Rhetoric, fancy words that Lord Damiel would appreciate. But Gor’sadén was a warrior. All he knew was that Aria was the Guardian. Everything she did was to protect. She was not responsible for the evil in this world. She was charged with avoiding tragedy, not righting it. She was not concerned with consequences, only that they should never come to be.
And therein lay his answer. Aria had charged Fel’annár with uniting the forest so that something else would not come to be. But whatever that something was, it had yet to be revealed, even to Fel’annár.
If there was one thing clear in Gor’sadén’s mind, it was his own part in this destiny. He was the anchor. He was the rudder that would guide Fel’annár upon that path. He was the experience his Disciple had yet to gain. He was the calming presence, the encouraging hand and the soothing shoulder. Gor’sadén was the Kah Master who would take Fel’annár to the next level of warriorhood, not only with his skill at arms but with his ability to lead. Crippled leg be damned, it would not stand in his way. It couldn’t, because Aria knew Fel’annár would need him in the weeks to come.
Swords clashed in the growing dark. The last vestiges of sunlight dipped under the horizon and cast a bluish-grey hue over the still arid lands of southern Araria.
A lone Ari’atór hefted her sword high over her head and then sliced sideways, taking with it the half-rotten head of a towering Deviant. Its body lurched sideways, but she was already fighting another. A body crashed to the dry sand, and another, younger and less experienced, took its place. No less frenzied, its onslaught pushed her backwards. She ducked, and the beast staggered forward. Whirling around, her sword cut from bottom to top, through its belly, and it shrieked then thrashed where it had fallen. She drove the tip of her blade through its neck to shut out the terrible screaming.
She fell to her knees, chest heaving with exertion. She was out of shape, she realised, the result of long weeks of quiet contemplation in the wilds. She had overestimated her physical form, had meant to neutralise this small group on her own and had almost paid the highest price.
Using her sword for leverage, she hauled herself to her feet with a groan and hastily wiped the steel across the back of a dead Deviant. She would burn the carcasses and then find water and a safe place to rest for the night. This area was not safe. She had already spotted larger groups of Incipients, returning from Valley in search of refuge in the Median Mountains until their transformation was complete. This group had come down from the mountains.
She constructed a pyre, watching as the smoke snaked upwards and then dissipated. Ignoring the stench, she turned to the still distant Citadel of Tar’eastór. She needed to see Commander Hobin, explain why she was leaving, and then garner his blessings. But above all else, she needed to know if Prince Handir’s group was still there, or whether they had already left for Ea Uaré.
The first leg of her journey, at least, would be quick. It was early spring and the Median Mountains, although dangerous, would be forgiving, if wet from the thaw.
It was all that mattered to Tensári now.
Find Fel’annár.
A nudge in her mind, an answering twitch of her lips. For the first time in too long, her duty was once more at the very fore of her mind. It was carved in flesh and blood, emblazoned on her soul, painted on her face in secret runes only the Ari’atór understood.
Protect the Ber’anor, just as Lainon had done before her.
Had Commander Hobin known, she wondered? Did he know that she was Ber’ator? Had he truly sent her into the wilderness so that she could accept Lainon’s passing, come to feel his presence in her mind? She was not convinced. And yet, if Hobin had known, the implications were intriguing.
She turned, skin over-sensitive. There were only two who could answer her questions. Hobin in Tar’eastór, or Fel’annár, wherever he was.
But did the Silvan even know what he was? She prayed that he did, because how else could she justify her appearance? But then, what did it matter? she realised.
She had no choice.
4
Legacy
“Or’Talán had died at the Battle Under the Sun. Mourned. Remembered. Missed. The troops they had called for never arrived, and few escaped the cruelty of foreign blades. But those who lived to tell the tale of that last, desperate stand would never forget the horror of it. Mighty king fallen; his screams still echoed in dreams.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book II. Marhené.
In Acting Commander General Huren’s private offices, many eyes, all of them blue, gleamed with the promise of wealth and power. Before them was a map held open with stones of different sizes and colours. Ten captains nodded in satisfaction and agreement as Huren continued to explain.
“Dinor here, see? The land is fertile and not far from a stream that runs through here. Taking down these trees will make the perfect spot for your manor.”
The captain nodded, the insignia of his noble house shining upon his breastplate. Dinor, lord and captain, one of the original fathers of the colonisation, together with Bendir and Huren. They were the only ones still alive, save for Pan’assár and of course Lord Band’orán himself.
“Bendir. This sector is yours. A similar structure, only here there is a valley rich in ore. Your father will exploit it well.”
There were murmurs of agreement and pleasure. Huren’s reasoning was sound. Each of the lordly captains had been assigned their own sectors of the forest, based on the ancestral skills of their families. Merchants, jewel smiths, warriors or artists; all of them had a place in the forest, one they would be granted in exchange for their loyalty—not to Thargodén but to the future king of Ea Uaré.
“What news of how we are to take possession of our lands?” asked Dinor.
“Our lord will inform us shortly. The final votes are still to be held on schedule, three weeks from now. Once the council is secured and in our favour—specifically, the return of the Warlord overruled—we will be told. I will, however, ask you to brace for unexpected developments. You must show surprise, show that you are loyal to Thargodén until our lord declares otherwise. For now, know that these lands are yours when that time comes. You have earned them.”
There were nods and approving murmurs, speculation as to what these surprising developments would be. Huren watched them all with a trained eye. These captains had much to gain from this new order. Their powerful families were weaving their rhetoric with the indecisive, be they on the Royal Council or the Inner Circle. Lands, raw materials, unlimited Silvan hands to mine them. New trade routes, new opportunities to gain coin, chests full of it. It was only a matter of time before common sense prevailed and more joined their cause—Band’orán’s cause. They had expected it of Or’Talán, but all they had gained was title and privilege. No lands.
Of course, there were those of the Inner Circle that Huren knew would never be swayed, those still loyal to Or’Talán’s house. Their refusal to collaborate, actively or passively, was a risk Huren was well aware of, one he would find a way to neutralise. He knew who they were, knew how to manipulate them. He would deploy them here and there, anywhere but within the city. Turion was one such captain, as was Dalú, who fortunately had already done him a favour and deserted.