Handir’s eyes burned almost as brightly as Yerái’s.
“Your Warlord is safe, and will remain that way, so long as I am alive,” added Pan’assár.
The messenger looked from prince to commander, and then at the still hooded figure he could feel in his mind, even as he spoke. “We must now ride to Tar’eastór with missives from our lord to King Vorn’asté. Once we have fulfilled our duty, we must return to Abiren’á and await instructions. That is the only safe route for urgent missives now. Is there anything we can take with us?”
Handir considered the question. They carried urgent correspondence from King Vorn’asté to Thargodén. It was possible these messengers could get them to the city before he could. “How safe is the passage from Abiren’á to the city, Yerai?”
“It is safe until just beyond Oran’Dor. From there, Silvan messengers are often confronted, their missives confiscated. If you carry something urgent, Prince, I can take it as far as that village with my personal guarantee.”
“Carrier birds?” suggested Pan’assár.
“We have lost almost fifty in the last few months. They say it is furtive hunters, but the Silvans don’t believe that.”
“Then we must take our chances and continue on our path, Yerái. Farewell. Ride in hope, and in silence. ‘Tis not a time for revelations,” said Handir.
The Silvan nodded, turned once more to Pan’assár, and to the commander’s utter surprise, he saluted. “It may not be time for revelations. But it is time for returns, would you not say, Commander?”
The messenger turned back to the one he knew was Fel’annár Ar Lássira, allowing himself the slightest and most fleeting of smiles. Eyes back on Pan’assár, they saluted respectfully this time. Kicking their mounts into a canter, the three warriors clattered down the path, towards Tar’eastór.
Handir ignored the questioning glances from his companions, just as he ignored the scroll that sat half inside his tunic. Meanwhile, Fel’annár tried not to think about Yerái, a Listener like himself. He had never met another. He had wanted to stop him and ask how it was for him. But there was no time for that. Still, he would remember the name and search for him when all this was over.
Their path soon widened, and the riverbank came into sight. Pan’assár signalled for them to stop and dismount. He shoved his hand into his saddlebags and pulled out a fistful of coins. Handing them to Galadan, he instructed him and Idernon to venture into the town and commission the boats they would need for the journey towards the Glistening Falls. He would not have his prince linger near the town for longer than necessary. He had no way of knowing if Senge was safe; the quicker they passed through and took to the boats, the better.
Handir settled upon the bank of the Cor’hidén and pulled out his scroll. The others kept a respectful distance, even Llyniel who sat talking quietly with Sontúr, whiling away the time before Galadan and Idernon were back, and they would walk into Senge.
In the town proper, Galadan searched the riverbank. It was lined with long, narrow jetties, and along them were poles to which small boats and larger rafts were tethered, bobbing on the placid waters. On one such jetty, he met Talen, a veteran River Master who introduced his friend, Deron, who had his own boat up for rent. With half their fees satisfied in advance, Galadan and Idernon took the path back, well aware of the stares and murmurs from the villagers. Silvans were obviously not common around these parts.
Not an hour later, they were back, and the entire group made for Talen and Deron’s jetty. But as they approached, what seemed like the entire village of Senge had congregated there, including Lord Tenbar himself. It was not that Idernon had been Silvan; it was because he and Galadan were members of The Company. They had not passed by unnoticed.
“Prince Sontúr. It is an honour.” The leader of Senge stepped forward and bowed low.
“Lord Tenbar. I hope you and your people are well.”
“Like many villages, Senge is recovering from the battle as best it can. We lost many of our sons and daughters that terrible day. We would have lost more, had it not been for your companions,” he said, eyes straying to Fel’annár and The Company.
The villagers talked quietly, nodding, but their eyes were riveted on the warriors who had stood before the horde—especially on Fel’annár, or was it Or’Talán returned, as some speculated? This was the one who had moved the trees, bid them fight.
“Please accept these humble offerings, a small token for the road.” Tenbar nodded at his people. They laid their gifts before Sontúr and his companions.
“These gifts are most appreciated.” Sontúr smiled, his poise and manner gracious and commanding. Fel’annár had rarely seen this side of his friend, the public figure, respected warrior prince. He was leaving all this behind to join them on their quest to the forest.
“Safe journey, then, and know that we are grateful,” said Tenbar, eyes straying again to Fel’annár. “We are most thankful for the sacrifices made.”
Tenbar and the village of Senge smiled and nodded, watching from a respectful distance as the warriors began to load their belongings onto the boats. But a small child broke free of his father and dashed straight for Fel’annár, a wilted-looking potted plant in his hands, a silent but desperate plea for help on his face. Skidding to a halt, he looked up at the towering warrior he knew was The Silvan. Timidly, he held out the plant. Fel’annár knelt and cocked his head to the side in thought.
“What’s so special about this plant, sprout?”
“My mother. My mother gave it to me before she left for the battle. She told me to care for it but look!” he said, bottom lip quivering and his eyes welling with tears which he struggled to hold back.
Fel’annár breathed deeply. “Then care for it you must.” He poked a finger into the water-logged soil and smiled tightly, eyes moving from the plant to the boy. “You’re trying too hard, see? There’s too much water, and that makes the leaves yellow. Every morning, lay your fingers over the soil like this and bring them away. If the soil sticks, don’t water it and if they come away clean, then you can give it a little water. When the roots come out of the bottom, you must plant it in the ground or give it a bigger pot. This is your mother’s tree, and her spirit will be inside it, but heed me, sprout. Should it die, don’t fret. She’ll live on. This is but one sapling amidst a whole world of trees; trees that share one mind. If she is in one, she is in all of them.”
The boy’s eyes widened, his childish misconception dawning on him and lightening his heart. Before Fel’annár could stand, the boy wrapped one arm around his neck and nestled his tiny head in the crook of his shoulder. The warm breath brought with it a jolt of memory, of the Battle of Sen’uár and the babe that had died in his arms. He repressed it with a slow blink, squeezed the little body and then looked down at the child, very much alive.
He gestured with his head that he should return to his fretting father. The boy scampered away and all but barrelled into his father’s legs. As the group left, the boy’s remaining family looked back over their shoulders, nodding slowly at Fel’annár as they left. He watched them leave, and then stood and turned, almost colliding with Pan’assár. The commander’s eyes bored into his, but they no longer intimidated him and he returned the gaze, unwavering.