by R K Lander
Yet in spite of his denial, in spite of all the reasons why he had stopped himself from kissing her, his heart felt triumphant.
She was not Handir’s lover. She never would be.
That night, as Sontúr and Fel’annár walked towards the music and the still distant conversation, the prince couldn’t help wondering why his friend was not cowed by his new circumstances at all. He wasn’t nervous, unsure, uncomfortable even, in his new clothes. Instead, his step was steady and confident, and he realised that this was in his blood, a natural ability his friend simply fell into without realising.
Standing now upon the threshold of the great dining hall, Fel’annár took a moment to gain his bearings. He had never seen the hall so full, so finely decked, and neither had he seen so many jewels sitting ostentatiously upon the fingers and necks of their proud owners. This was a “small celebration” or so Lord Damiel had said, and Fel’annár couldn’t help but wonder what a true Alpine feast would be like. It would certainly be very different to the Silvan celebrations and festivals he had experienced in Lan Taria. They were held outdoors, under the trees, to the beat of heavy drums, under colourful lights that dripped from the boughs. There was dancing and roasting meats, circles of story-tellers and trysting in the shadows. Here in Tar’eastór, it was pomp and opulence, courtly dances to the soft rhythm of stringed instruments and educated voices. It was rich and it was proper, while in the Forest it was wild and tribal.
Fel’annár followed Sontúr as he navigated the space between tables until they were before the king. His table spanned almost the entire far wall. With a bow, the prince occupied his place at the king’s right, and Fel’annár was ushered towards a chair beside him. On his left, was Lord Damiel, and opposite, sat Handir and Llyniel, side by side. Fel’annár first bowed to the king and then to Handir, before sitting and allowing his eyes free rein. They roved over the immaculate table, the utensils and decorations, the delicate crystal glasses and jewel-encrusted candelabras. He had never seen such luxury. He was gawking, he realised, and straightened himself in his softly-padded chair, scowling at a sniggering lord further down the table, who promptly quieted and looked away.
He felt eyes upon him, judging, wondering, comparing. There was nothing new in that, and Fel’annár bore the scrutiny as naturally as he almost always had. Opposite him and a few chairs down, a young lord stared, an open invitation in his eyes. Fel’annár arched an eyebrow at him and allowed his eyes to continue their travels. Further along, a lady smiled and offered an encouraging nod while another stared, eyes smouldering unashamedly. He nodded coolly and then turned back to his immediate dinner companions.
And then there was Llyniel.
He had not allowed himself to register her presence until the protocol was done with. She would have distracted him and he would have made a fool of himself—and then Handir’s judgemental eyes would be upon him. He was fascinated by the length of her eyes, not slanted like the Ari’atór but so very big, an exuberant splash of colour upon a palette of creamy smoothness. The slight curve of her nose and the marked ridges of her upper lip . . . he must have stared for too long, for Sontúr’s next words startled him.
“Here, try this sweet wine from the temperate valleys of the Downlands,” said the prince, pushing the decanter towards Handir. Luckily, Fel’annár didn’t have to pour his own glass; he wouldn’t have known which one to use.
He drank, the fiery liquid sliding down his throat and setting his nose to tingling. “It is wonderful,” he murmured, admiring the deep amber liquid and how the light caught on it.
“Wait until you try the human brandy later,” smirked Sontúr. “My brother Torhén has been asked to barter for some before his return from Prairie; that’s the good stuff.”
“I will be sure to try it,” smiled Fel’annár for the first time since he had sat at the table. His eyes, though, strayed back to Llyniel, who smiled back at him and then to Handir at her side as he spoke with Lord Damiel. Their eyes were fixed on someone who sat a little further down the long table. Fel’annár followed their line of sight to a large elf in overly colourful clothing, and beside him, to Fel’annár’s shock, was Silor.
