“I’m not perfect, no. I have much to atone for where the Silvans are concerned. I have done much already to show them I am sorry. But what have you done? Deployed them away from the city? Or are they in the dungeons, waiting to have their throats cut? Will you do that at Band’orán’s behest?”
Huren laughed, a hint of despair in it, for Pan’assár’s strikes came heavier, harder, quicker. “There is nothing you can do. The Silvans despise you.”
“The Silvan Warlord doesn’t.”
“What, Farón? What did you promise him? Office in exchange for a good word with the Silvans?”
“Not Farón the Betrayer. Fel’annár Ar Thargodén, Aren Or’Talán.”
Pan’assár could hear harsh breaths around him, surprise that he would even mention the bastard, that he thought him alive.
“He’s dead.” Huren closed his mouth, startled at his own words, words that had been heard by all.
“What makes you say that? The assassins you sent to kill him? In Tar’eastór? In Port Helia? The southern forest? Did they tell you they had killed him?”
Huren was lost. He knew that now. It was Band’orán who had told him that just last night. “Pan’assár. You don’t know the power of Band’orán.”
“He has no power over me. No power over my worthy captains.”
“He killed Or’Talán. Band’orán killed him.” It was the only thing Huren had, his only offering. A half-truth in exchange for his life.
A wave of breathy gasps, but Pan’assár managed a word.
“What?” It was almost a whisper, and yet loud enough for those closest to hear.
“He ordered it. Band’orán had Harahon killed, and messed with the reports so that the backup I ordered would not arrive.”
Pan’assár tried to control his breathing, but his heart sped, beat out of rhythm. “He left us there, under the desert sun, a sacrifice in exchange for power …”
“I didn’t know.”
“You are lying. You had to know where Dinor was. Whether Band’orán messed with the reports or not, you knew. Seize him! Bring Dinor!” Pan’assár eyes glittered with the promise of retribution should they not obey. “Arrest them on the charge of high treason.”
“I didn’t know.”
They were upon Huren, dragged Dinor to his side, jostling for a chance to bind their hands, but especially Huren’s. His blade clattered to the floor and Pan’assár watched, merciless as they tied the ropes far tighter than was necessary. He enjoyed their fear, rejoiced as he watched his captains shear through their hair, braids of office, watched it fall to the floor around him. They pushed at the traitors, jostled them, shook them and spat on them—and Pan’assár let them. When it was done, he stood over the kneeling, panting elves.
“I won’t kill you. But you will tell the truth. You will tell everyone what you have just told me, or so help me, Aria, I will execute you in public, as is my right. You killed my brother. You killed a king. The greatest we have ever seen.”
His eyes welled yet glittered, teeth clenched together, but still, he sheathed his sword and stepped back, turned to the others. “You all have much to answer for. There are matters that must be discussed before I can fully trust any of you again. But you can atone. As I have.”
One captain ripped his eyes away from Huren, turned to Pan’assár and saluted. “I will atone, Commander. So help me, Aria.”
Then another stepped forward, swore his loyalty, and soon, every single captain had stepped up, saluted and given their oath while Huren and Dinor struggled only half-heartedly.
“The Inner Circle must never again turn its back on the Warrior Code, betray its king. This vote is a mockery. Huren and his dark lord killed our great king, surely abducted King Thargodén, Lord Fel’annár, and perhaps even killed them. We are Alpine warriors, holders of the Code. We cannot allow treachery to rise victorious. We must fight it, to whatever end. Protect what is left of Or’Talán’s line and make it great once more.
“Who fights for Thargodén Ar Or’Talán?”
The Inner Circle shook with their answering cry.
So many months of frustration, of confusion, of dark machinations and philosophical debates. So many subtle prompts, promises of land and wealth. So many lies and veiled threats. It had all brimmed over, oozed now, like the crumbling banks of a river, falling away, widening its course with unstoppable conviction.
The captains turned their eyes to the main doors, to the palace beyond, wondering now how they could undo what they themselves had conspired to bring about.
“Bring them. We march on the Council.”
Fel’annár looked down at his bandaged hands. He buried the memories of frenzied moments, of panic as he realised his own chains would not come free and he would drown. He tried not to think of the arms that had embraced him in those final moments, the word that had escaped him.
Smoke from the campfires settled over the ground, and an eerie sort of near-silence accompanied it. There was the occasional murmur, the odd nicker of a horse, the clank of metal against metal, the rush of blood in his ears.
Fel’annár nudged his horse forward. He turned to the warriors who would follow him into battle if he so ordered it. He felt too light, as if he floated in some dreamscape. But the moment was real. He felt the charger beneath him, the weight of his armour, the beat of his heart and the Ashorn at his belt, the twin of the one Angon had gifted to the king.
His skin prickled and tightened, gaze turned inwards to the lady in the trees. He saw her blue eyes, arms holding out the acorn and the emerald, hands coming together until they were one.
Unite this land.
He saw the green eyes of Lássira smiling down on him, Amareth’s solemn nod. He saw Aria and the symbols in her hands. This was the moment he was always meant to live. He breathed and ushered his horse forward.
“It is time.”
The soft murmurs disappeared.
“It is time for justice to return to our forest. It is time to serve our king, one more time. One more chance for him to return to us what was taken. I will ride in his name, so that he may show us the nature of his rule. Let him show us that he loves this forest, as much as his father before him did; as much as she who holds his heart, the one who should have ruled at his side.
“I don’t know what awaits us beyond those gates. I don’t know if we will kill our Alpine brethren this day. It will be hard to tell friend from foe, the loyal from the treacherous. But heed me, warriors of Ea Uaré. Don’t let your hatred rule your swords and your bows. There are many who have been misled, who do not deserve to die by our hand. But if the Alpine warriors we once served with should turn their backs on us, draw their steel against us, then we cannot falter. Now, with our leathers of old, our ancient symbols, our hearts beating to the ancestral drums once more, perhaps they will run at the sight of us!”
“Aye!” Some chuckled.
“Or perhaps they will cower behind their mothers and fathers!”
“Aye!” they shouted louder, smiling.
“To stand in the presence of an armed Silvan warrior is not for the meek!”