by R K Lander
I remember her—remember her plight...
Fel’annár pushed the crushing sadness down and struggled to his feet, moving now as would a blind man, his hands reaching out before him until he stopped before the sickly oak and looked up into its bereft boughs.
‘You are a Sentinel,’ thought Fel’annár in awe as his palm connected with the trunk and white light exploded behind his eyes.
He cried out in both fright and pain, for a burning lance of agony shot through his head, and he suddenly understood what was being said, the story he was being told. He saw her face, saw her agony, her beauty, her light, and her suffering. The sweet, heady aroma of white lilacs sat heavily in the air, so strong he could almost taste it at the back of his throat. The world tilted, and his hand flew away from the bark, falling to his knees with a thud. Searing pain in his gut, in his chest, as if a sword pierced his flesh. He could no longer tell which way was up. He saw her failing body reaching into the chasm and then she fell, ruined body tossed helplessly upon the wind. He saw her again, standing tall and proud upon a verdant, sprawling valley. A soft smile played upon her lips and in her hands, the first white lilacs of an Alpine spring.
Silence.
The hazy faces of Vorn’asté, Sontúr, and Gor’sadén swam across his vision. Warm hands held him from behind, and a wave of relief hit him so hard he sagged into the comforting arms. His body lost its tension, and he allowed himself to be pulled back until he looked straight up into the shining grey eyes of Sontúr.
“Peace,” came the distant voice, a voice laden with magic, and he was compelled to listen as it echoed through his mind. Sure enough, the sounds, sights, and smells that had so brutally taken him not moments before began to recede until only the melody of winter nature existed, and he closed his eyes in utter relief.
The charade had stopped. It was winter once more.
A warm hand rested upon his forehead, and a long, slow breath escaped him.
“Better?” asked Sontúr kindly, Vorn’asté’s shocked face appearing over his shoulder.
“Vorn’asté,” called Gor’sadén, and the king turned.
“Look.”
And the king did. Frowning, Fel’annár’s head feebly moved in the same direction until his eyes registered just what it was the three lords were looking at.
Sitting up, he turned to face the Sentinel. No longer sickly and weak, but strong and vibrant, its bright green leaves were impossibly open, and it seemed to Fel’annár that all the birds in Tar’eastór now sat amongst its reborn limbs, chattering excitedly, and amongst them was the wren, happily preening its feathers.
It is winter, winter!
Gor’sadén had set guards at the outer gates to the garden. No one was to enter. He had no way of knowing how long the phenomena would last, and his instincts told him it would help no one for these extraordinary events to become known.
By the time he returned, Fel’annár had found his feet and then allowed himself to be helped to a nearby bench, but he could not stop looking at the Sentinel, none of them could.
The silence was heavy and uncomfortable. Surprisingly, it was Fel’annár himself who broke it. “You could have asked.”
“What’s that?” asked Vorn’asté, still distracted by the tree.
“You could have asked me if I was willing to play your game.”
The king’s head snapped to Fel’annár, confusion pulling his brows together. “I had thought to take you to the gardens further along, see if you could identify the nature of a rot that has taken hold. I did not tell you this because then you would have been forewarned and the results dubious.”
“I don’t think there is anything dubious about green eyes that light up and hair that floats upon still air.” He was angry. He hardly knew these people and already they had witnessed the one thing that Fel’annár was frightened of, the physical manifestations of his gift.
Sontúr’s eyebrows shot almost into his hairline while Gor’sadén’s eyes darted to the king.
“Fel’annár. It was not this that I wanted. Nobody comes here anymore. The nature of our ‘game’ as you call it, was much simpler: measure your ability to root out a problem that is affecting our plants.”
Fel’annár breathed deeply and willed himself to calm down. They had tricked him, but it had been his choice to stray from the path. Vorn’asté was right, for had he known, he would surely have resisted the onset of magic, if he could, that is. They had wanted to help and had come out the other end as rattled as he himself was.
