The frown on the king’s face was deep, almost disturbing. One hand reached up to a smooth lock of hair, and Fel’annár wondered: had Thargodén ever worn his? He looked away, wished he hadn’t asked his stupid question.
“Band’orán has told me many things since I’ve been here, everything except one. I wonder if the answer lies in that journal—and if it does, would you tell me, Fel’annár?”
Would he? He turned to the king once more. And then he faltered. For a moment, he saw himself all those years ago …
What happened to my mother? Who was my father? Why won’t you speak …?
“Do you know why King Or’Talán agreed to Band’orán’s demand, Fel’annár?” A careful question, not softly spoken, yet neither was it an order.
And there it was. It was the question Fel’annár knew must have tormented the king all this time. Thargodén had always known his father, loved him. And then he had hated him for what he had done.
Yes, he knew the answer to that question.
“He didn’t agree. He lied.”
Thargodén flinched, searched Fel’annár’s face.
“He told my mother of his plan, to find a way to stop Band’orán, but he couldn’t tell you. You had to believe it, so that Band’orán would believe it. But then—”
“The Battle Under the Sun. He died. He didn’t betray me. He didn’t …” The king stood, turned away and walked as far as his chain allowed. Fel’annár watched as the truth that had eluded Thargodén slowly sank in, taking with it years of suffering and grief, and although one stood and the other sat in some underground palace, chained to a wall, when Thargodén turned back to his son, he was smiling.
And with the Gods as his witness, Fel’annár tried not to feel. But he did.
Late morning, and The Company sat in a small cave. They drank water and chewed half-heartedly on strips of dried meat.
“Tensári?”
She turned to Idernon, eyes shining almost as bright as Fel’annár’s. He scowled, and Sontúr leant forward. “Is this what we saw in Tar’eastór, when Lainon fell? Is this your Guiding Light?”
She nodded. “It is Aria’s gift to a Ber’ator. She guides me to him. He is alive, and I know he is under rock. But this is new to me. I am trying to fathom his direction.”
“Further north?” asked Gor’sadén.
She shook her head. “I do not know, but it feels right to be at the foot of the mountains. But whether he is further north or south towards the city, I cannot tell.”
“Then we continue north until twilight and then circle back. The patrols surely missed something. But they didn’t have Tensári. We are counting on you, Ari’atór.” He saw her careful nod, and as they mounted to resume their search, Gor’sadén repeated those words in his mind.
I am counting on you.
At sundown, Pan’assár, Rinon and his warriors rode towards the city. Another day of fruitless searching. Still, the Silvans had indeed ridden out, though they made it clear they did it for their Warlord.
Rinon turned his head to the camp, a ways over to their right. A small group of warriors was galloping towards them, and Rinon slowed their own pace.
It was Angon himself and a small group of strangely decked elves.
“What news, Angon?”
“We have searched everywhere, short of reaching Sen Garay. That will be our next step. From there, we pan left and right. We will find our Warlord, Prince.”
Rinon knew what he meant; they all did. Wherever Fel’annár was, the king was surely there, too. “You have my thanks, Angon.” He steered his horse as close as he could to the Silvan, spoke quietly so that the troops would not hear him. “The votes are tomorrow afternoon. Past that point, it is unlikely we will find them alive.” He stared at Angon, saw his resolve. He had not been wrong. Angon was an honourable warrior, one he trusted.
“We will not stop, Prince. Even once those votes are cast, we will not stop.”
Rinon offered him a respectful nod. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Safe hunting, Prince.”
Angon wheeled his horse around and galloped back to the camp. Even as he returned, Rinon could see other smaller groups leaving. A surge of pride rolled over him, for how he had believed in Angon and not been wrong, for how he had dared believe the Silvans would still help him, even after everything that had happened.
He turned back to Pan’assár, who was watching him through narrowed eyes. “How much did you hear back at the camp?”
“Everything,” admitted Pan’assár. “You did well. And you were right about Angon, I think. He holds more sway over the warriors than Erthoron.”
This was surely not the same bigoted, racist commander who had left for Tar’eastór with his brother all those months ago. Was it the battle that had changed him? Or was it something else that had happened along the way? Something he had yet to speak of? Whatever it was, Rinon was grateful. Pan’assár had stood outside that tent and endured the stares and the whispered insults for almost an hour, and not one word of disdain had left his lips.
The situation was as dire as it had been that morning, but Rinon’s resolve was bolstered. On their way once more, Rinon spoke. “Who were those elves who raised the alarm about Fel’annár being taken?”
“The Company, Prince. That was The Company; warriors loyal to the Silvan. The boy takes after his grandfather, as do you, although in a different way.”
Rinon said nothing for a while, but Pan’assár seemed to know he was curious about something else.
“I am surprised you have taken so well to him, given your animosity towards Silvans,” said Rinon.
“So am I.” One side of Pan’assár’s mouth quirked upwards. Grim humour. Rinon smirked, but he kept his questions to himself for now, and he rather thought Pan’assár was grateful for that.
He needed to speak with Handir, coordinate their security for tomorrow’s events. Rinon could not shake the idea that Band’orán may not even wait until the Council tomorrow. Perhaps he would make his move tonight, while the king was lost and the people in turmoil. He needed extra security for Handir, needed Turion to ensure that their guards were loyal. It would be a tense night, an even tenser day tomorrow at court and in the field where the search for king and warlord would continue. But it would continue without Rinon, without Pan’assár, for tomorrow at least. They were needed at the palace, with Handir. After the revelations he would make, there was no telling how Band’orán would react. Ea Uaré needed its regent present, needed its commander to protect the line of Or’Talán, rally their army behind the ruling house, if such a thing were still possible.
“I doubted you.”
Pan’assár started, turned to Rinon. He knew it, and had been angry with Rinon for saying as much in front of others. “I know.”
“I do not regret it, because it was your own actions in the past that led me to question your loyalty. Now, I see a commander general, a defender of my grandfather’s line. I see your anguish because my father is still out there somewhere. I know what you are thinking—the same thing I am thinking. When Band’orán makes his move, tonight or tomorrow at the vote, the king’s life will be forfeit, and yet, there is nothing further you nor I can do. We must see tomorrow through and ensure the safety of our people. Only then can we resume the search for my father, even if it is only to honour him in death.”