by R K Lander
“Join us, Galadan. Join The Company, honour us with your brotherhood?” asked Fel’annár.
Something sparked in the lieutenant’s eyes. Passion, emotion, feelings the lieutenant had worked so hard to mask. “You would welcome an Alpine?”
“Whole-heartedly, Galadan. Race has no sway here; your braids in my hair say it is so. We are Silvan, we are Ari, and now, we are Alpine,” said Fel’annár, a smile stretching his lips wide enough to show his teeth, and Galadan mirrored it.
“I would join you, yes.” He smiled for the second time that morning, as much as he had smiled in the last month. Fel’annár felt Galadan’s presence slip comfortably into place in his mind. This was right, and a cursory glance at his brothers confirmed it.
Standing, he made for the door, but the silence behind him gave him pause, and he turned back. Galdith and Carodel; Idernon and Ramien; Lainon and now Galadan. Two lieutenants and four warriors stared back at him. He felt like a captain with no garlands, a leader with no command.
“Brothers,” was all Fel’annár could say.
They smiled, and then, to his utter shock, they bowed subtly, just a slight nod of the head, enough to tell him their minds. Tears welled in his eyes, but he held them back, his throat closing. He could not speak. His eyes drifted over their shoulders and to the healers who had stopped to watch. Fel’annár could not rightly say what he saw on their faces; all he could say was that they were not unkind: there was no outright animosity there, only surprise, and perhaps curiosity.
“Fel’annár,” said Idernon, stepping forward. “Let us accompany you to breakfast—to the halls where kings and lords sit with warriors and civilians. Show yourself to them. Hide no more.” He smiled, his own eyes shiny and wide, for the Wise Warrior did not speak only of that moment but of Fel’annár’s entire life.
Could he? Could he ignore the hatred he would surely see in their eyes? The disdain in Silor’s and those like him—the purists? Could he just be? Ask, just for once, that he be judged on his deeds alone?
He nodded at the Wise Warrior, but still, he could not speak, and so he turned once more to the door, sure that this time The Company was behind him, like a shield at his back, solid and unyielding.
They walked down corridors of painted stone and tapestries, lamps and gems, and all who passed would stare, even stop, unsure perhaps of what to say or think. It was true, they whispered. It was surely Or’Talán reborn, not in Valley but here, in Tar’eastór.
The Company continued its determined march—not to war but breakfast, although one could argue there was no difference that morning, and as the racket from the Dining Hall became louder, Galdith tugged on Fel’annár's new garments, the rest of them sniggering at his Silvan antics. Fel’annár glared at Galdith as he pulled his cloak back into place, smoothing a hand over his newly washed and braided hair. He was nervous, even though his stride was sure and long. Galdith’s foolery was blessed relief from the anxiety they all felt, especially Fel’annár, even though he was not, perhaps, aware of the form he cut, of just how much he drew the eye of men and women alike.
Light filled their eyes as they came to stand on the threshold of an open doorway which led to the Dining Hall. The clang of cutlery against plates and the loud murmur of multiple conversations abruptly ceased, replaced by the rustle of clothing as some turned, others stood. A lady gasped, and a chair scraped over stone; a murmured curse and a shout of disbelief.
The Company stood their ground, watching as they were watched, faces passive, but on the inside, their hearts thumped and their skin prickled almost painfully.
“Fel’annár.” A loud, somewhat irreverent cry from the far side of the room echoed in the crowded room. Prince Sontúr.
All eyes left Fel’annár and focussed on the prince, who was smiling as he stood at his own table, his gesture like an invisible rope fording a swelling river. The prince’s table was close to his father’s royal table where Gor’sadén and Pan’assár sat together with Damiel and Prince Handir, all of them quiet. While Gor’sadén and Vorn’asté watched Fel’annár for signs of lingering effects after the inexplicable events in the king’s gardens, Pan’assár simply looked away while Handir watched from the corner of his eye. He fooled everyone—except Lainon.
The time it took to reach Sontúr’s table seemed overly long, the distance unbelievably great, and yet it was but seconds until they stood silently before the prince. Fel’annár bowed, and Sontúr smiled. “Take a seat, warriors. Eat,” he gestured.
