His gaze drifted to the magnificent pauldron of leather and brass, the matching bracers, reinforced with the same brass over the forearm. How long had it taken to carve this? To etch those symbols? To capture the forest and emblazon the White Oak, symbol of Lan Taria? He would wear it, he told himself. It was what the Silvan people wanted; what Aria wanted.
“Fel’annár?”
He turned to Amareth, as she walked towards him, a bundle in her arms, eyes upon the scar the Nim’uán had left him with.
“We should start, else you’ll not be ready.” She watched as he nodded, knowing he was unsure of where to start.
“This was made by Cala, master seamstress of Sen’uár before its destruction. She survived, remembers you. The colour comes from Scaly Moss and Brack Leaves.” Amareth held up the tunic, voice distant, as if she envisioned the woman as she worked, stitching the robe and dying it until it became this vibrant green garment, silver worked into the hem and waist. Sleeveless, it fell down to his calves, soft and warm, meant only to protect his skin from chafing. The fabric embraced his trim waist and then fell away, flaring only slightly on its journey downward. Amareth’s hand smoothed down his back, admiring the fit. She reached for the war skirt and wrapped it around his middle, fastening, pulling, adjusting.
She had done this before, for her father.
“This was hunted, fleshed and prepared by Boru of Ea Nanú, our best tanner. He passed it on to Doran of Sen’tár, who spent six months etching and dying the leather. She worked with Paronar, also of Sen’tár, who made the brass elements.”
Fel’annár listened as she told the story of his garments, felt her hands as she pulled and tested, adjusted again. He had arrived in Tar’eastór several months ago, while his people were already working towards this day, crafting armour for an unwitting Warlord.
She held out the cuirass and slipped it over his arms. It sat heavy and yet as she began to fasten the buckles under his arms, down his sides, it did not feel cumbersome. Not that he understood much about leather armour, but he did know that the more he wore this, the more it would mould to his body, become uniquely his.
Next came the pauldron over his right shoulder, bracers over forearms. “This armour is our finest work, Fel’annár, fit only for the Warlord, even for a Ber’anor.”
The words rang in his ears. All this workmanship, the skill and craft, the knowledge and the love that had gone into these his garments, his armour. He was theirs. He understood now.
You are ours.
“This cloak is of the same fabric as your robe, only it is combined with silk from the western regions of Ea Nanu, close to the borders of Abiren’á. See its sheen, Fel’annár? It reminds me of your eyes as a child.” She tied it in place and then took the boots and placed them before his feet. “Enad of Oran’Dor made these. The silverwork took her months to complete, but she said she had known Fer’dán, that he had patrolled with you.”
So many memories, mused Fel’annár. So many people had touched him during his time as a Novice. That he had touched them in some way was a driving force for his Ari soul. Once, he would have baulked at all this, felt sorry for himself for not having a say in any of it. But time and circumstance had changed all that. Did anyone get to choose the paths their lives would take?
A mother’s hand glided over his strong arms, bare from bicep to elbow. “There is only one more thing left for me to do; one more thing I can do for you before I give you to my people.” Her hand moved up to his slowly drying hair. “Do you remember? You were always clumsy with this. I used to braid it in the style of Lan Taria, simple and practical for an active boy. But now, I will weave for you the story I could never reveal before now.”
Fel’annár sat on a stool by the fire and Amareth began to work. “I will show the Silvan blood of your mother, the Alpine blood of your father and the Ari blood of your grandfather. I will show them the warrior, the bonded lover, the divine servant. I will honour the white oak, symbol of our house, and I will remind the son of my love for him.” She fell silent after that, and as she twisted and tied, pulled and straightened, Fel’annár remembered.
Crumbs on a hungry boy’s face, tears on an angry boy’s face. Pride for a perfect shot, frustration for questions unanswered. He remembered sad eyes, grieving eyes, sorry eyes and proud eyes. He remembered her braiding his hair, and he remembered how he had hated her; how he loved her.
Pea soup on a cold winter morning.
With the preparations over, Fel’annár stood outside his tent with Tensári behind. They had honoured her, too. Her customary black and silver attire was now clean, hair intricately braided.
The Heliaré sat heavily on one side of Fel’annár’s head, the honour stone and Bonding Braid on the other, and down the centre of his head, the most intricate braid of them all. Those well enough versed in lore recognised it as the mark of a Ber’anor. Around his waist, the grey sash of a Kah Disciple.
Before Fel’annár and Tensári, the entire camp stood in silence. The warriors amongst them bore the symbols of their ancient houses upon their skin. Silver Wolf, Grey Bear, White Oak and Fire Fox. They murmured that he was Or’Talán returned, said he was Lássira’s son, their Warlord. This was the elf they had protected, their prince in the shadows. They had been told once that a warrior would emerge from the depths of the forest and mark the second era of the Silvan people. But none of them had understood Aria’s part in their scheme.
As Amareth watched him mount, her mind took her back. She had shielded him for fifty-two years, lied to him for fifty-two years. With this last act, she had armed him for war, for a future without her. She had given him all that she could, protected him in all the ways that she could—some of them dubious.
It was time to give him away.
A strange sense of peace and finality descended upon her as she watched him face the crowds, the very image of Or’Talán.
And she knew, beyond all doubt, that just like that great king, they would follow Fel’annár, wherever he would lead.
21
The Votes
“It was a day marked by history. A day of treachery and loyalty. A day of bravery and cowardice. A day of returns.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book V. Marhené
Lord Band’orán walked like a king. Crownless, queenless, but a king nonetheless. It was a simple matter of time, always had been, ever since he had made his choice. He had chosen the crown over his heart, over Canusahéi. Radiant Aura.
Or’Talán had been a good king, one Band’orán had loved. But there was something inside him, something that told him he, too, was a king. He had thought to wait until Or’Talán died upon the battlefield. He was a Kah Warrior, after all. But then his brother had wed, had an heir …
“King Thargodén is broken.” He did not speak again until the echo had completed itself. “King Thargodén is a good king, but fate took away that which he loved the most. His soulmate is gone, and his heart went with her. I will not condemn him for that. But we must ask ourselves: where is he? Has he finally stepped upon the Long Road?