Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  “Unlikely,” answered a captain. “As I said, we are familiar with those caves. We do not think they are large or deep enough to hide any substantial number of Deviants, and Deviants need food. They are not cannibals. Commander,” continued the captain, his eyes landing on Fel’annár for a brief moment before turning back to Gor’sadén. “How can we be sure that Warrior Fel’annár’s claims are accurate? We are basing our conjectures on his word alone that this Nim’uán even exists.”

  Gor’sadén turned to him, and when he spoke, it was softly. “You have my word, Captain.”

  The captain nodded, his eyes straying back to Fel’annár, who in turn was staring at Gor’sadén. A wave of utter gratefulness washed through him. All his fears of not being understood, of being taken as a fool were gone—because Gor’sadén, Commander General of Tar’eastór, believed in him, answered for him, trusted him implicitly.

  “All right. Here is what I believe we must do,” said Gor’sadén. “We send a reconnaissance party out to these two areas, where Warrior Fel’annár heard this song more clearly. If this Nim’uán is there and not in the conflicted area around Queen’s Fall, then we need to know what it is doing. This patrol should try to avoid conflict and concentrate on mapping the enemy’s tracks, watching for signs of activity, a supply line, anything that would suggest Deviants are inhabiting these caves. If they are, then we must seal off the entryways and be done with this thing.” He turned and then walked upwards to Queen’s Fall on the map. “However, I am wary. This is where the conflict is taking place and where the Nim’uán is not. If Commander Pan’assár is right, and there is a diversion tactic in motion, there is a reason for it, something that is happening and that the enemy endeavours to hide from us. Commander Pan’assár?”

  “Commander, I suggest this Nim’uán is on the move and does not wish to be seen. And if it doesn’t want to be seen, it is because it has a surprise in store, either that or it is frightened. But that does not seem likely according to Warrior Fel’annár’s report of a new threat. Perhaps it is waiting,” murmured Pan’assár, and Gor’sadén turned to watch his friend. Pan’assár had always been a brilliant strategist.

  “How long until we have those reports?” asked Pan’assár.

  “Journey time, mission time—perhaps two to three weeks. Warrior Fel’annár, the slightest hint that something is happening, however remote, however unlikely, you will report immediately to me,” ordered Gor’sadén.

  “Sir.”

  “Comon, we need those reports. Reinforce the western and eastern flanks around Queen’s Fall, and send another patrol to the area this Nim’uán may be using for whatever he does not want us to see. Our reconnaissance team may need their support.”

  “It will be done, Commander. Sir, the captains are eager for news.”

  “Brief them, Comon, but heed me, all of you. The Nim’uán is not to be mentioned. Our official stance is that Deviant activity is increasing and that we ride out to investigate. There is no point in alarming our people for the moment. From today, we are on Alert Three, but if the presence of the Nim’uán is confirmed, we will move to Alert Two. No overnight leave is to be granted. I want all our resources ready to ride out at short notice should the need arise.”

  “Sir,” said Comon as he saluted.

  “Thank you, Commander, Captains. We will resume our talks tomorrow.”

  The captains left the high crags, valleys and ridges of Tar’eastór and walked passed Fel’annár with a nod of recognition while the two commanders approached more slowly, Gor’sadén’s eyes searching Fel’annár.

  “Has Prince Handir spoken to you?” he asked, and Pan’assár turned to listen.

  “No, Sir.” A sinking feeling pulled at his guts. There was really only one reason the prince would speak to him—there was news from Ea Uaré.

  Gor’sadén nodded. “You are free of duty for the next week at least. See that you make good use of the time. You may be out in the field again before long.” With a nod, he dismissed Fel’annár, who saluted and then left, Idernon and Ramien right behind him, and once they were outside and away from the lingering stares, Fel’annár’s head turned to his friends.

  “The map!” he exclaimed excitedly.

