“We will be careful then, Prince.” Barathon smiled.
Handir nodded slowly. “Captain. If there is ever anything you wish to discuss … you can come to me in confidence.”
Barathon paled, his smile gone. He saluted, and Turion watched him return to his father’s side.
Thargodén sat upon the cold stone floor, his ankle still shackled to the ground. He jumped as something banged in the distance, echoed off the walls. Scuffling boots, a cry of pain. Muttered words and a yelp.
“Hold him, for the Gods’ sakes!”
A hiss of pain, the thump of a boot against something solid.
Two warriors dragged a struggling elf towards him. Hooded and with his hands tied, the figure pulled and kicked, lurched this way and that, but he was held fast. They threw him forwards, and Thargodén watched as the body crashed to the ground and then rolled. On his side, he sat up slowly, breath harsh through the hood over his head.
Too fast for Thargodén to truly appreciate, two legs rose and caught one of the warriors in a vice, pulling him to the ground, wrenching from him a strangled cry. The warrior hit the ground with a crack, and his companion was there. He kicked the hooded figure in the head and dragged his companion away, as far as he could from their prisoner.
One sat, the other stood, both turned to the sound of confident strides.
“Secure him.”
The standing warrior approached the hooded figure, lying still on his side and Thargodén watched him, wondering how Band’orán had recruited a Silvan to do his bidding. The warrior pulled at the chains attached to the wall behind Thargodén and snapped a shackle around one ankle as fast as he could before scurrying backwards, wiping at the trickle of blood that ran down his face.
Band’orán watched him. “You have served well. You will soon be rewarded, Warlord.”
Farón bowed to his future lord, acknowledging his reward for having brought in the bastard. He had betrayed his people by bringing Fel’annár to Band’orán. Still, it was the best he could do by them. They had set their hearts on this boy, because of who he was, because of his father. It was a dream they had created, a delusion that would end in disaster for the Silvan people. Fel’annár would demand loyalty to the king – to his father. And Farón could not condone that. It was Band’orán they should bow to, not Thargodén the weak, Thargodén the lesser son of a great king. Had he not given Pan’assár free rein in the forest? Had he not condoned his careless tactics that had led to the slaughter of his people? It wouldn’t be like that with Huren as Commander General. He had promised outposts, a new way of facing the enemy that would protect the Silvan way of life.
Band’orán gestured at him to leave and Farón turned, back to the entrance. As soon as Farón had learned all he could of the Kalhámen’Ar from Band’orán, he would train his own people in the ways of the Kah. He would make the Silvan warriors of Ea Uaré the mightiest of them all - when he was Master and Warlord. It was a pity that Fel’annár had to die. He liked the boy, admired his skill and his loyalty to the Silvans. But he was his father’s son, he willed it or no. His was a necessary sacrifice.
Alone now with his two shackled hostages, Band’orán approached. One was sitting up, trying to make sense of what he had just heard, while the other lay on his side, only now beginning to stir.
“You fight well. You would be a welcome addition to my personal guard. Pity you are who you are. Tell me, though, who is your Master?”
There was no answer, and Band’orán stepped closer. Thargodén watched his gleaming eyes. He saw curiosity and his own was piqued. The hooded figure sat up, a noisy breath through the thick hessian over his head. Band’orán knelt, close enough to touch.
“Gor’sadén of Tar’eastór.” It was the voice of a Silvan, he realised. Thargodén knew that accent, knew it intimately—the coloured ‘r’, the music in it.
Band’orán’s face changed so suddenly a cold wave washed over Thargodén.
“One of The Three. Mighty warriors, the best we have seen, will ever see. There was no one as skilled as they. Gor’sadén, Pan’assár, Or’Talán. No one as good as Or’Talán.”
Band’orán reached out, touched the wool, pinched it between thumb and forefinger. He pulled back slowly, eyes steady. He saw silver strands, braids and twists, a mass of hair. He cocked his head. With his other hand, he reached out and smoothed back the hair that hid his prisoner’s features.
Band’orán inhaled, unable to stop the sound that accompanied it, long and deep. He swayed backwards, pushing himself upright, holding out a splayed hand. His mouth opened but he said nothing and, in his eyes, Thargodén saw horror—horror and grief, guilt and wrath.
He staggered backwards and then whirled away, his back to Thargodén. He left in wavering strides, banging a door closed, and Thargodén turned to the seated figure with the strangest silver hair. It was a colour he had only ever seen once, on the head of his father. The figure turned, and Thargodén sat breathless, boneless, utterly confused. Or’Talán with the eyes of his love.
Fel’annár. Green Sun.
Dear Gods, but he was beautiful. He was hideous. The beautiful face of the father he had loved, the father he had hated. The father he thought had betrayed him. But then, Band’orán had told him the truth and the question that still haunted Thargodén now was why? Why had Or’Talán cowed before Band’orán’s threats? Why had he not arrested him for high treason?
But the elf beside him was not his father. It was his son. He was Lássira’s son, the son he had dreamed of meeting since that fateful day when Aradan had told him he had been found. He had only half-believed the resemblance they said he shared with his father.
All he could do was wonder at the humour of the Gods. His son was identical to his father in everything except the texture of his hair and the colour of his eyes. And of all the places he could have conjured in his mind for their first meeting, of all the circumstances … he had never considered this. Shackled to a wall, prisoners of a damaged mind that wanted them both dead.
Fel’annár’s chain was long enough for him to shift his position, stretch out both legs before him and straighten his aching back. His head throbbed, chest ached. He’d twisted a finger, been punched in the back. But he had landed a cracking blow to Farón’s face, and he had frightened the spittle out of Band’orán, if that was who it had been. He had yet to turn to his fellow captive, his silent spectator.
He knew who he was, though.
He turned sideways, saw the other through his own tangled hair. There, in the gloom beside him, was the king of Ea Uaré. His father.
He didn’t know what to say, whether he even needed to say anything. He scooted backwards, testing the length of the chain again. He felt the wall behind him, leant back against it, allowed his head to rest there against the cool stone.
“Fel’annár.”
He only half-turned. “My king.” His voice had been surprisingly steady, he thought, as his eyes wandered over the room, or rather the hall, that they sat in. He couldn’t remember half of his journey here, had no idea where he actually was. He listened, but all he could hear was the whisper of still waters, the drip of humid rock and his own mind chanting the obvious.