Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  She nodded at his silence and then walked back to the hearth, setting water to boil while her mind begged for answers. If she wanted them, she would have to speak civilly to Pan’assár, and that would not be easy. Still, she was Silvan and she was curious.

  “What happened? How did he get shot?”

  “Archers ambushed us on the way back from training.”

  “Do you have any idea who it may have been?” she tried, pouring the hot water over a brew.

  “Not yet. But when we find out, I will be there to ensure justice is done.”

  She scowled, words leaving her mouth unchecked. “Why do you care?” She turned to him in confusion. In all the years she had known Pan’assár, he had never once shown concern for any Silvan.

  Pan’assár held her icy stare, and when he answered, it was flat and curt.

  “Because he saved my life. Saved me.”

  She had not expected that and turned back to the steeping herbs. This was a side of Pan’assár she had never thought to see. She took the hot mug and walked to the still-sitting commander.

  “Here. Drink this. It will help with that headache you think to hide from me.”

  Pan’assár’s eyes dropped to the cup she held out to him.

  She smirked. “It’s not poisoned, Commander.”

  He surprised her again as he mimicked her grim smile.

  Turning away, she sat on the other side of Fel’annár’s bed and looked down at him in concern. He was finally stirring, coming out of the unresponsive state he had been in. Pan’assár breathed a sigh of relief and leaned forward, but Llyniel was already speaking.

  “Fel’annár. Do you know who I am?”

  “Llyniel,” he managed, blinking his eyes. Looking around blearily, he saw Pan’assár.

  “Commander.”

  “Welcome back, boy,” was all Pan’assár managed, but there was no malice in his voice any more.

  “Do you need anything, Fel’annár?” she asked, masking her own feelings as best she could. There would be time enough to address them later, when she was free of her duties.

  “Just a kiss,” he murmured under his breath, and Llyniel glanced at Pan’assár, who was studiously observing the fibres of the bedspread.

  “Later,” she murmured just as quietly, knowing his brashness was due to the effects of the toxin.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Pan’assár after a while, reminding Fel’annár that he was sitting right beside him.

  “Strangely . . . serene. Where am I?” he asked in confusion.

  “You are in the royal infirmary. The arrow that hit you was poisoned and you became unresponsive. We moved you here for your safety and gave you the antidote,” explained Pan’assár.

  “Thank you,” he said, eyes latching onto Llyniel who stood over him. She smiled back at him, confident and sure in spite of the whirlwind of unfamiliar emotions she hid from him with practised ease. He shifted his position and grimaced as his wound pulled, and once Llyniel had helped him to get comfortable, she held the second dose of the antidote to his lips. He drank and then laid his head back with a sigh.

  “I suppose I should sleep, but I have no inclination to do so.”

  “You will, Fel’annár. Just give the herbs time to act. I will be here,” Llyniel assured him from the other side of the bed.

  “I know,” he smiled.

  All three slipped into silence until Pan’assár broke it somewhat hesitantly, his voice uncharacteristically soft and far away.

  “I suppose I should thank you . . . for what you did.”

  “There is no need, Commander,” murmured Fel’annár. “It was a lucky shot I should have dodged.”

  Pan’assár closed his eyes, emotions threatening to spill out, for Fel’annár was lying so that Pan’assár would not thank him, so that he could minimise what he had done. It was the last straw, and Pan’assár’s bright eyes landed on Llyniel. He needed to speak, purge his guilt, but Aradan’s hostile daughter sat just across from him. Yet however much he disliked the idea of her hearing what he had to say, the urge to say it was too strong. He should have done this before, when he had accepted to himself his faults. He had thought it enough to be conscious of them, but he had been wrong. He needed to atone for what he had done. He needed to ask forgiveness.

  He had seen the questions in Fel’annár’s eyes, the sincerity, the desire to understand him in his simple offering of sweet biscuits. And then he had seen the sacrifice Fel’annár had been willing to make so that Pan’assár would not be harmed. Shame, deep and nauseating pushed him relentlessly to speak. He would no longer hold back for pride. His eyes begged for her discretion, for her silence and her comprehension. She held his gaze boldly, as only a Silvan could do, he mused. There was a warning in her eyes, protection burning in them . . . and something else. He wondered if she realised what he could see there; he wondered if Fel’annár knew.

