He reached up, shaking fingers glancing over his sore cheek, the only evidence of his journey through the boughs—that and his knotted hair and ripped clothing.
He would have given anything to see what had happened from a different perspective. A bird or perhaps a squirrel. All he knew was that he had been tossed from tree to tree, held aloft when he would have fallen. He had swung between trees, had even fallen and been caught. He remembered his fevered dreams in the cave after their flight over the Horizon Falls. He remembered falling fast and then floating. He remembered the strange bruises around Fel’annár’s body.
This was what had happened at Horizon Falls. They had been saved by a tree.
He looked up, saw Llyniel adjusting her tunic, pulling her cloak straight. Her hair was a sight, but it somehow made her prettier, he thought. He wondered if she was mad enough to have actually enjoyed what had just happened to them. She turned, caught his eye, and he knew that she had.
“In all my years,” began Turion.
“In all my years,” added Gor’sadén, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck.
“Later. We need to get inside,” warned Pan’assár.
“If Fel’annár has reached the encampment, it is a matter of hours before the Silvans give us away. They won’t be quieted after waiting so long for his return. I wonder what Band’orán will do,” said Turion.
“He will assume we are with him,” said Handir, standing on wobbly legs. “And don’t be so sure they will give Fel’annár away. Did they not hide him for fifty-two years?”
“The circumstances are not the same.”
Handir said nothing, and Pan’assár spoke instead. “Your plan, Turion. Once we are inside the gates, go with Llyniel to Aradan, warn him of our coming. No one will think anything of your presence. We will make our way to the springs on the lower level and hide ourselves away.”
Turion nodded, and the group began the trek into the city.
It was almost comical, mused Handir. Sulén had tried to kill them, time and again. On the river, after the river, in Bulls Bay and aboard the Pelagian Queen. He had chased them here, to the very gates of the city, and now they would simply walk in, just another group of anonymous, travel-weary elves in search of food and shelter.
Turion lowered his hood, and nodded at the guards. They saluted, stepped aside for the Alpine captain and his hooded companions. Unknown to them, their prince was home at last.
Handir turned his head to Llyniel beside him. “Is he well?”
She smiled fleetingly. “I believe he is.”
Band’orán sat in the gardens at the rear of the palace. Here, the view into the Evergreen Wood was stunning to look upon, like a wall of brown and green, every shade, every texture the mind could conjure. Inside, nothing but trees and plants, animals and birds.
No elves.
Not that Band’orán cared about that. The forest was not his home, never had been. In that, Or’Talán had it right. Still, it would be his to rule over. This Evergreen Wood was a symbol, and when he was king—soon now—he would show them. This was his land, his forest, to walk in if he so desired.
For now, though, he was not allowed to pass the closed and guarded gates.
Careful steps behind him. He waited for Draugolé to sit on the bench beside him and report. “Bendir’s Shadows have yet to return. They are surely on to them.”
Band’orán turned to Draugolé. “That bastard is key to our success, even more so than the king himself. You have seen the Silvans, heard what they say about him, how they talk. I know how dangerous his kind can be. I lived with one for many years. They burn anyone in their path, draw others to them, beguile them. Everyone else is a worm, a worthless shell at his side.”
Draugolé listened and bolstered his courage. He had heard this before, recognised the tone and the choice of words for what it was. It was Band’orán’s driving force, the reason for his deeds, deeds he himself subscribed to. Only in his case, it was for gain, for coin and power. But not so his lord. For him, it was personal. It wasn’t a choice, not really. It was days like these when Draugolé knew he would need all his acumen.
“If Huren fails, I will send my personal guard to do the job.” There was a frigid sort of calm to his lord, a mood he knew could turn dangerous with a single wrong word. He was suddenly glad he had bid Barathon wait outside the gardens. The boy would surely have questioned his father, would have been confronted for it, treated like a ‘worthless shell’.
“With that rebel in the dungeons, it seems the indecisive have come to realise how dangerous it is to allow the Silvans a say in our military strategies. The violence has convinced them this is no simple plea for justice. It is a crude demand to yield or die. It was a stroke of genius, lord.” Band’orán nodded, but he said nothing, and so Draugolé pressed on. “With the Warlord banned, presumed dead, and Angon’s pending trial and execution, it should be enough to keep the Silvans at bay. The Council will vote in our favour, especially now with the king gone. It has created a sense of unease, unrest, which only an experienced statesman can handle. They will allow Rinon the regency, of course, but it is surely a matter of time, little time, before our prince shows his shortcomings as a ruler. I assume that is the plan?”
Band’orán stood a little too abruptly and walked towards a rose bush. There were no buds on it in spite of the season. A strong hand reached for a stem, finger brushing over a green leaf. “Then, the Inner Circle and the Royal Council is ours. The king has been dealt with. Only Rinon and Handir stand in my way now.”
“And Maeneth?”
Band’orán’s slips quirked. “She’s a botanist, Draugolé. A would-be fighter turned academic. She is no threat to us. So much like her mother …” He stroked the rose once more, wondering if it would ever bloom, whether he would ever see those extraordinary yellow flowers she had loved so much. “We will deal with her when the time comes.”
Band’orán turned to Draugolé, gaze wandering over his dark robes and dark eyes. He smiled, watched him leave, and briefly wondered where Barathon would be. He turned back to the plant. It hadn’t bloomed since she had left, hadn’t bared itself to the light in all that time. Truth be told, although he stood under the warm spring sun, neither had he.
A week of fruitless searching, but still, the king was missing.
Huren had patrols raking the forest—or so he said—from the Calro River as far as Sen Garay. Rinon had ridden out himself, overseeing those patrols nearer to home but he daren’t venture further, not when he couldn’t trust Huren; not when Turion was away. Every time he considered it, a sinking feeling assailed him, one thought hounding him: what if that was what Band’orán wanted him to do? What if he was walking into a trap, as Aradan had suggested?
Huren had wanted to dismantle the Silvan encampment, disperse its people and be done with the damned place once and for all. It was what Band’orán wanted because he knew that it would bring violence, just as he knew framing Angon would enflame the Alpine people against the Silvans. Rinon had forbidden it, told Huren that he would deal with that place in good time.