Rinon’s glacial eyes lingered for too long. Still angry, then. “And Prince Handir? Pan’assár? Still no news?”
There was sarcasm lurking beneath the apparently innocent words—if anything about Rinon could be called innocent. The paper in his pocket was heavy, seemed almost to pulse. “Nothing. I will inform you immediately, of course.”
“Of course.” Rinon nodded.
Huren saluted and continued on his path towards the palace. He knew that the prince was watching. He thanked the Gods once more that it was a busy day, and he was soon lost in the crowds. He could not let Rinon see where he was headed, to Band’orán’s office to deliver the news.
Sulén had failed once more, and now it fell to him to see the bastard dead. Sulén was not a military man, but Huren was. He knew how to organise covert operations. It was part of his job, and he was good at it. So was Bendir.
No sooner the message had arrived, he had sought out the captain who, in turn, had moved his Shadows. Huren had done likewise with his own mercenaries, oiled the pockets of those in Band’orán’s favour. Everything was in place. All that was left to do was tell his lord that it was Huren who now took over from Sulén, and assure him that he would not fail.
But where was Sulén? He should already have arrived, and Huren was sure that he had. He was hiding, fearing that his stolen missives would be used against him. He surely feared Band’orán for what may have been written there, for having failed his duty.
It was Huren’s time to prove himself to his new lord. Time for him to shine, for the rewards would be sweet indeed.
There were still a few hours before the light failed them, and they must stop once more. Fel’annár’s gaze was anchored on the space between two hills where the forest would appear any minute now. However much it was beautiful here, this watery world could never compare to the green sea of leaves under which he had contemplated the world for the first time.
They crested a hill, and a gull screamed its farewell, sharp and piercing in his ear, arcing and wheeling in the sky, testing the currents, bold and daring.
Whether Fel’annár realised it or not, existence slanted in that moment. Lifting his gaze to the watchful gull, it hovered for a while, expectant, and then with one, final squawk, it flapped its wings and flew away to the salty, briny air of its home. Turning away, Fel’annár looked forward, over the crest of the hill and homewards.
Humid moss and ripe bark, the earthy aroma of the forest floor, home to the sustaining roots of the trees. Trees whose voice was that of Aria, playing in the air amidst the Silvan fragrance he had been born to. It called to him now, not playful or naïve, but urgent and demanding. A deep wooden musk that whispered words of belonging, of inseparable minds, of a danger lurking in the depths.
You are ours.
His feet tingled in his boots, a warmth transcending the thick soles and climbing up his wool-clad legs. It snaked around his waist and writhed upwards, a heated embrace, strong and uncompromising.
I am changing.
The bitter milk, life force, white blood hung around him. He breathed it, felt it mix with his own red blood, and he was hotter, ears ringing, eyes stinging.
I am changed.
A rook cawed, a squirrel scurried. A rabbit sat up on its haunches, terror in gleaming eyes, or perhaps it was excitement for the tales it would tell. It darted into the ferns, for the forest lord was coming at last and others must be told.
They must be warned.
A haze was before him as he moved and it carried with it all those sights and smells, sounds and emotions. It spoke of sureties that could not be reasoned.
But he wasn’t frightened. Not anymore. He was changed, and this land recognised him, beckoned him into its bosom as an ancient thing, beyond the years of his life; beyond the wisdom of his youth.
Lord of the forests, hearing the mind of Aria, hearing the voice of the world as it whispered its secrets to those who could hear. And Fel’annár could. He knew that it heard him, too, not from outside but from itself—himself. The forest was him, and he was hers.
If he breathed, he did not feel the rush of air into his lungs nor the steady rise and fall of his chest. And if he was walking, he did not feel the ground beneath him, the thud of boots over loam.
The song of ancient trees rose from the quiet, deep and hollow, like the giant trumpets of Araria, a fanfare to a mighty king, a crownless king. This was the voice of the sentinels, he knew. They stirred the Silvan blood in his veins, watched the Alpine flavour, bowed to the Ari in him.
Fel’annár.
He entered a tunnel only he could see, a rent in the fabric of the world. It was a world that spoke to him and he to it.
And he felt …
Pain and sorrow; grief and anger. He felt a past of pride and joy, of honour and dignity. He heard the ancient drums and the percussions. The dances of old that he was too young to remember. There was laughter, and there was justice in this place. There was harmony under the rule of a different king. It was the past and it was the future. What had been and what the Restoration would bring.
He felt the ground beneath him and the rush of air in his lungs. He blinked, twigs and leaves under his nose, dancing on the trail of his breath. Hands splayed over moist soil, fingers curled inside, hair pooling around him. He closed his eyes and allowed his forehead to cover the short distance to the ground, touching lightly. For a while, he simply knelt there.
Something shifted around him, and he sat up on his heels, soil-stained hands resting on thighs. A presence beside him, familiar and yet not so. He looked up into the dark face of Tensári, felt Lainon’s presence. They were the only two who could truly understand him in that moment.
To stand in the presence of Aria. To feel her touch on his very heart, velvet soft and good. Two hands entwined, brown and white, bound by love. It was all that mattered.
She pulled, and he stood. Tensári smiled for the first time he could remember. And Fel’annár would never forget.
But then an afterthought, an echo, a fleeting, collective thought, not from this forest but from another, further afield.
Fear. Fear for a king. A warning to the forest lord.
15
The Rebel and the Regent
“Prince Rinon trusted no one at the Inner Circle, save for Turion. But he was in Port Helia. And then the rebel Angon provided him with a singular opportunity.”
The Alpine Chronicles, Book IV. Marhené
No one spoke as they followed Fel’annár further into the woods. But they watched him closely, wondering why his eyes had not returned completely back to normal after what Gor’sadén had called his communion with the forest. He had spoken little, only to ask Pan’assár to allow him to lead them forwards. The trees were guiding him, he had said. Even now, they spoke of the danger ahead, told him that it was coming closer. There was a dilemma before him and he turned to Gor’sadén just behind him.
“There are different groups of mercenaries, each at different distances. I could recruit the help of the trees to neutralise them when I know exactly where a given group is. But it would not be subtle. They would give away our presence and could present a danger to us if we are too close. Trees are not precise in their movements.”