Their eyes met. Silor’s head tilted backwards until he looked down his nose, and Fel’annár simply watched him, eyes cool and hard. Funny, he thought. Until just recently, Silor was spewing orders and treating him like a kitchen scullion instead of a warrior, yet now, Silor was the son of a lord where he himself was the son of a king. He turned away from the once trainee lieutenant, wondering if Pan’assár would ever allow him to return to command training. He resisted the urge to snort at his own question.
Sitting back in his chair, Fel’annár’s eyes and ears continued their journey. He admired the finery, listened to the rich vocabulary and charming laughs. He watched eyes, too, eyes that spoke of ambition and renown, of lust for power and position, of shrewd machinations and subtle invitations. There was a dark game playing out beneath the glittering surface—this was Handir’s world of intrigue, this was Llyniel’s childhood, the one she had grown to despise.
His gaze strayed back to Silor, who was now talking with other young lords around him. He could not hear what was being said, but their body language told Fel’annár it was something they believed passionately in. Even the big lord beside Silor was listening and nodding from time to time.
“Who is that lord, sitting beside Silor?” he asked Handir. The prince turned from Damiel and then followed Fel’annár’s gaze down the line of lords and ladies.
“That is Lord Sulén, Silor’s father.”
“He looks rich.”
“Oh, he is,” said Damiel. “A very influential councillor.”
“I don’t like him,” murmured Fel’annár, and after a while, Damiel answered.
“Neither do I.”
“He is King Thargodén’s third or fourth cousin removed,” said Handir, speaking directly to Fel’annár for the first time. “Unfortunately, we are related to him.”
“Thank you for telling me, my prince,” murmured Fel’annár. Silence descended on those close enough to hear, but Fel’annár was not going to apologise. Indeed he felt better for it.
“And what does Sulén think of the situation in Ea Uaré, I wonder,” asked Llyniel quietly, breaking the tension-thick silence.
“I don’t think it matters to him, my lady,” said Damiel. “Power and wealth move that one; I doubt he has any other convictions.”
“Silor was pushed through the ranks fast enough,” said Fel’annár. “He was a trainee lieutenant on our journey here. Not anymore though.”
“Well, he is the son of an Alpine lord, Fel’annár,” said Llyniel. “You know how it is in our realm, do you not? It is not about skill or potential but about race and money.” She did not seem concerned at all that Commander Pan’assár might be able to hear her, and Fel’annár rather thought that he could. She was bold to the point of insult, and he did not think that was wise. Indeed Handir seemed to agree, one hand covering hers as he spoke, much quieter than she had done.
“That is the unfortunate truth.” Handir’s eyes landed heavily on Fel’annár, who stared back at him. There was no hatred, no callousness in his brother’s eyes—rather, there was an underlying softness just below the practised veneer. Whether it was an apology he could not say, but Fel’annár was sure he had not seen it before. Handir was showing a small part of himself. It was a minute concession that Fel’annár chose to value all the same.
It was Sontúr who broke the awkward moment once more with a complete change of subject. “So are you ready for the Kal’hamén’Ar tomorrow, Fel’annár?” he asked with a smirk, knowing full well the impact his question would have. He wasn’t wrong. Indeed, conversation at the king’s table lulled, and although Pan’assár continued his conversation with Gor’sadén, both commanders had one ear on the other conversation.
“I am ready,” said Fel’annár confidently.
“Every patient in the Healing Hal
ls is talking about it,” said Llyniel.
“Everyone in Tar’eastór is talking about it,” added Damiel. “There have been no new Kah warriors for many decades now. As far as I know, only Commanders Gor’sadén and Pan’assár are left. The rest are dead, their portraits hanging from the walls of the Inner Circle, their statues guarding the crenulations upon the walls.”
So that was what those statues were, mused Fel’annár. Kah warriors, dead and gone but never forgotten. A sense of responsibility and pride settled over him, and he remained silent, until Llyniel spoke to him.
“You surely can’t beat him,” said Llyniel, gesturing to Pan’assár further along the table.
“No, and that is not the purpose, Llyniel. It is about showing the commander my potential to become an initiate of the Kal’hamén’Ar. I am not expected to beat him but to show him I am worthy of the honour.” He couldn’t help turning his head and looking at Pan’assár. He was surprised to find the commander staring back in his direction.
