by R K Lander
But it would all wait, because for now, there was nothing more important to him than mourning the loss of Lainon.
As Handir walked inside and made his slow way back to his suite of rooms, Silor watched him from a shaded corner. He had seen The Silvan speaking with Prince Handir, had seen the respect the warriors showed him, seen the keen interest in Gor’sadén’s eyes. The boy was far more dangerous than he had ever believed. He turned to the elf at his side.
“You were right. Perhaps now, with Lainon gone, there is a chance.”
“Had you not failed when your unexpected opportunity arose, none of this would have been necessary.” His companion smirked. “Had you used your initiative when you first came to realise the situation, our cousin’s enemy would already be lying frozen in the snow.”
“I tried...”
“And you failed. But you are right, of course. With the Ari’atór gone, that half-breed bastard will not leave Tar’eastór alive. You can still redeem yourself, Silor. You must simply heed your elders. Lord Band’orán will be grateful for your service.”
Silor watched as the lord slipped away, out of sight. Now that he knew what was expected of him, he would not fail again. He would bide his time, wait for a moment of vulnerability. He would regain his position in the army, a place in the Inner Circle. He would know his father’s proud smile once more.
Sontúr, second prince of Tar’eastór, could find no sleep that night even though he lay upon his own downy bed of opulent fabrics and soft cushions.
Many things had stolen his rest, but it was Lainon’s death that replayed incessantly in his mind. Fel’annár’s blazing eyes, Lainon’s blue light, one word echoing over and over, as if his mind begged him to understand.
‘Ber’anor.’
He could stand it no more, and so, dressing hastily, he made his way to the library. The doors were open as they always were, and Sontúr was surprised when he spied Idernon tucked away in a distant corner, books piled high before him. Approaching, he nodded and then sat beside him, eyes roving over the tomes the Wise Warrior had selected for reading.
“Idernon,” he murmured quietly. “I think perhaps that you and I share the same reasons for being here; the same disquiet robs us of our sleep...”
Idernon did not look at him for his eyes were scanning a passage of ancient text, so engrossed he had failed even to greet the prince in the proper fashion. “And what would that be, brother?” he asked distractedly.
“Lainon. Fel’annár.”
Idernon wrenched his eyes away from the text and looked at Sontúr.
“Go on.”
“I am a healer, Idernon, yet Lainon’s death was the strangest I have seen. The light...”
“Yes. I saw that, albeit from afar.”
“And then there was Commander Hobin,” murmured Sontúr.
“You mean when he bowed to Fel’annár?”
“That and the words he used: Ber’ator and then Ber’anor.”
Idernon scowled deeply. “Elaborate?”
“Hobin used the words various times. He called Fel’annár ‘Ber’anor,’ and then referred to Lainon as ‘Ber’ator.’ I thought to look for the words, seek their meaning.”
Idernon stared calculatingly at Sontúr. “You may have shortened my research; perhaps that is what I should look for—here, for example,” he said, eyes a little wider as he searched for the book he had only briefly skimmed earlier. Sontúr watched him, eyes registering the names of Cor’hidén, Calró and Sebhat. Sebhat: he had heard that name mentioned in the Silvan Chronicles. He watched as Idernon hooked his index finger over the top lip and pulled the book open. He admired the worked leather and the artwork etched into it, too plain to be Alpine, though, and there were no roots or leaf patterns to suggest it was Silvan. Leaning closer, his eyes registered the characteristic runes of the Ari’atór—he could not read it!
“Idernon—tell me you can understand this?”
His only answer was a slender finger that brushed over the strange, inky patterns. There was a list of some sort, or so it seemed to Sontúr—an index perhaps. Tapping the fifth line down, Idernon shuffled through the book and opened a page upon which a drawing showed a dying elf, held in the arms of another. Sontúr’s skin prickled. It was as if he was seeing himself leaning over Lainon, Fel’annár beside him and Tensári’s desperate hold on a fading elf. Yet as he bent closer, his eyes widened and his own finger rose to the drawing.
“Here, see this. This is what I saw, the light...”
“Yes,” murmured Idernon, eyes glimmering in the half light. “This book, it is what they call a ‘Book of Initiates,’ meant, I believe, for young Ari’atór.”
Sontúr nodded that he understood and then allowed his eyes to focus on Idernon’s slowly moving finger, listening avidly as the young Silvan translated the text under the drawing, following the runes as if he could read them himself.
‘The death of an Ari’atór is the moment the body yields to injury. The light bestowed by Aria is reabsorbed—into the earth, the air, water, and trees, only to form a part of the One again. But the death of a Ber’ator is a sight seldom seen, characterised by the visible detachment of their life light.”
“Lainon,” murmured Sontúr. “But what, what is a Ber’ator?” he asked, his tone almost desperate.
“Yes, that is the question, is it not?” said Idernon, eyes afire with this new knowledge. His agile mind had him scanning through the index once more, to the back and what Sontúr rather thought might be a glossary.
“Do you have it?” he whispered urgently.
“A moment.”
‘Ber’ator. Ari’atór charged by Aria to protect a Ber’anor.’
“Damn it, Idernon. What is a Ber’anor?!”
“Wait, I have it, here,” he muttered, fingers flying over the next line of runes.
‘Ber’anor. Elf charged by Aria to fulfil a purpose.’
Idernon and Sontúr looked up and then at each other. “Wait. According to this, Lainon was charged by Aria to protect Fel’annár, so that he, in turn, can fulfil a destiny?”
