Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  Pan’assár knew what he had to do.

  He needed atonement.

  “Fel’annár.”

  He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t catch his breath, his chest and stomach heaving too fast, sweat pouring from him in fat drops. He had crashed painfully to his knees, and now, his head was too heavy to look up at the elf who stood over him, looking down on him in concern—and shock.

  With a groan, Fel’annár shifted his legs beneath him and slowly stood, but even then he was bent at the waist, not quite able to straighten his body and regain his breath.

  Gor’sadén was not surprised at all at the state he was in. Pan’assár had almost killed him, had exerted himself to his limits to bring Fel’annár down, but he had not been able to break his defences until the very end. Pan’assár had been formidable in his glory years—still was—but he had lost the edge he had once had. What Gor’sadén could not explain so easily was how Fel’annár had managed to survive for as long as he had. Not even he had understood the extent of the boy’s talent, and he had certainly not expected to see such precise aerial work. That was a speciality few had ever adopted, for it required a physical prowess that went far beyond the norm.

  Gor’sadén had seen the murderous intent in his friend’s eyes at the end, knew he had lost control, and he had drawn his own sword, had been on the brink of stopping Pan’assár, even injuring him so that he would stop, but as luck would have it, Pan’assár had stumbled backwards and stopped himself.

  He watched now, as Fel’annár finally stood straight and faced him. Gor’sadén couldn’t help the wince that escaped him. One cheek was cut and bruised. There was a long scratch over his chest, and his knuckles were bruised and bloodied. He looked like he had just come back from war, and perhaps he had, from Pan’assár’s personal war.

  “Are you all right?” asked Gor’sadén.

  “Yes. I’m all right,” he managed, breath still coming too fast. His eyes drifted to the edge of the ring where Pan’assár stood rigid, his back to them and his weapons still firmly in his hands.

  “Is he all right?” asked Fel’annár.

  “He will be, I think,” murmured Gor’sadén thoughtfully.

  Whether Pan’assár had heard them, neither could say, but he moved then, placing his weapons upon the stone bench and reaching for his tunic. He was still looping the clasps as he strode towards Fel’annár and Gor’sadén. Something had changed, realised Fel’annár. Something in his expression—and then he had it. Those summer-blue eyes were wider, brighter. They were alive with some fire behind them that was a force he had only ever seen in Gor’sadén’s eyes. They were upon him, focussed on him, seeing him for the first time, but there was no sneer upon his pale lips.

  The silence stretched on except for Fel’annár’s heavy breaths, which stilled with Pan’assár’s words.

  “You have my acceptance to train in the Kal’hamén’Ar with Commander Gor’sadén, but there is something you must know.”

  Fel’annár let out a rushed breath. His knees were trembling, and it was all he could do to anchor himself firmly to the earth below his feet.

  “By allowing this, I am allowing you to become a dangerous weapon . . . and yet here is my dilemma. I do not trust you. I do not trust your loyalty to King Thargodén, and so I warn you, as Gor’sadén is my witness, if you move your hand against my king, either directly or by participation in some scheme to harm him, physically or otherwise, I will kill you.”

  Fel’annár could not answer. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, but his mind worked frantically. Pan’assár would never kill him because Fel’annár would never betray his king. But then a spark of anger flared in his heart. Why did Pan’assár always have to think the worst of him?

  “I accept your condition, Commander. There will never be cause for that, but I will tell you this.” He took a step forward, his anger fuelling his bravery. “Sir, you will never trust me—if you cannot look at me. You will never be sure of my intentions if you do not see me. You will never count me as an ally if you do not listen to me.”

  “No. No, I will not. Still, in this one test I have seen a part of you I had not expected: humility and the blood of a warrior. These two things I do not doubt, for wherever your loyalties lie, a warrior you are.”

  A powerful wave of emotion hit Fel’annár so hard he swayed. The anger was gone, and his knees felt weak, but it didn’t matter, for he suddenly wanted to lower himself to the ground, and so he did. He sat upon his heels and looked up into the forbidding eyes of Pan’assár and then at Gor’sadén who came to stand at his friend’s shoulders.