“Fel’annár,” said the king, his wise grey gaze reading the angry green eyes that had not yet returned to normal, if that word could ever be used to describe them. “I may have underestimated your ability, Fel’annár, and I am sorry for that. I did not mean for this to happen. I did not mean for you to come here.”
He had not expected those words from the king, and of a sudden he was mortified that he had spoken with such disrespect. “And I, too, am sorry for my rudeness, my lord. Please forgive me. My reaction is my own and then some more. My lord, I am not comfortable with this—gift. It perturbs me; to not be given a choice; for you, Prince Sontúr and Lord Gor’sadén to see it...”
The king nodded slowly again, and both Sontúr and Gor’sadén seemed to deflate, the tense moment gone. “Then we owe you an explanation it seems,” said Vorn’asté with a brief glance at his son and friend. “This is a special place, a place where nothing grows, even in spring. It is a place that brings memories of one who was lost to us.”
“The lady?”
The three lords started, and only Sontúr found his voice, albeit unsteadily. “What—what lady? Fel’annár, I would know what it is you saw, who you saw.”
Fel’annár’s heavy gaze landed on Sontúr and then the king, and Vorn’asté thought for a moment that Fel’annár was old, much older than he truly was.
“I saw the agony of a violent death, the death of a lady who would come here often. She shared a special relationship with this tree, although perhaps she did not know it was a Sentinel, that it would understand her thoughts and feelings. It would have known the moment she passed into the Valley of the Dead, a passing I do not think was ordinary. From that moment it began to wither, and yet what I saw brought it back. Its joy has awoken it from its sickly winter slumber. I must help it to sleep once more, for a while at least.” Fel’annár was murmuring, almost to himself, for he was still shaken and so very tired.
“What—what did you see—that it came back?” asked Sontúr, eyes overly bright, all too aware that his father could not speak, that the same question would be begging to be given voice.
“I saw the same lady upon verdant prairies, alive and restored, and in her hand she held white lilacs. She awaits you, my lords, although I do not yet know why.”
A gentle breeze stirred the boughs of the blooming Sentinel, and Vorn’asté thought he could smell that characteristic floral aroma in the air, a sense memory from long ago, and yet Sontúr raised his head and frowned, turning to his father.
“Can you smell that?” he asked. Vorn’asté stared in silent disbelief at his son, and Gor’sadén placed a steadying hand on his forearm. He, too, could smell it, knew exactly what it was.
“Will you now answer my question, my lord?” asked Fel’annár, watching as the king slowly turned back to him. “Who was the lady?”
When Vorn’asté answered, it was slowly, cautiously even. “She was my queen, Fel’annár. She was assailed by Deviants a few leagues away from the village of Golavé. She was so sorely injured that her only chance to live was to take the Long Road to Valley. They say the body is restored as it passes through the Veil, but they were being hunted, were surrounded, for it was a time of much turmoil. She thought to save what was left of her escort,” said Vorn’asté, eyes filling with tears that would not fall. “She —took her own life—dragged herself over the mountain side and to her death—so that they could flee, so that they would not have to risk their lives to deliver her
to the Source.”
Shock sent Fel’annár reeling backwards where he sat, but as the moments passed, the images clicked in his mind and all the turmoil of just moments before dissipated. He smiled. “She has found herself, my lord. I am truly happy for you. She surely deserved the grace of Aria, for her bravery and her ultimate sacrifice.”
Fel’annár could hardly believe the words that had flown from his own mouth with a confidence he could not explain. He knew they struggled to believe his claims, but it didn’t matter. He knew he was right. He stood on shaky legs, and Gor’sadén steadied him.
“Lainon will be furious with me,” Fel’annár said. “I should return.”
“He will be furious with us all, I think. Come, you are not yet well,” said Gor’sadén.
Fel’annár turned to leave the gardens, but he stopped and faced the commander. “Gor’sadén. I do not doubt your good intentions in not warning me of what was to come; I understand why you didn’t.” He was momentarily concerned when the commander’s smile disappeared.
“And well you should not. I am an elf of my word. I have extended my hand to you, and I will not take it back.”
