“It is not the same!” thundered Angon, stepping closer. “Sometimes, words are not enough, forester. Sometimes, the hateful and the greedy need to be shown the fruit of their wrongdoings. I am here to do that, to show them they must not cross the natives of this land. We will not tolerate it. It is what the Warlord would do!”
There were murmurs of approval, but many remained quiet, looking now at Thavron of Lan Taria.
“I do not follow the Alpines because they took away our voice. I will not follow Angon, who also seeks to take away my voice. I am not a warrior. I cannot stop you from this madness, this terrible waste.” He pointed with his finger at the bruised produce, the broken packages and the cracked vials. “What will you do with the money that was given in exchange for this? Will you seek out the sellers and rattle them? Will you confiscate the money and use it for your cause? Since when do Silvans steal from others?”
Thavron braced himself as Angon stepped closer to him, the appeasing hand of a fellow warrior on his arm. Even so, his eyes bore into Thavron, seething and barely controlled. Eyes that had seen too much. Eyes that had waited for too long.
“I do not steal,” Angon hissed. His eyes narrowed, a vague memory surfacing. “You are a friend of his.” Thavron nodded. “Then heed me, forester. Your friend is not coming back. Fel’annár of Lan Taria is unconcerned with the plight of our people. Either that or he is dead. Why else does he not come? Why does he not send news?”
“You are wrong!” shouted Thavron. “He’s not dead. It’s what they want us to believe. He will come back. He’ll find a way.”
Some were nodding, but Angon shook his head. “Wishful thinking. Now is the right time and he is not here, forester. The Alpines prepare for a vote and we all know what the outcome will be. The Inner Circle acts out its pantomime, and again, we all know what their answer will be. They will not give us our Warlord. Pan’assár won’t allow it.”
The shouts were louder now, and Thavron closed his eyes. “Stop this, Angon. Stop before it is too late. Fel’annár will come back, and when he does, what will you do, warrior? Will you step aside? Or will you push him aside?”
Absolute silence fell about them, and Angon brushed off the restraining hand. “I met the boy, served with him. He’s a good lad and wears his honour stone proudly, but he’s not here! I will do what I must, for my people. For my forest and the trees of my birth. It is that simple.”
“And Fel’annár will do the same, as will I, just as Erthoron and Lorthil do. They are our rightful leaders, Angon. Let them act. Let them finish their mission and come back to us. Only then can we decide a way forward. But do not pre-empt the worst possible outcome. It has not come to that, not yet.” Thavron dared another step towards Angon, eyes begging him to understand, to listen. “He will come back, and when he does, he will do right by us, you’ll see. Wait for the return of the Warlord.”
Angon’s nostrils flared and his chin jutted skywards. “We will not stop in our efforts to show the Alpines our produce is not for sale. I will not stand by and watch as they take our homes away from us. You should come to the encampment in the city. See for yourself how our people clamour at the very walls of King Thargodén’s city. It is time, forester. Now is the time to act when others talk. To show when others negotiate. The time for words has passed.”
Some cheered Angon but many others looked to Thavron.
“To act you must first understand. To show you must have it clear in your mind. The time for words never passes, Angon. Don’t jump ahead of everyone else and make all our efforts these past fifty years nothing but a fanciful dream. This is not for you to decide. It is for our Elders, for our people to decide, as one!”
The cheers were deafening, fists held high, and Angon stood livid. But Thavron the forester had not finished. “If you must confiscate goods from the Alpines, do not waste them. Do not spoil them. Treat them with care, for they were grown with love and with hours of hard work. They are a part of the creation and must be handled with respect. Don’t let your anger turn you away from our most sacred of beliefs.”
The warriors behind Angon nodded, eyes roving over the resins and powders, the nuts and the dried hedgeberries. It was not the Silvan way, and who better than a forester to remind them of that? Angon knew this, too, just as he knew that it was useless to continue arguing, here in Lan Taria.
He turned and left the Warlord’s village in search of his next Alpine victims. Thavron felt comforting hands on his shoulders. He had done what he could, but he had seen the divide, straight down the middle of the Silvan people. They applauded Angon’s initiative, identified with his no-nonsense approach to Alpine domination. They were convincing themselves that Fel’annár would not come back, that he did not care, or that he was dead.
But Thavron knew differently.
Ten horses ambled along the Eastern Road, the two foremost riders side by side, their faces similar. They were talking of horses, of the hunt and the crop of mushrooms that awaited them for dinner. Nothing extraordinary, save that this was Captain Barathon and his father, Lord Band’orán.
Barathon couldn’t believe it, couldn’t remember the last time they had discussed nothing in particular. Neither could he remember returning home with his father like this after a council meeting. Together. True, the last time he could remember, they had not been surrounded by guards. Back then, there was no strife. They lived in peace with the Silvan people.
They were approaching the foothills and the turnoff to Analei, Forest End, their residence. It was a sprawling mansion that backed onto rock, but the façade was a beautifully crafted thing. All vines and trees and the most intricately sculpted wood he had ever seen, save perhaps for the workmanship of the king’s throne.
Or’Talán had commissioned it, Alpine king who had loved this forest almost as much as he had loved his son, Thargodén. Barathon still remembered the great king’s face, its strength and determination, the light in his eyes and his up-turned lips. So different to his own father’s face.
Band’orán took this road to the city every day. At a steady canter it could be done in half an hour, but today, Or’Talán’s brother was contemplative and uncharacteristically talkative. Barathon wasn’t complaining. He didn’t want their ride to end because once they were home, they would dine, and then his father would disappear into his study. There had been times when Barathon had not seen him for days. But he knew better than to ask him what it was he did in there.
“We have guests tonight.”
Barathon was startled out of his musings. He turned to his father.
“We have captains Dinor and Bendir. Sar’pén and Emor. Huren, of course. I have invited Draugolé and his dear Poronir. And then Melu’sán. She is a fine match for you, Barathon. Make an effort at least, will you?”
Barathon nodded. The moment had been fleeting, his father’s final words marking the onset of normalcy. Melu’sán was head of the Merchants’ Guild, a shrewd and cunning woman with a plain face and overly large breasts. Not his type at all. At least Dinor would be there—small mercy. He liked Draugolé, too, but there had been times in his life when the councillor had rescued Barathon from more than a few uncomfortable situations. Draugolé knew things about him, things he did not want to share with others. It made him feel inadequate, he supposed. Even more so than when he was in the presence of his father. At least he had been accustomed to that since childhood.