Behind him, the two rebel captains made one last, futile attempt to escape their bonds, but all they could do was watch. Thargodén lifted Or’Talán’s sword, and then tilted it sideways, ancient runes catching the forest’s lights, shining in Band’orán’s wide eyes.
‘Your life, for love.’
The king stepped up to the bound and stretched elf. His uncle. Bane of his life and his land. He spoke softly, only for his prisoner and Fel’annár. “I told you, Band’orán, that it would be my face that sends you across the Veil—my father’s blade to see it done. Remember it well. May you never find yourself on the other side. For you, eternity ends today.”
Thargodén placed Or’Talán’s sword against Band’orán’s throat and sliced sideways. A ceremonial death by the hand of a king. But he did not press the blade all the way in, did not sever the airway.
And then he stared into the shocked face before him. He saw the horror of impending death, the question in his eyes. Why had the king held back?
Thargodén turned to Fel’annár, saw his tightly closed eyes, a purple tinge over the eyelids. He screamed at himself not to reach out, not to succour his blinded son—not yet.
“You have earned the right.” He stepped away, stood beside his son and watched in fascination as one hand rose before him, palm up. With one swipe towards the canopy above, Fel’annár released his hold on the forest.
Now.
Dinor, Bendir and Band’orán were lifted off the ground, hoisted high into the boughs, a victorious trophy for the world to see. Behold the enemy, how he is vanquished at last. The voices of the sentinels echoed through the forests, to the Old Oak of Lan Taria where a queen had perished. It journeyed on then, to the most distant, driest trees of the Xeric Wood, where a king once sat scribbling in his journal.
The captains shrieked and screamed, and Band’orán would have joined them, but all he managed was a wet gurgle.
Fel’annár stepped back, and the forest seemed to exhale. But the delicate sigh rose, higher and higher until it was an avenging scream. Blood ran down Band’orán’s body, leeching into the purple of his sash. Then the vines were squeezing and pulling. The forest flared, a conflagration of lights, and the people were running, eyes on the trees and then the distant palace. But the commanders, Turion, Rinon and The Company held fast, arms out as the wind buffeted them mercilessly.
Fel’annár turned from the slaughter, walked back the way he had come. The king walked beside him and behind, Band’orán, Bendir and Dinor were ripped apart, limb from limb until all trace of them was gone.
The ground beneath them still trembled, but the vivid, blinding colours had waxed soft, playful even. They still flared and sparkled, whirled around the boughs, but they were no longer streaks of terrifying lightning. They were colourful ribbons at a Silvan thanksgiving, soft and mischievous, no longer dangerous. The threat had gone, and in its place, it seemed to rejoice, to revel in the aftermath of its killing frenzy.
They would never forget what they had seen. They knew it had torn their enemies apart. The Company, the commanders, Turion, even Rinon with an arrow through his leg—they had all fought it, desperate to reach the duelling elves beyond, desperate to kill Band’orán themselves for using the vilest of weapons, the most dishonourable art of the blinding powders. Tensári had stood as close as she dared but had not drawn her sword, had not defied the forest as the others had. And their struggle had been futile. The forest was stronger, could have killed them, had that been its wish.
They watched as two figures emerged from the rippling veneer. Father and son. King and Forest Warlord. The Company, commanders and prince stared for a moment, their swords drawn, severed roots all around them. Further away, still behind the open gates, Captain Dalú and a host of Silvans stood watching.
Fel’annár stopped, wavered, felt a hand under his elbow as he sunk to his knees.
Sontúr rushed forwards, ripping a strip of dark cloth from his own cape, a flask of water in his other hand. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Open your eyes, Fel’annár,” said Galadan from behind him.
“I can’t …”
“Trust me. Open them.”
And he did. Sontúr repressed the shudder, the gasp that had collected at the back of his throat. “Hold still. I‘m going to flush them … water, I need more water!” He heard running feet, saw Thargodén standing over him, an object in his hand.
“This was what Band’orán threw in his eyes.” Sontúr reached for it, took the hollow piece of bamboo in his hands. He smelled it, and then again.
“Hedgeberry, and something else …” he poked his finger into the hollow, brought it out and rubbed the powder between his fingers. It was fine but abrasive. “Gods, where is that water!”
Someone fell to their knees beside him. “There’s more coming!” Galdith’s rasping voice.
Tensári and Idernon stood before the kneeling warlord and healer, the rest of The Company, even Pan’assár, forming a shielding circle around Fel’annár and the two healers as they worked.
Sontúr crossed gazes with Galadan and waited for him to take hold of Fel’annár’s head. Tilting it backwards, Sontúr poured water into the flickering eyes, watched them well and the water run purple. He knew it would be a painful process, tried to block out Fel’annár’s stifled cries of agony. When his flask was empty, he reached for another Galdith held out for him. When at last it ran clean, he wrapped the strip of cloth around Fel’annár’s now closed eyes and Galadan tied it at the back.
“It’s not permanent, Fel’annár. You are not blind, I promise.”
A brave nod. He collected his feet beneath him.
“Come.” The king’s voice.
On his feet, Fel’annár straightened as much as he could. He stepped forward, swayed and stopped. Walked again, unsure of where. And then a commanding voice and the people opened a path before the king of Ea Uaré.
“Follow.”
The strange play of lights had not left him. Faceless shapes, dark blotches—it was all he could see. But he felt The Company behind him, Gor’sadén at his side. And then the gritty voice of Dalú sliced into the air.
“Hail the Warlord!”
“Hail!” It was a cry to Aria, a deeply felt word of thanks, of utter joy because they were free at last. Free of Band’orán and everything he had done. It was just as they had said. A warrior would come to set them free, and that day had come.
“Hail!” they shouted again. And then another voice, deep and clear. Pan’assár.
“Hail King Thargodén Ar Or’Talán!”
“Hail!” The warriors shouted from further afield, even those who had fought for Band’orán, those who sat tied hand and foot in the courtyard beyond. For mercy, perhaps.
As they walked towards the palace, Rinon watched the mage in grudging respect, for his father was alive, was king once more. He had fought in the ways of the Kal’hamén’Ar, had commanded the Silvans, commanded the forest. Even now, he navigated the stairs as if he could see, but Rinon could not hear the softly spoken orders that Gor’sadén gave him from just behind.