No one moved. Not the councillors, not the dignitaries outside the circle. Miren watched her husband, while pride shone in Llyniel’s eyes for the one her mother had always thought she would marry.
Draugolé’s fingers curled over the arm of his chair, but his face remained utterly still. Waiting.
Band’orán stood and walked towards the prince. He suddenly seemed taller, darker, stranger. Handir wanted to step backwards, wanted to turn to the door in search of Pan’assár. Turion stepped forward, his mind willing Handir to move aside, but he would not.
A distant hail, then another shout, coming closer—a crowd from afar. Voices were rising amongst the dignitaries and councillors. Something was happening in the courtyard outside, and it was coming closer. Even Band’orán looked to the two guards nearest him.
A mighty crash tore into the air as something collided with the main doors from the outside. They could hear voices. Someone was trying to get in.
Handir backed away, to Turion and Rinon’s relief, and then the doors burst open, smashing against the stone walls on either side with a mighty crack. Candles flickered, and the sigil banners swayed high above them. Screams and falling chairs from behind, and then silence.
The councillors gasped and looked at each other, wide-eyed. Band’orán stared blankly at Gor’sadén, Thargodén and Pan’assár, and behind them, what seemed like the entire Inner Circle.
“My king!” shouted Turion.
“Father!” Handir’s smile was wide and desperate, and Aradan’s eyes shone as they had not done in decades. But Rinon’s gaze was on the guards at the doors, on the strange set of their hands, their eyes that did not look straight ahead but at Band’orán. But he was staring at the king, eyes wide, brows furrowed.
Thargodén and Gor’sadén stepped aside, and Pan’assár dragged a still struggling Huren forwards. “Behold your general, Band’orán. Your loyal traitor, even before the Battle Under the Sun. Behold the face of shame, treason and murder!”
Huren tried to pull away, but he was trussed up and shorn, held fast. Pan’assár pushed him forward, watched him stagger then crash to the floor, unable to break his fall. Behind, Dinor was held fast by the other captains. He tried to look away but they held him by the chin, forced him to watch.
“Our king.” Pan’assár faltered, started again, softer. “Our king, Or’Talán, was purposefully left to fight an impossible host, his orders wantonly altered. Tell them, Huren. Tell them who ordered it.”
The dignitaries and councillors were murmuring, voices slowly escalating, but someone called for quiet, again and again until the silence was back, barely contained.
Huren struggled, made a low moan of utter dread as he angled himself into a sitting position as best he could with his arms tied to his body.
“Your life, Huren.” A warning from Pan’assár, glinting metal poised in expert hands.
“Lord Band’orán. He ordered it—I didn’t know.”
“Traitor!” shouted a captain from behind, a lord from beside Llyniel.
“Murderer!” shouted another. And then the shouting became a churning, raging sea of reproach, a wave of outraged threats and shaking fists from behind Pan’assár, from the very councillors who had conspired against the king. They had wanted power and wealth, but their collective memory of Or’Talán was stronger. Band’orán had always known that. He watched as those who had promised their loyalty to him now shouted at him in outrage.
Miren and Llyniel were on their feet. Narosén stared at Band’orán, reading him while the crowds around him yelled and cursed.
And then Handir gestured for silence.
Pan’assár watched Huren, knew what he was thinking. He couldn’t crawl to Band’orán for fear of death, but neither could he return to Pan’assár and the captains, for fear of slaughter. The princes, the council and the audience watched in pity and disgust at the fall of General Huren, Alpine veteran, decorated hero, as he grovelled upon the floor, his dignity and his hair gone.
“You killed my brother, Band’orán.” Pan’assár held out his arm, pointed at the elf he wanted to dismember, just as the Sand Lords had done to Or’Talán. “You killed him, and Huren and Dinor helped you do it. Aria help me, but I made him my general.”
“You were not hard to fool, Pan’assár,” said Band’orán, his eyes moving from Pan’assár to Huren, and then to the captains behind, where Dinor stood pale, face full of dread. His gaze wandered over his own guard who now surrounded the entire room. Behind his back, he signalled to them.
Pan’assár looked down at Huren. “You will never serve again.” And with those words, he surged forwards. With one expert strike, he drew his blade over the back of Huren’s legs, severing tendons he knew could never be fixed.
Huren screamed, rolled and tried to crawl away from Pan’assár, who towered over him. It wasn’t enough. He considered skewering him through the chest, but Thargodén’s hand was on his shoulder. He moved away, a warning to the king in his eyes: do not approach Band’orán.
But he did.
“Well then, Band’orán. You have sentenced yourself, have you not? You conspired to kill my father, you conspired to kill Lássira of the White Oak, tried to kill Lord Fel’annár and kill me.”
Voices stirred once more, even as Llyniel stood, eyes overly bright in the half-gloom at the back of the hall. She had already known that Fel’annár was alive, but the confirmation brought relief that manifested itself in a long, wavering breath. Miren squeezed her hand.
“You were not fit to rule, Thargodén. We all know that. If there was one thing Or’Talán did right, it was forbidding your marriage to that Silvan slut. You were a duteous prince and accepted your lot. You chose duty over love, didn’t you? Turned your back on her, didn’t you?” Band’orán smiled as he moved towards Handir and Rinon. Turion tensed.
“It’s over, Band’orán,” said Thargodén.
The cool, controlled Royal Councillor, the astute uncle, the brilliant mind … it all snapped, and yet no one would say it was so from the tone of his voice.
“It is over when I say that it is, nephew. This Council is over. This rule is over.”
A sepulchral silence. Disbelief, shock. As it began to fade, black-clad guards converged on them from all sides of the hall and panic took hold. Screams from all around them. The dignitaries crouched low, tried to hide behind the benches they had been sitting on, while the captains drew their blades and formed a circle around Pan’assár and the king. Dinor elbowed a distracted captain, crouched and turned, freeing himself and fleeing behind Band’orán’s personal guard. In one swipe of a knife, his hands were free.
Pan’assár watched, counted their numbers, noted their weapons. He glanced at Gor’sadén, read his lips.
Kah Warriors.
Pan’assár raised his voice over the din. “Dishonour even in this, Band’orán? You were never a Kah Warrior. You cannot be a Master.”