“Commander. We all know the Silvans will not allow this lightly. How far will we be expected to go, should they resist this change?”
“That is for our lord to say. However, should it come to force, he will not falter. His personal guard cannot be vanquished, not by Thargodén’s warriors.”
The captains nodded but said nothing. They had heard mention of this personal guard before, and well understood that it was not a question to be voiced. It was prohibited to speak of those soldiers.
Huren shared a passing glance at Captain Bendir, commanding officer of the Outer City Barracks.
“And what of Pan’assár?” asked another. It had not been formally announced within the small circle of chosen captains, but they all knew what the future held for him, once Band’orán rose to power. Huren would command the army, not Pan’assár.
“Pan’assár is finished. He is mostly unconcerned with the Silvans and their cause. He blames them for the death of his lord, his brother. The fight is gone from him. He delegates command to me. However, should he, too, resist change, there is a plan.”
The circle of captains grew silent.
“All who have opposed our lord have learned the hard way that he was born to rule these lands.”
The captains nodded, not in satisfaction but understanding and some trepidation. They knew Band’orán had a way with people, was persuasive. He was also the brother of Or’Talán. Strength came naturally to him. But Huren well knew that, had Or’Talán lived, they would never have acceded to participating in the Renewal, would never have shown disloyalty to that king. Band’orán knew that, too. It was why he never spoke ill of Or’Talán. It was why they could never know. Only he, Dinor and Bendir knew the truth.
Huren had not lied. Band’orán suffered no opposition. Or’Talán had known that, had died for his folly. This new lord offered them a whole new world, one which most would not resist. Thargodén was weak, pining for his Silvan love. Rinon, too, would fall, a victim of his own anger. And Handir was nothing but a novice councillor. Pity, mused Huren, that Pan’assár had not died with Or’Talán that day. Still, what did that matter now? There was always a second chance, and Huren would seize it while Pan’assár was at his weakest.
Meanwhile, they would continue to suck the hope from the Silvan people. Draugolé was a master weaver of lies. Fel’annár was not here, either because he did not care or he was dead. Either way, he told the people that he wasn’t coming back. The lies would spread, he said, and Huren did not doubt Draugolé’s word on the matter.
And then Band’orán had bid Huren pit Silvan against Alpine, create conflict because it worked in their favour now, in his favour. And so, Huren would continue to stage the deaths of Alpine warriors, blame it on the Silvans until the rope snapped and the fighting became real. And he would not bat an eyelid as he watched them fight.
Everything was in place, the odds in their favour. Band’orán would activate the final stage of his century-long plan. All that remained was to find out if Sulén had finished the job. If he hadn’t, then it would fall to Huren to stop the Silvan bastard from returning. Stop him from uniting the Silvan people.
The Silvan encampment that stood before the gates to Thargodén’s fortress had grown in size and complexity since their arrival for the first Forest Summit. That initiative had ended with the Night of a Thousand Drums, a declaration of intention. They would no longer be ignored, excluded, discriminated against.
And so, they had formed their own Council of Elders. Lord Erthoron was their leader, native of Lan Taria. Lord Lorthil of Sen’oléi, Narosén the Ari’atór, and Lady Amareth, also of Lan Taria and Abiren’á. The Silvans had rejoiced in the decision, would abide by their rulings. But they would not leave the encampment until the votes had taken place. They would stay until they knew whether the Alpines would allow them to live in peace, or whether they forbade the Warlord, forbade equality on the council.
Should the votes turn against them, they would declare their own independence, make it known to the Alpine people. They did not want conflict, but neither would they continue to be denied equality, denied their own say in the military strategy that was decimating their folk in the Deep Forest, leaving them vulnerable to the attack of Sand Lords and Deviants.
And then Angon had deserted, and with him, a good number of Silvan troops who believed the time for talk was over. Erthoron and his newly formed Council of Elders was hard-pressed to keep them at bay. They had, though, arguing that it was just a few more weeks. Let them vote, and then let them face the consequences of their own actions, he said.
This place almost felt like home to Amareth, save that monstrous battlements loomed over them. The mighty walls blocked half of the fortress from sight, but the domes and spires were still clearly visible, jutting into a clear blue sky. She felt like an ant contemplating its oversized world. The camp was a symbol, one last, stubborn stand. One that would mean nothing if Fel’annár were dead. If he was, she would leave these lands and venture through the Veil.
But she did not believe it. The rumours were simply that, born of malicious lies spread by the Alpine Purists. Fel’annár was alive, and when he finally came, she would beg his forgiveness for what she had had to do.
Pulling her eyes away from the foreign construction, she allowed her gaze to drift over the morning activities. Bakers pulled steaming loaves from their clay ovens, handing them to all who flocked there. Further along, fish were skinned and boned, and mighty pots bubbled with water and brews. Elves stood around, warming their hands before fires or around their steaming mugs and talking quietly. The subject was always the same. Would the king convince the council? Would the Inner Circle be swayed to accept their Warlord? Was Fel’annár alive? And where was Angon?
But Amareth knew Angon was not the solution. He was loved and he was criticised. His ability to inspire loyalty was not strong enough, not to rally an army. It was still Fel’annár who would unite them. She had done what Lássira had asked of her, protected him, prepared him. And so too, had she conspired to hide him so that he could fulfil this destiny the Silvan people had imposed upon him. He was Lássira’s child, the king’s child. Who better to serve as their Warlord than the son of their rightful queen?
Not a bastard. A legitimate prince.
Still, there had been times when Amareth had regretted her actions, had pleaded for Fel’annár to stay away, prayed that he would not come back. But then she would cast her gaze over her people and see their hopeful, wishful eyes. She would remember the injustice, bolster her belief in their cause.
She waited her turn for a cup of redberry tea. A kindly woman extended her hands with a smile and a respectful nod. Touched, Amareth took the cup with a nod of her own. She had cared for Fel’annár all his life, loved him as a son. She was the sister of the one who should have reigned at Thargodén’s side. They had always shown her deference, even though they had hidden it in the presence of Fel’annár.
The tea slid down her throat, a warming stream of tangy goodness, and she closed her eyes for a moment. It was early spring, but still cold in the mornings.