The Silvan leaders stood silent. With their plans dashed and their hopes doused, all they could do was watch as Fel’annár nodded, turned and left with a Silvan warrior, an Alpine prince and the Ari’atór who always seemed to be behind him.
Farón held the tent flap open for them and then stepped inside. Narosén turned to him. “Farón. About what happened in the forest …”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Your best guess?” prompted Amareth.
Farón straightened. He knew they wouldn’t believe him. “Magic.” He saw their eyes flicker, saw the crease on one side of Narosén’s mouth. Farón left.
There was something important he had to do.
Handir walked down the corridors that wound along the top floor of the palace, his home since birth. But he had never seen it like this. Dark, deserted. Turion told him what had happened, yet still, his mind had not come to terms with the implications, not entirely. Gods, but they had endured so much, only to arrive a week too late for the king. His father was in the hands of a madman, and panic welled in his chest.
Turion walked ahead, opened the double doors and there, before the wall of shutters, where the king should have been, was Rinon: strong, still crowned a prince, a fire in his eyes that was entirely his mercurial brother. Handir was filthy, dusty, must have looked like some refugee from the northern wastelands, but he didn’t care.
Rinon held out his arms and Handir stepped into them. He felt them, strong around his back, squeezing, and his own aching limbs answered. He had made it—down a river and across the sea to the cliffs; through the woods, quite literally. He had not embraced his brother like this for many years.
“Come,” was all Rinon said. The two brothers led the way, followed by Pan’assár, Gor’sadén and Turion. Behind them all, Aradan stared as he closed the doors, eyes trained on the legendary Lord Gor’sadén of The Three.
Handir made for Llyniel, held her at arm’s length and then embraced her. No words, only relief. Aradan watched them carefully, wondering if they had finally come together as he always thought they would—as he had always wanted them to. But there was something brotherly in that embrace, and there was no Bonding Braid in the prince’s hair – not that he was Silvan. No, she had not bonded with Handir.
Rinon tugged on a cord beside the hearth that led all the way down to the lower floor and the kitchens, while Aradan poured wine and handed a goblet to Handir, concerned eyes roving over his tattered clothes and matted hair. The prince reached for it and drank, the smell and taste of wood and spices bringing memories of family in this very room. He watched as Gor’sadén was introduced, his brother’s curious eyes that turned cautious and wary when they landed on Pan’assár. The commander bowed low.
“I have questions, Commander. Questions which must wait until the king is returned.” Rinon’s eyes lingered on Pan’assár, then drifted to Gor’sadén, only to meet Handir’s tired eyes.
Handir reached into his filthy tunic and pulled out what used to be scrolls, now folded, creased and stained. “These were left in my chambers in Tar’eastór. Missives from home that never arrived, that kept us in the dark about what was happening here. Amongst them is an unfinished letter from Lord Sulén Ar Ileian to an unknown lord we are sure is Band’orán. This missive led us to search Sulén’s residence. There, we found further evidence that shows Sulén was sworn to this lord in return for the lands of Oran’Dor.”
Rinon listened. He made to ask his first question, but Handir had not finished.
“It is possible that Sulén may have said something to Band’orán about his missing correspondence, sent some such message after the event, telling him of his failure to kill Fel’annár. Whichever the case, he fled Tar’eastór, coming here, or so we thought. But we cannot ask him. He is dead, slaughtered by Deviants.” Handir did not say how the bodies had been beheaded and hung from the trees. It was something they would need to discuss later when the king had been found.
Rinon paced as he listened to Handir, while Aradan watched his apprentice carefully, observed his hands and the way he moved, registered his words and his tone of voice.
“I believe Sulén prepared for our return, that he foresaw our route back. Mercenaries and shadows hounded our journey, from Senge and to the town of Bulls Bay. But that was only the beginning. Whether at Sulén’s continued behest or Band’orán’s, the persecution became inescapable as we entered the forest. We were separated, but still, Fel’annár lives and Band’orán may already know that.”
Aradan stepped forward, let out a heavy breath. They needed to trace a plan. He faltered when Handir continued to speak.
“This is what I think we should do. I propose that we continue with the votes, which gives us two days. The Inner Circle will impede the return of the Warlord, but this can be proclaimed null later when the truth is out. But the Royal Council must be balanced. A skewed government will be tantamount to a coup. Our king will have no power to rule, even if he can return, and for that matter, neither will you, brother. I must call Band’orán out at that council and pray that you find the king before that happens. If I succeed and Band’orán is stopped, there is no telling whether he will cooperate and tell us where the king is. Perhaps the promise of a kinder sentence will loosen his tongue.”
“And if we don’t find him?” asked Rinon. “What then?”
“Then you will be our king, Rinon.”
The two brothers looked at each other, aware of the implications. Rinon’s eyes rebellious, Handir’s heavy. “And what of the bas—of Fel’annár.”
Llyniel bristled from where she stood at the fire. “Fel’annár is well, safe at the Silvan encampment.”
Aradan arched an eyebrow and then turned back to Rinon as he spoke. “I will ride out again tomorrow. Commander, you will accompany me to the Silvan camp with Angon, speak with Erthoron, garner his cooperation if we can. Our Alpine people expect us to take drastic action against the Silvans, but in all conscience, we cannot do that. I do not believe they killed those warriors or abducted the king, but our Alpine people do. Our Alpine warriors do. I hope the boy has the sense to stay out of sight.”
“He will. The Silvans will see to that,” said Handir. “But who is this Angon?”
“Angon has been causing trouble for months, harassing our merchants, turning them away from the forest. He is accused of abducting the king, killing his guards.”
“And did he?”
“No. No, this is Band’orán’s work, I am sure of it. I have investigated the case. The arrows used to kill his retinue were unlikely to have been Angon’s. I have spoken to him, struck a bargain of sorts. He will help us to search for the king and in return, his freedom, and my promise of equality, of the return of the Warlord.”
“If he is a simple warrior, what makes you so sure Erthoron will listen to him? Agree to join the search?”
“Angon has a following. The Silvans are furious with us for withholding him, just as Band’orán knew that they would be.”