by R K Lander
“Fel’annár,” called Comon. “Report to the War Room tomorrow morning. I would have you explain your skills to the commander.”
“Aye, Captain. Sir, I have—I would speak with you about that. There are details which I believe are important. A song from the trees I would discuss.”
“Can it wait?” asked Comon, his eyes glancing over to the awaiting group of elves Fel’annár knew were the family, friends, and children of the fallen. He averted his gaze, unable to watch. He would have to, though, one day when he was a captain.
“Yes, Sir.”
Comon nodded and then turned to his patrol, raising his voice over the din. “You have all served well. Rest while you can, for the enemy does not. Tar’eastór is grateful. Dismissed.”
The patrol saluted as one, but for The Company, it took a moment for them to understand that they had been thanked. They were unused to praise, and for one, wonderful moment, Fel’annár realised that it didn’t matter who he was or what he looked like, and he wondered if such a simple thing would ever be true in Ea Uaré, whether he would ever hear these simple words of praise given by an Alpine captain to his Silvan troops. It bolstered their sense of purpose, their sense of duty to the realm and its people. It made the hardship worthwhile.
It had indeed been an arduous few weeks. Fel’annár had been their scout, had warned them of encroaching danger thanks to his ever-evolving skill. He had fought for three and had decimated the Deviant archers with his unparalleled archery. The warriors had welcomed him, if a little warily at first, and then heartily as he had endeared himself to them with his questions and his diligence and his Silvan humour. Ramien had come to the rescue of many an Alpine warrior with his massive axe and hands that spanned the width of a human head. Ferocious in battle and generous in his good humour, he was loved. Galdith, too, had earned their respect with his agility in battle and his Silvan tales at night, and as for Carodel, his irreverent songs had lifted their hearts at breakfast and then later, after the battles when he would sing the ancient lays of hope and love. Galadan was an enigma, stone-faced and unflinching. He was a lieutenant yet even so had served as a warrior, had helped Sontúr in his duties as healer. As for Idernon, he was the odd one, but his knowledge had been a source of inspiration and entertainment. The troop had taken to asking him the strangest, most unlikely questions, but the Wise Warrior had always answered. Little had they known that at times, Idernon had lied just to give them an answer, but only The Company could tell that he had.
Releasing his feet from the stirrups, Fel’annár dismounted carefully, trying and failing to land softly and avoid the lance of pain that shot through his temples.
“We are well enough, Fel’annár,” said Galadan. “We return to the barracks to bathe and eat. You go to Arané, and join us when you will. You don’t have to feign health anymore.” The Alpine lieutenant of The Company sought Sontúr’s gaze, his silent request for the prince to keep an eye on Fel’annár understood, and Sontúr nodded curtly back at him. Fel’annár was too tired to notice, and so he hung his throbbing head and followed Sontúr and the flow of healers and injured warriors to the now familiar doors of the Halls of Healing.
Inside, it was warm, and Fel’annár shivered at the contrast. An assistant ushered him in the direction of the recovery area, and Fel’annár made straight for the roaring fire. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees and held his frigid hands to the fire, under the scrutiny of the patients already there, mostly warriors sporting minor wounds they had gained upon the training fields or on previous patrols. They watched as he warmed himself, observing the soft shake of his hands, the way he sniffled miserably and blinked a little too often. They saw the wear on his uniform, the fading bruises and scratches upon his face, and the blank stare in his extraordinary green eyes.
“Silvan,” called one warrior. “How goes it in the north?” he asked, for there could be no mistaking where he had been serving these past weeks.
Fel’annár turned and met the warrior’s gaze squarely, his eyes steady, emotionless. “It goes ill, Warrior,” he said softly before turning back to the fire, sniffling again.
“Fel’annár? Warrior Fel’annár?”
