There were no words when the three returned and sat at the fire, even though it was the first time Llyniel and Handir had seen it. Idernon was the only one who had been otherwise occupied, his head in the book on Calrazian history and an open parchment in his lap.
“Any findings?” asked Fel’annár as he ate.
The scholars of Tar’eastór had concluded that the sword was most likely of Calrazian origin. But so little was known of that culture, of its language, and their studies were ongoing.
Idernon nodded, but he didn’t look up, and Sontúr beside him peered sideways at the page he was studying.
“Is that the diagram of the sword?” asked Fel’annár, pointing to the curling parchment.
“Yes,” murmured Idernon, irritated at the interruption, and Fel’annár thought he would get no more from him.
Indeed, the Wise Warrior said nothing for the entire day as they travelled, and by sundown, he was once more immersed. The Company were used to Idernon’s obsessions, and while Sontúr admired his tenacity, Pan’assár found it odd. As for Gor’sadén, Fel’annár could only guess at what he was thinking.
They could see the still distant lights of Senge. There would be fresh fish for dinner tomorrow, mused Fel’annár. He was suddenly reminded of how he had prepared fish and come face to face with the prince, his brother, for the first time. Lainon had told him who he was that night. His smile faltered.
With the guard set and the fire blazing, Galdith chuckled at a comment from Carodel, who was patting at a dough he had made. Stretching it, he placed it over an upside-down pan. After a moment, he turned it. The smell of hot bread accompanied the tantalising aromas of Ramien’s broth which bubbled away on the other side of the fire. The smells drowned the by now familiar scent of herbs that always seemed to hang about Llyniel, Sontúr and Gor’sadén.
“Have you managed to make any sense of that gibberish, Idernon?” asked Pan’assár.
“Not yet, sir, only that it is Calrazian, as the scholars suspected. There is precious little on their history. Captive Sand Lords don’t speak, this we know, but their language has been heard, and some scholars have, at some point, tried to make sense of it. We also have Canter’s intrepid account of his captivity. I read that before we left.”
“Well, if it is about what that script means, why not go straight to those references on their language?” asked the commander, accepting a hot bread and ripping it open, nose flaring at the waft of steaming goodness.
“I have, sir. But there is hardly anything, and what there is, I’ve already read. It helps little, although it does give some insight. No, it’s in the other reading that clues may come to light—if they ever do. Linguistically, all we know about the Calrazian language is that it is highly inflected, and phonetically, it is … exotic, in that it uses a series of clicks and trills that sound passing strange.”
“I can see that may be fascinating to one such as you. But tell us, Idernon, is there anything that we can use to decipher it?” insisted Handir.
Idernon placed the diagram on the ground before him, close enough to the fire pit to make it visible.
“For instance, this word here?” Handir pointed at the diagram.
“I’m not certain, but my guess is family, friend or perhaps owner. I am still working on that.”
“And this drawing here?” Carodel pointed.
“This is interesting, yes. It is a symbol of some sort, perhaps even a family emblem, and that doesn’t surprise me. This sword was the weapon of a lord.”
“What do we know of their political system, Idernon? How do they live?” asked Llyniel, wiping her mouth on a napkin.
“The Sand Lords have a tribal society, not unlike the Silvans of centuries past. They have a king, this we also know. In turn, the king has his overlords who rule over a limited number of territories. Within each territory, each overlord has a chieftain who will defend those territories. As an example, our commander, Pan’assár, would be the overlord and Fel’annár, if he is Warlord, would be his chieftain in the forest.”
“But why are they so reclusive?” insisted Llyniel.
“They are natural enemies of the Silvans. They lack water, and we have much of it. It is generally assumed that they wish to gain territory in the northern reaches, push the Silvans back, and slowly populate those areas. Perhaps they would build a piping system from our water supplies to the closest settlements in the south of Calrazia. Slowly but surely, they would take away our territories and make their own greener, from south to north. It’s logical that the less we know about them, the better they can achieve that goal.”
“Why do you think they cloak themselves?” asked Carodel. “I mean, it’s hot in Calrazia.”
“They wear black because it seems to protect their bodies from the heat. Admittedly, we don’t understand why that would be. As for their physical qualities, they are dark-skinned, as you know, but a different shade to that of an Ari.”
“Well, except for Fel’annár,” snorted Ramien. And then he froze, eyes swivelling to the side and Idernon, who glared back at him. Pan’assár was staring back at them in confusion, but Handir was shocked. The prince tore his eyes away from Ramien, slowly sought out Llyniel, who was studiously examining the ground beneath her feet. Not so Fel’annár, who was staring right back at him.
He stood slowly, crumbs falling to the ground. “A word, brother.”
Llyniel watched as Fel’annár rose to his feet, gaze lingering on Ramien who would not return it. Instead, he fiddled with his mug, lips pulled into a tight line. With a loud exhale, Fel’annár followed Handir, well aware of Pan’assár’s gaze that almost seemed to burn.
Inside, the oil lamps lent Handir’s tent a cosy warmth, a stark contrast to the ice in Handir’s eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why should I have?”
Handir had not expected that, and he quelled his rising temper. Instead, he nodded slowly. “Alright. I can see there was no obligation for you to do so. Yet it seems inherently wrong for you to hide your very race from me. Tell me, am I the only one who doesn’t know?”
“No. Pan’assár didn’t.”
“So The Company, Llyniel, Gor’sadén—there were reasons for them to know?”
“Yes.” Fel’annár turned slightly, walking to one side of the tent and perching himself upon a wooden chest. “Llyniel is my Connate. For this reason, she had to know before she accepted me.”
Handir raised an eyebrow, forcing himself to focus on the question at hand.
“The Company needed to know because they follow me. That is a great responsibility and honour for me. I couldn’t have kept it from them. They are my family.”
Handir straightened.
“And Gor’sadén is the father I never had.”
That was the plain truth, Handir knew. Idernon, Ramien, Carodel, Galdith and Galadan. Even Sontúr, a foreign prince, was more of a brother to Fel’annár than he himself was. Handir had his answer, and the tension in his body eased as he watched the Silvan stand and slowly walk towards him.