“There was no reason for me to tell you, and yet I would have, given time.”
“Of course,” he said placidly, once again the statesman. “You may leave, Fel’annár,” he said, watching as his brother bowed and left. There was no apology in his eyes, just as there was no anger in his own now—not towards Fel’annár, at least. All that was left was acceptance.
He had wanted to be told, and for some reason, it angered him to have been left for last.
As Fel’annár made his way back to the fire, he passed Llyniel on her way to Handir’s tent. He reached out and stroked her hand and then joined the others at the fire. The awkward silence was broken only by the rustling of Sontúr’s hand inside his stuffed bag as he rummaged for some such envelope of herbs to treat Gor’sadén’s leg. The prince stood, pulled at the commander’s boot, and then pulled again. He caught himself from falling on his backside with one hand, Gor’sadén’s boot in the other. Ramien snorted but quickly turned away when Fel’annár’s gaze fell on him.
Turning back to the tent, Fel’annár saw the orange glow from behind the flaps, warm and inviting. His heart bid him go there, to his wife and the brother he was slowly coming to know. He had seen the surprise and hurt so clearly, it had taken him aback. He meant what he had said, though; there had been no practical reason to tell Handir that he was Ari’atór.
But the nagging voice in his mind told him it was not about practicality. He silenced it. Distraction was his worst enemy now. He returned his gaze to the fire and Gor’sadén’s knowing eyes.
A hooded figure snatched a paper from his second in command. Flicking it open, he read and then strode to the fire pit, looked down on his elves and throwing the paper into the flames. They watched him, expectant.
“They are making for the river, avoiding the mountain passes.”
“Senge then,” said his second, watching, waiting for the order.
“Senge. Once they are away from the town, as they rest upon the riverbank. That is where we will take them.”
He turned and walked towards the rocky outcrop that looked out over the lower land. Still open, still Tar’eastór.
Their quarry was elusive, had some affinity with trees. Sulén had told them, and none had doubted it. They had all seen the forest fight. They respected him, the one they would kill. But money was money, and besides, trees couldn’t swim. The leader sniggered.
6
Four Princes
“An elf once asked why he should learn philosophy. ‘Was it not as clear as day, that without philosophy, one could not rightly justify one’s deeds?’ The others stared back at the outspoken elf, as did the schoolmaster. But Idernon simply shrugged and then called them all boil-brained. He had been ten years old.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book III. Marhené
With Handir’s tent packed away and their horses saddled, they mounted and continued on their journey. Today they would arrive at Senge, and from there, they would commission boats for the journey down the River Cor’hidén. It was a well-worn path that led into Senge, lined on both sides with trees, and only a narrow shoulder of grass and loam for carts to pull over, should the space be needed.
Gor’sadén glanced sideways at Fel’annár, knew he was listening. But the Silvan said nothing. Yet, as the morning wore on, his frown persisted, and the commander turned to Pan’assár, gesturing with his head towards Fel’annár.
“Something worries him,” he murmured. But before he could approach his Disciple, Fel’annár trotted towards them, eyes brighter than usual.
“We have company, a few minutes north and moving fast. Not the enemy.”
“Friends?” asked Pan’assár, but Fel’annár was shaking his head.
“They don’t know.”
“Hoods,” ordered Pan’assár, ushering them to the side of the path. Moments later, they heard galloping horses and saw three riders coming towards them, bent low over their lunging mounts. Their leader held up a hand and pulled back on his reins. The others slowed behind him.
Pan’assár registered the panting animals, the dusty riders, the uniform of Ea Uaré. Whatever their mission, it was an urgent one. He nudged his horse forward, saw Fel’annár approach from the corner of his eye. Not ready for battle, but neither had he said they were friends.
“Messengers?” asked Pan’assár, watching as the foremost warrior nodded and pulled his hood back, waiting in vain for the one before him to do likewise.
“From Abiren’á. We carry urgent messages for Prince Handir. Will you not show yourself, Pan’assár?”
The commander bristled. These were Silvan warriors from the army he commanded. They had not saluted, and he wondered how had this elf known it was him? Were they rebels? But Fel’annár was beside him, sat calmly in the saddle. He did not seem concerned.
Pan’assár pulled his hood away, narrowing his eyes as they travelled over the warrior, committing his face to memory. The other two warriors revealed themselves. They stared at their commander, daring him to discipline them.
“Who do you answer to?” asked Pan’assár.
“To King Thargodén. We are loyal to the line of Or’Talán. Many Silvans still are, lord.”
“And yet you do not salute your commander general, brother as he was to our first king.”
Handir had ridden up to Pan’assár’s other side, but he remained cloaked, wary.
The Silvan’s face hardened, but he said nothing. He flinched when Pan’assár moved towards him, close enough to strike if he so desired. Close enough to see the light in his eyes. Pan’assár scowled, half-turned towards Fel’annár, but still he sat quietly, and so he nodded at Handir.
The prince lowered his hood. The three messengers bowed respectfully. But there was no surprise in their eyes at all. Handir held out his hand to take the scroll the Silvan warrior held out to him, then nodded his thanks.
“What is your name, warrior?” asked Handir.
“Yerái, Prince.” Handir watched him turn to the still hooded figure of Fel’annár. The messenger’s eyes suddenly seemed to reflect too much light, like a cat in the dark.
“There are Listeners amongst you?” asked Yerái, almost in a whisper.
“Why do you say that?” asked Handir.
“Because I am a Listener. I feel their presence.”
So that was how they had found them, mused Handir. And if this warrior was a Listener, it would be useless to deny it, yet he was unsure if revealing Fel’annár’s presence would benefit them. He did not expect the warrior’s next question.
“Is it him? Is it our Warlord?”
“That vote is yet to take place,” said Handir, glancing at Pan’assár beside him.
“Not for the Silvans, Prince.”
“Yerái. If he were here, he would not be in danger. I know you are wary of Commander Pan’assár, but remember this, warrior: my oath—his oath—is to the line of Or’Talán. The line you serve. When you leave this place, do so in hope.”