Always lacking. Never enough.
That evening, Barathon changed out of the uniform that marked him as a captain of the Inner Circle and into his velvets and brocades, the opulent attire of a privileged Alpine lord and councillor. Suitably decked, he joined their guests below, naturally gravitating to Dinor who sat chatting with Bendir, and for a while, he simply listened.
They talked of the Elder Days, when Or’Talán had first colonised the forest. He had promised them the moon and more, they said. Yet he had given them nothing. No lands, no manors, no ore to mine or estates to handle. They had felt cheated, and wanted what they felt was theirs, in return for their pledge of loyalty. Yet they recognised the worth of that king. Band’orán was quick to agree. He had indeed been great, he claimed. But his son was not. Thargodén was weak, the unfit scion of such a glorious king.
It was when Melu’sán herself spoke that his father’s face changed and his own stomach flipped inside him.
“Thargodén is not weak, Band’orán. Not anymore. Did you not see what he did just yesterday? He walked out into the market, spoke to the people as he bought goods. He knows what they say: that he is finished, that he is a mewling, love-sick ruler that would be better off taking the Long Road to his Silvan bitch. He is showing them they are wrong. And it’s working, I tell you. My nephew’s latest fancy was gushing about it, saying how healthy he seemed, how handsome, how strong.”
Barathon knew his father as well as any other, which was, admittedly, not much. But he knew when he was angry, and he knew when the strangeness came. Just as he knew it, so did Draugolé. Indeed, the evening had wound down soon after, and Barathon had made himself scarce, leaving his father in the presence of Draugolé, who had sent Poronir outside to wait for him. But it wasn’t until the following day that Barathon was told the news.
It was time.
That was all his father said to him at breakfast. And Barathon knew exactly what he meant.
That night, while Analei slept above him, Band’orán stood upon the shores of the dark lake, still empty. Later it would fill with crystal clear water. It would shimmer and shine, reflect the gems and the ore that lived in the walls, in the bed of this underwater lagoon that ebbed and rose like a constant every day. As constant as his love for her.
He turned to the stone statue of Canusahéi beside him. Band’orán had loved her, ever since he had seen her at the tender age of fifty-five, when the world was still green. When his heart had still known goodness, its beat still steady.
Her mere existence had awoken him to a world he had yet to enjoy. Duty, proving himself to others, defending himself … it was all he had ever known. Her face had made him dream.
And Band’orán had dreamed wildly.
He would learn the ways of the Kah Warrior, marry his love. It was all that had mattered to him. Or’Talán had known. His own brother had seen the love in his eyes for a nobleman’s daughter, had approved and even jested, for Band’orán was besotted. He smiled at the memory of how she had affected him. Those distant days momentarily filled the hole in his soul, the rent in his mind.
Or’Talán himself had married, and a son was born. An heir to the throne of Ea Uaré. Thargodén grew strong, was a passing warrior, but never showed an interest in the Kal’hamén’Ar.
But Band’orán had. He trained so that he could qualify, and over the years, he became an excellent warrior. With Canusahéi still unwed and his own dreams driving him forward, he had approached his kingly brother, told him that he wanted to be a Disciple.
Or’Talán had refused.
He could not understand it. For a warrior to become a Disciple, the Masters must agree unanimously, and all of them did, even two of The Three. But not the king. Why had his beloved brother betrayed him? Band’orán had begged him for a reason, but all his brother would ever say was that two Kah Masters in the Royal Family was an unnecessary risk. Or’Talán had an heir, but he was still unwed. Until such time as the succession was guaranteed, he would not allow it.
Yet Band’orán had never believed him. There was some other reason.
Frustration, incomprehension, the injustice of it. And then, Canusahéi, too, had refused him. She would not walk with him, rejected his offer of courtship.
He knew why. He had waited too long. She did not want the lesser brother, the simple warrior that had been forbidden the teachings of the Kal’hamén’Ar by the mighty Or’Talán. She wanted to marry a future king.
She wanted Thargodén, crown prince of Ea Uaré. Or’Talán’s son.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Damned Or’Talán and damned his son.
And then, Band’orán had come to understand it all. It was then that his world began to change. It was all about power.
Or’Talán had refused to train him because he could not share his own glory. Could not abide the thought of his brother eclipsing his light. Canusahéi did not want him because he was not bound for the throne. He would never be a king.
But they were wrong. Both of them. He was worthy of the Kal’hamén’Ar. He was worthy of her love. Band’orán was a warrior. He would not yield, would never give up his dreams. He would be a Kah Master. He would marry Canusahéi … because he would be a king. And with that conviction, he had set his plan into motion.
Slowly. Carefully. Over the passage of years, Band’orán followed the road his mind had shown him. He would create a reason for others to follow him. Make them feel special. Give them something that they yearned for. His own motives, his real reasons would no longer matter to them.
Pride. Land. Power.
This was his recipe. This was his path to kingship. And once he had achieved that, then Canusahéi would want him and Or’Talán would be gone. He would be free to train in the Kal’hamén’Ar, no longer an illicit Master, no longer doomed as he was to practice the art in secrecy.
But it no longer mattered to Band’orán, not really. He had become accustomed to doing things alone. He was reminded, then, of one such time when he had taken to the forest, in search of answers. He had witnessed a scene he could not have imagined. He always blessed that fortuitous day.
He had seen his nephew, Thargodén, and his lover, Lássira. He had heard them speak of the future, together, and he remembered his own love for Canusahéi. But as he watched and listened, he realised that he could never allow them to be wed. There was a power about them, some strength that, should they reign together, they would have been great.
Too great.
Thargodén would have followed in his father’s glorious footsteps and she … she would have united the Silvan and Alpine people. The people he had worked so hard to separate.
He had acted then, had demanded that Or’Talán forbid the marriage of Thargodén and Lássira. It was not fitting, not acceptable to the Alpine nobles. She was Silvan.
The father had refused. And then Band’orán had stepped upon a road with no return. He had explained the consequences of the king’s refusal. Or’Talán had toiled over it, he knew, but after days of turmoil, he finally yielded.