Barathon was starting to panic, but still, the slip registered. Who was his father? Who did he think he was talking to?
“Father … stop!”
“It never stops, son. You are a failure. Mediocre warrior, mediocre statesman, better than most, but always second.”
“I … I tried.”
The hand around his throat tightened, and Barathon’s hands pushed back. But both his arms were not enough to loosen his father’s chokehold. He could feel his windpipe narrowing, could hardly speak. “Please…”
“Don’t beg. Accept it. Your life means nothing. Not when you walk beside him.”
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move his head. He was held in place, forced to watch as his father’s madness was given free rein. He felt dizzy, panicked, grappled with the hand but another came up. Band’orán pried his son’s hands away and pushed until something scraped against the back of Barathon’s neck. His eyes bulged, sagged, closed, heart shuddering in his chest.
Band’orán watched as he squeezed, face shaking with the effort, tears unchecked. Then he gasped, staggering backwards. He watched the body crumple to the ground, first into an awkward sitting position, only to slowly keel sideways, inert.
“Band’orán?” He stepped forwards. “Barathon?” He knelt down, took in the chin and the face. “Barathon.”
A gasp. He covered his mouth with his other hand, a tear splashing onto his son’s still chest. “Your life had no meaning, child.” A hoarse whisper. “It’s better this way. No suffering. No pretending. You’re free now.” He smiled, lips quivered. “See? See how peaceful it is?”
He turned away, despair and grief were only fleeting. Ire was building in his chest. He knew who was responsible. He knew how it had all started: with the one that could not be beaten. With the one who had always been better, had never failed his father. Even now, he was sitting in his underground realm, alive and at his mercy at last. Now, even when there were no witnesses to it, Band’orán would be better. Band’orán would be cleverer, more skilled. He would outwit them all and then be a king, better than him. Better than Or’Talán.
He stood, walked back to his silent guards and mounted, leaving his son lying dead in the forest, all but forgotten. He had killed Band’orán—Barathon—and now he would kill Or’Talán, at last.
The Company continued their search, Tensári at the fore, eyes burning bright, and Gor’sadén at her shoulder. They rode through the forest, up hills, along ridges. They searched every cave, crossed every glade. But there was still no sign of Fel’annár or the king. Rinon had, indeed, searched these lands well.
Gor’sadén startled when Tensári turned to him. “Rock. Rock and water. There is water, Commander.”
He frowned, turned to Idernon. “Are there any water sources here? Lakes, streams, some tributary of the Calro?”
“No. But these are the foothills of the Median Mountains. There are bound to be underground rivers, although where I cannot say. However,” he continued, more slowly, “it would make sense that they were close to the Calro …”
“Further south? Back towards the city?”
“It is but a guess, Commander.”
“It is all we have. Tensári?”
“Agreed.”
“Then we ride!” He wheeled his horse around, back in the direction they had come from. They would ride slowly, carefully, search everything, even the ground beneath their feet.
“Do you remember your mother, Fel’annár?”
He turned where he sat, knees bent, arms resting on them. “No.”
“Did you ever see her in a picture?”
“I saw her in a dream.”
“Then you know that she was beyond beauty. Gods, but those eyes of hers. Like emeralds under a forest brook, under a hot summer’s day.”
Fel’annár’s eyes strayed to the rough-cut emerald that sat on the king’s index finger. It was an odd piece, he mused, as if it had been split unintentionally by an axe, part of a once whole gem. He turned away again, listening as the king continued to remember his love.
“But it was her heart. Her heart was so big, so open. A Silvan heart, giving and caring. How the people loved her, and how she returned that love. I saw her, just once from a distance, as she handed a loaf of bread to a soldier. She didn’t look at me.” He smiled, almost a grin. “She thought me a pompous prince come to parade himself, swagger and flirt as she later told me. She could be so brash at times, had a tongue on her that would not be stilled even in the face of royalty.”
Fel’annár’s mind strayed to Llyniel, wondered if she was still at the camp.
“I returned the next day. I was supposed to stay with the tents, but the village was safe enough. I stole away and watched her as she worked, sat amongst the trees and watched her hands as they weaved a basket, as they tucked her hair behind her ear.”
“Fond memories. I am glad you have some.” Fel’annár knew the king was watching him, but he kept his own eyes on the now dry lake beyond.
“Amareth cared well for you.” Careful words, spoken softly.
“She is not my mother.”
The silence seemed to deepen, stretched on until something banged loudly, glass smashing on stone. Thargodén and Fel’annár stood slowly, trying the chains once more. They watched as Band’orán came striding towards them, and to Fel’annár’s utter shock, he wore the purple sash of a Kah Master. Behind him were four others wearing grey sashes, and one of them was Farón, nose still puffy from where he had broken it. Fel’annár caught his eye, curled his lip at the traitor. But there was no time for questions.
A hand streaked past his peripheral vision, striking him across the cheek and sending him reeling sideways, barely keeping both feet beneath him. Thargodén steadied him and Fel’annár straightened, looking the Kah Master in the eye. He saw the glint, the strange emotions, and wondered whether it was madness.
Band’orán half-turned, kicked him in the chest, then moved in and swiped the legs out from under him. Fel’annár crashed to the floor, could hardly roll. A kick to the side, and another. All he could see were Band’orán’s black boots, his sash settling around his knees. He drew in a painful breath and gasped.
“Fel’annár.” A whisper from his other side.
“You disgust me. Half-Silvan spawn of a whore. You should have died in her arms. What was Aria thinking?” A hand in his hair, pulling his face up and back. Band’orán peered closely at him in fascination and confusion. “You don’t deserve that face.”
The hand pushed back, and Fel’annár rolled as best he could, standing slowly. Band’orán’s words echoed in his mind.
“You should have died in her arms.”
“You don’t deserve that sash.” Fel’annár’s voice was nothing but a breathless whisper.
“And what would you know? You’re nothing but a warrior, barely out of novice training. Not good enough for me, Silvan. Not good enough.”