Once he had gone, Idernon turned to Galdith. “Make sure Jarabon lives alone here, that he won’t raise the alarm. I will go and tell the commander.”
Galdith nodded. Moments later, the rest of the group filed in, all of them except for Ramien and Galadan, whom Pan’assár had left outside to guard them. The commander inspected the stables himself, taking note of the doors and the windows, and then turned to Idernon.
“Alright. Where is this Jarabon?”
“Galdith watches him.”
The commander nodded thoughtfully, eyes wandering for only a moment before they were back on Idernon. “Bring the others in.”
Idernon nodded and before long, the four stalls were occupied. Pan’assár himself sat against the far wall, between the stalls and with a clear view of the main door, an escape route directly left of where he sat. He would allow them to sleep, but he himself would not. And so he sat and watched as the others settled down for a few hours of rest.
Inside one of the stalls, Idernon, Fel’annár, Llyniel and Tensári sat.
“What exactly do Shirán do?” asked Fel’annár.
They had heard the term before, but all anyone really knew was that they were the Ari equivalent of Shadows, in the service of the Supreme Commander. They were feared and yet strangely revered—strangely because even Idernon did not know what they actually did. Gor’sadén shared a knowing glance with Pan’assár from further away.
“Shirán are secret guards, Ari’atór with specific skills, sent on specific missions.”
“And what missions are you referring to?” asked Idernon again.
“The ones that must be done. The ones no one wants to do.”
Idernon wanted details. So did Fel’annár and so he continued to stare at her until she continued.
“The Shirán are charged with two things. The first is to stop human traders from bringing their unwitting brethren to Valley, charging them a fortune for their service, only to abandon them before the Last Markers. The Ari’atór kill them if they pass, even their children. That takes a toll, perhaps the greatest. The Shirán guard us as best they can so that we are spared such acts of necessary barbarity.”
No one spoke. This was the very reason that Ari’atór were not only feared by humans; they were despised for what they considered acts of extreme cruelty. Even Tensári herself recognised it as necessary barbarity.
“And the second?” asked Fel’annár.
“The second is a search for knowledge. They search for the reasons why humans deteriorate past the Last Markers. They strive to understand why they become predators on the other side of the Veil.”
Carodel swallowed thickly, while Idernon studied the palm of his hand. But Fel’annár stared back at her. He wanted more.
But Tensári was not offering, and with the fascinating story of the Shirán in his mind, Fel’annár turned to Llyniel. They were warm, sheltered from the elements, well-guarded and a hand slipped around her shoulders. Sleep came easily and they soon fell into a light sleep. Even Tensári dozed where she leaned back against the wooden stall.
From outside the stall, Pan’assár caught Gor’sadén’s attention. He reached into his tunic and pulled out Or’Talán’s journal. With his friend now sitting beside him, he lent it against his knees so that Gor’sadén could see it.
They had learned of Or’Talán’s decaying relationship with Band’orán, or Kes as he would call him. Something had happened, something that turned the brothers against each other.
I have always wondered why Kes never asked for help. I knew there was conflict with the other boys, thought he could handle himself, but now I realise that he suffered, that he said nothing so that he wouldn’t disappoint me, so that I wouldn’t think him weak. Why would he do such a thing?
“I can well see how Band’orán may have been hounded as a child, an adolescent,” murmured Gor’sadén. “He was not quite as good at anything as his brother.”
“But why would he turn against him? Orta tried to help him, loved him. We both know that. Why would he turn against him?”
“Strange as this may seem, perhaps it wasn’t personal. Perhaps it was the mere fact that his brother was the root of his own suffering.”
Pan’assár considered it. “Yet Or’Talán seems mystified. He didn’t see it that way at the time, and this was written years after the colonisation.”
“True, but it is often the case that we don’t see our own blood in the same light as others do. We often brush things off. Perhaps Orta was denying the obvious.” Their eyes turned back to the page.
Did it fester? Did it taint his mind, I wonder?
Pan’assár turned the page and took a deep breath. The sketch of Band’orán was beautiful, and yet there was something about it that made him sad. He turned to Gor’sadén, saw his own expression mirrored there.
“I wonder what he is thinking,” murmured Gor’sadén. “I wonder how his life must have been, living it beside one such as Or’Talán. How do you live up to the expectations?”
Pan’assár shook his head. “You don’t. You can’t.”
A click, the soft hoot of an owl. Pan’assár closed the journal, slid it beneath his tunic. He stood, pulling his hood over his head. Tensári, too, was on her feet, and then the rest, hoods up and weapons ready. Ramien and Galadan walked down the aisle and between them, a tall, cloaked figure, even steps. Not Jarabon.
“Who comes in the night?” murmured the commander, hand poised over the pommel of his sword.
The figure raised a hand and pulled down his hood. Alpine captain, a distant memory but no name. “I am Turion. I have come to take you home, by order of King Thargodén.”
Pan’assár hesitated, then started when Fel’annár strode forwards, pulling his own hood away. He stopped just inches away from their visitor. “Turion!”
The captain smiled, shaking his head. He held out his hands, an offer for Fel’annár to take them, uncertain that he would accept the offer of a warrior’s greeting. He had misled the boy, kept the truth from him back when he had led that fateful patrol into the Deep Forest. He wondered if Fel’annár had forgiven him, now that he knew the truth.
Fel’annár cocked his head to one side. He smiled and nodded, accepting Turion’s greeting. Turion saw no anger in his eyes, no hesitation. Only joy. He turned back to the leader of the group. “Commander Pan’assár?”
Pan’assár stepped forwards, slid his hood back and then nodded at the rest. Turion saluted and then strode past him and to Handir. With a heavy breath, Turion dragged a hand over his mouth and then bowed. “Thank the Gods, Prince. Your father and brother need you urgently. You have commissioned horses?”
“We have,” said Pan’assár. “How did you find us, Captain?”
“With difficulty, Commander.” Turion’s eyes lingered on the remaining elves and Pan’assár turned to them. “Allow me to introduce Prince Sontúr and Lord Gor’sadén.”