“Where are the others?”
“Waiting in the springs. We thought it best they not be seen.”
“Handir’s idea,” guessed Rinon. “And he’s right. It works in our favour. Who has come?”
“Handir, Pan’assár and Gor’sadén are at the springs.”
“Lord Gor’sadén? Of The Three?” He sat up, leaned towards Turion.
“An emissary from King Vorn’asté, and Fel’annár’s Kah Master, I believe.”
“How did he achieve that?” he muttered, sitting back. “And where is the Silvan?”
“We were set upon, not a day from the city. We were cornered, and he led the enemy away so that Pan’assár could get us to the gates. We believe he is at the Silvan encampment.”
“What? Gods, no. That is not what we need.” Rinon was on his feet again, thinking and drinking, listening to Turion.
“He knows to try to keep his identity a secret until we can coordinate our efforts. I believe he will achieve that.”
“I am not so sure. With Angon locked away, the Silvans are angry, just as angry as the Alpines towards them for supposedly killing our warriors and abducting the king. The people clamour for justice. They want the Silvan leaders in our dungeons, Turion.”
“We need to get the others up here. Handir has urgent news—good news—but if we cannot find the king, it will all have been for nothing.”
Rinon banged his goblet on the low table. He turned to Turion and then Llyniel. “We will find him. Never doubt that, captain.”
“He may be dead, prince.” Turion said it carefully, slowly rising from his chair.
It was Aradan who answered. “If it had been Band’orán’s intention to kill the king, he would have made it known. Why draw this out? With the king gone and no evidence to incriminate him, he would move to the next stage of his plan: try Rinon’s inexperience.”
“And none of us thought he would be so bold as to abduct the king himself,” continued Rinon. “We know Band’orán has to have him. What we don’t know is where and why he has not killed him.”
Turion placed his own goblet on the table, straightening his crumpled tunic. “I will bring Prince Handir. Can the guards be trusted?”
“Who can say in these times?” Rinon stepped up to the captain, smiled curtly. “Turion.”
“Prince.”
“You have served well. When this is over and my father restored on his throne, I would have you by our side. I would have you as our general.”
Turion didn’t smile, despite the honour Rinon bestowed upon him. Instead, he felt grief, deep sorrow for how it had come to this. He wondered, then, if any of this mess could be mended; whether anything could return to what it had once been. But then he caught Rinon’s fiery gaze. His doubts dissolved, something tightened in his chest and his mind focussed.
He saluted his fellow captain, bowed to his prince and in his eyes, a pledge to the future king of Ea Uaré.
Pain shot through Fel’annár’s shoulder, and he held back a gasp behind shaking lips. Water sloshed in a bowl. Sontúr’s hand squeezed the herb-laced cloth and cleaned the wound that bled sluggishly.
His tattered shirt lay in a heap beside him where he sat upon a stool in nothing but his breeches and boots. A fire had been lit at the centre of the tent, and around it, The Company sat, seeing to their own cuts and bruises. Farón’s closest had come and gone with clean linen shirts for them, but for now, the prince worked in silence on the injury. It was nothing in comparison to what he had had to mend before.
With his shoulder finally wrapped in bandages, Fel’annár stood slowly. The ache of barely healed bones and bruising became deeper now that he could rest. Reaching for the clean shirt, he slung it over his back, too late to hide his scars from Farón, who stood in the doorway.
“The Council would speak with you.”
Fel’annár nodded. He turned to The Company, eyes landing on Idernon and Sontúr, beckoning them to follow. Tensári slid her blades into the harness on her back, adjusting the bandage around her right hand, and joined them.
With their hoods once more in place, Farón ducked out of the tent and led the four elves to where Erthoron and his closest advisors waited in the next tent, holding the flap open for them to enter.
Inside, Narosén, Lorthil, Erthoron and Amareth stood talking quietly amongst themselves while Captain Dalú stood at a table, staring down at a map. Fel’annár slid his hood back and waited.
The Silvan captain looked up, gasped, and then turned away as if blinded by the sun. Breathing deeply, he stepped closer, slowed when Tensári’s hand moved to the pommel of her dagger.
“My king?”
Fel’annár thought the warrior’s voice would crack, but still, he moved closer to the fire, more carefully now and with one eye on Tensári.
“I … I saw you fall,” he murmured, head shaking in denial. “I mourned your passing, lost my will to serve. I saw you fall.” He scowled into Fel’annár’s face and flinched when he spoke.
“I am not Or’Talán, Captain. I am Fel’annár.”
Dalú nodded, stepped back. His brown eyes travelled from Fel’annár’s scuffed boots to his mass of silver hair and then shook his head. “They said you were dead, or perhaps that you didn’t care …”
“I am alive. And I care. They have lied to you.”
Dalú’s eyes flitted from one side of Fel’annár’s face to the other. “It all started with Or’Talán. And now, perhaps, it will end with him, too. With his blood. Gods, but surely he was unique.” Dalú’s eyes flickered wide as they inspected the face, so familiar, even after all this time. “Welcome, then, Aren Or’Talán.” He dared take a step closer. “See if you can make sense of this mess. See if you can sort it, lad.” Dalú stared a while longer and then straightened his crooked form as best he could.
The Silvan leader stepped forward. “Fel’annár.”
“Erthoron,” he replied, purposefully omitting his title.
Lorthil cocked a brow at the overly familiar address, but he said nothing.
“Will you tell us what is going on. Who you travelled with? Where they are?”
“And what happened in the forest?” added Narosén.
Erthoron held up a hand for silence. “Fel’annár. The warlord vote is imminent. The Royal Council convenes the day after, and Angon, one of our best warriors, is in the dungeons, falsely accused of killing four warriors and abducting the king. We have sent messengers into the city, have told Prince Rinon that it was not us.”
“It’s true, then. The king has been abducted.” He didn’t seem surprised.
“Four killed. Conveniently close to our camp. The Alpines are raking the forest for any signs of him, and they blame us.”
“Has the prince not answered your messages?”
“He has, but all he says is that he will see justice done. He tells us to wait. But wait for what? We have been waiting for days!”