  “I will not fail you, Commanders, and I will not fail our king. You have my oath, and my understanding that if I should ever falter in this, you will take my life. But you will never have cause to.”

  Pan’assár looked down upon him for the first time with emotions that were not disdain or disapproval. There was curiosity . . . and perhaps respect. He nodded curtly. “Gor’sadén, he is all yours.” He turned then and left the room, leaving Fel’annár kneeling, alone before Gor’sadén.

  The long days of lonely training in hidden glades, the sweat and tears he had spent to mould his body, to quicken his reflexes, to stretch his limbs—the dreams that had fuelled his ambition, the mockery he had endured to be the best that he could be at almost fifty-two. He remembered it all, and his head bent, eyes filling with hot tears. He didn’t care, for the tears were of relief, of joy beyond expression, of pride in himself for this one thing he had achieved.

  Gor´sadén crouched before him. “Look at me, Fel’annár.”

  Slowly, he raised his head, eyes shimmering like water under the full moon.

  “I will speak with Captain Comon. You will still be a part of his patrol, but you are freed from routine training. For today, go, bathe and rest. Tonight, after the evening meal, come to my quarters in the palace. There is much to discuss.”

  Fel’annár nodded slowly and then collected his feet beneath him, rising slowly together with the commander. He could not quite mask the grimace of aching limbs and bruises. Pan’assár had been merciless in his onslaught, and then Fel’annár had seen a glint of some madness in the commander’s eyes, one that had almost cost him his control. Still, he was in utter awe of Pan’assár’s prowess, and the strange clouds that had descended upon him began to dissipate, replaced by a budding sense of joy.

  Straightening, he reached for his tunic and worked his painful way into it. Turning back to Gor’sadén, he bowed respectfully for longer than was necessary, for he was so very grateful, and the commander seemed to understand—indeed he returned it.

  As Gor’sadén straightened, he stepped forward and took up a braid that curved around his apprentice’s ear. Releasing the leather thong, he opened it and then ran his fingers through the rippled hair. With deft fingers he began to weave and then loop and buckle and when he had finished, he tied it off with the leather and stood back. “I will find a suitable clip for you tomorrow, but for now, this should stave off the questions from your fellow warriors. They will recognise the Heliaré, symbol of the Kah Warrior.

  “You fought bravely, beyond my expectations. You are worthy of the Kal’hamén’Ar.” He gestured to the door, and with a nod and a slowly spreading smile, Fel’annár left, leaving Gor’sadén alone with a thousand hefty thoughts in his mind and amongst them, he wondered what it was he had seen. Wispy tendrils of green, blue, and purple had chased after Fel’annár’s blades like autumn leaves after a galloping horse. He had seen it in those last moments of desperate fighting. It was, perhaps, a simple trick of the light striking metal, but a suspicion began to form in his mind, one he would put to the test when Fel’annár’s training began in earnest.

  The doors to the training arena slammed shut behind him, and Fel’annár stood before the heaving mass of silent warriors. The Company were at the very fore, and Idernon and Ramien stepped closer.

  “Well?” asked the Wall of Stone, his voice booming
around them. But Idernon’s eyes were trained on the Heliaré at Fel’annár’s temple—symbol of the Kal’hamén’Ar.

  “You have passed the test.”

  Fel’annár raised his chin, gaze latching on to Idernon and his knowing eyes, eyes that slowly wrinkled around the edges, and the Wise Warrior smiled. He could not help it. Fel’annár’s awe, the shock and perplexity on his face at Pan’assár allowing him to become Gor’sadén’s disciple—he could hardly believe it himself, and soon, Fel’annár too was smiling, so wide it split his face apart, dimples appearing on his cheeks, and yet when he spoke, tears pooled in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  Galdith roared in Silvan delight, and soon, Fel’annár Ar Thargodén had disappeared under a sea of blond, auburn, and grey hair. The onlooking Alpine warriors were cheering too as they watched the odd bunch of Silvan and Alpine warriors, their prince amongst them, and the spark of some new challenge burning in their eyes, and from inside the training ring, Gor’sadén listened. Power surged from the soles of his feet, up his spine, and to his head, and in his mind he knew—knew that something important was looming on the boundaries between impression and reality—and that, whatever it was, it would change him inexorably.

