Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  Whatever it was that Lainon had seen in him, Handir had always assumed it would be the Ari’atór who would deal with Fel’annár, explain his part in the scheme. Now, though, that task fell to Handir. But how could he make Fel’annár see the merits of helping them if there was no empathy between them: no trust. Handir was a prince and Fel’annár was a warrior; there was nothing else between them except for a sad story.

  But the facts remained. He had two days before Captain Comon’s patrol was due back, and then he would tell Fel’annár he had a message from his father. When the shock had passed, he would tell the boy of their plan.

  Handir pushed his hands into the ample sleeves of his robes and left the dining hall, to where he did not know, did not care. He felt empty, alone save for the timid friendships he had struck up with a few of his fellow apprentices, and of course with Lord Damiel himself. But there was nobody who knew him well; no one who loved him as Lainon had.

  It was cold, and lazy snowflakes drifted from the leaden sky. He pulled his hood over his silver locks and wandered into the busy courtyard, blissfully anonymous for a moment. It would soon be time to return inside for the council session programmed for late morning, and the sour, arrogant features of Lord Sulén invaded his mind.

  Lord Sulén, his father’s third or perhaps fourth cousin, was proud of his distant ties with the royal family of Ea Uaré, a circumstance he was all too ready to remind his fellow councillors of during the countless council meetings Handir had attended during his tutorship with Councillor Damiel. Sulén had taken to calling Handir “cousin,” and Handir had hidden his dislike behind his well-studied mask of placid indifference. But it was Sulén’s unyielding respect for Band’orán which had first drawn Handir’s attention to him, that and the fact that he was Silor’s father. Handir had resisted the urge to shut the fool’s mouth on more than one occasion. Instead he had stepped back to listen and observe. Soon enough he understood the situation for what it was. The lord’s son, Silor, was a fool by Pan’assár’s account, but his father was not. Sulén’s staunch alliance with Band’orán suggested he had something to gain, and the questions begged to be answered.

  What had Band’orán promised him? And in return for what?

  Heaving a deep breath, he turned to watch a group of weary travellers grind to a halt beside the stables. He caught glimpses of long, grey hair: Pelagians, he mused, but then a head of deep auburn emerged from the crowd. Handir stared, blinked, and then cocked his head to one side. Greens and browns, suede and leather, all muted tones save for a long colourful scarf with the all-too-familiar patterns of the Forest.

  Handir turned to her, watched from afar as she exchanged heart-felt goodbyes, and when she turned, Handir froze. Light blue eyes locked with warm honey and he remembered. Hazy summers high in the boughs, mischievous plans upon the banks of the Calro River, a clumsy kiss under a twilight beech. But she was walking, feet tentative and eyes wide, and then she was striding, cloak billowing around her high boots. Her gape faded into a smile, and then her lips spread wide until all her teeth shone and she opened her arms, satchel falling to the ground.

  “Handir,” she gasped and then reached out to him, clutching at his velvet cloak and encircling him in her embrace. Handir’s half-frozen arms slowly wrapped around her, his grasp becoming tighter as his mind finally caught up with his eyes. Only one word made it past his slack mouth.

  “Llyniel.”

  He stood there with her, relishing the feel of familiar hands, that face he knew so well. Here was an elf who did know him well, who understood him like no other could.

  Theirs was a legendary friendship, forged during the innocence of youth, shaped by the duress of life at court in Ea Uaré. He had kissed her once and both had gazed upon one another in silent accord. It had not felt right, and yet from that moment, although they knew they would never be lovers, a bond was formed, one that would never be sundered. A decade had passed since she had left Ea Uaré, unable to endure the racism and discrimination against her people, and Handir had been duty-bound to stay at his father’s side.

  And as suddenly as she had left, so had she re-appeared, just when he needed her the most. She was standing before him, incredulous tears in her eyes, and for one strange moment, Handir wanted to cry for the joy in his heart, for the relief of her presence. Her wise counsel and her loving Silvan heart would give him the courage to stand tall and see his duty done.

