by R K Lander
“I do not. What warrior of renown is named after a flower, by Aria!”
Aradan stifled his bubbling humour and turned back to the king as he continued to brief them on his intentions.
“I cannot name him prince, as he was not born to the queen. And yet I must acknowledge him, and there will come a time when you will meet Fel'annár, Rinon. I will expect you to comport yourself as befitting a crown prince,” he said, eyes lingering meaningfully on his son.
“I cannot foresee that, Father. I cannot foresee how I will feel when I see him. One thing I can say—I will not welcome him as a long-lost brother. I am sure you can appreciate this,” he said.
“So long as you do not disgrace yourself, Rinon.”
Aradan saw the spark of hurt in Rinon’s eyes at the king’s words. He did care, he did want the love and attention from his father that had been denied him since the queen had left, but it was beyond him to show his need. He was too proud, too much like his grandfather.
“I have passed a royal decree,” continued the king. “He is named a Lord of Ea Uaré.”
Rinon nodded slowly while Aradan stood.
“I should be leaving, my king,” said the councillor. “I must pave the way for your appearance this evening.” He nodded at father and son and then glided from the room. Thargodén watched him leave, wondering if he had sensed the king’s desire to speak personally with his son. It would not surprise him at all.
“Rinon,” he began, turning to face his son, studying him for a moment before continuing. “Whatever you may think, in spite of the years of neglect, never doubt my love for you.”
Rinon was taken aback by his father’s sudden turn of conversation and was reminded of the events from just weeks before. It had been a pivotal day in which the king had told him of the Silvan boy, his bastard child and Rinon’s own half-brother. He and his father had argued, and yet strangely, the years of silent anger and regret had snapped, leaving them both swimming upon strange tides. The king had once more begun to rule the land, and with that change, so too had he begun to demand a change in Rinon.
He had tried to comply, but still, you cannot eradicate years of anger, cannot mend the hurt that had been done after one single moment of truth, one simple admission. It would take much more for Rinon to trust his father as he once had, love him as he once had. But that did not stop his tongue from disobeying his mind. The king had, indeed, changed, but so had Rinon.
Turning in his chair, Rinon looked squarely at the king. “I cannot change years of bitterness. I was old enough to see the damage you did to my mother, to my brother and my twin sister. Handir was not entirely aware, but Maeneth and I were. I tried to minimise our mother’s absence, explain it away when my own heart was breaking, and I hated you for that,” he said harshly. “Now that I know some of the details, that my grandfather started all this by prohibiting your love for the Silvan woman—now that I know the extent of your love for her and my own mother’s prior knowledge of it, my rational mind can understand these things, but the damage was done, and I acted in consequence. It has made me who I am. It has made me how I am.” Rinon’s words had simply tumbled from his mouth, and he desperately tried to hide his own surprise.
“And can you change that? With time, can you come to love me once more?” asked the king softly.
Rinon’s eyes felt too full, and he screamed at himself to not show how much the king’s words meant to him. He would not allow his father to see his weakness—he had not earned it.
“I can try,” he said as he stood, pulling on his ceremonial uniform until it was perfectly straight. “I have duties, my king.”
“You may leave,” murmured the king, watching as his eldest child once again closed the door that led to his heart and strode from the room.
He knew that his crown prince would still fight him as surely as he knew Rinon would fight the Silvan boy, for in him was the physical evidence of his father’s disgrace, his mother’s betrayal, and his own ensuing bitterness.
But Thargodén would cling to the hope that, perhaps someday, he could redeem those empty years of fatherly neglect.
He had to. His children were all he had.
Thargodén’s court was brimming with councillors and legislators, lords and ladies, commanders and merchants, all of them decked in their most distinguished attire, heavy jewels on display for the first time in many years, for through the cycles of Thargodén’s grief, there had been no events worthy enough to don them.
