damiel. He turned at their arrival. “Lord Pan’assár. It is an honour to receive you in Tar’eastór.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Pan’assár with a bow. “I look forward to my stay, despite the circumstances.”

  From behind the king, Prince Sontúr stepped forward and nodded. “Commander. It is good to meet you.” He smiled. “Are you fully recovered?” asked the prince, trained eyes noting the purple under Pan’assár‘s eyes and the crease of his brow.

  Pan’assár nodded. “I am well enough, prince. And your brother?”

  “Crown Prince Torhén is in Prairie, discussing the Deviant threat with our mortal neighbours,” smirked Sontúr.

  “Ah, well, better him than us,” smiled the forest commander tightly.

  Moments later, when Handir walked through the open doors, he did so in the plain riding clothes he had worn on the journey to Tar’eastór. Although they had been laundered, he would have looked like a simple civilian, except that his face was that of his father’s: angular, noble, lovely to look upon, unmistakably a scion of the house of Or’Talán. Lainon stood quiet and lethal at his back.

  “Prince Handir, lieutenant. Be welcome,” said the king.

  Prince Handir bowed solemnly. “Thank you, King Vorn’asté. In my father King Thargodén’s name, I bring tidings from Ea Uaré, and thanks for your kind offer to tutor me. We gladly accept your offer of hospitality,” answered the prince duteously, and Damiel smiled in approval.

  Damiel stepped forward and bowed formally. “I look forward to teaching you the art of statesmanship, prince.”

  “The honour is mine, Lord Damiel. Long have I admired your skill as a statesman—this for me is a gift beyond my wildest expectations,” he said seriously, and for just a moment, he forgot the reasons he was before the king now and revelled in self-indulgence: this was his dream.

  “Thank you, Prince Handir,” said the king. “We will, of course, address the terms of your tutorship at a later date, after you tell us what this is about.”

  Handir’s smile faded, and he nodded, cool and confident on the outside, at least, as he followed the lords and sat. His eyes were drawn to the walls around them, stone, no doubt, but he could barely see the rock for the tapestries that hung in waterfalls of textured colour. Depictions of battles won and lost, of kings crowned and princes glorious. There were queens of legend, notes of timeless music, faces of elves that had written the story, the history of the Alpine elves. He was humbled, proud of his heritage, and saddened that it did not shine in the same way in his forest home.

  “I beg forgiveness for the lateness of the hour, my lords, but my business is urgent; indeed, it falls to me to carry out a duty that has not been commanded of me by my king, for he has no knowledge of what I will now disclose.” He did not look, but he could feel his audience as they sat rigid upon the ends of their seats.

  “One year ago, Lieutenant Lainon visited me, bringing news I had never thought to hear, news of a brother I had no knowledge of.” The ensuing silence was thick with shock and disbelief. “I did not believe it at first, but when I saw him, it could not be denied.” He paused for a moment, eyes moving from one to the other, lingering slightly longer on Pan’assár. He had already been told, realised Handir before continuing. “Now you may ask why I choose to air such a private affair in a foreign land. The reason is that this boy is here; he is the last warrior Lieutenant Tensári brought in a few hours ago.”

  No one spoke for a while as the news settled. It was the king that finally broke the silence. “And the boy? Where did he hide himself for so long?”

  “In the Deep Forest. He was raised in ignorance, by his aunt.”

  “In ignorance. You mean he does not know?” blurted Sontúr.

  “He was told on the journey here. He is unaware of most of the story, and if I may be so bold—I believe he may meet with some—opposition, either during his stay here or once we are back in the forest. He is half Silvan, and that will not sit well with the Alpine purists of Ea Uaré.” Handir’s eyes lingered on Pan’assár, noting the stiff shoulders and pinched jaw.

  “Alpine purists?” said Damiel with a deep frown. “What has happened in the last few centuries, prince?”

  Handir turned to the chief councillor. “Many things, my lord. It would be an honour to discuss these matters with you when time permits. For the moment, suffice to say it is my belief that the boy’s appearance is potentially conflictive. Some will celebrate, but others will scheme against him.” Handir’s eyes returned to Pan’assár, who now stared back at him boldly. “And then again, although I am not a healer, from what I saw of the warrior in the Healing Halls, he may not even live to see the light of day.”

  Sontúr sucked in a breath while the king shared a concerned look with Damiel. As for Gor’sadén, he glanced at Pan’assár, wondering how long it would be until he m
ade his position clear. His silence would not last, he was sure of it. His friend was teetering on the edge of his patience.

  “Who is his mother?” asked Vorn’asté.

  “A Silvan woman the king once courted, who then was deemed unsuitable.”

  “So,” began the king, leaning back in his seat, “this boy is a young, half Silvan-Alpine warrior who has just found out that his father is a king. You say he favours Thargodén?”

  “No, my lord; he is, quite simply, Or’Talán in all but his eyes.”

  Vorn’asté’s brows travelled high on his forehead while Damiel let out a sonorous breath.

  “It is true, my king,” said Gor’sadén. “I have seen him, and it is uncanny. It is no mere resemblance.” His eyes had drifted to Pan’assár as if he spoke directly to his friend, but he would not return his gaze.

  “Then we cannot keep this a secret, Prince Handir,” said Vorn’asté, “not unless we lock the boy up. Indeed, I doubt it is even a secret any longer—the healers will have recognised him if what you say is true, and as you know, Lord Or’Talán was well loved by my people. Can I assume your father will send missives?”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied Handir. “Councillor Aradan will make sure of it.”

  “It is to be hoped that our king will put things in their proper perspective. He will surely understand that the appearance of a bastard will do our realm no good,” said Pan’assár, standing for the first time since Handir had begun his explanation. Gor’sadén resisted the urge to close his eyes and could only pray his friend would not take things any further, that he would not argue the point, not here.

  “His status as a bastard says little of his personality, of his skills, or his intentions, commander,” said Damiel evenly. “Have you met the boy, then?”

  “I have not, councillor. Nor do I intend to. I know enough of court intrigues and ambitious lords. I know that, as a half-breed, the Silvan people may take him as a champion, and he will willingly accept the role he is given.”