Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  Gor’sadén was suddenly alone, and he turned to Fel’annár, now behind him, standing rigid in the middle of the path, face no longer pulled down in lingering irritation at Damiel. Instead he scowled in confusion, and then his forehead smoothed over as he began to comprehend just what Gor’sadén had said. But his tongue was tied and he could not speak, and so the commander began to explain.

  “Take advantage of the days ahead, for Pan’assár will not allow this easily. He will fight you personally, and you must impress him in every way that you can.”

  Fel’annár’s dawning understanding promptly turned into growing panic. “I can’t beat him, Gor’sadén.”

  “No, no you cannot, and that is not the purpose. But you can show him how good you are—you can show him how good you will become, with my training.” The commander allowed himself a smile. “I trust in you, child, and now, you must trust in yourself. You must have the faith you will need to see this done.”

  But Fel’annár did not react to the words. Instead he stared back at Gor’sadén as if he had grown spines for hair.

  “What is it, Fel’annár?

  He blinked. “I just . . . you reminded me of something Lainon once said.” He shook his head. “Why do you trust me?” he asked then, his brow drawn together in confusion, but his eyes hungered for an answer.

  Why did he trust him? Gor’sadén considered himself a good judge of character, and he thought that perhaps it wasn’t about Fel’annár’s skills as a warrior or his abilities with the trees—it wasn’t even about his face or the blood in his veins. It was something unique to Fel’annár. It was an intuition. Gor’sadén simply knew he was not wrong.

  “You ask a difficult question. My only answer is that my heart tells me I should. Is that enough of an answer?”

  Fel’annár’s head leant to one side as he considered the question. And then he smiled.

  “It is a good answer,” he said, “a Silvan answer.”

  Gor’sadén raised his eyebrows, for the boy’s face had transformed once more. He stood looking back at him with a toothy grin, and the commander wondered what was going through the boy’s mind, for it looked almost as if he had discovered something—found something.

  “And the Kal’hamén’Ar? Do you want to do the test?” It was a rhetorical question, of course, an attempt to understand Fel’annár’s mind. They had gone from speaking of the test to the wherewithal of Gor’sadén’s trust in him.

  Fel’annár walked up to him, his eyes swimming with some emotion, some power Gor’sadén could not fathom. There was an intensity in his gaze that was hard to endure, and he resisted the urge to step backwards.

  “I could never have imagined meeting you, knowing you, being worthy of your trust, let alone having the chance to train in the Kal’hamén’Ar. I do not rightly know which I value most.” His words trailed off, and Fel’annár stared back at him expectantly while Gor’sadén struggled—and failed—to hide his surprise . . . and his joy.

  He was beginning to understand. The boy had never had anyone he could look up to who would teach him, push him to his limits, praise him for his successes and encourage him when he failed, not until Lainon and Turion had taken him under their wing. But Lainon had died and Turion was far away. Gor’sadén, though, was here.

  “Forgive me,” came Fel’annár’s soft words. “There is a storm in here,” he gestured to his head. “Handir’s words, my father’s words, Lainon’s absence, and now, the Kal’hamén’Ar.” He didn’t mention the Silvan healer—the way she had looked upon Handir, the way the prince had gazed back at her.

  “Don’t let your father’s words deter you from your goals, Fel’annár; don’t let Handir’s resentment change who you are. You have an important decision to take. If you want this, if you truly want me to teach you the ancient art, I will. All you have to do is convince Pan’assár and then it is you who must trust me. Can you do that?”

  There was no hesitation in his voice, no reserve on Fel’annár’s face, and Gor’sadén smiled even before Fel’annár spoke.

  “I trust you,” he said. “Your friendship means . . .” The boy stopped, strange lights dancing in his eyes. His left hand moved to cover his right, and Gor’sadén looked at them for a moment, registering the slightest of tremors, and then his eyes were back on Fel’annár.

  “What is it?”

  Fel’annár shook his head. “Nothing,” he lied, releasing his hands and flexing them, eyes momentarily glancing at the trees further away.