“Well, don’t get your hopes up, Silvan,” she muttered, and Fel’annár turned back to her. He shrugged—because he had nothing to say. She was familiar with Pan’assár, resented his treatment of her people, and so did Fel’annár. Silor had reminded him of that, but he had not been able to help it. He had gotten his hopes up, even though he knew it was unwise.
Fel’annár said no more on the matter, and soon, the diners engaged in varied conversation. Handir told Fel’annár of the council and its workings and the extent of the king’s right to overrule, or otherwise, its dictates. Llyniel spoke somewhat stiffly with Councillor Damiel, who knew her father well, and as for Sontúr, he spoke with his father about the trade agreements Prince Torhén was currently attending in the mortal lands of Prairie.
As for Fel’annár, he listened, and he learned. He had expected to be bored, but in truth he found it interesting, fascinating even, had enjoyed almost every minute of it, and his prior misconceptions made him feel childish. He smiled and shook his head minutely and then plucked the last stuffed mushroom from an ornate plate before him and popped it into his mouth.
Further down the table, Lord Sulén contained a sneer and turned to Councillor Ras’dan. “The boy plays the lord. Prince Handir has dressed him as a child decks his favourite doll. How he uses the bastard to his own gain!”
“I wonder what it is he pursues,” pondered the councillor. “Gain merit in his father’s eyes, of course, but why? Rinon is heir—what has he to gain by delivering the Silvan to the Forest Dwellers? There is something we are missing.”
“Maybe he actually believes it,” mused Silor, almost to himself, and Ras’dan turned to him, face rigid, eyes frigid. “You have much to learn, young lord. Heed your lord father: no one goes to such lengths on a whim.”
Silor said nothing and then jumped when his father’s words were whispered in his ear.
“How much longer must we endure his presence?”
“We wait for the opportunity, Father. It is not easy to catch him unawares.”
“Every day that passes is a day in which the Silvan gains allies. We cannot allow him to continue influencing others the way he does. Look at them, Silor. See how they watch him? And what do you think they say?”
“Some will remember Or’Talán, wonder if he is like his grandfather.”
“And what else, my son?”
“They will wonder what will happen upon his return to the Forest.”
“Yes. They will wonder what he will be to the Silvan people. They are curious, Silor. You cannot wait because, for every day that passes, he endears himself to others. He is skilled in that—he is dangerous.”
As much as Silor hated to admit it, his father was right. He had seen that trait in the Silvan on the way to Tar’eastór, when he had still been trainee lieutenant. His jaw tightened.
“I will see to it, Father.”
Sulén leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to Ras’dan opposite him. A subtle nod and a passing glance at the Silvan, who laughed freely at something Prince Sontúr had said. He would give Silor a little more time, but Band’orán had been clear in his dictates, and Sulén would not fail him. The stakes were too high. This was the moment they had all been waiting for, a return to the days of old. Alpine glory would be restored, and Ea Uaré would be theirs to rule—Band’orán upon the throne, himself as his chancellor, and his son as a royal prince, second only to Lord Barathon, who would be crown prince.
This was his family’s right, an heirloom earned centuries ago, one only Band’orán had acknowledged.
He, Sulén, would not fail the future king of Ea Uaré.
Seven
The Test
“The Dance of Graceful Death had become a symbol of the past, a reminder of bygone glory. Those who had danced and died stood immortalised as statues upon the ramparts, their portraits hung upon walls in the Inner Circle. It was the ultimate skill, born by the greatest of warriors in service to their king. They said it had died with Or’Talán’s passing, but it was Or’Talán’s grandchild who would rekindle its flame.”
The Alpine Chronicles. Cor’hidén.
Since his arrival in Tar’eastór, Pan’assár had gone from racially biased, distant and uncaring to accepting—albeit grudgingly—that he had not been fair, that his ordeal at the Battle Under the Sun and Or’Talán’s horrific death had made of him a lesser commander, a lesser elf. His friends of old, King Vorn’asté, Councillor Damiel, and especially Gor’sadén, had all looked upon him in disappointment, but it had been Gor’sadén who had forced the issue and made him break, made him talk of that horrific day and the scars it had left in its wake.
