by R K Lander
“I do not, my Lord. Thargodén—what is it?” asked Aradan, his face pulled into a deep frown.
“I will tell you what they say, Aradan,” whispered the king, his eyes glinting in the failing light, a look so intense on his face that Aradan shivered in mounting dread, resisting the urge to step backwards.
“They speak of joy, of bliss, they speak—of a new lord; one they have named as their own.”
Aradan’s eyes widened of their own accord, before he found the wherewithal to ask the first of many questions that had jumped into his mind.
“A new lord? What does that mean—there is danger? Someone seeks to overthrow you, what . . .”
“No!” shouted Thargodén again, ripping his intricate crown off his silver locks and placing it unceremoniously on his table. “Not a usurper, a lord, a Lord of the Forests.”
Aradan straightened, the skin of his scalp tightening painfully and sending his ears to sitting low on his head as suspicion began to take hold.
The king’s unnerving eyes were now riveted on Aradan and then he rounded on his Chief Councillor, until his frantic face was but inches away from him. It was then that Aradan knew he had not been able to mask his suspicion, for Thargoden’s face was a terrible sight, one he would never think to cross.
The flashing eyes narrowed and when the king spoke, Aradan could do nothing but obey.
“Tell me what you know, Councillor. Tell me everything you know.”
Epilogue
It is with the passage of time and the coming of bad things, that we learn to suffer, and with our suffering comes a deeper understanding of the world.
Some become bitter and wrathful, oblivious to the plight of their brethren, while others feel their emotions, their worries and predicaments. These are the special ones, the ones that see it all and do not wallow in self-pity and revenge. These are the ones that must step forward and teach us harmony, for without this one thing, life is but the spark of a project—where no certainty of joy can exist.
Harmony . . . we still had it in the Deep Forest, but in the city, that was a different matter. Power and wealth is a drug few can rid themselves of, and Band’orán, uncle of Thargodén king is a particularly extreme example of this. He is not alone in his prejudiced ways and the Silvan people are slowly but inexorably falling into the category of ‘lesser being’.
We were not pleased, and yet we had no leader to bring us together and fight for our lost place—our home—one that was claimed by the Alpine rulers of Ea Uaré. It was an impossible situation that must, eventually, come to an end, and the nature of that end was yet to be seen.
We sit now, upon the dawn of a new cycle. The woods are silent no more for they are expectant, their song yet timid but clear all the same. The natives of the Deep Forest can sense it sometimes and they talk now of change.
At Thargodén’s court though, the elves do not speak of such things for they are inconsequential. Here, they talk of politics and trade, of foreign relations and diplomacy.
The forest, you see, is their garden, something to be cared for so that they may sit and enjoy her bounties and this—is what separates them from the true Silvans.
The forest is not their garden, it is their house—their home; nothing else matters as much as this one thing—Aria’s creation.
The king though, had heard the trees that day for the first time in many centuries, a sign, perhaps, that not all was lost; there was still a spark in the dying embers of Thargoden’s soul, Aradan said, one that may become a flame should it be given kindling.
The enemy has no ken of these things, though. It does not care for justice or awakenings. The Sand Lords become bolder for their incursions are poorly contested and they are encouraged. The Deviants are still in their mountain dwellings for winter lingers upon the land but when Spring returns, so too, will they and more will join them, for there will always be mortals who wish to be immortal.
Ea Uaré needed unity, needed a strong leader to push back the enemy and perhaps even vanquish it, but with the Alpine and Silvan people at odds, and a king who had yielded his will to grief—unity was but a dream—a dream shared by four elves who had dared devise a plan to change what seemed inevitable. They had set out to change history, and this was the dawn of their endeavour.
Marhené.
The Silvan Chronicles Book III
END OF BOOK I
Author's note: if you enjoyed the story, please consider reviewing; it would mean so much to me. Thank you!
The Silvan Book II—Road of a Warrior.
Available for pre-order 15th March. Release date: 28th April, 2018
Acknowledgements
This book would never have seen the light without the encouragement of M.Y. Leigh. No author could aspire to ever having such a wonderful reader, reviewer and friend.
Thank you, Dan, for your input on maps, and the wherewithal of cardinal points. Thank you, Siân for your encouragement, and Curious Wombat for making me a better writer.
Thank you Naledi and Ziggy for inspiring me in the first place. Thank you Illeandir, Sierra and Cher for trudging through those chapters. Thank you, Greg, Sunny Treasures, Monster Cupcake, Thefangirlofhp, Sapphirerose14, Powerpuffrogers, Kuroneko714 and SunLillyJackson for being such wonderful readers.
Pilar, Dona, thank you for putting up with my rants and monologues and finally, thank you J.R.R.Tolkien, for inspiring me to write about elves.
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