  Gor’sadén was not convinced, but that intensity in his young friend’s eyes was back and he thought perhaps that he should not push him.

  “Tomorrow you become a lord and the day after, you fight for the right to become my apprentice, a Kah Warrior.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know.” And he did; he knew it with a surety he had seldom felt. A change was coming to his own life, one he grasped with enthusiasm. It was time for Gor’sadén to shine once more, as he once had with the Three, but his purpose, beyond training Fel’annár, was yet to be revealed.

  Handir and Llyniel sat at the table in the prince’s quarters, sated after their private lunch and nostalgic of younger, more innocent days.

  But it was time to tell Llyniel what he had held back from her. Since that afternoon when she had interrupted his conversation with Fel’annár, he knew he could postpone it no longer, and so he turned to his friend, her honey eyes already resting on him, cool and expectant.

  He breathed deeply. “Heed me, Llyn: what I have to say must not be spoken of with anyone else, I mean it. When I tell you, you will understand why. This is no game I speak of now, but something which may turn dangerous for us both. If you truly want to know, you must accept the risks.”

  Llyniel frowned, one hand reaching out to cover Handir’s. “If you are in this and it is dangerous, then I will stand at your side and bear that danger with you. But you already knew this. Tell me.”

  She had been patient only because she’d seen the gravity in Handir’s eyes when he had asked her to wait, and she had. But when she had inadvertently interrupted Handir and Fel’annár, she began to suspect. Why had Handir needed to speak with Fel’annár? What did that have to do with her question of why Fel’annár was even here in Tar’eastór?

  “Captain Turion, Lieutenant Lainon, myself and . . . and your father, we have a plan. We mean to confront Band’orán and rid our forest of his taint.”

  Llyniel’s eyes grew wide, and she leaned backwards slowly, breath caught in her chest. She didn’t understand. Her father was a coward, had never stood up for her people, for her mother’s people. Handir’s words made no sense, and yet his eyes told her he did not lie.

  Even as a child, she remembered her mother’s sad eyes and the eternal apology in her father’s eyes. She remembered her own frustration, at first unaddressed, and then, later, she remembered her anger when she had given voice to her concerns. All she received from her father was a measured call for calm and patience. Patience? How can you stand in the presence of racial discrimination and ask for patience?

  As soon as she had taken the grade as junior healer, she had packed some scant belongings and joined the royal caravan bound for the south-western Port Helia, the southernmost tip of Ea Uaré. She had travelled the villages there, perfecting the art of healing, learning of herbs and shrubs, of tree barks. She had come into herself, discovered her own voice, her own convictions. And then she had secured a position in the Healing Halls of Pelagia under the tutorship of Master Tanor, earning the title of head healer.

  She would never go back to Ea Uaré, not while King Thargodén continued to do nothing, while Chief Councillor Aradan did nothing. Her dream of serving as a master healer in Ea Uaré together with Master Nestar would never become a reality, but that would not stop her. She would become Master Healer, wherever she was.

  She shook herself out of her memories and listened to Handir’s unlikely tale. Indeed, for the next hour, Handir expl
ained their plan. She interrupted him with her own questions, and he answered them as best he could, but he had seen the moment when shock had turned to disbelief and then steely determination to be a part of it, just as he knew she would. He had involved her in his dangerous scheme, but he could not find it within himself to regret it. From the moment he had seen her at the stables, he knew he would have to tell her. Llyniel was a healer, a good one, or so they said, but she possessed another trait. She was brave and acutely aware of her people’s suffering. It had driven her away from Ea Uaré, away from her parents, and yet perhaps now there was a chance that she could return, that she could see her father, Councillor Aradan, for what he truly was—a brave and intelligent soul who, above all things, revered Handir’s own father, the king. He was not a coward; he was a king’s man. He had done everything to keep Thargodén on the throne, even unto the loss of his own daughter’s regard.

