No Deviants. No Sand Lords. Only Aria’s creation, free to live and die as nature dictated. Perhaps that was why it was so beautiful, mused the king. Indeed, this was his favourite place, save for one. He would never go back there, not physically, because there was something missing. In his mind, though, he visited every day, because she was still there.
Lássira would have been happy here.
He felt the velvety skin of a cool leaf as he rubbed it between his fingers. It was a habit he had always had. His mother used to laugh and his father stare but Thargodén never worried about it. It comforted him, brought things into perspective.
Aradan stirred at his side, apparently tired of the report he had been reading. He breathed in and threw it on the lawn in front of him where he sat. Not tired. Angry.
“If only we knew why. He has no legitimate claim, cannot take the throne unless you and all your children are dead or incapacitated, and although I do not trust that snake, I refuse to believe he would go that far. He has always adhered to the law, though he manipulates it well, and makes a travesty of it at times.”
“Rinon said as much. And if you were speaking to him now, he would tell you that Band’orán has not always followed the rules. He suspects him of much more than just conspiracy, Aradan.”
“Rinon is quick to anger, sceptical beyond reason at times.”
“And yet, he has come a long way these past few months. He smiles sometimes, even at me.” Thargodén smoothed his finger over the leaf and felt peace settle around him.
“That is progress, yes. And I dare say he has shown where his loyalty lies. Before, in his need to reject you, his words were meant to hurt and to worry, where now he thinks and speaks wisely. Just yesterday he was telling me of what he had heard at the barracks. The same things I hear in our streets, the same lies Miren tells me of. Your son was angry, Thargodén. Offended, even.”
“What do they say? Apart from that I am weak and lovesick.”
“That your heart is not in it. That all you want is to take the Long Road and be reunited with Lássira. They say the kingdom needs a stronger ruler, that change must come if we are to stop the Silvans from rebelling and turning against us.”
“All this from Lord Draugolé, I assume.”
“Naturally. Alarm the people with talk of a weak ruler. Show them that chaos is coming. Frighten them into believing that change is necessary. A classic technique.”
“It is working.”
“Only if we let it, Thargodén.” Aradan’s eyes were lost for a moment, back to the days when Or’Talán was still king and his own master, Ileian, was Royal Advisor. “Your father used to walk the streets every Friday evening. And every Sunday he would ride out to Analei, stop along the way and speak to merchants. He knew everything that went on in the city, in the forest.” Aradan stared at Thargodén’s profile, waiting for him to react.
“I am not my father.”
“No. But he was well-advised. He was loved in part because he was humble, spoke to the workers, not just the lords. He was invested in their problems, however trivial they were. They not only accepted him as a leader, they felt it too.”
Aradan had loved Or’Talán, but the advisor knew not to mention him too much. Thargodén had worshipped his father, then hated him when he had prohibited his love for Lássira. No, he knew Thargodén could never forgive Or’Talán, but there were precious lessons to be learned, ones he knew his friend would understand. Still he watched carefully for the signs that his words had been well-received.
Thargodén smiled sparingly at his friend, understanding his trepidation, wondering what he would have done without him all these years. “Tomorrow. I will ride out tomorrow, with you at my side. And Turion. He has been involved in our plans from the beginning, knows about Fel’annár. Ask him to arrange a retinue.”
Thargodén’s lips twitched at the sudden turn of Aradan’s expression. From satisfied to panicked. Still, the councillor nodded bravely in spite of the prospect of horseback riding. This was something the king had to do, and if his presence could somehow help his friend, then Aradan would do it gladly.
“Show them that Band’orán lies. Show them you are not weak and you are not pining. Show them you will not leave and that you will rule them, strong and steady, just as Or’Talán did. Whatever is happening out there, one thing remains, my friend. Our people are still loyal to the House of Or’Talán, even the Silvans. You can still turn this around.”
Perhaps he could, so long as Band’orán adhered to the law. But Rinon did not think that he would, did not even think that he had. And maybe Rinon was right. Thargodén would play his uncle’s game: appear to play by the rules, even if he did not. Sooner or later, someone would cross a line and the game would end. The question remained: how far would one elf go to gain absolute power? How far would the other go to stop him?
Outside the city gates, the Great Forest Belt pressed in on three sides. Well-used roads streaked here and there, wearing away at the forest floor. One led due north, the main route to Oran’Dor. Another led north-west and to Sen Garay. But the path eastwards led to the foot of the Median Mountains. It was a well-worn road, the main route the warriors would take towards the Motherland.
An hour’s ride away, just off that path and hidden by a thick copse of beech and oak, sprawled a mansion of dark stone and carved timber.
Analei. Forest’s Edge.
It had once been Or’Talán’s second residence, one Thargodén had never wanted to use. Too many memories, he once said, and Band’orán well knew the power of those.
Inside the manor, grand stairs led down into storerooms, and a smaller spiral stairway led further still. Down and down they climbed, and then walked to the very end of a long passageway, until there was nowhere else to go. And yet, beyond the walls, was Band’orán.
He stood naked, save for his dark breeches and black boots. It didn’t matter here, where no one except himself and his personal guard ever came. Upstairs he would entertain his lordly friends, all noble and ambitious. He would dress as was befitting his station. The finest cloth and leather, suedes and silks. Upstairs he was a lord destined for a throne. But down here he was already a king. King of black rock and crystal pools, commander of his own army, an army ready to lead him into the city in victory. They, too, were invincible.
He carefully placed the jewel he held upon a stark wooden table against a wall of bare rock. The reflection of candlelight in water dancing upon it, like a kaleidoscope, mesmerising and lovely. One finger brushed over the polished sapphire and he turned to face his underworld kingdom where everything echoed, his own memories and his own desires. Even time.
Lips stretched tentatively, eyes dancing over a statue of polished bronze that stood upon the gently lapping shore, icy waters beneath her feet. Colourful stalagmites jutted from it, like faithful worshippers. He walked towards her, one hand brushing over a cold limb, the purple sash of a Kah Master swaying around his black-clad knees.
Good morning, my queen.
2
Guiding Light