  “It is as beautiful as it is practical,” agreed Idernon. “I can see the merits of standing on the map you are studying rather than pointing to features on parchment. For example . . .” But he stopped mid-sentence, because Fel’annár was no longer listening to him, despite his initial enthusiasm. He stood stock still, as tense as a drawn field bow, hands balled into stony fists at his side.

  “What is it?” murmured Ramien, eyes darting around them.

  “I don’t know,” said Fel’annár, for his skin was tingling and the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. His eyes darted from left to right, but there was nothing out of the ordinary that he could see.

  “Fel’annár?” insisted Idernon, urgency beginning to tinge his voice.

  “I don’t know, Idernon. A threat, perhaps.”

  Idernon breathed deeply, his body stiffening as it prepared for attack, one hand over the knife at his belt. They were in the courtyard before the Royal Palace and barracks, under the bright light of day, surrounded by civilians and warriors alike. Even so, Idernon did not doubt Fel’annár’s words and neither did Ramien.

  They passed the outlying barracks, the Healing Halls and were soon at the fences, beyond which the warriors trained.

  “It has passed,” said Fel’annár, visibly relaxing.

  “Do you know what sort of threat it was?”

  “No. It could simply have been an unfriendly gaze.” But Idernon was not appeased. He had seen his friend’s reaction. It had not been some simple, disapproving stare. The threat had been real. He needed to speak with The Company, because while they had been away, something had changed, and the threat was no longer silent and hidden—it was moving, hunting. It was walking under the sun, even though its identity still lay in the shadows.

  Shadow. Secret warrior: covert and highly skilled in many arts, but this he had never seen. The bastard, as Silor called him, had sensed his presence from afar. He had made no noise, he was sure of it, had not been seen, he would swear to that. All he had done was take up his position behind a nearby tree and prepare his weapon—however the boy had known. Macurian had underestimated him, and he wondered if Silor had told him everything he needed to know. He already knew where the Silvan went, who he went with, the people that mattered to him, but how had he known there was a danger?

  He would need to strike fast, unexpectedly, but he would not do so until he was sure of success. Should he fail, the boy’s allies would be warned, and that would make his job so much more difficult . . . and Macurian had never once failed to carry out a mission, certainly not one as well-paid as this one.

  He turned in search of answers, his objective playing over and over in his mind.

  Stop the bastard from returning to Ea Uaré.

  Four

  The Missives

  “The things we do to protect ourselves are often misconstrued, for few dig deeper than the significance of words. It is what lays between them that is important. It is in the empty space between words where the truth resides.”

  On Elven Nature. Calro.

  Llyniel had seen the first great king of Ea Uaré, Or’Talán.

  Only it wasn’t him—she knew that. He’d been slaughtered by Sand Lords before she was born. Still the elf she had seen was identical save for the colour of his eyes, had the exact same face she had seen in her history books, had seen countless times back home, hanging upon the palace walls. There could be no mistake. That warrior was a royal scion, but he was too young to be Or’Talán’s son. He was the son of Thargodén, or Band’orán, albeit that did not seem likely. He was Handir’s cousin, or his brother—and he was shockingly beautiful.

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  Handir stiffened where he stood, his hand momentarily stoppi
ng, the glass decanter in his hand perfectly still before he slowly continued to pour two glasses of wine.

  “About what?” he asked, unsure whether she had seen Fel’annár or whether she had heard of Lainon’s demise.

  “About your cousin. Or is he your brother?”

  Handir scowled and then turned. “As soon as I had time to. The patrol rode in earlier than expected. I would have warned you.”

  “Yes, well, get talking, Han. Who is his father? And his mother?” she demanded, flinging herself into a cosy chair before the fire, auburn hair flying around her head unchecked. “Is he your cousin or your brother? And pour me some of that wine!” she said.

  Handir laughed in spite of the situation, and Llyniel smirked. Her frustration and impatience were getting the better of her, and that sometimes led her to ask too many questions all at the same time, until it became so obvious that she would stop and then laugh at herself. But the moment soon passed, and Handir could not hide his hesitation. He needed to find a way of telling her only the essential elements without opening the door to her questioning.

