Pan’assár watched the prince turn away. His words were the words of a king, of an elf who would sacrifice the most sacred of all things for the land he ruled over. He would sacrifice his own blood. Here was a worthy cause indeed, and Pan’assár steeled his nerve. The prince was right. Soon, there would be no reason for Band’orán to keep the king alive.
A memory rose in his mind. Six warriors standing under a dome of coloured light. Six warriors standing between the citadel of Tar’eastór and the black host of Deviants that meant to overrun it. The Company. Only now there were seven, searching for the eighth, their leader. There was still hope for Thargodén, hope for Fel’annár, and he smiled fleetingly, remembered Gor’sadén’s words from just days ago.
Kah Warriors do not die easily.
And neither do they despair, thought Pan’assár. He turned to Rinon.
“There is still hope, Prince. Gor’sadén rides with The Company, even as we return to protect this realm. And let me tell you, that is a mighty host of eight. So let us pass this last night together, with stories of Tar’eastór, stories of hope, and then come tomorrow, it will be Handir’s time to shine.”
Rinon’s eyes were wide, searching. He had surely never seen this side of Pan’assár. Indeed, he smiled, despite his fierce mien. “Your words are a balm, Commander.”
Pan’assár nodded, cast his gaze to the slowly closing gates and the distant Silvan fires now behind them.
Do not fail me, brother. Idernon, Galadan, Ramien and Galdith, Carodel, Sontúr and Tensári. Find them. Bring them home.
The mighty gates of Ea Uaré banged shut, but the prayer in his mind did not end.
From a window half-way up the royal palace, Barathon watched Pan’assár and Rinon return from their search, without the king. They would never find him, and after tonight, he knew it would no longer matter. He just hoped that his father would be gracious with the king. He deserved to be treated with respect, deserved a noble death at least.
Barathon’s doubts had returned. He had backed his father in everything, but this … his plan to kill Thargodén weighed on his soul. It was wrong. Surely there was some other way?
And then he remembered Handir’s words.
“If there is anything you wish to tell me …”
But how could he? Band’orán was his father. All he had ever wanted was his recognition, some approval of his worth—a word of praise, a proud smile. But there had never been any of that. It was why he had been close with Silor.
His friends were ambitious, kept his company for what it might mean for them. Silor had been no exception, but there was a deeper understanding between them. Sulén had been much the same with his son. Only Draugolé seemed to understand him, had helped him on those occasions when his father had turned volatile, when his temper would sometimes lead him to do questionable things. Barathon had always tried not to see those moments, not with his own eyes, because somewhere inside himself, he knew that he would not like it, could not condone it. Even now, with the king sitting under the mountain, where he himself never ventured.
He could not condone it.
But he loved his father. No, he wanted to love his father.
He turned from the window, mind awash with confusion. It was why he had sought out Draugolé that evening, to iron it all out in his mind and decide what he should do. Draugolé had protected him before. Liked him, even.
The door clicked shut quietly. Barathon turned to his father, dressed in riding clothes. “Any news, father?”
Band’orán nodded, unlaced his cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. “Most things are running according to plan. Rinon is stirring the Silvans, but thankfully, he is too late.” He smiled, stared at his son for a while.
“Home then?”
“Aye. The meetings are over. A moment. There is something I need from my desk.”
Barathon nodded and went to his adjacent room. He picked up his cloak, strapped on his harness and pulled on his gloves. With one more look around his rooms, he turned. Together, father and son walked to the stables, bound for home. Tonight, he would sleep above the king and his estranged son, as estranged as he was from his own father, the one he had known all his life.
Ten of his father’s personal guard awaited. All cloaked in black, they merged with the night save for the odd glint of their blades. He knew what they were, and it unnerved him. Still, there was, perhaps, no safer place to be than in their company, and so they mounted and cantered away.
Fires glowed to the west. There was the thump of many drums, but they, decked in black, could hardly be seen and soon, their path turned eastwards to Analei, perhaps for the last time.
Or so Barathon thought.
Rinon had returned to the king’s quarters while Pan’assár met with Turion and arranged for added security. Band’orán himself had ridden out to Analei with Barathon, but still, there was no telling what might happen in the night. It would not do be taken by surprise.
With the princes and the Inner Circle sufficiently watched and guarded, commander and captain walked down the corridor that led to the king’s suite of rooms. They would join the princes and Aradan for a nightcap, and perhaps share stories of their time abroad, things that Rinon and Aradan still didn’t know about the battle, about the Nim’uán.
“Pan’assár. Would you lend me the journal?”
The commander turned to him, surprised.
“I won’t go past the day of the battle. I would prefer you to read that first.”
Pan’assár was glad of that. He would not hear of those final hours from any other than Or’Talán himself, and he appreciated Turion’s integrity in the matter, his inbred sense of honour. “Alright.”
His tone must have reflected his worry and Turion was quick to assure him. “It will be safe in my hands, Pan’assár.”
“I know.”
Turion nodded and together they walked through the guarded doors. Inside, they found Rinon sitting with Handir, Aradan, Miren and Llyniel.
“When did you arrive, Llyniel?” asked Rinon, joining the others before the hearth. He sank heavily into a stuffed chair, allowing himself a groan.
“A few hours ago. The camp is in an uproar. There are warriors coming and going all the time.”
“You have done well, brother,” said Handir.
“I have done as much as I could. We were lucky to count on Angon’s cooperation.”
“It was your idea to recruit him,” added Aradan, and Rinon nodded, accepting a goblet from Pan’assár.
“You have heard the news, of course?” asked Rinon, eyes on Handir.
“Llyniel and Miren have told us. He let his guard down,” murmured Handir.
“Betrayed by Farón, of all people,” said Llyniel. “Farón was Lainon’s pupil, deep in the trust of the Silvan Elders.”
“I spoke with Farón many times,” admitted Miren. “Never in all my years would I have said he would turn on his people.”
“We must brace ourselves for what may happen tomorrow. Once those votes are taken, Band’orán will waste no time. There will be little point in keeping our father alive,” said Rinon.