  “I know you have questions about what happened during the test.”

  “Will you tell me? Will you tell me why you lost control?” asked Fel’annár quietly, aware that he had blurted exactly what he had thought. The herbs were loosening his tongue, and although Fel’annár was aware of it, he could not stop it.

  “You deserve that much at least.”

  Silence followed those words. Llyniel stared at the far wall, suddenly feeling like an intruder while Fel’annár lay in his bed, his sluggish mind working as fast as it could to comprehend what was about to happen. For the first time, Pan’assár would speak to him of that moment, of why it had happened, and ultimately, about what had driven Pan’assár to hate him, hate all the Silvans.

  “A long time ago, three elves made history,” came the quiet voice, deep and mellow. “Of a similar age, they shared a dream, a dream to be the best warriors Tar’eastór had ever seen. Masters in three weapons, soon, all three became Grand Masters and were allowed access to the teachings of the Kal’hamén’Ar.”

  “The Three,” said Fel’annár with a smile.

  “We danced the Kah before the court of King Cal’asté, to the awe of all. It was the culmination of our achievements, and we did indeed become known as The Three: Gor’sadén, Pan’assár, Or’Talán . . .”

  Fel’annár had known The Three had been close, but he had never heard the tale, never truly understood the depth of their union. And he never thought to hear it from Pan’assár’s lips.

  “Gorsa, Pan, and Orta,” smiled Pan’assár, and his face seemed to utterly change. Gone were the lines between his brows, at the corner of his mouth. His skin seemed smoother, more luminescent; he seemed younger and unburdened, and Fel’annár marvelled at the transformation.

  “We were the heroes, Fel’annár. We were the keepers of the Warrior Code, of the ethics of the true warrior. We instilled in our army such loyalty and sacrifice as has never been seen. They were the glory days, child. Gorsa was the strength, the determination, the sacred sacrifice, they said. Pan was the scheme, the strategist, the shrewd mind of a great warrior, and Orta . . .” Pan’assár faltered and then looked away for a moment before his heavy gaze landed squarely on Fel’annár.

  “Orta was the soul, Fel’annár. He was the love and the passion, the fire and ice—he was the shining house we two stood in the shadow of, the one that united, that created a kingdom in foreign lands and was loved for it.”

  Silence stretched long and thin, Fel’annár and Llyniel not daring to move lest the moment be lost and Pan’assár speak no more. “He died upon the barren lands of the Xeric Woods and with him, our brotherhood was dissolved. My life was taken from me the day he fell. I still feel his last breath as it grew and then dwindled, my own life as it followed that last breath, and I was left a shell. Cold and angry, I could do nothing but find blame—in anyone but in him.”

  Fel’annár saw it all as Pan’assár painted that tragic picture, thinking that perhaps he, too, would have reacted in the same way should Idernon or Ramien die.

  “I had pledged my fealty to
the line of Or’Talán. I could not leave for Tar’eastór. Thargodén was now king and my place was at his side, as I had promised. He was a good king; strong and determined, with many of the qualities his father had boasted. He needed me to guide him but I—Pan’assár—had dwindled. I moved in a half-world, where my devotion was confronted by my grief, my purpose dulled by my anger. And then, when the queen left and Thargodén began to fade, my anger soared. The Silvans had been incapable of defending their great King Or’Talán, and now, they had corrupted his son, Thargodén. They had killed their king with their incompetence and then all but done the same to his son, for they encouraged the love Thargodén shared with Lássira, your mother. I told myself they were the ruin of Or’Talán’s line, and my hatred for the Silvans grew, proportionally to my devotion to his memory. And then Band’orán came with his talk of Alpine superiority. It was all too easy for me to embrace that idea.”

  Fel’annár dared not speak, but questions were bubbling up into the back of his throat and he fidgeted.