  The news that Fel’annár had passed the test travelled from captains to warriors, from warriors to teachers, bakers, councillors and stable hands. The healers, too, came to hear of it, and Llyniel listened to their excited chatter with a smile on her face and no small amount of pride for her friend’s feat.

  She followed Mestahé down the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the walls of the large store rooms which sat one floor below ground, directly under the Halls of Healing. That morning, they had found the locked doors open, the bolt hanging loose from the wood. Someone had entered during the night and had taken supplies. According to Mestahé, it was not the first time it had happened, but even so, Arané had cursed rather colourfully. He had then sent Mestahé to find out what had been taken so that arrangements for their replacement could be made and Llyniel had offered to accompany him and continue her own study of Tar’eastór’s stock of herbs and tinctures.

  While Mestahé made his list, Llyniel wondered who might have done such a thing. There was no shortage of healing supplies, in fact the city was full of apothecaries. She made a note to look at Mestahé’s list when time permitted, thinking that perhaps there was something rare and expensive that somebody needed, or that somebody would sell for a handsome price. For now, she trailed her fingers over the jars and baskets, eyes registering the herbs and mixtures, the roots and plants, most of them known to her, although some were not. These were the ones she took note of and would later study. For now though, it was time to return to the halls, finish her duty round, and then visit Fel’annár for the first time since that moment in the forest when she thought he would kiss her, had hoped that he would.

  But he hadn’t, and perhaps it was just as well. She would congratulate him, see his proud, smiling face, see to him if he was wounded, and then she would rush to Handir’s rooms and lunch. She would have just enough time.

  Once they had finished in the supply rooms, Llyniel made her way to her own rooms and changed out of her robes and into a simple blue dress. Throwing a few basic supplies into a basket, she made her way to Fel’annár’s suite of rooms.

  She had assumed that Pan’assár would find a way to foil Fel’annár’s bid to become a Kah Warrior. She had been wrong, but she wasn’t about to berate herself for it. She had known Pan’assár all her life. He was cool and sarcastic, so utterly monotonous in his face and bearing. Always stiff and frozen. There was no life in him, no passion except for when he spoke of the Silvan people. For them he always had a sneer and a cutting word. Perhaps something had changed in the commander, or perhaps Fel’annár had simply been too good for him to find an excuse to fail him.

  She wanted to know what had happened, congratulate him on a feat she had not thought possible.

  Arriving at Fel’annár’s rooms, not far from where Handir himself was housed, she knocked, and then heard the sound of a bolt sliding open. A Silvan warrior appeared in the half-open door.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Healer,” he nodded, opening the door for her.

  With a grateful nod, she entered but then stopped, not having expected to find Fel’annár in the company of others, one of whom was Prince Sontúr. They had crossed words the day Fel’annár had become a lord and had yet to clear the air.

  The warriors stood together, laughing and joking around while Sontúr tried to dab a wet towel against Fel’annár’s bruised face. He noticed her standing there before any of the others.

  “Lady Llyniel,” was all the prince said, but Fel’annár’s head turned to her, and Sontúr huffed in exasperation, cloth dripping over his hands, not that Fel’annár noticed at all.

  “Fel’annár, forgive me. I just came to see if you needed anything. I heard you passed the test.”

  The room was utterly silent, The Company watching Llyniel and then Fel’annár.

  “I did.” His smile widened, and she thought it must hurt, for his face was battered. The silence, though, lingered for longer than was comfortable.

  “I thought you might need my aid, after facing our commander, but I see you are well-tended to.” She nodded slowly at Sontúr, who returned it just as coolly.