  But his decision to tell Llyniel had not only been to honour her wishes or because he felt she had a right to know. There was a part of him that wanted to see her reunited with her father, an elf Handir respected, loved even as a father. And then there was that selfish part of himself that rejoiced at the prospect of her help and support. She would bring balance to his own, admittedly volatile thoughts with respect to Fel’annár. She would keep him focussed, ground him, counsel him like no other could, except for Aradan himself. It was selfish of him, but he had warned her of the dangers, had tried to dissuade her from wanting to know. But she had not cared for the danger, and he was so very glad that she hadn’t.

  His happiness was soured by the memory of how Fel’annár had left their meeting, of how he had looked at Llyniel as he passed her. Handir had seen anger and then curiosity, and the spark of suspicion was seeded in his mind.

  Lord Damiel had visited Fel’annár after lunch and accompanied him to what was to be his new suite of rooms, not two corridors away from Prince Sontúr’s living quarters. He explained the short ceremony that would take place the following day and assured Fel’annár that all he had to do was stand before the king’s council and look lordly. He would then utter two words, and miraculously, Fel’annár would become a lord. The evening would bring with it a small celebration at the king’s table, where Fel’annár would dine in the presence of princes and kings. He comforted himself in the knowledge that Sontúr, at least, would be there.

  Once Damiel had finished his explanations, Fel’annár had named his own condition for moving into the palace. In truth he had been sceptical that Damiel would accept and had been pleasantly surprised at the lack of objection. The Company would have their own room beside his, and although it was only one suite for the five of them, still, it was a luxury for any base warrior to have his own bathing chamber and the finest soaps and oils good money could buy. He had then wrought from Damiel the promise of finding more beds to accommodate them all.

  Ramien ran the tips of his fingers over a skilfully-carved chest of drawers, eyes travelling over the gauzy drapes and the floor-to-ceiling windows behind. And then he turned and smiled, lumbering over to the roaring fire.

  “This hearth is as big as the one in our village hall where Carentia roasts the chickens.”

  “And there’s another one in the bedroom,” said Galdith, smiling as he ran into the bathing area, where Carodel was already opening jars of colourful liquids and soaps, inhaling their aromas noisily.

  “Ah brother!” exclaimed Idernon. “You were a genius to wrangle that boon from Lord Damiel, not that we mind the barracks. But someone needs to watch you, and we cannot do that when we are there and you are here.”

  “That’s true,” said Fel’annár, smiling. He sat on a cushioned window seat and looked out over the jagged grey horizon, listening as his brothers chatted merrily about his suite of rooms, and although Galadan’s voice could not be heard, he knew he would be watching it all from one corner.

  The royal tailor was due any moment, and, after a knock on the door, Fel’annár stood as Galadan opened it. It was not the tailor; it was Prince Handir. The chatter ceased, and The Company bowed low to their prince.

  “Fel’annár. A private word if you would.”

  “Of course, my prince.” He nodded at The Company, who filed out of his new rooms and to their own adjacent suite. Ramien, though, stayed outside Fel’annár’s door, for it was his turn to guard it.

  “You have seen Lord Damiel,” stated the prince as he sat the parcels he had brought with him on the table before the hearth.

  “I have. He has told me how it will work tomorrow.”

  “There are some details that need to be addressed—specifically your presentation. As a lord of Ea Uaré, a Silvan lord.”

  Fel’annár’s head cocked to one side. Handir was scheming, he thought, and his defences slipped into place.

  “What details, my prince?”

  “The question of how you will present yourself. You are a Silvan lord.”

  “And am I not also Alpine?”

  “That you are. And do you wish to be presented as an Alpine lord?”

  “I wish to be presented as what I am.”

  “Well then, should we dress you as an Alpine, as a Silvan, or as something entirely different?”

  “I am both. It would make sense to dress as both, although I fail to see how an Alpine tailor would capture that idea.”

  Handir smiled, and Fel’annár swallowed thickly.