It was a sea of bobbing, blond heads, dotted only sparsely by the occasional brown or auburn mane of a Silvan—that is, until the Deep Forest arrived and the din was silenced, replaced now with curious whisperings as village leaders, Spirit Herders, and foresters filed into the Great Council Hall, chins jutted defiantly. Their brown and honey eyes danced over the strangeness of the Alpines, for to their eyes, they seemed alien to this land, so far removed from the natural simplicity of the Silvans even though they resided here, in what they thought was the heart of the realm. Most had never even seen the Deep Forest, had no understanding of how wrong they were about that.
The Alpines in turn, watched the Silvans, eyes registering their heavily decorated braids, hair adorned with flowers and vines, coloured cord and river stones. Some smiled in distant interest while others smirked, leered and whispered words of disdain.
Aradan watched the interaction from afar, a thoughtful look on his face. The truth was that any hope he had held to, that agreement and consensus would be found, was fast dwindling, for there was no common ground that he could see. The living land and the ruling lords were not one and the same. It was a recipe for strife.
Turning, Aradan spotted Turion, dressed magnificently in the formal uniform that marked him as a member of the Inner Circle—an Alpine Captain. General Huren, Pan’assár’s second and acting commander general, was at his side, talking with an Alpine merchant. Aradan gestured to Turion, and soon, the two elves were greeting each other warmly. They had barely met before that day when Turion and Lainon had revealed the existence of Fel’annár, yet since then they had spoken often of the situation in the Forest, of Fel’annár and of their plans to restore a strong king upon the throne. They had not always agreed, but they had come to respect one another. Friendship came easily after that.
“How are things at the barracks, Turion? Is city life agreeing with you, or is the great open calling you home?” he asked with a smirk.
Turion returned it. “Well, a bit of both I suppose. Aye, I miss the young ones, but this was the price I paid so that Fel’annár could pursue his training, so that our plan could be set into motion—that is payment enough,” he smiled, and Aradan nodded. Indeed, that was exactly what the captain had done, a boon that General Huren had wrought from him in exchange for leading Fel’annár on his first patrol.
“What an event,” said Turion absently as he watched the elves around him.
“Aye,” said Aradan. “It promises to be interesting at the least.” His comment was more than a little evasive, and Turion turned to him, askance.
“There has been little forthcoming knowledge on the summit, Lord Aradan. The warriors are anxious that perhaps something has happened, while the lords reckon new trade routes are to be opened. Yet it is the Silvans that puzzle me,” he said with a frown.
Aradan turned to the captain and studied him for a moment. “How so? What do they say?” he asked.
“That is the point. They do not; they say nothing—they simply smile, as if they know something the rest of us do not. Something strange is happening, and I would wager on the truth of it.” He turned now, his eyes sparkling with a challenge, and Aradan nodded.
“Turion, we know that Erthoron knows, and from what you say, it is possible that he has told his people, in which case, our king’s announcement will only be a surprise to the Alpine lords and ladies. Now our king is joyous, but I cannot help thinking there will be more opposition from our Alpine people than we had originally anticipated. Band’or
án has been most productive in his slow poisoning of our once tolerant society.”
Turion cast his eyes around the crowds, unable to refute Aradan’s worries. “He is publicly recognising him then,” he murmured, and Aradan nodded. “That, at least, is encouraging and I wonder, if it is enough to bring him back to us.” He shook his head, as if to refute his own words. “Look at them. Our people look upon the natives of this land as if they were trespassing. What travesty is this, Aradan? What have we done to create this land of ignorant bigots? How has it been tolerated for so long? It is an infection I do not know we can cure, and the Inner Circle is riddled with it. Even if Thargodén can react, find himself and be the strong king he once was, I wonder if it is not already too late.”
Aradan studied Turion, tried and tested commander—Alpine and yet immersed in the culture of his forest home, truly comfortable amongst the Silvans, just like he himself had learned to become. Turion possessed a natural wisdom that Aradan could not help but admire. The commander surprised him with his next words.
“Our missives for Tar’eastór have had ample time to arrive, and yet no answers have been sent, or perhaps they have and were intercepted,” said Turion, his eyes landing for a moment on Band’orán across the Hall. “Still, we must trust Prince Handir and Lainon to prepare Fel’annár. The poor boy has no idea of the storm that awaits him.”