  She watched him closely. She was good at that; indeed Handir was sure she already knew he would not tell her everything.

  “You remember the affair between my father and the . . . Silvan woman from Lan Taria?” asked Handir as he placed the glasses on the table before them, shuffling closer to Llyniel, brow pulled together in thought.

  “Lássira, yes. My mother once mentioned she had the most extraordinary eyes. Your brother then. You’re saying he’s half Silvan?”

  Handir nodded curtly, and of all the things Llyniel could have said or done, she giggled.

  He stared back at her in disbelief. “Only you could find humour in such a convoluted situation, Llyniel.”

  “Convoluted? What’s so convoluted about it? Your father loved that woman; any Silvan will tell you that.”

  “They loved each other so they had a child. Can you see nothing off about this? Do you think it is that simple?”

  “I do not think it is simple, yet neither is it hard to understand.” She sighed, cocking her head to one side. “I can see this affects you deeply, but I am your friend, Handir. I’m not judging you by saying it’s not convoluted. Love is not convoluted. If they had a child it was purposeful; children are never mistakes. The question is—what was that purpose?”

  “Llyn, whatever the purpose, Band’orán will not want him in Ea Uaré. My father’s position on the throne is already compromised. Can’t you see where this will lead?”

  “I can well imagine. How well do you know him?” she asked, taking the wine to her lips and drinking deeply.

  Handir shook his head. “Hardly at all. We have spoken only once, and that was when he came back from his last tour. He had news to share with me.” His voice fell away, and he turned his head, battling to control his grief. Llyniel didn’t know. He heard the rustle of her tunic and then felt the warmth of her hand on his shoulder.

  “What news?” she asked softly.

  “Lainon is dead.” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out but he had, and her grasp grew weak for a moment, only to squeeze stronger. One hand cupped his cheek and turned his head to face her.

  “Sweet Lainon is dead?” she murmured, tears pooling in her eyes and then spilling over the long lashes of her bottom eyelids. He watched them for a moment, marvelling at how easy they had come. His own tears were still stubbornly inside, their freedom denied by his ingrained sense of propriety. Alpine princes didn’t cry; it was a sign of weakness, and yet to the Silvan people, it was a token of empathy, of nearness and harmony. Crying was not frowned upon. It was cherished.

  She stood and walked towards the windows and the magnificence of Tar’eastór beyond, blurred now by her grief but still beautiful.

  “I remember when we were children, running amok in the palace, old enough to know we were a bother, young enough not to care, and Lainon was always there, somewhere in the distance, watching but never scolding,” said Llyniel. “Then later, when we were older and we talked of weightier things, still he was at your shoulder, silent and duteous. I saw you many times together, when you thought yourself alone with him. The guard became a friend, a brother even, and you would relax. You would tell him everything and he would listen, more than your true brother, more than your own father. You loved him, and my heart aches for the tears you cry on the inside. I am glad I’m here, Handir.” She turned back to the room and to the lonely prince who still sat, his gaze lost somewhere off to his left, a rare sign of vulnerability.

  Handir couldn’t speak, and so he swallowed thickly and nodded, reaching for his wine and drinking. Llyniel sat beside him, reaching for her own glass and observing the exquisite carvings around the base for a moment.

  “What happened?” she ventured.

  “He died saving Fel’annár in battle. That is his name.”

  She frowned, shaking her head. “Why was he with Fel’annár and not with you?” Handir turned to her, and Llyniel watched him closely.

  “I reassigned Lainon—to him.”

  She leaned back, and Handir could see she was, perhaps, beginning to understand. Handir already resented Fel’annár for what Lássira had done to his family, and now, he needed to come to terms with the fact that Lainon had died because of Fel’annár himself, because Handir had sent him. The Silvan had told him briefly of what had transpired, that Lainon had not died because Fel’annár had been careless. They had saved each other. He had no reason to doubt that, but still, for Handir it was all too easy to do just that: to find blame in Fel’annár.