  “I . . . forgive me. Lady Llyniel, these here are Idernon, Ramien, Galdith and Galadan,” said Fel’annár, watching as his friends bowed to her. Then he gestured to Carodel. “And of course you are familiar with Carodel.” His lips twitched, and she smiled at the dumbfounded Silvan warrior with a lyre in his hands.

  “I am, indeed, familiar with Carodel. We are both from Sen Garay, although we have never met.”

  Carodel had the good conscience to blush, and Llyniel repressed the urge to snicker at him. Still, she was ill at ease. Sontúr had been barely civil with her, and the others stared at her for entirely too long. She cleared her throat.

  “Well, if you don’t need anything . . . congratulations, Warrior. I am glad I was wrong about Pan’assár.”

  “So am I,” said Fel’annár.

  She nodded and then turned to leave.

  “Llyniel.”

  She turned back, watching as Fel’annár walked slowly towards her and then looked down at her. She saw regret there, regret perhaps that he was not alone, but so too did she see gratitude. Funny that she could read all these things without the necessity for words.

  He smiled apologetically. “I will find you tomorrow,” he said, nodding resolutely.

  “Good.” Her eyes strayed for a moment to the warriors behind Fel’annár, and then she left, the contents of her basket untouched. Galdith watched as she navigated the candle-lit corridor and then turned, bolting the door shut, eyebrows riding almost as high as Sontúr’s.

  Carodel’s eyes were fixed on the door and when it was clear the healer had left, he launched one arm into the air. “Oh, for the love of a healer! She was . . .”

  “Shut it, Carodel,” said Fel’annár with a grin.

  “Aaaaiiiii,” yipped Ramien, a high-pitched Silvan exclamation, and while Fel’annár took the heel of his hand to his forehead, the rest laughed bawdily, clapping him on the shoulders and delivering playful punches to his arms. He bore it all good-naturedly because all of a sudden, life had turned so very sweet.

  And while Fel’annár celebrated his victory in his rooms, Llyniel wandered down the corridor, her untouched healing supplies in her basket. She didn’t care, though, had all but forgotten the uncomfortable silence and the assessing eyes. Fel’annár’s bruised but smiling face lingered in her mind, looking down at her, the promise of something in his eyes. She would make sure he did find her tomorrow.

  She did not see Handir until his words snapped her back to the corridor and the present.

  “Visiting the warriors?” he asked with an arched brow.

  She looked up at him. “Congratulating Fel’annár on
a mighty feat, as you will no doubt agree,” she said carefully, falling into step with the prince as they made their way to his rooms for lunch.

  “I am surprised, I’ll give you that. I had thought Pan’assár was simply going through the motions, indulging Gor’sadén to at least give the boy a test. But I always thought he would fail him, find some excuse.”

  “Perhaps Fel’annár is simply too good.” She shrugged.

  “Perhaps.” Handir glanced sideways at her as they walked. “Was he alone in his rooms then?”

  She scowled and faced him. “And what if he was?”

  “You won’t heed my warning then? Llyniel, he is a warrior, he could die at any moment, yet more than this, he is dangerous to know, Sister. Distance yourself from him while you still can. I will not allow him to hurt you and . . .”

  “Don’t!” she ground out, turning to face him, forcing him to stop. “You will not allow? Is this a royal command, Brother?”

  Handir breathed deeply. “Well, you know I love you, and no, this is not a royal command. It is me, Handir, warning you to step away from him. He has already almost died once since we have been here, just as he almost died out on patrol when Lainon had to protect him. He paid the price of loving that warrior, Llyniel, and of all the people in this world, you are the dearest to me. I would not see you grieving over his death. It is my duty to keep you safe if I can.” He stepped closer to her and placed a hand on her arm.

  “And it is your duty to respect me. To trust me to do what I must. You will not interfere with my feelings for Fel’annár, whatever they may be.” She breathed deeply, closing her eyes to steady herself. “I know your heart, Handir, but this aversion you have for Fel’annár—that is the real issue, not my attraction to him, not because he is reckless as you seem to be implying. You warn me away from him because you cannot stand your best friend becoming intimate with a half-brother you do not accept.”