He wanted to return to what he had once been. He missed the looks of pride and respect in the eyes of his warriors, the ones he saw Gor’sadén harvest every day. But still he was hindered by his own unyielding pride. He had admitted it all to himself but not to others. He had not asked forgiveness and wondered even if he could. The Silvan’s face had been Pan’assár’s downfall; Fel’annár embodied his ghosts, fed his hatred, his need to place blame and purge his own lingering anger, and however much he tried, he could not see Fel’annár for who he was, would always be reminded of the past.
“They arrive by the dozens, even though they know they cannot watch.”
Pan’assár snapped out of his musings, eyes landing on his friend, who stood in the centre of the training arena.
“That is not why they come,” said Pan’assár as he drew a cloth over his blade once more, blue eyes catching a glint of sunlight from a window high up on the stone wall of the training circle. The doors were still open, waiting for one elf to arrive, but once he did and the test started, they would be closed and guarded.
“They come to taste the moment, Gor’sadén. They come to be a part of history; whatever the outcome, they will be the first to know. You said it yourself—the return of the Kal’hamén’Ar is a good thing, a part of our glorious culture. It will encourage the troops to aspire to greater things,” he said, one hand running down the velvet of his purple sash. “I stopped using this symbol many years ago,” he trailed off, eyes slipping to Gor’sadén’s own sash and then his hair and the intricately buckled braid that hung from his temple. It was the Heliaré, symbol of a Kah warrior, one he too had worn—until Or’Talán had died and he had cut it off.
“You, though, have never lost your way, have you?”
Gor’sadén held his friend’s inquisitive gaze, registering Pan’assár’s veiled admission of failure.
“Will you allow me to weave your Heliaré?”
“Perhaps,” said Pan’assár. “After the test and the verdict is given . . . we shall see.”
“Despite what you may think, Pan’assár, you do deserve it. You are still a master.”
Pan’assár bit his lip. He wanted to say that he didn’t, that he had failed Or’Talán, failed his warriors, allowed himself to be poisoned by the toxic words of a bitter lord who sought nothing but power. He had been so far gon
e it had ceased to mean anything to him anymore. Now, though, he could feel his resentment slipping away, and he wondered. Could he bear the symbolic weight of the Heliaré? Could he wear it and feel proud once more, without remembering his past failures?
“You and I have yet to serve a purpose, Pan’assár. Something comes, and I am not referring to this Nim’uán. You and I must be ready.” The commander’s voice was soft, and yet it echoed strangely off the walls, affected Pan’assár more than perhaps it should have, and his mind rebelled against the odd sensation.
“You speak like an Ari’atór,” said Pan’assár, his upper lip curling.
“You dislike the Spirit Warriors?”
“No. I dislike their divine ways, their omens and their ill-founded beliefs. They speak of signs, of songs on the wind—things I do not understand, just like you do now,” he said, throwing his head back and taking a long drink from his flask. “I wonder if there are any Ari’atór in your line.”
“I have that honour; a distant uncle, three or four times removed, I believe. And yet if you had seen and heard the things I have these past months, if you had seen a tree blossom in winter, seen the eyes of a young warrior ignite with some inner fire. If you had heard words that none could know save for our king . . . you would understand. And like me, you would not be able to explain it.”
“But I haven’t, so I can’t.”
Gor’sadén’s brow rose acutely. This was almost the Pan’assár he remembered—and loved. He was irreverent and practical to the point of insult. All that was left to achieve was his acceptance of how wrong he had been with Fel’annár. How wrong he had been to treat the Silvan warriors the way he had, to have allowed Silor and so many other young lords to climb the ranks of command on the sole strength of their family name. Only when Pan’assár could put voice to these things could he regain that sense of honour and dignity that had once shone from his sharp blue eyes, from the very pores of his skin.