His eyes travelled over the dead and wounded warriors, over the distant barracks and then the palace itself. Handir would be up there somewhere, safe.
And then his eyes stilled. There, close to the stables and the Healing Halls, was Llyniel, a black robe covering her, hair tied back, face smudged with dirt. They crossed gazes. He saw her relief, felt her, strong in his mind.
Not far away, Dalú and the Silvans knelt around Angon’s still form. Their brave, irreverent rebel, the elf who had died for the freedom of his people. He would be honoured by them, by Rinon, whom he had saved.
He squeezed his eyes shut, still denying his mind access to his body. He could not see to it, not yet. There was so much to be done. He startled, opened his eyes to the sound of distant shouts. Someone was anxious, calling the alarm.
“Find him! Find Band’orán!” He thought it was the king’s voice. Warriors were running around him, eyes searching, but Fel’annár closed his, concentrating on the voice within. He knew where it came from, and he turned his head slightly.
He runs.
The Evergreen Wood, hidden forest. It was coming alive. He could feel it in his mind, like a heaving, broiling sun; expanding, tightening. Opening his eyes slowly, he saw the grieving warriors, the lost warriors staring at those who had once been their brothers in arms, their dead and butchered bodies the undeniable evidence of what they had been driven to, what they had done.
Fel’annár knew who was responsible.
He saw Canusahéi, Handir’s mother, lonely queen. He saw Handir’s suffering, his spite and pain as he looked at Fel’annár, all those months ago. He saw Pan’assár’s disdain, his cruelty towards those he thought had betrayed his brother. And he saw the suffering of the Silvan warriors, treated like slaves by Alpine leaders who were told it was the right thing to do, the Alpine thing to do. And yet here they lay, side by side. Dead. Equal.
He saw Lássira’s vibrant face, her Bonding Braid; saw Thargodén, the tears in his eyes as he remembered her, no braid in his hair. Band’orán had killed her, too.
The shouts barely broke through the building crescendo in his mind, the call ever more desperate. He needed to leave. The battle was over, but the Dohai was not spent. Instead, it pulsed inside him, ready to burst as it never had before.
Come, lord.
“Fel’annár.” Idernon’s voice beside him.
Opening his eyes, he turned. His friend staggered backwards, a startled cry crossing his lips. The Company stood. Pan’assár stood, and Gor’sadén turned to his Disciple, the king and Rinon close by.
A leafy, breathy sigh, of relief, perhaps, that the Forest Lord had answered. But the slow exhale lingered and then deepened, into a bass, droning chant. So loud, Fel’annár wondered if the others could hear it. A lone note, a throbbing vibration that shook the ground beneath him—or was it him that shook?
Forest Lord. Forest Warlord.
The battle had not ended. It had only just begun.
His scalp seemed frozen as his eyes roved over the battlefield. One by one, those who could stood and stared. His honour stone danced in the air to his right, and everything he saw was tinged with green, blue and purple. He saw it all, as clearly as he ever had, despite the fireflies that flitted before him, around him.
Gods, but the suffering Band’orán had brought. The death of Or’Talán and Lássira. The grief of a lonely king, of Amareth. Families sundered, a whole people enslaved.
His eyes rested on Narosén. The Ari stood leaning on his staff, eyes blazing wide. Suddenly, he was all that Fel’annár could see. Aria’s light in his eyes. It flared, and he saw her, standing before him. The acorn of the forest, the emerald of Or’Talán—the same one that hung from Thargodén’s finger. They would be united, once Band’orán had gone.
He runs.
Fel’annár wasn’t sure if Narosén said it aloud or in his mind, but it made no difference.
“Band’orán has escaped.”
He turned to Idernon, felt like a reed in water, and his own lips were moving. “He can’t escape me. He can’t escape the Evergreen Wood.”
“It is forbidden,” said Dalú.
“Not to me, Captain. I have been invited.”
He wouldn’t understand. None would, save for The Company, the commanders. His mind sharpened, focussed.
The Evergreen Wood. Band’orán. Not retribution.
Restoration.
“You can’t beat him alone, Fel’annár.” Gor’sadén limped towards him, stopped some distance away. In his chosen father’s eyes was a plea to remain, the surety that he would not.
“I’m not alone. Not in there.”
Fel’annár turned, strode away from Dalú, Pan’assár, Gor’sadén and The Company. He brushed past the king, Rinon and Turion. And then he broke into a run. As he approached the palace, he veered right, towards the forest behind. He ran faster, through ornate gardens and to the tall gates that barred entry into the Evergreen Wood.
They were open.
A trumpet blasted in his mind, power flared in his blood, and he was sprinting, could no longer feel his feet, arms pumping, hands cutting the air before him.
Stop him.
Behind, Gor’sadén and Pan’assár tried not to lose sight of him, even as The Company streaked past them. Others followed, too. The king, Rinon, Turion. But some force was aiding the Silvan, lending him a preternatural strength they could never match.
Gor’sadén didn’t know how long they had run for. It seemed an age to him and his aching leg, but there were lights in the distance, lights and shouting. He saw the backs of The Company, strode towards them, made a place for himself and Pan’assár amongst them.
There, not far away, was Fel’annár, his back to them. He saw the same light he had seen over the citadel of Tar’eastór. The same power, only then he had seen it from a distance, not like The Company. It droned in the air, emanating from his Disciple, lifting his hair in a graceful dance as lights whipped around him, clothes undisturbed.
The Ber’anor had sensed his prey, and now, Gor’sadén knew he would need all his strength, that and more, for the battle to come.
Band’orán, Dinor and Bendir ran.
There were no paths in this virgin forest. The way was knotted with roots, strewn with stones. They jumped over bushes and ferns, and all the while, the two captains would glance at Band’orán between them. They ran for their lives, but if they had had a choice, they would have run away from him.
A storm was coming, slowly brewing around them. Band’orán looked up to the cloudless sky, frowned, but he couldn’t stop until he reached the cliffs. If his elves were not there, then he would not stop, he thought. Instead, he would fly. It was an enticing idea.
His foot caught on a root. He stumbled but was soon running again. A yell from his left and Bendir had fallen. He turned right—no Dinor.
He slowed, turning, eyes darting to his captains even as he backed away. Band’orán didn’t understand.
Bendír, knife in hand, was shouting and slicing at some snake that had wound its way around his ankle. Something fell away, but the snake continued to climb.