“Here,” he said, still facing the fire. The sound of his name being called rang differently, and something triggered in his mind. That was no Alpine accent. He turned where he knelt only to look up into the concerned eyes of a healer. But her concern rapidly turned to utter shock. The mug of steaming herbal tea in her hands jolted, not quite enough for the liquid to escape and burn her. Fel’annár briefly wondered if his eyes had lit up without him realising, but he soon discarded that idea. No one was running from the room.
She was Silvan. There was only one other reason for her reaction. She had recognised him as a scion of the House of Or’Talán, first king of Ea Uaré.
“Drink this, Warrior,” she ordered, pushing the mug into his reddened hands and visibly collecting herself. He wrapped his freezing fingers around the hot mug and then drank it down, relishing in the feel of it as it warmed his frigid body. His eyes, though, lingered on the healer, wondering what she was thinking even as he told himself he was too tired to care one way or the other.
“Go to the baths at the end of this aisle; you know the way I assume? Get out of those clothes and into the tubs. I’ll not be long.”
He nodded, questions accumulating in his mind. Where did she come from? Were there other Silvans in Tar’eastór? Had she come with messengers from Ea Uaré? But she was busy and all he could do was watch as she left, and when he had lost sight of her amongst the wounded and recovering, he turned back to the fire. Swallowing down the rest of the concoction, he stood on shaky feet.
“Recover your strength soonest, Brothers. There is much to be done,” he said softly, his eyes meeting them all and then walking away under the respectful gazes of Alpine warriors who knew nothing of the discrimination against the Silvan fighters of Ea Uaré. They only knew what the others were saying: that this young warrior had fought well, that he listened to trees—that he was the worthy grandson of Or’Talán, first Alpine king of the Silvan lands of Ea Uaré.
“He’s back.”
Gor’sadén, commander general of Tar’eastór, looked up from his desk and to Pan’assár, who stood on the balcony, leaning over the vertiginous rock face below, blond hair fluttering in the frigid breeze.
“The Silvan. Comon’s patrol has just arrived,” clarified the Forest commander.
“Are they all right?” asked Gor’sadén, snapping his book shut and getting up to join his friend. Blue eyes looked down upon the battered patrol far below, his own question answered.
“As well as a warrior can be, I suppose, after serving in these times,” said Commander Pan’assár. “They have been away for longer than expected,” he added as he watched Comon dismiss his warriors and then Fel’annár as he walked into the Healing Halls.
“Captain Comon will have news,” said Gor’sadén as he turned back inside. “We must understand why Deviant activity is so high. It is disturbing, Pan’assár; we need more intelligence. We need to speak with the Ari’atór.” Gor’sadén raked a hand through his unbraided hair and turned back to his desk. “I have sent out messengers to Araria. They should have arrived by now, but it will take the Ari’atór some time to get here. You know, something tells me this is not a simple increase in the number of humans seeking immortality. Something drives them, Pan, something we have yet to understand.”
“I remember Galadan commenting on something to that effect after the attack on our convoy. Their tactics were too advanced, too orchestrated to be random, he said. I would accompany you to hear Comon’s reports tomorrow. The sooner the Ari’atór get here, the better. If anyone can say what this is, it is the Spirit Warriors.
Pan’assár walked towards his friend. “And I have received a message from General Huren. He says Deviant activity in Ea Uaré is normal.”
Gor’sadén nodded. This was not a widespread phenomenon th
en, just as he had suspected. Whatever it was, it was happening in Tar’eastór and perhaps in Araria. He turned towards the fire, feeling Pan’assár just beside him.
“The boy is in the Halls of Healing. You’ll be visiting him, I suppose.”
Gor’sadén closed his eyes. He had thought his friend was over the sarcastic comments and open hostility towards Or’Talán’s illicit, half-Silvan grandchild, yet even now, the odd comment would escape the commander, as if he could not help but belittle him, an irresistible urge to debase him. Gor’sadén’s only solace was that compared to but two months ago, Pan’assár was almost complimenting the boy.
“I will visit Fel’annár when he has rested. Tomorrow, if he is still in the Halls. Will you not visit your warrior, Commander?” asked Gor’sadén, jaw clenching in irritation.