Aradan nodded slowly. “I only hope that Handir can come to terms with his brother’s existence, not blame him for his mother’s departure, his father’s fall. I have written long and thoughtfully to him, but such questions oftentimes do not adhere to cold reasoning, Turion. Rinon is a good example of that.”
“Lainon will help him. I, too, have written in similar terms to our Ari’atór,” said Turion.
Turning to the sound of guards snapping to attention, the two elves looked to the open doors of the great Council Hall, where the king now stood—resplendent.
Magnificent.
It was his first formal engagement since his return from the depths of his grief, and the Hall fell abruptly into silence. An elf gasped, the sharp sound lingering, its underlying emotion mirrored by those who looked on. Even the Silvans stood rooted, hands poised upon their mighty wooden staffs. It had been many years since they had seen King Thargodén Ar Or’Talán. Aradan’s heart thudded, its rhythm strange, and his skin pulled tight and cold. Turion lowered his head in respect.
A shimmering silver vest of thin, exquisite armour lay over a sky-blue shirt of fine silk and a skirt of muted violet that reached down to his calves. His cloak was a striking green, so long it hung behind him and pooled upon the polished floor in a short trail, like moss spilling over stone, and upon his head of silver hair lay the crown he had not worn since the queen had left, hugging his face and cheekbones as would a lover’s hands.
At his hip sat a mighty sword Aradan knew had been Or’Talán’s, and as the king began to walk down the centre of the hall, one hand rested on its pommel. Upon his index finger was the rough emerald Thargodén had never removed.
The people bowed low, even the Silvans, faces still and expectant. If Thargodén had been looking to make a statement, he had certainly achieved his goal.
The crown prince was at his shoulder, decked in the ceremonial uniform of a royal captain, ice-cold eyes fixed to the fore. Only Aradan knew what lay in his mind, the turmoil of incompatible emotions: hatred, love, rebellion, deference. He was the perfect target for Band’orán, one he would not let go of easily, but then again, Rinon was no easy foe. His one weakness was his emotions towards his father, a weakness Band’orán had been trying to shape to his own advantage for many years. Aradan was still unsure as to his success.
Arriving at his throne at the end of the hall, the king turned and sat, face placid, eyes alive. Rinon stood to one side, the picture of a duteous prince despite the doubts in his mind, and Aradan silently commended him.
Three loud, dull thuds marked the commencement of the summit, and it fell to Aradan to inaugurate the talks. With a nod at Turion, he moved into the centre of the Hall with practised confidence and turned his eyes to the Silvans on one side and then to the Alpines on the other. Opening his arms in a gesture of welcome, he launched his powerful, well-seasoned voice, carefully modulated words capturing the attention of all.
“My lords, ladies, warriors and merchants, Ari’atór and foresters, subjects all. Please be welcome to the court of our King Thargodén Ar Or’Talán.
“Today, we commence the first Forest Summit, one of many, to be celebrated every three years. Its purpose?” he asked somewhat theatrically, “to bring together the representatives of the Alpine and Silvan people, to share our concerns, our needs, to solve our problems and lend aid, wherever it may be needed, so that Ea Uaré may vanquish its foes and be great once more, that she prosper to the best of her abilities. For this, we have called upon you, good elves of the Great Forest Belt. Together we will pave the way for a better land, a more just and prosperous society.”
Here he stopped and waited for the timid applause to dwindle, studiously ignoring the blank stares of the Silvan leaders. He could not blame them for their scepticism.
“Today, our King Thargodén has an announcement to make. Afterwards, an inquiry into the state of the land will be heard and documented so that tomorrow, we may begin the talks.”
Turning, he gestured to the king with a deep bow. All eyes shifted to the shockingly beautiful figure who stood in a rustle of silks and moved towards Aradan.