Relief flooded him, and he nodded, but Gor’sadén was speaking once more.
“I could have been a little more forthcoming with you,” he conceded, and this time, he did smile, a smile that was mirrored by Fel’annár’s.
They returned to the Healing Hall in silence, for the king and prince were lost in their memories, shocked by what they had experienced, confused by their own inability to describe what they had seen, what they had smelled.
As for Fel’annár, he dragged his feet, and Gor’sadén walked firmly by his side. If they were to believe Fel’annár’s words, it would mean the boy was capable of feeling the return of a spirit, the moment when one dead is restored into Valley. It was utterly incomprehensible, and the commander knew Sontúr, for one, would resist the temptation to believe it. Still, Gor’sadén was as stunned as the rest of them, his mind not yet capable of rational thought.
The Company watched in alarm as a clearly dishevelled and exhausted Fel’annár was guided to his bed by the king, prince, and commander, and had it not been for Fel’annár’s intervention, Lainon would have confronted them all, protocol be damned. The commander briefly explained the nature of Fel’annár’s state, and Lainon refused to leave his charge from then on.
Sontúr spoke with Master Arané, and both agreed that Fel’annár would stay in the Healing Hall for a further stretch of time. After, the lords left in a haze of strange silence, and The Company was left alone. Fel’annár slept away the afternoon, and as they took the evening meal, Fel’annár explained as best he could. He did not want them to think ill of the king, of Sontúr or Gor’sadén; indeed, it was a testimony to their brotherhood, of the things they had been through together, that they did not question him further. He was under no delusions, though, for Idernon would, sooner or later, have his questions answered. Lainon, though, had asked nothing, and in his silence, it suddenly occurred to Fel’annár that the Ari’atór might know something he himself did not. He held on to the thought.
It was a strange night for those that had witnessed the return to life of a dying Sentinel. Fel’annár wondered at this new development in his ability, and inevitable questions sprang to mind. Was Or’Talán returned? And his mother—was she, too, alive once more in Valley?
As for Sontúr, he had made for the library while Gor’sadén sat alone in his rooms. He was unable to stop his mind from racing forwards, from marvelling at the power Fel’annár had unwittingly unleashed. To him, it was not about faith or lack thereof; it was about common sense. He was a warrior, and he would not deny what he had seen with his own eyes. His only doubt was whether this information should be allowed to permeate. When the time came in which Fel’annár was capable of harnessing this gift—his mind could not quite wrap itself around the possibilities.
Vorn’asté, too, sat alone in his chambers and allowed himself to contemplate the face of the woman he loved, immortalised upon this life-sized canvas of fabric and paint. If only he could disregard the voice in his mind that told him to analyse, to doubt Fel’annár’s words; call it a coincidence—but he could not blindly believe that she had been restored. He had to doubt, had to discard every other possibility and yet...his eyes slipped from the smiling face of Queen Lerhal, down the pale column of her neck, her arm and to her hand, a hand that had held his for centuries, a hand that had soothed away a thousand pains. In those long, smooth fingers, fingers his skin still remembered, lay a head of fresh white lilacs.
Chapter Eleven
THE ROAD OF A WARRIOR
“Immortal love is sometimes wilfully fickle while other times it is deep and eternal. Some call it rapture while others claim it a curse, for is it not a strange and dangerous thing—absolute power wrapped in the guise of bliss?”
On Elven Nature. Calro
It was close to dawn and day one after his unveiling as a bastard son of King Thargodén. No more hiding, no more lurking in the shadows of anonymity. He was free from the Healing Halls, just as he was finally free from any doubts he had still harboured about his heritage: he was a son of Thargodén, for Gor’sadén had shown him a portrait of his blue-eyed grandfather, the resemblance too marked for coincidence.
He felt stiff and light-headed; not in vain had Master Arané insisted he come to the Healing Halls every day so that they could help him return to full, physical fitness. Pressing one hand to his aching side, he sat up and waited for the dizziness to pass then stood, making for the bathing chambers at the end of the Healing Halls. As he bathed, he thought on the strange events from just days before.
