Then the unthinkable happened. In his vengeance for forcing his son away from his soulmate, Or’Talán chose Canusahéi to be his heir’s bride. He had chosen the only one Band’orán could ever love.
He had wanted to concede. Let Thargodén marry the Silvan bitch then, he had thought. But how could he? When so much hinged on the crown prince’s downfall; when his plan relied on division between their people. Band’orán would never rule if he could not break Or’Talán’s son.
It was no longer about Canusahéi alone. It was no longer about not being a Kah Master. It was about him. Somewhere along that long and strange road, his own dreams had died, and in their place, a new one reigned. He would be king.
And so, Band’orán had chosen power over love. He had continued, implacable with his plan, one Huren had so deftly brought about. Or’Talán perished upon the sands of the Xeric Wood. The great king was gone, one of only three remaining Kah Masters. With one of them in Tar’eastór and the other broken by the death of his king, Band’orán was free to learn the Kal’hamén’Ar. But he did so in secret. That, too, was a part of his plan.
He should have been encouraged by the new state of things. Thargodén, even though he was king, was broken. Killing Lássira was a masterful move, one of the best he had ever taken. All that was left to do was remove an already failing king, weaken and discredit his children.
And then it would be time. At last.
He was distantly aware that he had lost something along the way. Something had dislodged itself. Something that, at times, he could not hide. It was why he sometimes hid himself away, here, in the place only he was allowed to visit, he and his personal guard. This was his dark kingdom, a secret realm of underground caverns and crystal lakes. Here he was already a king, and Canusahéi was his queen. As was befitting an Alpine queen, there were jewels, those of his family and others he had managed to collect over the years. There were works of art and exquisite sculptures. There were prized weapons of old and the most priceless of books, which the scholars of Ea Uaré would kill for.
He gazed at her sculpture, standing life-size on the shores of the slowly rising crystal lake. The glittering reflection of rippling water played over her fine features. It was almost as if she were alive, speaking with him, telling him that she loved him, not Thargodén.
Should his plan fail—should Band’orán die and find himself on the other side—would she still speak to him? Would she still love him for the things he had done, in her name? He cocked his head to one side. Could she forgive him, he wondered? Would she understand why he had done it?
Blue eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight. His jaw clenched, he had all but turned to stone himself.
Anger seared through his blood, sudden and odd. Anger at Or’Talán for his terrible revenge. At Thargodén for the queen who stood at his side, unloved. Anger at himself for accepting the sacrifice of his love. At her, too, because she had never told him that she loved him, though he knew it was true.
Band’orán had once loved Or’Talán. But he never regretted killing him.
He wrenched his eyes away from her, straightened his hunched shoulders, smoothed his wrinkled brow. He closed his slack mouth and shuttered his volatile emotions with cool eyes.
It was time to train. Alone. Just as he had for the past century. And soon, it would all become real, at last. He would be king, just like Or’Talán.
Better than Or’Talán.
5
A Hundred and One Swords
“Fel’annár and The Company left Tar’eastór on the eighth day of spring. It was the day 101 Alpine swords gleamed under the sun.”
The Alpine Chronicles: Cor’hidén
The day had finally come: the day they would leave the Motherland, the day the Restoration began, at least in Fel’annár’s mind.
He had been granted an audience with the king. He stood in the doorway, watching as Vorn’asté carefully placed a book back on a shelf. He turned, smiled at Fel’annár in the half-light. “Come. Sit with me before you leave.” He gestured to a long, rectangular table before a towering wall of books.
“Thank you for finding the time to see me, sire.”
The king nodded. “Now that the way to Ea Uaré is clear, I have sent news to your king. We must assume any former correspondence has not arrived. They may not know of the battle or the attempts on your life. I am also sending messages with Prince Sontúr for your father. If there is something you would send, I will gladly add it to the dispatch. Prince Handir has already prepared a good number of messages.”
He briefly considered writing to Amareth or to Erthoron, but what would he say? There was far too much to express and no time in which to do so. And what was the point, if he couldn’t see their eyes? Besides, he didn’t even know where they would be. Lan Taria? Or were they at the Silvan camp that Aradan had told Handir about.
“No. There is nothing I would send, sire.”
“You will not answer your father?”
“No. We’ll meet soon enough, although in what circumstances I cannot imagine. Will he even still be king by the time we arrive? The missives Handir found paint a dismal future for my home, for my people.”
“And they look to you, Fel’annár. Sometimes, it takes one elf to change the course of history. One elf and his circumstances—a catalyst, if you will.”
“I won’t be alone, sire. I have Prince Sontúr and The Company. And I trust Prince Handir will use those incriminating missives well. We have a chance of stopping Band’orán, but it will take a skilled statesman to do so. It falls to him to make things right in the city, while I and The Company must bring the Silvans together and rally them behind their king. Assuming they are still loyal, still willing to give him a second opportunity.”
“It is their obligation, Fel’annár.”
“I don’t believe that, sire. Still, if the question of discrimination is addressed, if they’re given equal opportunity and respect, there’s a chance at least.”
“You have it all clear in your mind, do you not?” said Vorn’asté, suddenly closer to Fel’annár than he had been before. Curiosity, confusion. Fel’annár could see it, almost hear the king’s mind as it worked. He wondered if he had said too much, but then Vorn’asté smiled.
“I have much to thank you for. You and The Company accepted death to defend my lands—Alpine lands—and for that, you will be remembered and always welcomed as beloved sons of the Motherland.” The king sat in his high-backed chair, gesturing to Fel’annár to join him in its twin by his side.
Fel’annár remembered that he had once considered staying in Tar’eastór, back when he had been ignorant of his race and purpose, before the battle and Llyniel. That he could return, serve here and make a life for himself was gratifying. But the forest was in his blood, and now more than ever, there was a reason to return. A duty to fulfil.
“I will cherish my time here,” said Fel’annár softly, his eyes lazily travelling over the shelving, the art upon the walls and the soft flicker of the fire. “Here I became a lord, a Kah Disciple. Here I learned of myself, became a Blade Master. I lost a brother, and then gained one.”