  He had an uncomfortable job to do, a friend to grieve for and enemies to outwit. Aria had seen fit to take Lainon from his side, but so too had she brought Llyniel to him, and Handir thought that he could, perhaps, endure it all.

  After a stunned, almost desperate parting, full of promises for a prompt reunion with her inseparable friend, Llyniel had made her way to the Healing Halls of Master Arané. It had been a long journey from Pelagia, the island home of the Sea elves, her home for the last ten years.

  But Llyniel was no Pelagian. She was Silvan—well, almost.

  Princess Maeneth had taken up permanent residence there after the departure of the queen of Ea Uaré, and Llyniel had journeyed with her, as yet a junior healer. Serving under Master Healer Tanor, she then become a head healer, a step closer to her dream of becoming a master. And then, a singular opportunity had arisen.

  Tar’eastór had called for healers willing to collaborate with the famed Healing Halls of Master Arané. Battle was escalating and Llyniel was eager to gain more experience, but it was the promise of knowledge that had endeared her to the idea.

  Her pack sat more heavily upon her back now, and the bundle in her other hand was slowly slipping from her grip. Still, she followed an attendant as he led her down the well-lit corridors of the residential wing of this legendary place of healing.

  She was impressed, and, had she not been so tired, she would have stopped to admire the wall paintings that seemed to span the entire height of the walls. The greatest of all physicians were immortalised upon the dark stone, candle-lit faces staring down at their ailing patients, expressions schooled but eyes so very expressive. Beron and Canoréi, Penat and Yerái could be seen reading books or mixing potions, embracing a grieving lover. This was Llyniel’s passion: this was her place in spite of her lofty birth. This was why she was here, to learn, to become a master healer in the most revered of all the Halls of Healing.

  She walked into the room she had been assigned and waited for her attendant to light the candles. It wasn’t a large or luxurious room, but it was clean and functional, if a little dark. Llyniel thought it would suit her just fine, although Handir would be horrified, she smirked, pampered prince that he was. It was not that she didn’t appreciate comfort and luxury—she wasn’t stupid, but neither was she perturbed by simplicity. She was Silvan, after all: half-Silvan. In any case she would surely spend most of her free time with her life-long friend, and his quarters would surely be fitting an Alpine prince. She would soon find out at the afternoon meal, albeit she had no idea how to find him. Handir, though, had assured her that he would find her, and so they had parted, each with a disbelieving smile at having found each other. A spark of excitement came to her eyes at the prospect of news from home, of family they both had not seen in years—one for duty, the other for shame.

  She sat at the small writing table and pulled out a large, leather-bound tome. She placed it reverently upon the scuffed surface and then dragged a single candle closer. Opening it at a place she had marked, she smiled at the many illustrations that littered the pages. There were untidy notes all over them, some words underlined while others were circled.

  Deciduous tree bark, the most fascinating subject, one that had captivated Llyniel for many years.

  No sooner had she arrived at the Halls, than she had presented Master Arané with her letters of recommendation from Master Nestar of Ea Uaré and Master Tanor of Pelagia. Arané had read them with interest, and then his eyes had pulsed wide when he read of her expertise with tree barks. It was an emerging speciality, one he seemed
enthusiastic to pursue. He had gladly accepted her services in exchange for a fair wage and these quarters.

  By rights, Llyniel could have claimed quarters at the palace as a lady of Ea Uaré. But she wouldn’t, for to do so would be to accept her rightful position, use her family name and that she could not do, because her father was a coward.

  She had asked for hot water and then sunk below the steaming surface of her bath tub. It was a luxury she had not enjoyed for weeks upon the road, and she had wallowed in it for far too long, had almost fallen asleep. But she was eager to learn the lay of the Halls and so, dressed now in the black robes of a head healer, she went in search of someone who could help her. She would visit the store rooms, inspect the herbs, roots and perhaps barks that could be used. She would learn what mixtures were already prepared, the instruments they had. She would ask of their protocols and the chain of command, all those things a good healer should know. Only then would she be reunited with Handir, and she would remember.

