Today, it would not be the venerable Lord Councillor Aradan to lead the proceedings, but Prince Handir. The prince regent had decreed it, and Band’orán had no objections. Indeed, Handir’s inexperience could well work in his favour.
He accommodated himself in his saddle and turned to Barathon.
But he wasn’t there. And then he remembered what he had done. He frowned, schooled his face, and turned to the large elf who stood to attention before him. “Muster the Shadow Kah. Wait for my summons.”
The guard bowed low, and Band’orán and his company left for the palace, his new home. Behind him, ever smaller, was Analei and the past, its ghosts free to roam where they would. As for him, tomorrow would mark the first day of his victory. He would dwell in the king’s quarters, feast on his ascension to the throne. He smiled, looked over his shoulder, saw a guard.
Not Barathon.
Gor’sadén and The Company crouched behind the trees directly before the courtyard, the stately manor of Analei in the distance.
“Prince Rinon already searched it,” whispered Galdith.
“But he did not have the Ber’ator, Galdith. She has led us this way, and I say everything this way must be searched.” Gor’sadén watched as a group of black-clad warriors mounted, hooves clattering over the cobbled stones as they approached another who sat waiting, silver catching on the early morning light.
“That is Band’orán,” whispered Galadan.
Gor’sadén nodded, watched as the foremost warrior drew a blade and saluted. He sucked in a noisy breath.
“What is it?” asked Idernon on his other side.
“That was no ordinary salute. It was the Kal’hai, the oath of loyalty, from a Kah Warrior to his Master.”
“Kah Warriors!” Galdith gasped.
“Illicit ones. Band’orán is no Master.”
Once Band’orán and his warriors had left, Gor’sadén bid The Company mount. They rode down the hill and to the doors of a now apparently abandoned forest manor. It was a beautiful place, sat with the mountains at its back and the forest before it. But the trees were not close. There would be no help from them, not to Fel’annár if he was inside. And Gor’sadén thought that he was.
Through the open main doors, Galdith looked about the lordly place. “There’s no one about. Not even serving staff.”
“He’s here.” Tensári’s lip curled, eyes slanted, body as rigid as rock. Gor’sadén wondered how much of her anger was directed at herself for having lost the Ber’anor in the first place. He didn’t know the story, but he wanted to.
“Under stone, you say. Then we descend.”
The Company nodded and followed the commander down the stone steps. They came to a landing. More doors and passageways, and Gor’sadén turned to Tensári for guidance. She shook her head, and Gor’sadén led them further down. As he did so, he remembered those anguished moments in which they had searched the banks of the Cor’hidén, wading through the reeds and wondering if they would find Handir or Fel’annár’s body floating there. They hadn’t, but would luck accompany them one more time?
But then, what had luck to do with any of this? Nothing, he decided.
I am coming, my son.
Water pooled around them, cold and pure. It soaked their clothes, rising quickly. Fel’annár rubbed his bruised forehead, scraping a chain over the raised stone behind him, again and again. He had been doing it for a long while with no success, and Thargodén watched him, wondering that Fel’annár thought he could break his shackle this way. It was the king’s shackle that he worked on, not his own.
“It will not come loose, Fel’annár.”
“It will.”
The boy was desperate. He had started on the chain no sooner than he had come round, battered and bruised, the shirt barely still on his back. He had rubbed his own bonds against a sharp rock and freed his hands and then set to work. Just when Thargodén was about to dissuade him again, Fel’annár took the chain in his hands and began to twist and turn. Did he think he could break it with his bare hands? He was strong, admittedly, but not that strong. He breathed deeply, looked up to the small circle in the roof, and then down at the water that now covered the floor. It would be over their heads in minutes. Of all the ways he thought he would die, he had not contemplated drowning.
Dread stirred in him. He tried not to think that he would be forced to watch his son drown. After all this time, they had had but hours to speak. Thargodén had discovered that his father had not betrayed him, Fel’annár had learned that Band’orán had ordered his mother’s death and that he, too, should have died with her. Thargodén had told his orphan son of his mother and the boy had listened, had surely reproached him in silence for having no memory of her.
But Fel’annár had not forgiven him.
How could he? Thargodén had obeyed the dictates of his father. He could have disobeyed, but he had put duty before his heart. He had obeyed his father and betrayed his love. Then Or’Talán sought out Lássira, traced a plan. The plan that failed and yet Fel’annár was here, and she was dead. He wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to hug the boy. And all Fel’annár did was scrape at his chains, twist them in his bruised and bloody hands, pull and then start again.
And then, to his utter shock, the chain broke, and the king was free. He stared wide-eyed, shook his head.
Wordlessly, they both took up Fel’annár’s chain and repeated the process. But in Thargodén’s heart, a new reality became clear. It had taken Fel’annár far more time to break the chains than it would for the water to cover his head. It would soon be submerged in water, there would be no friction. No footholds. Thargodén was free of his shackle, could float upwards and to the door in the roof, but Fel’annár was chained to the ground. He would drown first and Thargodén would surely join him minutes later.
And he had not told his son that he was sorry. So very sorry.
Downwards they climbed, and Sontúr trailed his fingers over the stone walls. They were cold and oddly wet, and he told Idernon as much. “Perhaps you were right about the underground rivers, Idernon. It’s humid down here.”
Idernon nodded. With their curiosity piqued, they continued down into the basement. They turned right, right again, opening every door only to find nothing. And then Tensári’s urgent voice.
“Commander.”
“What is it?” The group stopped, turned to her.
“He’s here. I am certain.”
“There are no doors here. We’ve searched them all.” Galdith didn’t understand—none of them did. Idernon’s eyes were searching—the walls, the ceiling, the floor—for the slightest hint of a crack, some trap door. Nothing. Similarly, Sontúr turned and raked his eyes over every single detail, every ridge and every chip of rock. Nothing. They were at the end of a corridor with nowhere else to go except back, and so they turned—all of them except for Tensári.