  “I had anticipated that,” said Handir, and Fel’annár was not surprised at all. “An example, if I may,” he said. Fel’annár nodded and then flinched backwards when Handir reached for the honour stone at the end of his braid.

  “This is a symbol. It is a prohibited symbol, an Honour Stone.”

  Fel’annár’s eyes narrowed. He would not remove it, whatever Handir said.

  “Why do you wear it, if you know it is not allowed?”

  “Because it was given to me in love and respect. Why would the Alpine commanders of our army forbid such a thing unless it was to repress us, annihilate Silvan culture until it’s nothing but a distant memory of times gone by?”

  “Well-said, Warrior. And so you wear it to show that you disagree,” continued Handir. “You wear it to remind others that you are Silvan, and that this custom must not be lost. I have seen others of your company wearing them; your circle of warrior rebels, it seems.”

  “You would disapprove?”

  “On the contrary. I applaud the initiative.”

  Fel’annár blinked. Handir was inciting him to break the rules, encouraging him to influence others to do the same.

  “You are surprised,” ventured Handir.

  “Yes. I thought this dressing and faffing a necessary evil, but I see, now, your point in this.”

  And Fel’annár did, but Handir was pushing him to accept what he thought should be Fel’annár’s role in the plan, and anger began to surface. It wasn’t that Fel’annár could not see the merits in that cause—in Lainon’s plan—but he had already told Handir that he would think about his own role in it. He would not be manipulated into participating and certainly not unwittingly. Not by Handir, not by Damiel.

  Handir reached for the wrapped parcels he had brought with him, tearing the paper and revealing the contents. Fel’annár stepped forward and reached out for the sumptuous cloth, holding it up before him.

  “You wish me to wear this?”

  “I do.”

  His eyes roamed over the peculiar pattern of the deep green tunic, and after a moment of silence, he dropped the garment and turned to his prince.

  “Then it will be as you command, my prince.”

  Handir bristled, because beneath the servitude was rebellion. Fel’annár would not do this because he accepted his role in the plan, even though he wore his honour stone for all to see. It made sense to Handir that, as a self-proclaimed Silvan, he would wear these garments, but Fel’annár had seen his mind, read his intentions, and had made it clear that he accepted Handir’s request because it was an
order. Handir had achieved his goal, should have been satisfied, but for some strange reason, all he felt was disappointment.

  That night, Fel’annár lay in his new bed in his new suite of rooms, the mellow orange glow from the hearth softening the darkness.

  Tomorrow, he would be presented as a lord, and once that was done, he would endure the pomp and then prepare himself for his test for the Kal’hamén’Ar. Perhaps then, his life would return to some semblance of normalcy. He would lead the life of a warrior, even though he would be stuck here at the palace and called a lord.

  Tailors had come and gone; books on Silvan lore, Alpine politics, and the workings of a monarchy were left piled up on his shelves, from Handir no doubt. He would be dressed and pampered and then taken before the king while he read King Thargodén’s decree. After that, Fel’annár would endure a formal dinner at King Vorn’asté’s table.

  As for The Company, while Sontúr and Fel’annár dined with the lords, they would visit the local taverns. They had invented some hare-brained story that their outing was, in fact, an advance reconnaissance tour to register the land before Lord Fel’annár braved it. He snorted in mirth for the first time that day; he was glad they would get some time to themselves, that Carodel would finally live his dream of visiting the Alpine inns with more than his own kneecaps in his pockets at last. It was Sontúr who had proposed they meet later, and Fel’annár could only smirk at the state in which he would surely find them.

  But then his traitorous mind led him to Handir and King Thargodén, and he knew, then, that sleep would not grace him. He crept from his bedroom and into the living area where Galdith was snoozing lightly. He turned, catching Fel’annár’s gaze and standing.

  “Peace, Galdith, I mean only to take a stroll.”

  He said nothing and simply picked up his weapons harness and strapped it on, following Fel’annár as he left the room. Passing the barracks, they veered left to the familiar and by now well-used copse of trees.