Sontúr surely had questions, but none were spoken, and the weight lifted just a little. The Company sat, eyes flitting over the extraordinary spread of food which sat invitingly, steaming upon clay plates. Eggs and cheeses, fruit and cold meat. Crispy hot bread and butter, honey—so many delights. It was paradise, they thought, and Ramien reached out and then did not stop until his plate was a mountain of savoury and sweet. Eyes fixed on his bounty; only the silence drew his attention back to his stupefied table companions, and the Wall of Stone looked up, smiling stupidly. “What?”
One warrior chuckled, and then another, until the rest joined in. It was all it took, and the rest of them were helping themselves to everything that was on offer, under the curious gazes of the Alpine warriors. From time to time, Fel’annár would cast a furtive glance at them as he ate, yet so far, he could find no ill-intent in their eyes, only questions. He did not see the other stares that came from further away. There were appreciative eyes, subtle smiles, and knowing glances. There was suspicion and contempt, too; these Lainon did not miss.
Conversation started slowly when Sontúr leaned towards Fel’annár. “Fel’annár, Commander General Gor’sadén has asked to see you and your companions after breakfast in his office.”
“Of course, my lord,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, eyes straying to Galadan to check if he had heard.
“Now, would you please pass me one of those sticky buns—there are none left on my side of the table,” he lamented. “Lord Gor’sadén has abducted them.”
Fel’annár stared dumbly for a moment, struggling to imagine the legendary warrior pigging on sticky buns. A giggle flew out of his mouth before he could check it, sending the table into silence. Idernon resisted the urge to roll his eyes at them, before pushing the plate towards Fel’annár, who, in turn, pushed it along until it was before Sontúr. Nodding gratefully, the prince hooked a particularly large bun between his fingers and slowly, with relish, packed it into his mouth.
“You make them look so good,” said Fel’annár, his own eyes now on the treat as it disappeared into Sontúr’s chomping mouth, debating, it seemed, whether or not to take one himself.
“Try,” came the muffled word, and Fel’annár giggled again, only this time Sontúr had been caught unawares and made to laugh himself—only for a chunk of the spongy pastry to fly out of his mouth.
Mortified, Sontúr held his jewelled hand over his mouth, but it was too late, and Fel’annár collapsed into peals of laughter, holding his aching ribs and setting the rest of The Company to chuckling—even Galadan smiled as he shook his head at them.
Sontúr smirked as he chewed on the overly-large ball of food, satisfied, it seemed, that his ploy had worked, and Fel’annár understood, was inexplicably glad of it. Sontúr was regal and refined in his role as a prince and healer, and he had about him an ironic sense of humour that appealed to Fel’annár, yet here he was, spitting his bun and laughing along with the rest of them. Fel’annár decided that he liked this son of Vorn’asté, for there was a streak of Silvan irreverence in him.
Then breakfast was mercifully over, but the stares and the whispering were not. Tar’eastór was afire with gossip and hearsay, and everywhere Fel’annár went, heavy silence followed. Once, he would have felt anxious, nervous, and insecure, and yet now, all he felt was irritation.
They were soon out of the main palace, boots crunching over freshly-fallen snow until they passed a doorway that led into a two-tiered structure. The
barracks. Fel’annár tensed involuntarily, and The Company moved in closer around him, Lainon at his shoulder, silent and vigilant while Galadan and Galdith led the way. They were soon before the solid, carved oak door of Gor’sadén’s chambers, and Fel’annár took a moment to smooth his hand over his hair one last time. He had briefly entertained the idea that this was about what had happened in the garden, but then, why had Gor’sadén summoned the rest of The Company? No, he rather thought this was the moment they would be given their orders for the rest of their stay.
Breathing deeply, he stepped inside along with the rest. Gor’sadén of The Three stood behind his desk while Commander Pan’assár seemed more inspired by the impressive landscape beyond the windows than by the arrival of his warriors.
Saluting, they stood to attention while Pan’assár slowly turned to face them. His eyes drifted from one warrior to the other, lingering only slightly longer on Fel’annár, whose gaze was fixed somewhere behind the commander’s face.
