“My son carries a new light in his eyes.” Fel’annár watched the king, the shrewd eyes that would not lift from him. “Crown Prince Torhén is due back from Prairie in a few days. He will take up his duties, and Prince Sontúr has my leave to join you, for a while at least. It is a token, perhaps, of my interest in the Restoration your brother has told me about. The Motherland does not condone treason and the presence of my son will be testimony to that, for whatever difference it may make to your people.”
“Sontúr always makes a difference.” A smile tugged at Fel’annár’s lips at the thought of his sarcastic, witty brother, an elf who had given him empathy from the very start. “He is a part of The Company, for as long as you allow it. We are all grateful for that.”
“I wish you luck, Aren Or’Talán—for the journey back, for the family you have never met. May you be happy, warrior. May you find your peace at last.”
Fel’annár wondered if the King of Ea Uaré was like this—or if he had been, before he was separated from Lássira.
Fel’annár stood, bowed low. “Thank you, King Vorn’asté. I hope we will meet again when everything is done.”
He glanced at the life-sized portrait of Queen Lerhal, the woman who had sacrificed herself so that her warriors would live. She had found herself in Valley. Fel’annár had seen her through the Winter Sentinel, although the king said he could not bring himself to believe it.
Vorn’asté followed Fel’annár’s gaze, knowing, perhaps, what he was thinking. But he said nothing, and it gave Fel’annár pause. In those shrewd blue eyes was a light, a kind of wonder, as if he had believed what Fel’annár claimed but dared not admit it.
Fel’annár smiled, stepped backwards and then left. As he navigated the corridors, he thought he would have preferred the king to call him Ar Thargodén instead of Aren Or’Talán. He had met neither, but Or’Talán had ruined his son, and Fel’annár felt nothing but shame for the name he carried, for the face he bore.
He did not notice the bows and the soft smiles from those he passed. Servants and scribes, attendants and messengers, warriors and musicians. They remembered the great lord, the great king. They knew nothing of broken hearts and forbidden love. All they knew was that Or’Talán had been great and his grandson would be just as great.
Fel’annár made his way to the Healing Halls, a heavy travel bag slung over his shoulder and Carodel just behind him.
“Where’s that new lyre of yours?”
“In the prince’s chest. I will not lose another to battle, or to Ramien’s backside.”
“He sat on one?” Fel’annár chuckled.
“He did. Broke my heart.”
Inside the Halls, Fel’annár made his way to the end and then right. Llyniel’s rooms were there, and he turned, nodded at his friend and then knocked. He didn’t wait for her answer but slipped inside.
On the table was her own travel bag. Her medical journal would be inside, wrapped in protective oilcloth, just like his own diary. He smoothed a hand over the rough cloth and then turned to the sound of her steps.
Before him was the elf that he loved, and in her hair, the Bonding Braid, tied at the end with the Seven Wheels. With his eyes fixed on the spirals of cloth, a memory surfaced, of his youth in the Deep Forest and the Spring Festival …
One for the sun that gives light
One for water that gives life
One for the earth that yields growth
One for the trees that give air
One for the stars that bring dreams
One for Aria who feeds the soul
And one for love that binds the world together.
He lunged forwards, pulled her into his arms and cradled her head against his chest, clutching hands desperate. He felt her warm against him, safe in his embrace, and he squeezed his eyes shut, heart so very full. Then he lifted her off the ground and spun her around. Everything behind her blurred, ceased to make sense. There was only her smiling face and the Bonding Braid flying around her head, his own dancing about his face. And then her laughter, hand batting at his arm in mock anger to let her go.
They stood before each other, panting and smiling and blessing the Gods that they had each other. Their bodies leant forwards, unable to stay away.
But a knock at the door reminded them both that it was time to leave. Fel’annár scowled and Llyniel laughed.
Slinging their bags over their shoulders, they left the room and made for the Halls with Carodel. They found Master Arané and Head Healer Mestahé on the threshold before the main courtyard.
Fel’annár came to stand before Arané, smiled at him. “I have no words to express my gratitude. You saved my life, and I am in your debt, Master Arané.”
“There is no such debt, my lord. The service a healer lends has no price, requires no payment. It is done from the heart, and in this case, I am honoured to have preserved your life, Aren Or’Talán.” The healer stepped closer to Fel’annár, so that no one else could hear. “You have many names, Fel’annár: The Silvan, Hwind’atór, and another I know you do not use. But whatever your purpose, I know it is a good one. So I bid you serve well, stay safe. I pray we meet again, outside these Halls for once.” His mouth quirked on one side, but there was a shrewdness in that ancient gaze. Arané knew, had no doubts as to what he had seen upon that extraordinary dawn, and had come to his own conclusions.
Fel’annár stepped away, turned to Mestahé while Llyniel said her own goodbyes. He watched as they spoke, and then the Master Healer gave her a scroll. Fel’annár wondered if it was a commendation. He smiled as she turned to him.
“Are you ready?” he asked her.
She smiled back as she opened her bag and placed the scroll safely inside. Together, they walked towards the rest of The Company, as close as lovers could, Carodel behind them at a discreet distance.
Horses stood patiently by, laden with the provisions they would need for the journey to Ea Uaré. On the largest of their mounts, Prince Handir’s fine wooden chest sat in all its graceful strength. Leather straps had been tied around it, buckled tight, and inside the well-protected bowels, their greatest treasures lay. Messages from Vorn’asté to Thargodén, and the missives, proof that would see them rid of Sulén and perhaps even Band’orán for good.
There were other items inside, too. Things that they could not carry in their bags for fear of damaging them. Handir’s princely regalia, books Lord Damiel had gifted him, even Idernon’s book on Calrazian history and his drawing of the Nim’uán sword and its yet undeciphered script. Carodel had seen his opportunity and asked if he could stow his lyre inside and then Llyniel had included her bulky medical journal. There was plenty of room, and Handir had not objected.
They had been provided with civilian attire. Black and blue breeches, muted green and blue tunics, leather chest protection and vambraces of the finest quality. Their cloaks were black, their design long and ample, the hoods wide and concealing.
Mounting, they made their way to Handir’s side. At the fore, the two commanders rode, although they, too, wore simple clothes and little armour. Fel’annár thought their disguise altogether inadequate. Power seemed to roll off them, magnified when together.