  She would remember the family she had walked away from—and why she had left it all behind.

  Just beyond the first outposts of the great mountain citadel of Tar’eastór, the shrill squawk of carrier birds echoed over the open plains of eastern Ea Uaré. With the forests of the Silvan people behind them and Tar’eastór looming before them, three birds flew in perfect formation, soft leather harnesses strapped upon their backs, ornate feathers ruffling in the cooling breeze.

  It was still winter, but no clouds lay before the sun, and as they flew, they relished in the warmth upon their feathered backs—until three arrows flew in rapid succession with flawless precision, piercing their breasts. They plummeted lifeless to the ground in a bundle of majestic green and brown feathers, their once vibrant eyes now dull and vacant.

  “Well?” asked Silor as he came to stand over his companion’s shoulder.

  Slinging his field bow onto his back, the archer crouched and roughly flipped one of the dead birds over. Holding it with one hand, he used the other to open the sealed flap and pull out the protected messages. Unfolding the parchment, he read.

  “Military Code. These are not King Thargodén’s missives. Your lord father will be most displeased,” murmured the archer.

  Silor paled and then straightened his hunched shoulders. “How can you be sure? Can you understand that?” he asked, one long finger pointing to the unintelligible symbols.

  “Not entirely. These codes change with every season, but this here I do recognise. It is General Huren’s seal.”

  “Can you tell who it is addressed to?”

  “No, but I would assume it is for Commander Pan’assár. It will be a report, no doubt, on the state of the land in his absence.”

  “Very well. See that Pan’assár gets it,” said Silor, his mind racing ahead to when he would have to tell his father of his failure. They had been expecting King Thargodén’s missives for many weeks, but so far, all they had intercepted was personal correspondence and now this: military code. There were only two possibilities. One was that the king had not sent anything, and that did not seem likely. The second was clear. The messages had slipped through their fingers, through his fingers, and found their way into the prince’s hands.

  “I will find a way to deliver this to Pan’assár, and good luck with Sulén,” murmured the archer.

  “I will deal with Lord Sulén. You must make sure no carriers make it past the borders of Tar’eastór. Use your contacts, Macurian. If the king’s missives are already in the city, the prince will soon be sending his own correspondence to his father. It must not arrive in Ea Uaré. When you have it, you must deliver it to me.”

  “My lord,” bowed the archer and then watched as his companion left, wrapping his luxurious cloak around his slim frame and making for his tethered horse, the symbol of the house of Sulén briefly visible as he strode away.

  An hour later, Lord Sulén was, indeed, profoundly disappointed and had once more made it clear to his son, dismissing him with a cold wave of his hand. He stood now, together with Councillor Ras’dan before the hearth in his study.

  “How did those missives slip by us, Sulén? Surely Thargodén does not suspect?” asked Ras’dán.

  “Thargodén? No. He is finished, remains on the throne thanks to Aradan and Rinon. It is Handir we must watch.”

  “Do you think he suspects?”

  “I have no doubt of that,” said Sulén as he walked towards the windows, his silken skirts swishing over the fine carpet. “We must warn Lord Band’orán. If those loyal to Thargodén, perhaps even Handir, have managed to avoid our Shadow warriors, then he may also find a way to intercept our correspondence. We cannot allow that to happen.”

  “It won’t,” assured Ras’dan.

  “Do not underestimate Handir, Ras’dan,” said Sulén, turning from the window and coming to stand before his fellow councillor. “He is here tutoring under Damiel himself, and that is no simple royal right: you know Damiel. He will not be cowed into taking disciples, not even our own lordly sons, not unless they have already shown merit.”