“Of course,” replied Pan’assár evenly, knowing he had riled his friend. “Prince Handir will surely tell the boy of the arrival of missives from the Forest and the singular information they contain. Once that is done, we shall see. Despite what you may think, I am proud of my soldiers.”
Gor’sadén nodded. He did want to see Fel’annár, but he also needed to tell him that Pan’assár had agreed to giving him a test, one which, should he pass, would allow him to become an apprentice of the Kal’hamén’Ar. Gor’sadén could only hope Fel’annár was not too badly wounded, because there would be no second chances with Pan’assár. If the Forest commander could avoid Fel’annár becoming an apprentice, a Kah Warrior, Gor’sadén knew he would play his hand and use every advantage he had. And yet the last time they had spoken of the Kal’hamén’Ar, Pan’assár had been adamant that they should not hide Fel’annár’s trial. It would not take place publicly—that would go against the Warrior Code—but it would be announced. It was time for their young warriors to remember the Kal’hamén’Ar, to dream that perhaps, one day, they too could earn the honour of becoming a Kah Warrior and weave the Dance of Graceful Death.
Gor’sadén could see the advantages of bringing back the ancient art. It had almost passed into legend with the breaking of The Three, the death of Or’Talán and one of the last remaining Masters of the Kah. Perhaps he was wrong, mused Gor’sadén; perhaps Pan’assár was not as reticent as he seemed. Perhaps it was that stubborn pride that marked his character which was impeding him from finally accepting Fel’annár as a potential ally and not a shameful enemy to be scorned and discriminated against.
Fel’annár’s clothes were sodden, his fingers so unresponsive he fumbled with the clasps and buttons until frustration drove him to pull too hard. Stopping with a sigh of frustration, he calmed himself and started again, slowly unfastening his quiver and placing it upon the table, his eyes roving over the poor state of his weapons. There had been no time to clean them after their latest skirmish and after, he had not been able.
Next, he unbuckled his pauldron and chest protection, scratched and scuffed leather and metal falling with a heavy thud. Then came his vambraces, which he set respectfully beside his quiver, and soon he stood naked and filthy. Raking one bare forearm over his brow, he stepped into his bathing cubicle and immersed himself in the steaming tub. He promptly ducked under the surface, feeling his hair as it floated around him. It was bliss and he took his time unravelling his thick, twisted locks, running his fingers through the now loose strands after what seemed like months.
Reaching for the soaps that stood upon a nearby ledge, he scrubbed at his scalp again and again, even though his fingers hurt, and then began on his body, almost obsessively. Releasing the filthy water, he rose and stepped into the next tub down, the water clean and fragrant. He wanted to stay there, weightless and warm, but he would surely fall asleep, so he pulled himself out and wrapped a towel around his waist. Padding into the main hall, he picked up another towel on his way and dried his hair.
He caught his own reflection in the window as he passed, and he stopped mid-stride. He had become stronger during this last patrol. Although he had already been well-muscled, the planes and ridges were now more acutely defined. And yet he had learned something of the limits of that strength, had learned that he was not indestructible. He could have died out there—he had allowed tiredness and distraction to lower his defences and had almost paid the highest price.
He needed a comb, but his pack was nowhere to be seen. He turned in search of help only to find the Silvan healer standing not far away, practiced eyes roving over his body, and for the first time he could remember, he felt the inexplicable need for clothes.
“Here. Use this bed for today,” she said, handing him a long linen shirt.
“I can’t stay, Healer. It’s not necessary.”
“You are a healer?” she asked with an arch of her auburn brow. That accent . . .
Fel’annár opened his mouth to speak, but she promptly cut him off.
“You suffered a recent concussion. It is protocol—you know this. Don’t argue and waste my time.”
He wanted to defend himself, but all that came to him was a lame smile, the first in many weeks, for she sounded like home. That lilting accent and the bluntness in her tone, the bossy manner of a concerned healer who would brook no compromise.