“So it would seem. It sounds unlikely, does it not?” said Idernon, and Sontúr rather thought the Wise Warrior looked more self-satisfied than confused like him. His rational mind screamed at him to reject the explanations as Ari mysticism. There must surely be a logical explanation for the light, but then what of Hobin’s words?
Ber’ator, Ber’anor...
“Idernon. Tell me truly, do you believe this?”
The Wise Warrior smiled back at the prince, but Sontúr could not rightly say what shone behind his blue eyes. “Sontúr, I am a rational elf. I question everything, even the most unsuspecting of things. It has earned me much mockery, but so, too, has it lent me wisdom. Fel’annár always showed an affinity with the trees, but it was only when he met Lainon that his powers began to manifest and then grow. I was not there to see its onset, but I listened carefully to the tales of others, saw the connection between them. And then there is the question of his dreams.”
“What, what dreams?”
“He has recurring dreams. He sees himself as a babe in the arms of a Sentinel and the smiling face of a lady who watches over him. He hears himself ask the same question over and over.
‘Who am I?’ And then a voice that answers.‘I am Fel’annár, I am the forest.’”
“But this does not prove anything,” said Sontúr, no conviction in his tone at all.
“No, it does not. But there is an accumulation of circumstances that draws my attention powerfully. And then, of course, there is the revelation of his heritage. The son of a king: half Silvan, half Alpine. Politically, he is a potentially dangerous element to those who seek power in King Thargodén’s court, but socially—he is, perhaps even more dangerous, for what he represents. He is half native, half colonizer; the question of his destiny, pre-ordained or not, is, quite frankly, intriguing.”
“So, if I am understanding you correctly, you are saying that you d
on’t know?” asked the prince with an arch of his brow.
Idernon smirked. “Essentially. But how fascinating it will be to watch. Perhaps in time, we shall have our answer, and you and I will believe as Hobin and the Ari’atór already do, as the rest of our brothers do.”
Sontúr grinned back at the strange, wise warrior. “That would be quite the feat, Idernon. We have much in common, you and I.”
“Yes, we do,” he said, closing the Book of Initiates. With a guilty glance around him, he stuffed the tome into his jacket and then turned a questioning gaze on the prince. Sontúr said nothing. Instead, he gestured with his head that Idernon should follow him. Once outside, Idernon took out the book and placed it carefully under his arm.
“Join me for a glass of wine, Idernon,” Sontúr said. “Now that I am a brother of The Company, I would hear your story, if you are willing to share it.”
Idernon nodded, and Sontúr turned his eyes to the fore, but his mind was still on the research. Was Fel’annár a servant of Aria? It seemed impossible, but Sontúr had seen the light in his eyes, Lainon’s own light. He had heard Fel’annár’s words when he had spoken of the lady in the king’s gardens, of his own mother. He could not explain that either. And if it was all true, what was the boy’s purpose? What would Aria want of an illicit elf, born of a king, with a power yet to be understood; what would she bid him do?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to find out.
With sleep came dreams, dreams more vivid than Fel’annár had ever had. His life flashed before him in one dizzying moment. His trials as a child, Amareth’s silence, the love of Idernon and Ramien and his novice training. He saw Turion and Lainon, Carodel, Galdith and Galadan, he remembered the disdain of the Alpine recruits in Ea Uaré and the easy camaraderie of the warriors of Tar’eastór. He saw Golloron and Narosén the Spirit Herders, their knowing eyes and sparing words. He saw Deviants and Incipients, the girl in the cave as she reached out for clemency.
His future hopes and dreams were there, too, even the ones he had never realised he had, for he saw Pan’assár smile at him, and then Handir’s brotherly arm over his shoulder. Sontúr was there, too, standing upon a high ridge, a regal banner of grey hair fluttering behind him as he looked to the far horizon and to Ea Uaré. Then came King Thargodén gazing back at him, one hand reaching towards him and upon it, a rough-cut emerald. He saw himself locked in the Dance of Graceful Death, the Kal’hamén’Ar with Gor’sadén, and then his return to the forest as a warrior and lord.
His fears were there, too, weaving in and out of the things he saw. A forest of Alpine elves that sneered at him, rejection and hatred in their eyes, an Elven mage spitting fire from his eyes, and then a blooming Sentinel and a smiling queen. And then he saw Tensári, resentment shining from her brilliant blue eyes as she turned her back on him. It all came together: hope, fear, dreams, and perhaps destiny. It was as if a one part of his life had concluded and a new cycle was beginning, one he had yet to understand.
But then Lainon was there, and all his fears melted away before one of those infrequent smiles, the ones that had lit up his chosen brother’s face and made him shine, just as Lainon had bid him do with his dying breath.
He saw light then, first blue and wondrous as it penetrated his eyes and suffused his soul with a warmth he had never known. He saw green light behind the eyes of an unknown woman who looked down on him in a sorrowful farewell, and he saw the smiling eyes of the lady in the tree. He had never known who she was, yet now, of a sudden, there was no more doubt in his mind. It was then that he heard the words he somehow knew she had spoken, words he had never been able to hear—until now, for he had not known who she was, had not understood that it was Aria.
‘Fel’annár, Green Sun I name thee, for you will shine for us all.’
FIN
Coming soon. The Silvan, Book III: Dawn of a Legend
Author’s notes:
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