  Ras’dan nodded, and Sulén turned to a mural of the Great Forest Belt, Ea Uaré as the colonisers had found it centuries ago. His own father, together with Ras’dan’s, had ridden with Or’Talán, had loved him before they had despised him for betraying his Alpine heritage, for forgetting who it was that had helped him in his quest for new lands to rule. He had taken it all for himself, had left the Silvans in their forests and ignored the pleas of his faithful lords. Band’orán would not deny them their right to land and lordship, though. The sons of those great warriors would claim the boons their fathers should have enjoyed. Thargodén was a king that was crumbling under the weight of grief for some Silvan whore he had engendered a bastard with. It was not worthy of an Alpine king, and Band’orán knew this—they all did. The future king of Ea Uaré would put it right, with Ras’dan and Sulén’s help, and when that happened, they would make the journey their fathers once had, take up the rule of the outer lands and rid the Forest of the vermin that infected it.

  Sulén would be his own master—at last.

  Two

  The Forest Summit

  “It was the beginning of Thargodén’s return. An official decree was sent to the furthest reaches of Ea Uaré and beyond, to Tar’eastór, the Motherland. Fel’annár, our Green Sun, was Ar Thargodén, a crownless half-blood lord to the Alpines but a warrior prince to the Silvans.”

  The Silvan Chronicles. Book V. Marhené.

  Band’orán had loved his brother Or’Talán. And then he had hated him, from the tip of his extraordinary silver mane to the hem of his kingly mantle.

  Pale hands, smooth and manicured yet strong and demanding, reached out and followed the outline of the portrait beneath his fingers, not quite touching.

  Brother. King. Bane.

  This king’s son, Thargodén, his own nephew, would have ruined their kingdom with his unnatural love for a Silvan peasant had Band’orán not prevented it.

  Unnatural.

  He smirked at the rhetoric he would use at the summit. He had mastered the art and could so easily seduce the powerful lords with his talk of racial superiority, of the lesser Silvan elves.

  Forest vermin.

  How easy it was to plant ideas in other people’s minds, repeat them over and over until they became law, never questioned but simply assumed. Alpines were better than Silvans because they had built larger, more complex constructions, because they had written the Warrior Code or because they had jewels with which to trade. To have money is to be respected—to have power is to be coveted.

  A knock on his study door brought him back to the present, and Band’orán’s appraising eyes landed on Barathon, his only son and at his side was Lord Councillor Draugole. Barathon wore the uniform of a royal captain, and in his mind, Band’orán sneered at the boy’s as yet undeserved pride. He knew nothing of command, but he was who he was, and Alpine princes must rule and command: that was Barathon’s destiny. He w
ould learn.

  As for Draugole, he too knew of Barathon’s shortcomings, had taken it upon himself to guide the boy in the art of statesmanship. Whether that was at all possible remained to be seen, but if anyone could achieve such a thing, it was Draugole. The councillor was no warrior, but he was deadly in his cunning; it was why Band’orán had sought him out all those years ago, when his plan had first begun to form in his mind.

  Standing, he straightened his back, dark robes hanging perfectly around his powerful frame. Draugole and Barathon instinctively stiffened, for there was something intrinsically commanding in Band’orán, something innate he shared with his dead brother, yet where Or’Talán had inspired respect, Band’orán kindled fear.

  “Father?”

  Band’orán simply nodded and gestured to the seats before the fire while he turned his back on them, eyes staring unfocussed into the flames.

  “And so the Forest Summit begins,” he murmured. “I would have your assurances that everything is clear in your minds, that our collaborators are aware of what is required of them.”

  “As far as it is possible without knowing the king’s mind, my lord,” Draugole said. “If only we knew for sure that he knows that the Silvan bastard is alive, then I could have better prepared our collaborators, could have told them before it is made public. But without that surety we cannot disclose such information willingly.”

  “If the king does know, they will certainly be surprised,” said Barathon.

  “Surprised? Yes, but in what way, Barathon? Will they accept him? Reject him? Will the king make a stand in his favour? Disown him?” The icy grey eyes bore into those of his son, familiar notes of disapproval, sarcasm, and pity.

  It was Draugole who rescued his young friend, as was so often the case.