That day, the Silvans lost not only a king. They lost a rightful queen.
The vegetation was becoming denser, the rocks less prominent, and the air was no longer tangy but ripe with the smell of pine. Even the fire smelled different, more fragrant and heady. From the edge of the camp, Fel’annár inhaled it, half-closing his eyes, the memory of cold Sunday mornings and hot pea soup momentarily taking his mind off the night’s revelations. It didn’t last long before his mind was back on the conundrum. Why had Or’Talán not told Thargodén of his plan before he left for the Xeric Wood?
He caught sight of Handir, picking up a small travel pack that Turion had given him. They crossed gazes. What was Handir thinking? he wondered. Was his curiosity piqued like his? He could ask, of course. But Handir turned away, made for the chest that sat close to the fire.
Turion watched Fel’annár from afar, then turned to his companion at the morning fire. “Llyniel Ara’Aradan.” He smiled. “I have struck up a singular friendship with your father these past months. He is a great man.”
Llyniel stared back at the captain. She seemed shocked as she nodded at him, her Bonding Braid sliding forwards. Turion had spoken the truth. His friendship with Aradan had become close. The Royal Councillor had opened his heart to him, enough for him to know that Llyniel was the grief Turion could often see lurking behind his clever words and rhetoric. Llyniel was the yearning in the councillor’s eyes when the younger courtiers passed him by. But it wasn’t his place to tell her that, and he glanced at Fel’annár once more.
“He will be happy for you,” he prompted.
Llyniel’s lips twitched. “I would think he would be shocked, and my mother … well, you surely know her, too.”
Turion smiled. He did, indeed, know Miren. How the woman could talk! Still, he had a soft spot for her. She loved Aradan so much that she could not help fussing over him constantly. His friend was used to it, would simply smile and bat his hand at her when she would not stop.
“I would say your mother would be proud. In a sense, you have become royalty.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, last night we learned that Lássira and Thargodén were married in the eyes of the Silvans. By their laws, that makes Fel’annár a prince and therefore you, a princess.”
She raised both eyebrows at the captain. There, Turion could see the same expressive face her mother had. She had not thought of it at all, and Turion was glad of it. He liked Llyniel, her natural ways, how her feelings danced over her lovely face, her deep-seated empathy.
His gaze drifted back to Fel’annár. His finest novice had become a warrior, a lieutenant, and the love in his eyes for Aradan’s daughter was plain to see. He smiled again, for in the midst of the hard times that would surely escalate into the worst times the forest had ever seen, there was beauty in the love they shared. It made Thargodén and Lássira’s plight all the more significant, strangely central to the conflict they were walking into.
Fel’annár returned to the fire, nodded at Turion and sat for a moment. He watched Ramien, eyes lost to the now distant sea. He knew his friend would miss it, would never forget the Rainbow Jumper he could not stop talking about. Fel’annár had imagined it in his mind as Carodel had explained to him. Ramien standing open-mouthed upon the decks of the Pelagian Queen, watching as the beast leapt out of its liquid garden and splayed its multi-coloured fins, a proud display, a graceful glide through air, fleeting and utterly beautiful. Carodel had shone in his description, and how Fel’annár had wanted to see it. But he hadn’t. Instead, he would remember the sound of waves breaking over shingle, the incessant hiss of an ever-advancing blanket of water, foam frothing and fizzing out. He would remember its smell, and the strange things he had seen inside, the shell creatures and the slimy spiders. He understood Ramien’s obsession with the sea, his sadness because it was fading away.
But there was no voice in the water.
Fel’annár turned to where the forest would soon appear. The song of the trees was incessant now, and he wondered if Tensári could hear it. The warning was there, too, intertwined with the greetings.
He turned to the Ber’ator, watching as she whittled away at a piece of wood with her boot knife, cross-legged before the fire. Whatever it was she was carving, it was small enough to be concealed by one hand as she worked.
He shuffled closer to the fire, accepting a mug of tea with both hands and crossing his legs at the ankles, studiously avoiding Pan’assár. He felt better today, he realised, for although there was a lingering ache in his lower back and his feet still hurt at the end of the day, thanks to the rest he had gotten on the ship, the pain had mostly gone.
Idernon nudged Ramien. “We’re going home, brother. But we’ll come back here one day, you’ll see.”
Ramien turned to his friend, studied his face for a moment, and then nodded, mustering a weak smile.
“Here,” said a deep, whispery voice, a dark hand held out towards him, palm up.
Ramien looked at the small object in Tensári’s rough palm, eyes roving over the exquisite curves and lines. The arch of a body in flight, the splayed fins and the open, beak-like mouth. A Rainbow Jumper. His eyes darted up to the Ari’atór. She didn’t smile, but her eyes were bright and soft, and Ramien reached out and took it slowly, reverently. He held it up to his eyes and marvelled at the detail. The scales along its back, the expression on its face. His fingers curled over it protectively, and a true smile blossomed on his face. Beside him, the rest of The Company watched. Fel’annár approached him, kneeling behind him and placing one hand on each shoulder.
“We’ll all come back when the Restoration is complete and we have earned our rest. We will come here to swim and dive and drink in the taverns Carodel so wanted to visit. We will sail the seas once more and watch the Rainbow Jumpers. Am I right, brothers?”
“Aye!” they shouted—even Tensári, who Galdith would later swear had smiled a little.
“And I think that after this strange show of emotion from our dark warrior, it is time we declare her one with The Company, would you not say?”
“Aye!” they shouted again as Tensári turned to Fel’annár, a dreadful scowl on her face, one Fel’annár pointedly ignored.
“Have you thought of a name?” asked Sontúr.
“I have. She is the Guarding Warrior.”
The Company knew exactly what he meant, as did Llyniel and Gor’sadén. But all Turion, Handir and Pan’assár could do was wonder why he had chosen such a name.
General Huren strode across the courtyard towards the Royal Palace. It was busy that morning, and Huren returned only a few of the salutes he received. Others he simply missed, his mind on the messages that had arrived in the night, personal messages from the sea. The small square of paper all but burned in his inside cloak pocket. It gave speed to his legs, long strides covering the last few steps upwards and to the main doors.
“General.”
He stopped, faced Prince Rinon, returned his salute.
“Is there news?”
“Of the king? No. We remain ignorant of his whereabouts.”