He was good enough to pass it.
Gor’sadén felt Pan’assár’s presence at his side but he didn’t take his eyes away from his Disciple as he fought with Captain Sorei for the privilege of sporting another armband, his second.
“Has sleep brought with it some clarity?” asked Gor’sadén. Not that either of them had slept much. They had sat well into the early hours of the morning together with Prince Handir, discussing the finer points of a plan Fel’annár had revealed to them that very evening.
“Some. I admit this plan of Handir’s seems optimistic and, dare I say, out of character? I had not thought him that invested in the Silvan people.”
“You had not thought him capable of such a thing?” It was not really a question, and Pan’assár’s hesitation was testimony to the truth.
“No. And that is more to do with me, I suppose. It is me that has changed. Now, I see a prince who wishes to pull our people together, strengthen his father’s position on the throne and be rid of those Alpine Purists that Band’orán leads. I see a prince, Gor’sadén. I always discredited him for not being a warrior, underestimated him because he could not fight.”
“Yet fight he must if he is to achieve all that. I had thought the conflict was among the Inner Circle, but he suggests it is the Royal Council itself that is turning against the king.”
“I understand warriors, Gor’sadén, and warriors defend the land. We don’t make the rules. If our Royal Council is tainted, then Handir is right to be worried. Thargodén has not exactly been a strong king these last years. He is vulnerable and the vulture surely circles his prey.”
“Band’orán?” asked Gor’sadén.
“Yes. Who would have thought? My memories of him here in Tar’eastór are good, if not distant. He loved his brother back then.”
Gor’sadén nodded, remembered him well.
“Fel’annár calls this plan the Restoration,” mused Gor’sadén as he watched his Disciple miscalculate his defence, earning a tear in his pants. Gor’sadén’s eyes narrowed, but it was Pan’assár who spoke, words that brought satisfaction to Gor’sadén.
“Careful, boy.”
Careful, yes. Because Sorei was not in the slightest bit concerned for the integrity of her opponent’s breeches, nor the further injuries she may inflict. She bore down on him, pushed him back, but Gor’sadén could see Fel’annár was no longer surprised. He could see his control.
“I had no idea the situation was as bad as it seems to be. I cannot fathom where your prince means to start in all this,” he murmured. Gor’sadén had thought his journey to Ea Uaré would be one of teaching his Disciple the ways of the Kah Warrior, and those of the captain he strove to become. He meant to stay a while as Fel’annár met the family he did not know—his real father, his older brother, perhaps even his enigmatic sister. But now, he was left with the sensation of voluntarily walking into a volatile world of bigoted Alpine lords and angry Silvans, under the rule of a failing king.
A collective gasp from the onlooking warriors and civilians brought Gor’sadén back to the present. His eyes focussed on Fel’annár as he parried Sorei’s vicious onslaught. She was not holding back, even though Fel’annár was. He thought perhaps that his Disciple did not want to use the unfair advantage of the Kal’hamén’Ar. He wanted to face her on equal terms. He still didn’t understand, realised Gor’sadén. The art was an integral part of the warrior, could not be separated from the individual. It was why he had failed that previous move. Discerning eyes registered every mistake and then committed them to memory, for later when they were alone.
The duelling elves came together, swords locking at the hilts, guards crossed and faces almost touching. Sorei’s lips were moving and Gor’sadén could only imagine what she said to his Disciple. He smirked, wasn’t wrong, and in three moves, Fel’annár held his long blade firm and steady over her right shoulder.
Enha’rei. Disarm, or lose your limb.
It was a move Fel’annár had learned just recently. It had cost him sleepless nights and obsessive repetition, and still, he did not always execute it correctly. Even now, Gor’sadén could see the blade a little too far to the right. Should he slice through her arm, it would not be a clean amputation. Still, it was enough. He had bested a Blade Master.
A call from the side lines and they stepped apart. Gor’sadén watched as Captain Sorei lifted her blades and slid them into the sheaths strapped to her back. She was a cool one—cool, foul-mouthed and stone-faced.
He didn’t envy his poor Disciple. He would be holding his breath, wondering if he had passed.
“Foolish child,” he muttered fondly.
Sorei bowed before her opponent. Fel’annár returned the reverence, and when he righted himself, he saw it. A leather armband, at the centre of which were two crossed blades. She smiled as she held it out to him, blue eyes glittering with emotions Gor’sadén could well guess at. Fel’annár plucked the band from her hand and then turned to his Kah Master, the brightest of smiles upon his extraordinary face.
Gor’sadén’s heavy thoughts retreated and his own lips curled upwards. But before he could limp forward and congratulate his disciple, The Company converged upon Fel’annár, slapping and hugging him with their boisterous play and words of congratulations. He had passed the test for Blade Master, a necessary requisite for a Kah Warrior.
Gor’sadén damned his weakened leg. It should have been him standing there, congratulating his Disciple. Now, he would have to wait to tell Fel’annár that he was proud, later, when he could sit and rest his confounded leg that throbbed and ached incessantly.
He saw Prince Handir and Llyniel standing to one side of the crowd, clapping as they, too, watched The Company celebrate Fel’annár’s achievement. Llyniel hooted in pure Silvan fashion, while Handir struggled to hide the look of pride that threatened to shatter his practiced, princely veneer. But Gor’sadén suspected he wouldn’t have cared much, had it indeed cracked.
Sorei approached the two commanders, her step sure, almost predatory. They saluted.
“Commander. I have heard rumour that the Silvan warriors will be leaving soon.” Her eyes drifted to Pan’assár beside him, who nodded.
“It seems likely, Captain.”
She nodded curtly. “If you are still here, with time enough for another patrol, I would take him out under my lieutenant. The experience will do him good.”
“It would,” agreed Pan’assár. “But that is unlikely, Captain.”
“A pity then,” she said, eyes returning to Gor’sadén. “Still, should there be a change of plan, I ask that you remember my timely request.” Nodding and saluting, she turned and strode away in a flurry of black and silver.
“How many requests does that make?” asked Pan’assár with a quirk of his lips.
“Twenty-two, or perhaps twenty-three.” He shook his head and continued on the path towards the palace and the Healing Halls. “Comon lost Captain Rainor in the battle. Sorei is his closest collaborator now.”