Handir smiled tightly. “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. Obviously, it was someone who was angry with Sulén, someone skilled in the arts of theft and stealth. Whoever it was, their argument was our gain.”
There were nods around the room, but Fel’annár was only half listening. The Silvans had requested the return of the Warlord. They had named him specifically, and the suspicion was firmly planted in his mind. How long had the Silvans been planning it? Was that why Amareth and everyone else had lied to him? Not to protect his life, but also to protect their own futures?
Pan’assár’s voice was strong and assertive enough to pull him out of his dark thoughts. “If Sulén is travelling to Ea Uaré, he has a head start, and he surely knows his correspondence is missing. He has fled to his lord in Ea Uaré and has failed in his attempt to kill Fel’annár. I do not think he will simply walk in and tell Band’orán this. He will endeavour to carry out that promise to his lord before Fel’annár can return to the forest. Otherwise, he will return a failure.”
“Agreed.” Gor’sadén nodded. “We cannot take the main road back.”
“No. Now listen carefully,” said Handir. “We need time to prepare, to understand how we must travel and what route to take. Under different circumstances, I would suggest a forward scouting party to determine the situation, but we have no time. I must be back before those votes take place. We need to plan a route, but we must ask ourselves, how far gone is the conflict between Silvans and Alpines? Will we be free to travel through the forest? Is it even safe to do so?”
Pan’assár nodded. “My prince. I suggest we meet at sundown. We need maps, we need the latest reports on the two major routes back to Ea Uaré, and once we understand which is our best road, we need provisions. Commander Gor’sadén?”
“You will have them, Commander, Prince.”
“And I must speak with King Vorn’asté and Councillor Damiel,” said Handir. “But heed me, all of you: I would leave Tar’eastór in three days or before if we can.”
As preparations for departure began, Sontúr, Pan’assár and Gor’sadén stood in the library of Lord Sulén’s abandoned residence. Sulén, Silor and Ras’dan had, indeed, already left, and had an unknown head start on them. It was enough to ensure that the missives could not be used against them, at least not here in Tar’eastór.
They had seen signs of panic. Displaced books, papers strewn about the place. They found burnt parchment in the grill and empty drawers left open. This was no planned absence but a hasty retreat.
It had been Sontúr himself who climbed the mobile ladders that reached up to the highest level of the vaulted ceiling. He had stayed there for hours, pulling out books, reading their titles, looking behind them while Gor’sadén and the other guards searched the furniture and the many nooks and hidden doors they had found. They discovered a trap door, which Gor’sadén had ordered searched and then Sontúr had called down at them from the heavens.
Maps. Maps of Ea Uaré, villages, their population, the ruling house of its leaders and the natural resources in the area. Important buildings were marked and connecting roads clearly drawn. But it was the village of Oran’Dor that had drawn Pan’assár’s eyes especially. Through its name, a long, stark line had been drawn, and over that, another replaced it.
Sulén’Dor.
There were notes in the margins, of thanks to Band’orán for his generosity, of his ongoing loyalty. It was one more indication, one more incriminating circumstance; but it was not proof of Band’orán’s treachery, not quite.
Pan’assár shook his head. They were planning to carve up the forest, take it from the natives and reshape it, rename it, suck it dry. They had never understood why Or’Talán had ridden that day, in search of new lands to colonise. But Pan’assár had known the mind of he who would be the first king of Ea Uaré.
He had never wanted to dominate the natives. He had never wanted to take anything away from them, but rather to give them what he could. Roads, buildings, a new way of legislating, of commanding an army and defending the lands from an enemy that sought to overrun them.
It had never been about gain or power.
Sulén, the thought of what he was trying to do, how he would make a mockery of those honourable intentions … it boiled Pan’assár’s blood. He could still see the faces of those captains who had followed Or’Talán. Dinor, Bendir, Ileian and a young Captain Band’orán. How he had looked up to his mighty brother. How he had loved him. How he had betrayed him.
He closed his eyes. Felt sick.
Why did Or’Talán’s brother now covet the throne? Did he not have all the wealth and renown he needed? Why would he turn against the legacy of his kingly brother and strive to oust his own nephew from the throne? Was it simple lust for power? But Pan’assár already knew the answer.
They were missing something.
3
The Mind of Gods
“All Ber’anor have a purpose, but that purpose is always to protect. That is the nature of Aria. To unite a forest at war was an admirable goal, just and good. But what was Aria thinking? Was there a purpose beyond the Restoration?”
The Alpine Chronicles: Cor’hidén
To the south-west of Tar’eastór, half a day from the Glistening Falls, Lord Sulén sat in his tent.
They had fled in haste, had shoved anything and everything of importance into cloth satchels and loaded them onto their horses. Everything except his most prized possession. One hand reached up to his chest and patted the object under his tunic.
He still remembered the day on which the Gods had seen fit to reward him, deliver him. It was the day on which his father died.
The venerable Lord Ileian had bid his son come to him alone, and in those final minutes of his life, Ileian handed him the journal. Sulén had taken it in his hands and his father, with a strength that belied those last moments of life, had bid him listen well.
‘Guard this with your life. Let no one know what it is. This is your lifeline, Sulén. If you are to follow Band’orán, remember this: he is not Or’Talán. Your new lord will be generous with you, so long as you are useful to him. Loyalty means nothing to him except as payment for your service. But should he turn away from you … if you must follow Band’orán, this is your lifeline, Sulén.’
He hadn’t understood at the time. His father had passed, and he had inherited everything—everything except his loyalty to the king of Ea Uaré. He had thought it was his father’s own journal. How wrong he had been.
Not Ileian’s, but Or’Talán’s.
Precisely, it was Or’Talán’s fourth and final journal. The last words of the great king before he had been cut down at the Battle Under the Sun. It had taken Sulén a while to work out its importance, but he had done, eventually. It was, indeed, Sulén’s lifeline; his guarantee that Band’orán would not harm him should he fail to kill the bastard, should he fail Band’orán in any way.