Still, freeing Angon now would be a death sentence without proper escort out of the city. And even if he did make it to the encampment, the Alpine people would hunt him, demand his return for trial, or perhaps even attack the Silvans themselves. Angon was a catalyst, one that could trigger chaos or initiate change.
That was Rinon’s objective.
“Open the door!”
With a click and a heavy bang, Rinon entered the half-gloom. He spotted the Silvan sitting in just the same place he had found him the first time they had spoken.
“Angon.”
The rustle of cloth, only a slight movement.
Rinon stepped closer, crossed his ankles and sank to the floor, hands clasped in his lap. “Your word, Angon. You offered it the other day. I would hear it again, see your eyes. Tell me you did not kill those warriors, that you did not abduct the king.”
Angon’s eyes anchored on Rinon, tired and steady, with only a glimmer of the anger he had seen previously. “I swear it. But your people will never believe that.”
“No. Not unless I show them.”
Angon lifted his head, scowled at the prince. “How?”
“I could take you back to your people, show the Alpines that the king is not at the encampment, as many believe. I could show them that the Silvan warriors want to find the king; that you ride with the army once more, for the common good. We could show the Alpines that you are still loyal, that the army that sits on their doorstep is not hostile, that you will not turn against them. Do you see what I mean, Angon?
“You presume much. The Silvan people will not be contained much longer.”
“Perhaps you, too, are being lied to. Perhaps you think all Alpines are Purists. Is that it?”
“It’s not a lie we believe, Prince. It is a perception, born from years of discrimination. I am not a politician, Prince, and the Gods deliver me, I never want to be. I am a warrior, a protector of my people, and bless their souls, but they are hurting. It is my duty to help them.”
Rinon observed his prisoner. He was tired and hungry, bereft of sunlight and the forest, Silvan elf that he was.
Elbows on knees, Rinon leant forwards. “Help me to bring our people together, Angon. Help me show them their assumptions are wrong, that your people care. We show them that the king is not there, that I trust your leaders and your warriors. You must help me stage the play, and then you must play your part. Rally your fighters. Ride with us and find our king.”
“The Silvan warriors will no longer tolerate Alpine commanders unless they are ordered to by their leader.”
“And Lord Erthoron will not order it?”
Angon leant forward, shook his head as he spoke. “He doesn’t move them.”
“And you?”
Angon straightened, considered the question. “I have my followers, Prince. But … the truth is that I do not inspire them as he does. I am a voice they respect. I stir their anger, but … I am not the Warlord they seek to reinstate. They have placed their faith in a figure, a dream they do not even know for the most part. They have placed their hopes in a young warrior from Lan Taria with no experience in battle or politics. If he ever does come back, if he’s not dead, I fear their disappointment—what it may drive them to do. I know I am not alone in this.”
Rinon breathed deeply, his mind made up. “It makes sense, Angon. The crown wants Lord Band’orán gone,” he murmured, just loud enough for Angon to hear. “He is the enemy that spreads lies, watches as they sink in and spread like a plague. The crown wants the return of your Warlord, and it wants equity on the Council. On that, you have my word. But for that to happen, Band’orán must be cast from these lands, one way or another.”
“And his legion of Purists? The commanders of our army?”
“All that will change. With the return of the Warlord, our army will be restructured; the Inner Circle rebuilt from the ground upwards.”
“Outposts?”
“As many as your Warlord deems necessary.”
Angon did not speak for a while and Rinon watched his struggle. The elf wanted simple things, basic things, all of them meant to defend his people. Rinon admired him, even liked him.
“I’ll trust you. I must. It is, perhaps, our last chance for peace.”
Rinon nodded slowly. “How are they treating you here?”
“The beatings have stopped. The food is bat shit.”
“I need a little more time before I can get you out of here. There are few I can trust, especially with Turion abroad.”
“Captain Turion is a good captain.”
Rinon started, but then he remembered Turion telling him he had commanded Angon once, said he was a good warrior. “Yes. Yes, he is.”
“Another day, then.”
“Enough for me to plan this.”
“You are bold, Prince. I’ll give you that. Walking into our camp in these days of conflict. Your warriors will be all too ready to fight us, for what they think we did.”
“And we must show them they are wrong.”
“It’s a gamble.”
“And I love a bet,” said Rinon, upper lip curling.
Angon almost mirrored the expression. “So do I.”
16
The Return
“From the high plains of Tar’eastór to the trees of the Great Forest Belt, Prince Handir and his host had returned, at last.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book IV. Marhené
Farón and his elves strode through a sea of tents. Warriors honed their weapons, bakers kneaded their dough and smiths hammered at their anvils. But when Farón passed, they raised their fists and cheered. It wasn’t a joyous cheer but a rebellious yell. Angon had been taken, arrested and surely beaten, but Farón was here and that was the next best thing.
Fel’annár watched them from under his cloak. The camp was larger than any of them had imagined, and far more complex. It was more of a makeshift village, capable of sustaining itself. There were stables, training rings, collective dining areas, even a forge. Fel’annár wondered if they had water pumps.
It struck him that there were so many warriors here. Had they deserted? They stared back at Farón and The Company, whittled arrows and sharpened blades. Their uniforms were worn, oftentimes incomplete. Some had replaced their standard-issue cloaks with a brighter green version, while others wore only the leather skirts but not the customary black breeches below. There must have been hundreds, mused Fel’annár.
Just beyond the sea of tents was a plain, and a fifteen-minute canter to the city. He was so close now to meeting his father, his other brother. He realised that, where before he had felt nervous and somewhat ambiguous, now curiosity was winning over everything else. He knew his father wanted to meet him, and Fel’annár had always known that he was duty-bound to agree. But it was no longer about obligation. He wanted to meet his father, wanted to see his face. He wanted to know what kind of elf he was. Was he strong and resolute, like Gor’sadén? Was he introspective and academic, like Handir? Or was he like the Great King, powerful and beguiling?
He had hated Or’Talán from the moment Lainon had told him who he was. Yet now, there was a burning question in his mind. From Pan’assár’s account, he had discovered that Or’Talán had cared, had known that his mother and father were bonded in the ways of the Silvan people. He hadn’t purposefully broken his heart but tried to help his son. But things didn’t go to plan, and the question remained: why hadn’t Or’Talán told his son before he left for war?