  “I did nothing; indeed, I was seduced by his talk of a return to the splendorous days. But then, something changed. You came, and with you my fall was complete, so complete I hit the ground so hard it jolted me. I nearly killed you.”

  “But you didn’t,” whispered Fel’annár.

  “No. You were right, you know. After the test, when I told you that I did not trust you. You said something then that stuck in my mind, even though I did not realise it at the time. You said I would never trust you if I cannot look at you. But you see I did. As we fought and you finally found the rhythm of the Kah, I looked at you and I was taken away, to another time and place—centuries past and to the Battle Under the Sun. That was the last time I would fight with Or’Talán, the last time I would serve honourably.

  “My foe was before me, a Sand Lord who stood between me and the one I had followed for many, many years. They were slowly, brutally cutting him down, but I could not reach him. And then a flash of blue came to your eyes, and the Sand Lord was Or’Talán. I was fighting my brother, but before I could stop myself it was me—I was fighting myself—and so you see, all that time, since my king died and I was left behind . . . all that time I have carried this frustration, this guilt, this self-denial, and my own pride, which would not allow me to forgive myself.”

  Pan’assár fell silent for a moment as he slowly brought himself back to the present. “I looked at you, and I was forced to take stock of myself and I saw—I finally saw—what I had become, what Gor’sadén told me I had become. Complacent, indifferent, unjust: an abominable racist. Or’Talán had loved the Silvan people, and I . . . I beat them into the ground with everything I had, just as I did with you that day you passed the test.”

  Pan’assár looked away in misery while Fel’annár tried to process the story, tried to understand its protagonists. But his mind was slow. All he knew was that Pan’assár had told his sad story in the presence of Llyniel. He had humbled himself for the first time, and a wave of sympathy slammed into him. He had lost Lainon, still mourned for him, but Pan’assár had known Or’Talán for centuries. He turned his head and peered blearily at the commander.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Pan’assár softly.

  “Many things,” murmured Fel’annár. “I have so many questions, but tell me,” he said, his voice becoming softer as sleep beckoned. “Why? Why tell me this?”

  “Because . . . I needed to free myself from the prison of my own blind stupidity. I needed to purge the guilt, lift the undeserved blame I had misplaced on the Silvans. I never hated you, Fel’annár. I hated what you were and why you were—but not you.”

  Fel’annár’s consciousness was slowly slipping, but he was aware enough to feel the weight lift from his chest, aware enough to feel Pan’assár’s suffering, to understand this humble act of atonement. He embraced it and reached with his hand. Pan’assár looked down at it, as if he could not fathom what it was, but Fel’annár, with his last vestiges of strength, lifted his arm and splayed his fingers and the commander slowly offered his own arm, fingers wrapping around the offered forearm. A warrior’s clasp, a new beginning: forgiveness. Pan’assár understood and he squeezed, almost as hard as he squeezed his own eyes closed. But Fel’annár didn’t see it, for his eyes had slid closed, head falling to one side in slumber.

  Llyniel was staring openly at Pan’assár. He turned to her, unsurprised that she would do so. She had lived through his worst years, had seen the arrogance and the hatred, the injustice and the complacency—she was half-Silvan. When she had looked upon him before he had seen judgement, disgust even. Yet now all he could see was open curiosity and the stirrings of respect.

  She stood and bent over her patient, who now slept peacefully. She placed a soft kiss to his brow and then turned to Pan’assár again—and then she smiled at the soft smile that graced his lips. She nodded slowly. She would never speak of what she had heard to any other than Fel’annár. Such was the oath of a healer inside this room . . . and also the one in her heart. But Commander Pan’assár was reborn, she thought. A mighty warrior had returned from the depths of despair, and for all that she had hated him for his treatment of her people, now she finally understood why he had once been revered.

  A while later, Sontúr entered the room, eyes already fixed on Fel’annár, who had shifted to one side in his sleep. He nodded at Llyniel and then stared at Pan’assár who sat sipping tea at the bedside. He arched a brow at the unlikely scene and then turned to Llyniel.

