Fel’annár’s gaze was heavy with tears he would not allow to fall. Still, the emotion was there, that heavy silence almost too much for him to contain. Handir started when he did finally speak.
“When I saw you, lying beside me in the shallows, half floating on your back, I thought you were dead. I remembered my training, got you to shore and performed the techniques I had been shown, but you wouldn’t come back. I breathed and I pumped and then breathed again. I pleaded with Aria, and the trees joined me, but they were grieving for me.”
There. Fel’annár had told him that he cared, not directly, but in the only way he seemed able. Was this the consequence of growing up without parents? Terror at the prospect of loving and losing, because all you ever really wanted … was the love of family.
Grief. Handir wanted to embrace him, but instead, he took a deep, deep breath. “I never thought I would say this, but I am glad you exist. Whatever the circumstances, the consequences it brought. I am glad to have found you. You have an elder brother, for whatever you may need.”
Fel’annár turned back to him. Shock warred with his need for control, but love was vying for a way out, Handir could see it in his eyes, in the weight of them. He smiled.
“Stay for a while. I believe Llyniel is searching for an excuse to leave that cave.”
Fel’annár raised an eyebrow, surprised at Handir’s fine idea, relieved at the change of subject, yet only half-glad when his brother left. Minutes later, Llyniel stood beside him at his perch.
“Isn’t it amazing?”
“Aye. But the absence of the forest is … disturbing. I can’t hear them.”
“Well. Take advantage of the silence, Fel’annár.”
“I can’t. It’s the wrong kind of silence. It’s like failing to hear your own heartbeat.”
“Then hear mine,” she murmured, sitting beside him on the rock. He turned to find her looking at him. She looked so strong, sitting there with the sea behind her.
“You must be happy, now that Handir and I are on better terms.”
“I am, thank you very much. I told you, Fel’annár. He is a good elf, the best friend. A deeply passionate soul whose convictions are just as strong as yours.”
His lips were upon hers almost before she had finished.
That night, while Idernon and Ramien guarded the camp and Fel’annár and Llyniel sat before the sea, Pan’assár looked around the cave. Galadan and Carodel were asleep against a far wall, Handir not far away. They were alone for now. No one would hear them so long as he kept his voice down.
He leaned in. “I found something. On Sulén’s headless corpse.”
Gor’sadén knew Pan’assár had hidden something, not because he had seen him do it, but because of the way his hand came up to his chest far too frequently. Gor’sadén frowned, watching as he slipped a hand under his cuirass and pulled out a journal. He set it on the rock that separated them.
“I found this. What it was doing on that traitor, I cannot fathom.”
“It would help if you told me whose it is.”
He breathed, chest expanding and then falling, faster. “This … is Or’Talán’s journal. His fourth and possibly last.”
“What?”
“I know. I took it. Hid it. I said nothing to Handir but this, by rights, should pass to him, at least until we are back home and I can give it to Thargodén.”
“Will Thargodén want it? I would think his memories of his father bitter, at the very least.”
“He does not speak of his father. I think he finds it hard to hate him, and yet, hard to remember him fondly.”
“And Handir. Will he want it?”
Pan’assár shook his head. “I don’t know. Rinon would want to see it, but Handir …”
“You should tell him, Pan, at least.”
“No.”
Gor’sadén stared back at him, saw the stubborn glint in his eye, knew he would not be moved. But he had to try. “You know that journals are handed down to the closest family members, friends if there are none. It would be Thargodén’s right to dispose of it if he so wishes. You know this … but you want to read it. And if the king finds out you held this back from him …”
“I will not allow him to burn it, Gorsa. And it would be his right to do so.”
Gor’sadén heaved a heavy breath. “Have you already started?”
“No. I’m not sure that I should, without Handir’s permission.”
Pan’assár’s face was almost comical, but Gor’sadén didn’t laugh. He understood. His brother had witnessed the most terrible of deaths. It was his last memory of their greatest friend but this journal … it was, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened to Pan’assár. It was a chance to celebrate Or’Talán’s life, stop replaying his horrific death.
“If I were you, I would tell Handir. He doesn’t have to know the details. Just tell him you have found a diary and that you wish to read it. Make light of it. The chances are he will allow it.”
Pan’assár looked down at the small book lying upon the rock. Robust and compact, unadorned. But what treasures lay inside? he wondered. What knowledge lay on those pages? All he wanted was to hear the voice of his brother one last time, for his voice to take away the screaming in his mind, the last memories of his greatest friend.
11
Where Loyalties Lie
“Treachery long coming, forged centuries before during the reign of Or’Talán. This was the day of its culmination.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book V. Marhené
King Thargodén cantered through the outer reaches of the city, into the still sparse forest where the trees were thin enough to ride at speed. For a moment, all that existed was him and his steed, the wind through his hair and the smell of spring in the air. Around him, his retinue kept apace with him, their faces straight, eyes watching the trees.
Just months ago, he had been sitting in his chambers, drinking and thinking, remembering the past and what he had lost; what had been taken from him. And then Lainon and Turion had found Fel’annár and given him a reason to wake up, to think of the future, rebuild his relationship with his children. He would meet the one he had never known, see Lássira in his face.
Band’orán be damned. He could burst his veins spreading his lies, but Thargodén would show his people that they were his, from the northernmost settlements of the Great Forest to the Evergreen Wood and beyond. He was strong, he sympathised with the Silvans, loved them as much as his father had, and even desired the return of the Warlord.
Not for the first time, Thargodén wondered if he could find the rebel Angon, speak with him. Huren would not be happy, and neither would Aradan, for that matter. But there was merit in the idea. If he could only show him that he wanted equity, he wanted the Warlord to return; if he could convince the elf that it was possible to live together. It was worth trying. There were few doubts in his mind that his dwindling army was at least partly due to Angon’s encouragement.