The king, prince and commander had since left him to his rest, but Fel’annár was under no delusions that they would leave him be, not after what had happened. They would want answers, and yet he had none to give. All he knew, in that strange, uncanny way, was that Queen Lerhal was returned to physical form, that she awaited her family on the other side of the Veil. It was a hitherto unknown facet of his gift, that and the fact that his sense of smell had been brought into play. And then he remembered Gor’sadén’s words about his eyes ‘being alive.’ Fel’annár himself had never noticed the other colours: purple and blue. Funny, he mused, for they were the colours he saw when in the midst of his connection with the trees.
Clean and with his hair untangled, he turned to the clothing that lay upon a low bench. They had finally been provided with uniforms, Alpine uniforms, and Fel’annár rather thought they would be the finest thing he would ever wear. He pulled on the soft black breeches which clung to his powerful legs, affording him a freedom of movement that was much suited to his own, peculiar fighting style. He wondered, though, at the lack of protection. Picking up the tunic, he pulled it over his head, the deep blue material hugging his chest and reaching down to his calves. He looked like a lord, not a warrior; he would surely trip over himself in battle, but he realised then that it was slit up the sides to the tops of his thighs. Bending his knees, he found that he could, indeed, move with ease.
Next came the reinforced leather of the over skirt. Pulling it closed with the silver buckles, he smoothed his hand down the front of the worked leather which fell to his knees. He slipped on the matching sleeveless jerkin, the bracers, and then reached for the knee-high black boots. Everything was in place, and he straightened. Then he froze before the full-length mirror.
Squinting at it, he walked forward slowly, one hand reaching out as if to touch the fine leather on the figure that stared back at him, an elf he did not recognize at all. He was a warrior lord. The illustration that Gor’sadén had shown him of his grandfather came back to him. He had been wearing the uniform of a commander general, yet still, it could not be denied. He could have passed as a twin, he realised.
It was so different to the uniform back home—different, just like himself. In the time it had taken him to leave his forest home and travel here, to what he now kne
w was also his home—in a sense at least—he had gone from orphan to bastard, had learned of the complicity of his people, had controlled his gift on some elementary level, except for the blooming Sentinel, that is.
With his courage bolstered, he left the bathing room in search of help to rein in his unruly mane. Lifting his head in search of a willing helper, he stopped in his tracks, for before him stood The Company and Galadan, staring back at him with gleaming eyes and silent tongues. Looking down at himself somewhat self-consciously, he smiled, and the odd moment was fractured but not broken.
“So, what do we do with this?” asked Galdith playfully, flicking at Fel’annár’s waist-length hair.
It was Galadan who stepped forward. His face was utterly straight, as it almost always was, but now there was at least one emotion in his eyes: determination.
“Allow me?” he asked.
Fel’annár frowned but nodded all the same and then sat beside the bed that he had occupied for the last few days.
Minutes later, their quiet chatter had ceased, and they stared openly at Galadan’s creation.
“I say he is Silvan,” he began, gesturing to the intricate side braids he had weaved. “But so too is he Alpine,” he said, finger pointing at the herring-bone design that ran from Fel’annár’s crown down to the small of his back. “Wear them proudly, Fel’annár, for you are Silvan and you are Alpine. You are not a half-breed, but a pure-blooded Silvan-Alpine warrior.”
The Company sat staring, first at the braids and then at Galadan. There was strength, power even behind his Alpine eyes, and Lainon stood and then squeezed his shoulder. “You have omitted the Ari locks here,” he said with a smile.
“Then weave them, Lainon,” said Idernon, “that all the races of The Company be present.” The Wise Warrior’s gaze lingered on Fel’annár, willing him to understand the meaning beneath the words, and Fel’annár did. Galadan had been with them from the beginning, even since the aftermath of the battle. He had been just as much a brother when Fel’annár had been injured, when Silor had tried to discredit them, when Osír had died.