“We search for our king.”
“He’s not here!” Another voice, equally strong but worn and scratched. Dalú.
“I require the promises of your leader, Lord Erthoron.”
Dalú turned in the saddle, watching as Erthoron strode through the lines until he stood beside his captain’s horse.
“You have my promise. King Thargodén is not here.”
“We must see it for ourselves.”
“Would you allow us to march into your city with our army? Search for our Warlord, if we had need?”
Rinon waited, knowing that Pan’assár and Gor’sadén were looking at him. They all knew Fel’annár was here, that they wouldn’t need to march into the city in search of him. But Erthoron’s question was nothing but an example, one more part of the play so that the warriors could hear for themselves.
“We have brought Angon. Tell us, lord. Did he kill our warriors? Did he abduct our king?”
“He did not!” Voices shouted out from the lines, angry words, and Dalú straightened in the saddle.
“Silence!”
“Prince Rinon. Did you check the arrows that were used to kill your warriors?”
He had, but he allowed Erthoron to spell things out for his people.
“If you did, you would see that those assassins killed your warriors with standard-issue arrows. Angon never uses them. He makes his own, all his elves do. Arrows, to the Silvan warrior, are a very personal thing, Prince. You may know this, but perhaps you don’t. You have locked away an innocent elf, condemned him before he ever had a chance of defending himself.”
There was a roar of anger from the mounted Silvan warriors, horses stirring beneath them, agitated and ready.
“I spoke to Angon myself. He told me this, and I can confirm what you say, Lord Erthoron. I have brought him here, as a token of my goodwill. In return, I need your assurances that there will be no violence between our warriors. I have come to ask you to help us search for the king.”
“Then we must talk, Prince. Until the votes are cast, our future is uncertain. We do not know if you are friend or foe.”
The Alpine warriors stirred behind their prince. Pan’assár glared at them.
“Show us that the king is not here, as your own token of good will.”
Erthoron nodded, murmured something up at Dalú.
Rinon, Angon and Pan’assár dismounted, and Gor’sadén turned to the troops, steering his horse down the line, a warning in his eyes.
You answer to me now.
With a signal from Dalú, the Silvan line opened, enough only for the three elves to pass. It was an act of utter faith. The Crown Prince of Ea Uaré walked willingly into the Silvan camp, outnumbered, at their mercy.
It was a risk, one Pan’assár would have preferred not to take. But then he himself was probably in the most danger. He had mistreated these warriors for years. He could feel their hatred, feel their resentment stretching the air around him, pulling it tight. He kept his eyes open and his mouth shut, not for the first time wishing Galadan were beside him. This was what Angon must have felt like when they left the city.
Every tent they passed, its owners came to stand outside, held open the tent flaps so that Rinon could see inside. Nothing, just as they knew would be the case. They passed the farrier’s huts and the blacksmith’s anvils. They passed the ovens and the pens, the training pits and the supply areas. Smaller tents, warriors’ tents, and then they came to the two largest tents at the centre of the settlement. At the entrance to one of them, a warrior stood, as tall as he was broad. Rinon approached, ducked inside. There, to his shock, was Llyniel, sitting together with a group of warriors. They stood, bowed, and Rinon searched them, for any signs of a bonding braid. But there was none. He caught her gaze, all stubborn and rebellious as she had always been with him. He arched a brow, tucked away his questions for later.
The very last tent was Erthoron’s. Indeed he stood there together with a group of elves, one of them an Ari’atór.
“We must talk,” said Rinon, and Erthoron nodded, held out his arm to the entrance of their command centre. Rinon turned to Pan’assár.
“Stay here.”
The commander nodded, bolstered his courage and stood at the now-closed flap. Before him, the entire Silvan camp watched. Amongst them, the faces of warriors who had once served in the army he himself commanded. He had belittled them, ignored their courage, allowed others to all but enslave them. He had done them wrong, and all he could do was stand there and endure their silent judgement.
Gods but he wished Galadan were here.
Inside the tent, Narosén managed to stare at Rinon while he bowed. Erthoron’s lips were pursed while Amareth was once more struck by the similarities this elf shared with Fel’annár.
“That was well done,” murmured Erthoron.
Angon turned to Rinon, and then back to Erthoron. “You knew?”
“Of course we did, Angon. You have my thanks, Prince, for seeing justice done.”
“It was my duty, but I will not pretend that was the only reason. We have a unique opportunity, Lord Erthoron. One last chance to bring our warriors together. The king is nowhere to be found, but if our warriors can search for him together, if the Alpines can see that you care, that you are still loyal, we can stop this descent into rupture. Help me find him. Help me to show them that you did not abduct the king. You did not kill those warriors. Rise above those lies and show them.”
“We shouldn’t have to.”
“No. But we are fighting Band’orán. This is his game, not mine. Not the king’s. He plays on loyalties, on past injustices. He creates conflict where there is dissent. He makes a war from a disagreement. If he is to rule, he must separate us. So far, he is succeeding.”
An elf offered wine from a tray of goblets, and Rinon took one, admired the craftsmanship.
“The votes are imminent. As it stands, the Inner Circle will vote against the Warlord, and the Council will vote against the inclusion of new Silvan advisors. Our only hope now is to find the king, prove Band’orán’s treachery.”
“There is no time, Prince. It has been many days since the king was taken, and only one more day for the votes to take place. And what then? There will be no more reason for us to stay here. No more reason to trust your people. There will be no more justification for peace, Prince. I certainly cannot guarantee it.”
Rinon drank from his goblet, studied the liquid inside it for a moment. “Then one day it is, lord. You have Angon to help with the warriors, to rally them and organise patrols. If it is the Silvans who find the king, then that would be a mighty triumph, Erthoron. It would say so much to my people, show how Band’orán is wrong about you.”
“It is a pity that should be the only way.”
“In an ideal world, Lord Erthoron. In an ideal world, we all judge a person by the merit of their actions. Many Alpines have not done that. Many Silvans have not done that. It falls to their leaders to carry them forwards, would you not say?”
Erthoron straightened. Amareth’s lips flickered and Angon nodded firmly.
Idernon tightened his harness and left the tent, The Company and Llyniel behind him. “This is taking too long.”