“You’re Silvan,” he mumbled. The healer looked up at him and then smiled. It was not soft and endearing but mischievous and just a touch challenging.
“Oh, aye, I’m Silvan, and if you know anything about Silvan healers, it’s best you still your tongue, Warrior. Sit down.”
And Fel’annár did. He wanted to tell her that he was Silvan, too, but she wouldn’t believe him, and in any case, he was distracted by her lovely eyes. He was drawn to her, like a soft bed in the night, like the smell of pea soup on a hazy Sunday morning. He didn’t understand—all he knew was that she was fresh and clean, her eyes sharp and keen, lips full and soft.
She sat next to him on the bed and reached out to prod at his head. He watched her, saw how she, too, watched him from the corner of her eyes. “A sword hilt?” she asked.
“Aye. A lucky strike.”
“Well, I’m sure its wielder paid the price.”
It had, but he wasn’t giving her the details. Instead he fell into the soft, silent melody that seemed to wrap around her, a protective embrace he too wanted to feel. It was a melody that spoke of the Forest, and his heart ached. A strong hand rested on his shoulder, and he lay back. The same hand swiped his damp hair to one side and lingered there for a while. His eyelids felt heavy as the herbs he had drunk began to numb his aching body and his conscious mind. The last thing he remembered before deep slumber took him was the brush of a soft hand over his face, a caring healer’s hand; it surely didn’t belong to the commanding Silvan that would be looking down on him now. He felt safe, and for a fleeting moment, his worries faded and there was blessed peace before oblivion.
Tomorrow he would continue to ponder the questions that assailed him mercilessly: what was this strange message from the trees? The spark of emotion he had seen in a Deviant’s eye? How could he explain it to Captain Comon in any understandable way when he didn’t understand it himself? And what of his powers? They had evolved, grown stronger and more diverse. Fear had begun to stir in his mind, fear of how much more there was, fear that he might not be able to control it. And then he remembered his father, the one he had never met. Lainon had said there would soon be news from the Forest, news that had the power to change his life completely. Lainon’s face floated before his mind’s eye, and for a moment that fear was tempered.
But how his heart ached for his lost brother!
This Silvan healer had reminded him of home, of where he came from. He didn’t know if he could ever return, and even though he loved that place, he was no longer sure he wanted to.
Dawn had long-since passed. Fel’annár had slept for longer than he had done in weeks, and his stomach growled in protest. He wondered if he would still be in time for a hearty breakfast at the barracks and perhaps escape the bland gruel he knew they would serve here in the H
ealing Halls. The barrack cooks always indulged the warriors on their first day back from patrol; he knew what would be sitting upon the long tables even now—fluffy eggs and sausages.
Sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed, he took a deep breath and turned his head to the footboard. His uniform lay neat, clean and pressed, and beside it a new under-tunic. Propped against one side of the wooden frame were his weapons. He would find time to care for them later.
His gaze wandered down the long aisle of beds, half of which were occupied. Conflict was escalating, and questions needed to be asked. Indeed, even now, Captain Comon would be briefing Commander Gor’sadén on the events of their tour in the mountains, and Fel’annár had his own thoughts to add, even though he had yet to straighten them out in his own mind. Emotions in a Deviant’s eyes, the song from the trees—if it all sounded strange to him, he knew it would be hard to believe for those who did not know him well, except perhaps for Gor’sadén. He had been present when Fel’annár had felt the return of Tar’eastór’s queen; he had seen the Winter Sentinel bloom, seen his own, unnerving transformation. Still, a commander cannot base himself on anything but hard facts to take his decisions, and what Fel’annár had to say was not . . . logical.
Despite his good night’s sleep, he was bone weary. His muscles ached, and his head thumped in time with his heart. Standing, he pulled on his battle-worn uniform, leaving the outer jerkin unbuttoned, and hastily braided his hair. He was not on duty, but he hardly had any clothes of his own, not that it mattered, for without coin, there was nowhere to go save for the barracks, and neither he nor The Company had a penny between them. What was important now was food, real food at the barracks.