Rinon watched the warrior with glittering eyes, steely and unyielding. “No. But it makes sense to ride together. Scout ahead if you will but stay within ten minutes of the main group.”
“We ride for the foothills.”
“We have already searched that area.”
“We will search it again, Prince.”
“You won’t find him. But do what you wish.” He waved a hand in the air between them. Over the past week, they had searched every cave, every cottage and every flet in the trees. They had searched Analei and found nothing.
The guard was back, breathless and too pale. “Captain. Farón is not at the camp.”
“He was on duty,” said Dalú, almost a whisper, studiously avoided Idernon’s hard glare.
Rinon turned to Erthoron. “Remember, Lord Erthoron. Work with me, and we can pull this nation back together. Trust me, for a while longer at least. For one more day. We search the eastern mid-flank.” He stared, waiting for his answer. It came in the form of a curt nod.
“We search the western flank and northwards. We will find our Warlord, and the king if he is with him,” said Dalú, fierce face driving home his message, and Rinon understood exactly where the captain’s loyalties lay.
Rinon bowed to Erthoron and nodded curtly. With a last lingering stare at Angon and Dalú, he strode away.
Pan’assár made to follow, but he paused, turned back to Idernon, Galadan at his side. “Find him, Wise One.” He nodded, almost bowed, glanced at Galadan and then left with his prince.
Idernon turned, ran back to the stables where Llyniel and The Company would be waiting. The Silvan warriors shouted their warnings ahead to the stable hands and by the time Idernon arrived, The Company was mounted. He quickly climbed into the saddle and as he wheeled his skittish mount around to face them, another came cantering towards them. The Silvans warriors on foot made way for him, eyes on his cuirass and the purple sash around his waist. Gor’sadén stopped before Idernon.
“Where to?”
Idernon looked at the others, then back to the commander. “We believe he is being held somewhere in the foothills, to the east.”
“They have already searched there.”
“We think they missed something.”
“He lies under rock, in the foothills to the east,” said Tensári.
Idernon nodded at the Ber’atór, glanced at Llyniel on the ground, looking up at him. Idernon remembered his moment of weakness on the river. He had given up hope that Fel’annár had survived the river. He would not make the same mistake twice.
“He’s alive, Idernon,” she said, eyes wide and steady.
He nodded resolutely. “Then we ride north for as long as the light lasts, then circle back, along the base of the mountain. The votes are tomorrow, but we have no need to be there. We search until we find them.” Idernon caught Gor’sadén’s gaze, saw the minute nod of his head. Wheeling his horse around, The Company and Gor’sadén kicked their mounts into a canter.
Llyniel raised a hand to The Company, her mind reaching out, searching for a glimmer of her bond with Fel’annár, but as yet, there was nothing more she could tell them. A little further off, Amareth too, watched them leave, slowly losing her battle against her rising panic. Her shawl fell away from her shoulders, arms lax, breath too fast. She felt Erthoron’s steadying hand at her back. “Gods. All this time we have kept him safe, only for one of our own to take him.”
Dalú turned to her, his face a terrible sight. He had trusted Farón, loved him even. What had Band’orán offered him that his own people could not provide?
Their best warrior turned traitor, and it was all his fault.
That morning, while Rinon was at the Silvan camp, Prince Handir reappeared before the court. It was the last regular Council session before the votes would take place, and throughout the proceedings, all eyes had been upon Handir and Turion. Of course, they had also seen Commander Pan’assár riding out with the crown prince just that morning.
But where was the bastard?
As the councillors spoke and discussed the upcoming votes, Turion turned to the prince. “Band’orán seems calm, unconcerned. If he has the king, he does an admirable job of fooling me.”
“He has him.”
Turion started at the conviction in those words. No doubt at all. Turion thought himself insightful when it came to judging character, but how could Handir be so sure?
“He is not worried, Turion. He is not worried because he knows where the king is. He is in control, at the helm, watching us with something akin to pity. They are not sorry. They are not concerned for his plight. They are glad of it.”
Turion thought it a long shot to assume so much on so little. Still, he continued to watch Band’orán as he spoke with the other councillors. The king’s uncle smiled and nodded. He listened, patted shoulders. For him, it was a normal day in the council chambers. But for Turion, it was the day in which war may come to Ea Uaré. Silvan warriors against Alpine warriors and the Gods forbid that Rinon lose his infamous temper at the Silvan encampment. All he could do was thank Aria that Pan’assár was with him.
As Turion watched Band’orán and wondered what the day would bring, Handir began to realise that his father must surely be dead. Common sense dictated that he was. There was no reason for Band’orán to keep him alive, save the memories of the past.
His heart felt leaden. Despite his father’s years of aimless wandering, the near indifference he had shown his sons, Handir loved his father. He always had but never told him that.
“Excuse me.” Barathon approached, saluted Turion, bowed to Handir. “I was hoping to see Captain Rinon before he left. He has freed the Silvan rebel.”
“He has. Evidence was uncovered. He rides to investigate.” Handir stared at his cousin.
“Of course. And of the king? No news then?”
“No news, Captain. Your father will be ecstatic.” Handir’s eyes were hard, voice soft. Turion didn’t recognise him at all, could have sworn it was Rinon, not Handir, standing beside him.
“He’s not.” Barathon frowned. “He is concerned. Don’t let his demeanour fool you. He is difficult to read, but King Thargodén is his nephew, his blood.”
“You think that blood would stop him from achieving his goals?”
“It must.” The frown was back.
Turion watched the captain. Wondered if he truly believed what he said. If he didn’t, he was good, too. Good at fooling himself that his father cared about Thargodén; that he cared about anyone.
“It should, yes. As for me, I will wait and see for myself whether you are right. But I hope that you are, Barathon. For your sake.”
“I am right, Prince. He means to serve this land. His motives are good.” Barathon smiled, and Turion was struck once more by the boy. He could have been good. He could have been kind and honourable. Instead, he stood here, defending a traitor, a kinslayer.
“Will you return to Analei tonight?” asked Handir.
“I believe so. The Council is tomorrow evening.”
“The road may be dangerous.”