Here was a prince, indeed. He wore the black robes of a Royal Councillor, and underneath, a deep blue tunic that separated him from the rest. He was the king’s son. Rinon’s ceremonial uniform was different in the same way, the same deep blue denoting him as a royal scion. Around Handir’s neck sat the heavy collar of gem-encrusted gold and silver that marked him as chosen by the king to sit on the Council, the ruling body of Ea Uaré, over which the king himself presided. His hair told the story of his nobility and station, too. Gold thread entwined in his braids, dotted with jewels. Ar Thargodén, Prince of Ea Uaré.
The two warriors bowed. Handir nodded and then sat at a small table beside the wall of windows that looked out over the Evergreen Wood. “My father’s favourite spot. He hears them sometimes—these trees,” he clarified. “Not like Fel’annár can, but he does feel them: their unease, their joy.”
“And you, Prince? Do you feel them at all?” Pan’assár wondered if it was something that ran in the family, although he had never heard Or’Talán mention any talent in that respect.
“I feel unease, but not from them. It is the entire kingdom, Pan’assár, perched precariously upon the ledge of a chasm. I have a good case against Band’orán, but with the king gone, the councillors may well vote on the side of strength, on the side of experience.”
“This is a vote to decide on equality amongst our councillors.”
“No, Turion. This is a vote of confidence. This is a vote on who the Council will heed. Band’orán wants that power, the power to wield the Council like a weapon. It is a first, giant step towards the throne.”
“There is still a chance we will find him.”
They turned to Rinon, bowed. “Any news, Prince?”
“None, Pan’assár. Our patrols return empty-handed and this Company of yours, they have not returned at all.”
“They may not come back to the city, might think it is too dangerous.”
“And they would be right, Turion. Still, once that council begins, that is where the danger will be, I think.” Rinon shook his head. “There is some urgency in the air this morning. The Inner Circle was thick with it earlier. Some captains are nervous and overly curt, while others are far too quiet. Even the few warriors still at the barracks are on edge. They wait for their brothers from the Outer City Barracks, but there is still no sign of them.”
“How many are being sent?”
“I asked for two hundred.”
“Added to our 150 …”
“The Silvans will not attack us, Commander.” Handir stared at Pan’assár from where he still sat at the window. “They promised us until the votes.”
“Prince, without Fel’annár to convince them—”
“They won’t attack, not today.”
Pan’assár turned his sceptical eyes away, to Turion.
“And time will tell if our own warriors are with us, or against us,” said the captain.
“Has anyone seen Huren?” asked Rinon.
“He left his quarters early, made for the Inner Circle where I assume he remains.” Turion knew this because he had ordered him watched. He well knew Rinon’s distrust of the general. He stepped towards Pan’assár, holding out a folded and sealed parchment. “My vote, Commander.”
Pan’assár took it and then turned to Rinon. The prince opened a drawer in the desk and extracted a similar note, handing it to Pan’assár. Slipping both of them into a small pocket inside his cloak, he bowed to the princes.
“It is time to face the Inner Circle. Once we have the vote on the Warlord, I will bring it to the Council Hall.”
His gaze lingered on Turion. He offered a slow nod, an order to protect, his own vote of confidence and the promise of aid at the Council, once the Inner Circle had concluded. Pan’assár needed to be there when Handir made his final move on Band’orán.
He strode down the corridor, Or’Talán’s journal in his hand and Harahon and Dinor on his mind. Only one of them was still alive to tell the tale. Who had really been commanding officer at Sen’uár? Harahon, as the records showed? Or had it been Dinor, as Or’Talán claimed?
The underground well that Band’orán intended as a royal mausoleum was filling with water.
Thargodén broke the surface, spluttering and heaving for breath. “Damn it, just—”
“It’s held fast,” gasped Fel’annár as he broke the surface beside the king. We’re not strong enough. We have no weapons, no loose rocks …”
“I will never stop—never!” And he wouldn’t. He had turned away from Lássira because his father had asked it of him. His king had demanded it. He had turned his back on his soul, duty over love, but this was a chance to right that wrong.
He ducked under the water once more. He pulled, boots pushing off the stone, arms straining, desperate. A muffled shriek, bubbles everywhere, but no air. The chain attached to Fel’annár’s shackle would not break.
Thargodén surfaced, yelled, veins bulging, voice echoing off the walls. The chain was too thick. He was not strong enough, never had been. Chains of duty, hatred, power, taking everything he loved. Lássira, Fel’annár …
“There’s nothing more you can do, my king.”
Thargodén was trembling with the effort it took to stand there, stand in the water and watch it rise, faster and faster. Just a few more moments and Fel’annár would be beneath the surface. Lássira’s son, the child they had conceived in hope. Wrath, ire, the injustice that his life had been, culminating in this travesty, the unthinkable moment of a father watching his son die.
“I’m sorry. Child, I am so … so …” Thargodén squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling through his lashes. In that moment, when the water was at Fel’annár’s chin as he stood chained to the ground, he truly searched those eyes that had beguiled him from a distance, that had stolen his breath, claimed his heart. He had never forgotten them, never would. There was acceptance in them. Fear, too. And then he saw it: a spark of something else. Panic, because there was no time left, no hope left. There was surely no more time for reproaches, no time for anger or rejection.
“Don’t be sorry.”
How could he not be? And then he could no longer stand, the water around him heavier than he was. He watched every breath his son took, deep and fast, anticipating the moment in which the last would come, and his heart would stop and it would be too late.
So brave. So young.
Love and pain surged through Thargodén’s blood. Love for a stranger,…
A harsh breath and he knew the chain had tensed. Water bubbled at his son’s mouth, his last word barely audible. Thargodén felt his face crack and quiver but he couldn’t look away.
“Father …”
Thargodén surged forward, arms out. He encircled the rigid, panting body, holding his head. “Aria don’t! Stop! Stop it!”
He looked down, watching in despair as the water swirled over his lovely face. The emeralds blazing brightly, slowly dimming.