  “The Company are outside,” he murmured. “See if you can calm them down.” He smirked. There was no mention of the angry words they had shared in the glade some days ago, but there was acceptance in his eyes, and so she stood, placing one friendly hand on his shoulder. “He will be well,” she said and turned to leave, but she hesitated, turning back to Pan’assár. “And so will he,” she said thoughtfully and then left the room.

  Ten

  Revelation

  “It was a time of uncertainty for Fel’annár. He knew the voices of the trees, understood their ways, heeded their warnings, and smiled at their chatter. But he had always known there was more. There was no sense of finality, he once said. There was something teetering on the borders of his knowledge, like a name long unused but never forgotten.”

  The Silvan Chronicles. Marhené.

  Fel’annár woke to the sound of hushed voices. His back was stiff and painful, and he felt light-headed. Turning, he sat up and waited for the dizziness to pass. Llyniel and Sontúr were beside him in a moment, and he nodded at them both, accepting the vial of disgusting green liquid that they had been feeding him every few hours.

  He’d slept deeply, and he wondered if Sontúr, or even Llyniel, had laced his tea with something. But whatever it had been, it wasn’t enough for him to forget Llyniel’s concerned eyes in the night—or Pan’assár’s story of his fall . . . and his return.

  “I’m hungry.” That should encourage his over-zealous healers that he was fine and that he could return to his own rooms. Sontúr didn’t disappoint. He nodded at him and then left him alone with Llyniel.

  “I . . . may have asked you for a kiss . . .” he said ruefully, but there was a saucy twinkle in his eyes.

  Llyniel cocked a brow and then leaned over him. “Fool warrior,” she tutted and shook her head. “The poison has melted your mind and loosened that tongue of yours.”

  “Did I worry you?” he smiled.

  “You did,” she said, turning away from him so that he would not see just how much he had worried her. It was something she had yet to ponder—those strong feelings she had experienced when they had discovered the canimbula—and then Arané had announced that the key ingredient to the antidote had previously been stolen. It wasn’t until her mind recalled the black bark and Arané had told her only thirty minutes had passed that her heart had stopped its irregular thumping and the weight upon her chest had lifted.

  She fancied Fel’annár, had all but accepted a Silvan
fling in the trees with him. But her reactions were not those of a casual friend. She frowned inwardly, because the thought was disturbing. Unwanted.

  “Shall we get you dressed?” she asked, turning back to him only to roll her eyes at his lopsided grin, knowing exactly what he was thinking and unable to hide her own mirth. “Get up, you Silvan oaf, and do it slowly. The herbs in the antidote will linger in your system for a while. You will be unsteady on your feet.”

  Tossing the bedcover to one side, he swung his feet over the edge and sat up. She was right, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Slowly,” she warned.

  By the time Sontúr was back, Fel’annár was walking slowly to the chairs before the fire and then sinking into one of them, careful not to sit back and jostle his wound.

  Fel’annár knew what was coming, and Sontúr smirked as he took the lid off the dish.

  “Damn it. No sausages.”

  “No sausages,” repeated Sontúr. “The sooner you eat this nutritious gruel, the sooner we can get back to your private sanctuary. The Company are waiting outside. They’re peeved that I have not allowed them to visit you.” Fel’annár nodded, knowing he had some explaining to do.

  Fel’annár did as he was told and when he had finished, he changed into simple clothes and allowed Sontúr and Llyniel to poke and prod him once more. Satisfied, they left the royal infirmary and The Company surrounded Fel’annár with smiles and nods, even though their hands rested upon the pommels of their blades. Once back in his rooms, Fel’annár was suddenly grateful that Damiel had insisted he live here in the palace and not at the barracks. Before long he was sitting on his princely bed and Idernon was standing before him.

  “We leave you to your rest, Fel’annár. Ramien and I will guard the door and later, we will speak, yes?”

  It was a question, but Fel’annár heard the warning in the Wise Warrior’s tone. They wanted answers and would not be fobbed off. He arched a brow at his friend and then nodded, watching as he left the room and closed the door.