“I’m sorry too.” He hadn’t the strength to say what else was in his mind, to face the consequences of it. He was sorry, though, sorrier than he could ever have imagined.
And then he was floating upon a cloud of water-logged mist, silent save for a distant cry of despair, the trumpets of distant trees. He tilted his head back and saw the heavens speed away from him. All weight had lifted from his body, even from his mind, and he closed his eyes and waited for the impact that would break them both. Cocooning his brother’s flailing body, he sent a prayer to Aria. Something tightened around his waist. The last thing he saw was Llyniel’s face and a tree racing towards him, closer and closer until he could no longer focus.
8
The Search
“Faith and guilt. Hope and concern. Surety and scepticism. So many emotions in so few souls. None of them knew what they would find, but all of them feared the consequences.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book V. Marhené
The rustle of fine cloth and the muted clink of metal reminded Thargodén that he was not alone, even though his companions had remained silent for many long moments.
“I have arranged for extra vigilance on incoming birds, but there is still nothing. Handir would have written many times by now, as would Lainon. Whoever is intercepting their communication does so skilfully and has the upper-hand.”
Aradan crossed his legs, one arm resting over the back of the sofa he sat on. Shrewd eyes fell on his friend, knowing from experience what came next.
“Gods, I should never have let him go,” murmured Thargodén. “I should have seen the danger.”
Aradan made to answer, but he started when Rinon spoke.
“How so? How could you?”
“Band’orán. We know he schemes, have known for an entire generation. He bides his time, waits for opportunities such as these to push forward with his plans to usurp the throne. I should have known.”
“And you would keep your son imprisoned as a consequence? Handir needed to go. He needed to learn of statesmanship from the best. Every decision encumbers risk, father, and you took one in the hope that the results would outweigh those risks.”
Thargodén held his son’s stubborn, unyielding eyes, eventually nodding and turning back to the missive in his hand.
“What news of the investigation, Aradan?”
“Today, I received a financial report on Captain Dinor. He is certainly wealthier than he was. I also have reports on his movements. He spends much time searching the Silvan archives for maps and landmarks.”
“For an Alpine Purist, that is a strange pastime indeed,” said Turion, one brow cocked as he drank from his goblet.
“Captain Dinor was one of my father’s closest advisors,” said the king softly.
“We were right,” said Rinon. “They plan to recolonise. They are watching and assessing what it will take to claim those lands.” He turned to the councillor and the king, lip twisted in disgust. “They dream of ruling their own lands under our very noses, even as they command our warriors.” His voice turned into a feral growl, and Thargodén’s eyes flickered. “They have the best residences, more servants than they need, yards of silk and velvet, and they occupy the highest positions within our society. Captains, Royal Councillors … still it is not enough. They want land, the power that comes with it.”
Turion, Aradan and the king remained silent, Rinon’s hostile words ringing off the stone walls. Aradan drank. Turion watched him while the king reminded himself that it was Rinon who had spoken. A wave of pride dampened his indignation at what his captains and councillors planned to do. He turned from the window.
“Captain Dinor will unwittingly lead us to the others, I am sure. We must continue with our investigations, but it is only a question of time before we have all of our traitors. Then we drag them before this forest and make them pay for what they have done,” said the king.
“Band’orán is nothing if not careful, Thargodén. They will not be discovered easily,” warned Aradan.
“And what of the Silvans, Aradan?” asked Rinon. “Our army is dwindling by the day. We have but a third of the numbers we boasted only a month ago. That rebel Angon is drawing them outside the city, inciting them to desert. That camp grows ever bigger, stronger. I don’t think Erthoron is capable of pulling them together again. He cannot control them, but this Angon may. And it is not only the Silvans who are abandoning their posts,” emphasised Rinon. “Many Alpine soldiers are leaving, in search of safer lands for their families.”
Turion shook his head. “Angon is a good warrior, a loyal soldier, but bitter—bitter at the Alpines for his lot and for what happened to Fer’dán. He lost an arm, in an area where there should have been an outpost. Angon says things that others dare not, but they think them all the same. He stirs them, but he will not be able to organise them.”
“You commanded him?” asked Rinon.
“I did. He was in the same patrol as Fel’annár.”
“It is, indeed, a worrying development, Prince,” said Aradan. “Have you asked Huren to step up his vigilance on them? Report to you of any mass movements within the camp?”
“Yes. Although he claims it’s dangerous business sending Shadows into the camp.”
“Does he have no dark-haired ones, then?” Aradan shook his head, tapped his chin with his forefinger. “No, Angon will not rally them to war, not before the voting.”
Turion scowled, watching Aradan thoughtfully. “How do you know that?”
Aradan turned to him, face utterly blank, save for his eyes that shone with secret pride. “I have my contacts, Captain.”
Turion raised both eyebrows, turned to Rinon for help. He saw the same cool regard there.
He shrugged, drank more wine.
“I wish Pan’assár were here,” murmured Aradan.
Turion almost spat his wine while Thargodén raised his eyebrows. “Never thought I would hear that from you, my friend.”
Aradan snorted, but Rinon almost seemed to snarl. “He’s a Purist.”
“Are you saying Pan’assár is with Band’orán?” The king turned threatening eyes on his son.
Rinon took his time answering his father, and when he did, it was careful. “I am saying we should be wary. Things have changed, and until I can see Pan’assár here, I will not be making assumptions as to his loyalty, whether to you or to Band’orán.”
“Turion?” prompted the king.
“Pan’assár is … negatively predisposed to the Silvans. However, I believe he is loyal. I have seen no evidence to the contrary.”
“Then, for now, we must wait for news from abroad; from our Shadows. And we must keep Huren’s eyes trained on the Silvans. We have little time to find the evidence we need to invalidate the votes of the Royal Council and the Inner Circle, but if Handir has received our message, he may just be here for it. Pan’assár, too.”
Rinon was sceptical and worried. But he couldn’t tell his father that. The king needed to cling to his hope—believe that Handir was well, that Fel’annár was well, that Pan’assár was loyal—so that he could continue on his road to recuperation and pull their people back from the brink.