“We will be here for the next six months until Prince Handir finishes his apprenticeship with Lord Damiel. During that time, I have offered our services to Commander General Gor’sadén. I suggest you take advantage of this opportunity to learn new skills.” He stopped here and walked slowly towards them, hands tightly clasped behind his back.
“Circumstances dictate that Lieutenant Lainon leave his current charge of guarding our prince to accompany you, and, as such, I am recommending that Lieutenant Galadan do likewise. Captain Comon will be your commanding officer in the field. Questions?”
“Sir,” began Galadan. “Will Trainee Lieutenant Silor be joining us?”
“No. Silor has been reassigned.”
Galadan hesitated and then nodded curtly. “Is Silor to continue his command training, sir?”
“Not for the moment. I will address that subject once we are home. Now, you are under Captain Comon’s command, and therefore Commander General Gor’sadén’s, as commander of this army, unless circumstances dictate otherwise,” Pan’assár said, eyes momentarily landing on Fel’annár. “From today, you are all warriors of Tar’eastór until further notice.”
Just weeks ago, Pan’assár would have dismissed them without further ceremony, but today he hesitated to do so. Instead, he moved closer to his warriors, eyes looking more closely, now at Lainon and then Galadan only to land finally back on Fel’annár.
“You have served well, shown bravery before the enemy and the elements,” he said at last. “You endured what many would not. You will have my personal recommendations upon our return to Ea Uaré. Dismissed.”
The seven warriors saluted sonorously then turned as one and marched back through the imposing archway. Once the door had closed, they turned, disbelief in their eyes, especially in Galadan’s. “Well, that is a first. I have never heard our commander give praise in the presence of Silvans.”
There was no time for talk, though, for a guard was there, gesturing for them to follow him. He led them down the dimly lit corridor until it opened into a sprawling hall filled with warriors and labourers carrying bundles of clothing, equipment, parchments, and rolls of cloth. Fel’annár’s eyes moved up the walls to the domed ceiling and the skylights around it. It was a wonderful piece of architecture that would surely have taken centuries to complete.
There were ladders that led half-way up the shelved walls to a narrow platform where other ladders began, leading all the way to the top. Organizing all this would be a mighty feat, and Fel’annár’s mind began to wonder at the logistics. How would they categorise all this? Uniforms, weapons, containers, halters, panniers, rope . . . the list of supplies an army required was extensive, and this place seemed to have it all. There were sections with numbers and letters, colours that surely meant something. He wondered if it would be like this back home, for although he had been in the outer-city barracks, he had never been inside the city barracks themselves, where the Inner Circle was located.
“Fel’annár,” whispered Lainon.
The sudden sound of his name made him jump. Lainon was looking at him with a frown. “Concentrate.”
He nodded, realizing that the guard was about to speak.
“Everything you need will be provided here. Take your kit back to the barracks and ask for Elan. He will show you your quarters and provide you with the duty roster. Join us on the training grounds at the fourteenth hour.”
From then on, it became a fascinating two hours of uniform fittings, kit collection, and weapons selection. At last, The Company made their slow and precarious way to the accommodation wing of the barracks. They held clothing, weapons, halters, quivers, canteens, boots, a blanket, and a travel pack, and all of it was of a quality the younger ones had never known. They chatted as they laughed at themselves, at Ramien when a boot flopped to the floor and he deftly retrieved it with his foot, or when Carodel squealed like a suckling pig when his lovely new belt threatened to escape his slipping clutch.
Soon enough they stood on the threshold of the room they would share for the next six months. It was similar to the outer-city barracks back home save that there were only ten beds per room here, and it had its own bathing area. Fel’annár was suddenly reminded of the day they had met Lainon. It seemed like a life-time ago, and he smiled fondly at the memory for he had been so oblivious to how fateful that day would be.
They organized themselves and then attended their first meal with the warriors in the Mess Hall. The awkward silences and open stares were back, and so, Fel’annár allowed his gaze to wander, a tried and tested technique to better endure their curiosity. It worked, for the most part.
Now, with less than thirty minutes left before training would commence, Fel’annár stood alone in a quiet corner behind the barracks at the base of an accommodating birch tree. He had not had this small luxury for months, for on the road, there had been nowhere to hide. Lainon had followed him silently and then scurried into the boughs where he sat now, guarding his charge despite Fel’annár’s half-hearted protests.
