“I understand that. But Narosén knows and so does the rest of the Council.”
“Narosén will say nothing, but tell the others to keep it to themselves. I will not have my nature used for political leverage.” His eyes were hard, a warning all too clear to see.
“Alright. You have my word.” She shifted on the ground until she was kneeling before Fel’annár. “You are still angry with me, aren’t you?”
“I can understand that much of what you did was for the good of our people, but even if you were right – and I am not sure that you were – I will never understand why you didn’t tell me before I left for novice training. What did you think would happen, once I was recognised? If your goal was to protect me, why did you not warn me?”
She looked away, up to the trees. “I wondered whether you would rush into the city and demand answers. I thought you might put yourself into even more danger by pursuing the truth. I underestimated you, thought you were still a child. I look at you now and wonder how I could ever have thought that.”
Fel’annár frowned, turned away from her. “It was a wrong decision. It was wrong of you.”
“Aria knows Erthoron tried to persuade me, but I refused. I couldn’t see past my own stubbornness, past my own heart that told me that you would hate me if I told you.”
He nodded, said nothing, still not sure that he believed her claims to have been protecting him.
“Can you at least forgive me for those fears, at least?”
A deep sigh, the rustle of cloth as he shifted where he sat. “I forgive you for that, Amareth. But it takes time to accept. Then, perhaps, we can move on. When the trust is rebuilt. When understanding runs deeper. We can try to mend the damage that was done.”
She nodded, still troubled, the plea in her eye still there, dampened.
The sound of warriors and horses was louder now and Fel’annár looked at the sky. The Company would be waiting for him. He stood.
“You’re leaving to scout? Will you not wait for Prince Rinon’s visit?”
“No. What for? I want to search alone with The Company. You go on. I won’t be long.”
She nodded, made her way back, eyes lingering on Tensári as she passed.
With Amareth gone, Tensári stepped noisily towards Fel’annár lest she surprise him. She watched as he spared one last glance at the canopy above.
“Did you find your answers, at last?” she asked.
After all these years, he had, indeed, found most of his answers—and in his mind, his purpose flared, his resolve stronger than it ever had been because now, he was no longer ashamed. Now, he knew who had killed his mother, knew that it would not be Thargodén to bring Band’orán to his knees.
He would do it himself.
“Yes. For the most part, yes, I did.”
His remaining question had no easy answer. It was an answer that could only come with the passing of time. But he would know, one day – know if his aunt had ever loved him, loved the boy and not his destiny.
Tensári nodded, and together, they began the short walk back to camp.
They met Farón on the way. “No need to guard me, Farón. I have Tensári.”
Farón nodded, approached. “Captain Dalú ordered it. I must at least make the effort, I suppose.” He smiled and fell into step between the two. He raised both hands, rested them on their shoulders and Tensári scowled at the brotherly gesture. And then she faltered, opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Alarmed eyes locked with Fel’annár’s. And then he felt it. A lance of pain in his neck, and his legs felt weak. He tried to call out, but couldn’t. And then the forest lay sideways, dimmed. Legs before him, brown eyes bending over him.
“It’s nothing personal, Warlord.”
18
One Day
“In one cycle of the sun, the future of a nation would be revealed. It began the day Fel’annár was betrayed. The day he saw his father’s face.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book V. Marhené
Prince Regent Rinon led fifty Alpine warriors through the city gates, towards the Silvan encampment. Beside him, two of The Three sat proud in the saddle. Just like the glory days of old, said the warriors. Only it wasn’t Or’Talán who accompanied them. It was his grandson.
The arguments and debates, the scheming and bribery, it meant nothing to them at that moment. They knew some had turned, that many more had deserted. But whether they were loyal to Thargodén or not, they would always carry Or’Talán in their hearts. They rode for him today.
And then Pan’assár was back. And if he was back, then so was Prince Handir. No one had seen him yet. Nor had they seen the bastard. But Turion was back, and they reckoned it had been him to find the wayward retinue.
The people smiled in spite of their worry and apprehension. They held out their hands, a proud farewell, a silent wish for them to find the missing king where others had failed. It was, perhaps, their last and only hope. If they couldn’t find Thargodén, surely nobody could.
Angon rode behind, brown hair and beaten face, the face of a kinslayer. Their smiles froze, features tight. They turned their backs as he passed, swearing and cursing under their breaths. Angon had killed those brave fighters, they said, and how the Alpine people loved their warriors.
Rinon was sure that, had he not been riding with Angon, they would have stoned him. They did not understand why he was being set free. They did not understand why Rinon had not searched the Silvan encampment before. It was obvious, they said. The king was there, surrounded by an army of deserters. And then the rumour spread that Rinon would offer Angon’s life, in exchange for the king’s. They were indignant … and they were hopeful.
Rinon half-turned his head to the commanders. Their Heliaré and purple sashes waved in the breeze as they cantered towards the Silvan encampment. They were like a greeting from the past, last of the Kah Masters—perhaps even the last Kah Warriors.
Soon, they approached their destination, but they did not receive the welcome they had expected. Rinon held up a hand for the warriors to stop and Pan’assár mirrored the movement. They could go no further, for before them, stretching along the entire width of the encampment, was a line of mounted Silvan warriors, warriors who had once been a part of their own army and yet to look at them, no one would say it was so.
Brown horses, white and dappled horses, tack adorned with symbols and etchings. Their standard-issue uniforms had been modified. Gone were the breeches beneath the knee-length leather skirt, and no shirts lay beneath their jerkins. Bare arms were adorned with leather bands, symbols of skill and weapons of choice. Vambraces, exquisitely embroidered with green and blue thread, hair braided and twisted, laden with stones, tokens of thanks. Honour stones for honourable service. Blades, bows, daggers and ropes hung from belts, shoulders, harnesses. It was a sea of brown, green and blue, of glinting blades and curved bows; brown hair and honey eyes burning bright, their warning clear.
Stop.
Rinon could almost feel the hatred from behind. Had he given the order, his retinue would surely have charged straight into the Silvan lines, cut them down and slaughtered the people beyond. He caught Gor’sadén’s gaze, Pan’assár’s eyes, and felt their loyalty. Now, all he had to do was show his warriors that the king was not here, show them that these Silvans were still loyal, that they would join the search. Angon had said it was a gamble, and for the first time, doubt stirred in Rinon’s mind.