Lord Band’orán cast a sideways glance at his son, Barathon, and his close friend, Draugole. Band'orán was good at many things, but he excelled in the art of masking the truth. And the truth was that he had been lax. He had not foreseen this, for Thargodén was not the broken king he thought to usher onto the Long Road to Valley. It was surely the appearance of the bastard child that had brought him back, rekindled his flame, his desire to live and to rule.
“My lords, ladies, warriors and merchants, Silvan village leaders, Spirit Herders, and foresters, I welcome you warmly to my court,” began Thargodén, eyes steadily scanning the crowds, gauging their emotions, their reactions. “The news I bring you today is cause for joy, joy I hope you, too, will share with me. I must announce to you the existence of a fourth royal child, son of my blood, son of the House of Or’Talán. I publicly recognise this child as my son and grant all privileges and titles save that of ‘Prince.’”
The king was forced to stop, for the steadily rising voices rapidly turned into a full-blown din. There were words of genuine shock and curiosity, others of outrage. There was instant speculation and brash judgement. But all of those voices were Alpine. The Silvans stood before them in silence, a knowing smile upon their faces, smiles that slowly widened until their teeth shone in the early evening light and all attention fell upon them.
It was the precise moment in which Erthoron and Lorthil realised that their people would not heed their plea for caution. They had not wanted to feign indifference, had not wanted to wait any longer. One voice cut through the silence.
“All hail The Silvan!”
A mighty cheer rang out loud and clear, wooden staffs banging upon the stone floors, a rumble of Silvan defiance. Another voice shouted over the rest.
“All hail Fel'annár Ar Thargodén!”
The cheer was louder now as the Silvans raised their clenched fists as one. Aradan’s fine hairs stood on end, his eyes falling on a confused Thargodén, a disapproving Rinon, and a carefully controlled Band’orán.
The Alpines stood frozen with indecision while Aradan’s mind worked frantically. He knew that Erthoron was aware of the child, but the entire Silvan party were not only simply aware but exuberant, proud. They had called Thargodén’s son by his name before the king had had time to do so.
They all knew, not because Erthoron had just told them, but because they had always known, realised Aradan, and now, the Deep Forest would be tossed into a heaving sea of strong wills and demands. More than ever, thi
s absurd rivalry between Alpines and Silvans would come to a head, with Fel'annár in the very midst of it.
Those Silvan staffs of ancient wood beating against the stone floors had been a proclamation of Silvan defiance, and it shook the floor beneath their feet. There was no going back.
Either Fel’annár was welcomed by the Alpines or the Silvans would rebel.
Three
Homecoming
“The heart is a stubborn fool. It denies the truth, is blind to reason. All it can do is feel, but it doesn’t think at all. It can lead to the greatest of deeds, but so too can it lead to cruelty, hatred, and resentment. Only the reasoning mind can put those feelings into perspective.”
On Elven Nature. Calro.
The battle-weary patrol had been navigating the surrounding forests for an hour, climbing the boulder-strewn slopes that led upwards and to the mountain citadel of Tar’eastór. King Vorn’asté’s seat of power loomed above them in the afternoon gloom, and at last its mighty gates were groaning and then creaking as the slabs of wood and stone opened inwards, enough only for Comon’s battered patrol to file into the courtyard, silent and grey under the sorrowful, respectful gazes of those citizens brave enough to be out on this cold, wet winter day.
Fel’annár’s gaze fixed upon the statues that decorated the battlements, each one separated by a space just large enough for an archer to fit and fire a bow. They were warriors, but what had always drawn his attention was that they were all different. Some held one long sword, others two. Some were archers and others were standing with no weapons at all save for their hands. He would ask Gor’sadén who they were when time permitted.
“Fel’annár.”
He startled and then turned to Prince Sontúr, who rode at his side.
“Ready for another taste of Arané’s foul potions?”
Fel’annár mustered a crooked smile but said nothing, and the haggard warriors dismounted. One crumpled to the floor, but Arané’s healers were already there to pick him up while others walked amongst the group, sharp eyes assessing, analysing. Across the courtyard, a new patrol was preparing to leave, watching them respectfully as they mounted, their eyes drawn to the number of unclaimed swords strapped to Captain Comon’s horse.