Breathing in through his nose, Fel’annár drew himself up straight then bent his legs and exhaled through his mouth, both arms coming up before him, reaching out to something no one but he could see.
Eyes closed, one foot stepped forward, palms down as they floated to one side. One leg followed. It was a dance of sorts. Quiet power channelled through precise, measured movements. Fel’annár seemed to be pulling, and then pushing, and then mixing it all up and throwing it back—it—whatever that was. It was hypnotic, and Lainon berated himself for his momentary loss of concentration. He turned his eyes away and towards the training fields beyond. He was drawn to a figure that was walking into the centre of the field, too far for him to see her face, and yet he knew her all the same, for her gait was strong, powerful, and lethal. A master warrior in the uniform of a lieutenant. Dark, twisted locks of liquid onyx spilled down to the small of her back, and his fingers itched to touch it, wind it around his hand, his arm. He smiled at the thoughts that popped into his head.
She was a distraction, and he wrenched his eyes from the field and back to Fel’annár, who had stripped down to his breeches. The Silvan wanted to put himself to the test before training began, although Lainon suspected that Sontúr had already spoken to the weapons instructors. He did not think Fel’annár would be training to his full capacity for a while yet. Still, Fel’annár would worry that he could not perform to the best of his abilities, just when he had decided to show himself, to not hide how capable a warrior he was.
He sat now, and for long minutes he did not move at all. When he did, Lainon was duly impressed, for Fel’annár slowly unfolded his legs and then opened them wide to the sides. With both hands between them, he pushed himself up until his legs left the ground and then he was in the air, standing on his hands upside down, legs straight, body utterly still. Bending at the waist, his feet touched the ground, and he was, once more, standing upon his own two feet.
Lainon leapt to the ground, and Fel’annár tu
rned. “Is it time?”
Why those words struck him the way they did, Lainon could not rightly explain, but his mind decided to take them in a far different way than Fel’annár had meant them.
“Yes, it is time, Fel’annár. Time to shine.”
Tensári’s eyes searched the skyline, northwards and to Valley where her Ari brothers and sisters battled without her. She had served under Commander Hobin of the Ari’atór for centuries, centuries in which she had honed her blade skills and hardened her mind to the tragedy of mortality. Her faith had kept her upon the straight road, her love of Aria shielding her from the horrors she had seen. Her faith had kept her away from him.
But the love she had once professed for Aria had whittled, slowly eroding under the incessant flow of blood and a loveless life. Her passion to guard the purity of Valley had waned with every desperate wail of a Deviant mother who witnessed the ending of her child’s life. How could Aria, all-powerful life force, permit such a thing, allow such suffering? What power is this that cannot avoid the most elementary of mortal and immortal suffering? Her faith in Aria had been compromised; she could no longer defend the Source.
But then Lainon had returned.
“Lieutenant Tensári,” Lainon murmured, placing his forearm flat across his chest, a gesture she returned. It was enough to remind her of her duty, and her mind wrenched itself away from the pleasurable thoughts that were beginning to distract her.
“Lieutenant Lainon,” she replied, straightening her posture and schooling her face. When next she opened her mouth, it was the voice of a calm and collected weapons instructor.
“Take your jerkins and tunics off!” she ordered.
Lainon’s brow arched, and an uncharacteristic smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth while the others shared a look of curiosity, and perhaps just a hint of suspicion. Lainon shot them all a warning glare as he began to unbuckle his jerkin, the rest following his lead. As their undershirts came off, they gasped as the icy air slammed against their warm chests. Tensári, though, was unconcerned with their discomfort; she would soon have them sweating, and so she moved slowly before them, registering the array of master bands upon their biceps. Three of the eight were master archers, one was even a sword master, but Lainon, she knew, was master in close combat as well as archery. She allowed her eyes to rove shamelessly over his chest, remembering the feel of it, the battle-honed ridges and planes of his body under hers, how it had made her feel, and she forced her gaze up, to his face and his knowing eyes. He had always undone her, still did.
