One hand reached up to smooth down one side of her head, swiping at the tears that had run down her temples. His own eyes searched hers, the lights now gone, and he wondered if she could see his own questions, his own confusion. She must have because she smiled up at him, then pulled him down for another deep kiss, and he lost himself in her once more.
It was akin to nothing either of them had experienced before. Strange that the simple desire to bond could elevate pleasure, turn it into bliss. That power he had felt, had weathered but had not been able to control. It was inside him, inside them both. How could he resist her now that she was inside him? How could he face the journey home without feeling this all-encompassing passion once more? And yet he knew he must. They had come together, sealed their bond with this act of love, the sweetest promise of a life together sometime in the distant future. To the Silvan side of themselves, they were wed, missing only the feasting and the celebration.
Was this what Tensári had felt with her Connate, Lainon? And his own parents, they had surely wanted this, but Or’Talán had forbidden it. Now that he had felt it for himself, his rejection of his grandfather, the elf he so closely resembled, grew even stronger.
To deny the union of two willing souls … he could not fathom the cruelty. What had moved that king to destroy his own son’s happiness?
He had been Prince Handir for two days, parading in his finest robes and his circlet of office. First had been at the medal ceremony, then at the reforesting and finally at yesterday’s feast.
It was the end of weeks of the aftermath of the Battle of Tar’eastór. He had stood at Vorn’asté’s side as he organised his kingdom, Lord Damiel never far away. He had listened to his father’s commander general, made decisions, learned more of statesmanship in those few weeks than he had in the last six months. He had visited with Fel’annár on many occasions, their bond slowly forming, and he had even seen Llyniel, albeit on rare occasions when she was not required in the Healing Halls.
How different things would have been had that first kiss felt right. And yet he no longer wondered why it hadn’t. She loved Fel’annár, and Handir … perhaps one day he would find his own partner and understand what all the fuss was about.
He was exhausted, had hardly slept since the night of celebrations. He could have stayed in bed, of course—half of Tar’eastór had. But he had always been an early riser and so, in spite of the lingering dizziness from the wine and the liqueurs, he had risen from his bed to start his day. Gods, but had he danced last night? He thought he may have, repressing a shudder at the thought.
He threw himself into a comfortable chair, not far from the fire that always crackled in the hearth of his well-appointed guest rooms, and then cast an almost baleful glance at his desk and the work that had accumulated there. He hadn’t touched a single parchment these last few weeks.
Guilt prevailed, and he stood with a groan of fatigue. Making his way to his desk, he sat in the leather-bound chair, back hunched and his head resting on the palm of one hand. His eyes focussed on the stack of long-abandoned parchments. The off-white, richly decorated sheets were his own, full of flowing dark-green script—ever careful, well-crafted. But the piles were not as neat as was his wont.
Not as neat as he had left them.
He frowned, leaned forward and peered closer. Between those familiar pages were lighter, thicker sheets, dotted with flecks of blue ink. His frown deepened, and he reached for the pile, hand peeling back the top layers to reveal the one sheet that had caught his eye. There were more underneath. Setting the other papers aside, he reached for the foreign parchments and brought them before his eyes. The warm, fuzzy feeling of having imbibed too much wine was suddenly gone, replaced by the tingle of icy needles as his eyes read, though his mind was slow to interpret the words.
‘My Lord …’
His breath froze in his mouth. He reached for the candle that burned steadily in the lightening dark, pulling it as close as he could without burning his own hair.
‘We have yet to carry out the deed. There are certain elements we had not accounted for, some skill that helps our common enemy, and our best elves are changing their tactics to accommodate for this. Did you know, my lord? Did you not know he is a Listener?’
The frigid wave of some impending dread tore down Handir’s limbs, burning his scalp and robbing his breath. Blood roared in his ears, and his heart hammered for freedom in his chest.
He stood in a flurry of fine robes, his frown turning into an expression of horror, and then glittering fury. Everything they had suspected … His eyes read over the rest of the missive and to the end:
‘My own son is overseeing the particulars. Once it is done, my colleagues and I will join you in Ea Uaré, pledge our allegiance to you as was our accord.’
It was not signed, but Handir was sure that, should they compare this script with Lord Sulén’s, it would match. This paper, too, was not easy to come by. The mark of the House of Sulén was clearly visible in one corner.
He threw it onto the table and began on the next.
‘My dearest son …’
His father’s script.
‘There is a dilemma before us, a vote that must be taken, and I pray our Royal Council will indulge the demands of the Silvans for they are just …’
He shuffled through the parchments, read the next one—Sulén’s ink again.
‘I have it, Ras’dán. I will bring it with us, for although it burns all those who touch it, it is our guarantee, should our new lord find fault in our deeds.’
Page after page, different dates, different dispatches.
‘They call it Night of a Thousand Drums. It is the dawn of a Silvan insurrection. If those votes are not approved …’
Handir called upon all his training, all his acumen and his self-discipline. He banished the haze of wine and feasting, and even as the sun rose, still he read. A servant visited, left, returned with breakfast and left again, and still, his eyes did not leave the papers that filed before him, one after the other.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his sore muscles, breathing deeply as he smoothed one hand over his tousled hair.
Is it too late? he pondered. Is my father still king? How long did he have before Band’orán made his final move?
So many questions; only one surety.
They needed to leave.
Now.
The Company sat in stuffed chairs before the hearth in Fel’annár’s rooms, just as they always did before breakfast.
“Where’s Fel’annár?” asked Galdith.
Idernon turned to him, unconcerned. He knew his friend had slept here last night, with Llyniel, and knew he had left, Ramien in tow and out of sight. “He’ll be standing before the sun, or with Llyniel.”
Galdith nodded and then stretched. “Thank the Gods we’re not on duty today. I feel like a squirrel caught in a dust devil.”
Carodel wanted to cover his ears at the terrible simile, the ridiculous image it conjured, but his arms were not cooperating. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said, fingers rubbing at his temples. “The whips of Galomú are slashing at my brain. I can feel my own teeth in my head, throbbing in time with my eyeballs. They may explode and—”