  And to feel guilty for reassigning Lainon.

  “You must be curious,” murmured Llyniel after a while, eyes locked on Handir, watching his reaction closely.

  But Handir didn’t answer.

  “You are curious, and you do not want to be. Am I right?”

  Handir breathed deeply and wrenched his eyes away from hers. “You know you are. I do not rightly know why I should even care what becomes of him. His mother was the reason my mother took the Long Road to Valley; you must still remember that time. I cannot forget that, I am reminded of it every time I look at him. Why should I care?”

  “Because your heart tells you that you must. It is that simple, Prince. Your mind rebels against your heart and that is always a battle that cannot be won without consequence.”

  “It feels wrong to care—a betrayal, if you will.”

  “Your mother would not have you punish her husband’s child, Han.”

  “No, she would not.” Handir had not thought of it that way. But he was not his mother. “It is me who cannot accept, Llyniel.”

  “Because of the hurt his mother caused yours?”

  “Yes,” was Handir’s somewhat clipped reply.

  “And what of the hurt done to her? She and your father were lovers before your mother was ever introduced to Thargodén. They were wrenched apart unnaturally, Handir. Your father and Lássira loved each other—what choice did they ever have? If they were soul mates, to part from each other would be like trying to kill yourself by holding your own breath.”

  Handir watched the woman he felt closer to than his own sister and locked gazes with her. She had the uncanny ability of synthesising things; he did, too, but where Fel’annár was concerned he had failed where she had seen it so very clearly. Llyniel leaned forward, her brow drawn together in a frown.

  “What I don’t understand is why he’s here. Or are you going to tell me that is coincidence?

  Her questions were becoming uncomfortable, because to answer her now would open up other questions he did not want to answer. His hesitation cost him.

  “Handir, tell me what it is you hold back.”

  He had not told Fel’annár of the missives, of the plan, and in all conscience he could not tell Llyniel until he had, and even then he would think long and hard about whether he even wanted to tell her. It was dangerous, and of all the people in this world, he would shelter her from harm. She was passi
onate about her Silvan roots, ashamed of the Alpine side of herself. Should he tell her now of what they had planned, he knew she would not step away. He knew she would make herself indispensable in some way. It was in her blood, the blood she had inherited from her lordly father.

  But Handir’s rational mind told him he had no right to keep it from her, no right to protect her. She didn’t need it.

  Handir smiled but it was far away and a touch sad. “There is so much to say, my friend. But for now I need your trust and . . . your patience. There is something I must do before I can tell you.”

  She cocked her head to one side, but she could see Handir’s determination. There was no use in insisting, so she nodded slowly. “All right. So long as you do . . . tell me.”

  Handir nodded. He would, indeed, answer her questions, as soon as he had told Fel’annár of the plan.

  That afternoon, the blade masters stood talking quietly with the other weapons instructors, eyes occasionally straying to where Fel’annár, Idernon, and Ramien sat watching the warriors spar. Although he was free for the next week at least, Fel’annár had come down to the fields to watch in the hope of catching one of the masters train. He was restless in spite of his lingering tiredness, incapable of enjoying his freedom, for the strange song of the Nim’uán was still there, even though it had dwindled. But there was something else, some unknown feeling that lurked on the fringes of his consciousness. Whether it was good or bad he couldn’t say, and he wondered if he should get himself to the gardens, to the Sentinel that had blossomed in winter. Perhaps there he would find answers.

  “Pity Pan’assár can’t be moved to allow Gor’sadén to take you as an apprentice of the Kal’hamén’Ar,” murmured Idernon as he watched the more advanced warriors.

  Fel’annár smiled wryly. Too much time had passed since the commander had told Fel’annár he would try to wrangle his friend’s consent. He had expected Pan’assár’s negative—still he had managed to get his hopes up all the same.