Road of a Warrior Page 13

  Councillor Aradan had wanted to stay, but Thargodén had been adamant. This task would not be easy for him or Rinon, and the king did not wish to humiliate his son, however much he had to show him that his behaviour would no longer be tolerated. Even so, the king’s closest friend and advisor had insisted on remaining close by, and the king had not been able to dissuade him.

  A curt rap upon the door heralded his son’s arrival. He strode into the room, cloak swirling around his calves, and his hand rested upon the pommel of his sword. He was cold and fierce—imposing, and Thargodén was momentarily impressed, proud, and then ashamed that he had not noticed this before.

  “Rinon,” greeted the king with a nod. The crown prince bowed and then stood silently, no words, no joy at being in his father’s presence, and so Thargodén began his strategy, for that was what it was.

  “Report.”

  It was not a son that answered the king but a captain, cold and distant. Rinon told of his travels, of the people he had seen, of the complaints and the petitions he had received. He spoke of how he had handled it all and of the boredom he had endured, and when he finished, he stood in silence once more, his eyes staring through the windows behind his father, as if he wished for nothing more than to be dismissed.

  Thargodén watched him for a while, drawing out the silence, knowing the effect this would have on his over-confident son, a crown prince so accustomed to his father’s defeated silence that he had lost his ability to observe. He took his father’s absence for granted.

  “You should be in the field, commanding your patrol.”

  “Yes,” said Rinon, his eyes momentarily focussing on his father and lingering for a while before turning back to the windows.

  “You have been unfairly sent on a menial mission that another could have done just as well.” Thargodén watched his son as he stared out over the Evergreen Wood. “You were sent away for a reason. You were sent away because you could not be trusted.”

  Rinon’s eyes snapped to his father, his brows furrowing deeply. Thargodén had hit a chord.

  “You were sent away because you cannot control your temper, cannot control your anger.”

  “I...”

  “Silence,” said Thargodén softly with a wave of his hand, watching as Rinon flinched as though the command had been yelled in his face.

  “Much has happened in your absence, prince, many things have changed,” he continued, his eyes briefly glancing at his son, enough to see his confusion, not that Rinon was one to mask his emotions.

  “Gone are the days in which a crown prince insults his king, sneers in the very face of his lord, gainsays his decisions, whispers in silent collusion with those who seek to discredit him...”

  “You...”

  “Silence,” he said once more, a note of disappointment creeping into the cold words, and Rinon’s jaw clenched. Anger was beginning to take hold, as it always did with his eldest son. Thargodén had anticipated that.

  “We sent you away so that you would not endanger this land with your own, self-centred, ill-directed anger. Had you stayed you would have been a liability, and that does not speak well of your position at this court, my son.”

  There was no answer, and this time, Thargodén spotted a spark of fear behind his child’s cold grey eyes. There, that was what he had been looking for; Rinon was finally coming to realise the importance of the moment, understanding that he could not extricate himself with a few choice words of disdain.

  “Whatever happens now, Rinon, you will comport yourself as is befitting a crown prince, with quiet dignity and respect for your king: no sarcasm, no hatred, only discipline—is that understood?” asked Thargodén softly, calm eyes riveted on his son’s face, impressing upon him the significance of his words.

  “Yes, my king,” was the curt answer.

  “The events of which I speak, those you could not be trusted with, are things that affect you personally, things related to the circumstances of your mother’s departure to Valley.”

  Rinon’s eyes were riveted on his father’s, curiosity winning over his anger.

  “Your mother did not leave me, leave us, because I had a lover, Rinon. She left because I had a soul mate with whom a child was conceived.”

  “What!!!” It was an uncontrolled impulse that Rinon could not hold back.

  “Silence!” roared the king—louder and fiercer than the voice of his son as he came to stand but inches from Rinon’s face, eyes cutting through his son’s outrage, warring with it until the fire was at bay behind steely grey eyes. There was a dangerous challenge in the king’s eyes, but Rinon was not naturally submissive.

  “Lássira was my soul mate, the one I was forbidden to marry. Instead, your mother was chosen as a suitable queen and the rest you know. Someone,” stressed the king meaningfully, “made sure the queen came to hear of the child, and this she could not condone. Thus, she left me, her people, and you, her son.”

  Rinon’s eyes were round and bright, and his breathing was too heavy. Thargodén felt pity then, pity for the strategy his own son’s uncontrollable wrath had forced him to adopt, a wrath he himself was responsible for.

  “Now, you may speak,” he said coldly, and then waited for the tirade that would surely ensue.

  However, when Rinon did speak, it was low and monotonous, and Thargodén saw deep emotion churning behind the frigid eyes. “Did you ever think of her? Were you too wrapped up in your love for this, Lássira, too blind to the pain you would inflict on your children?”

  “No—I was ever aware of it, I still am. And you? Are you too wrapped up in your hatred for me that you fail to see my pain? Too saddened by the loss of your mother that you cannot see it was inevitable? I lost the love of my life, sacrificed it because my king asked it of me to appease the Alpine lords—my own people, and however much I did not understand it, I could not disobey him, just as I could not disobey my heart. I had no choice. I did not choose to hurt you or anyone else. It was Or’Talán’s choice, one I must believe was worth the sacrifice,” finished the king softly.

  It was a while before Rinon spoke once more. “I loved you once, Father,” he whispered as he desperately tried to check his emotions.

  Thargodén came to stand before him, his own eyes bright, his face determined.

  “And I still love you, my son,” said the king with a soft smile, dismissing the stab of hurt that lanced through his heart at Rinon’s cruel words. “You may leave if you so wish, but you are confined to the fortress for today. This conversation has not concluded,” he said with a nod of dismissal before he turned his back on his son, knowing the cool grey eyes were watching his every move, and so Thargodén stood before the tall windows and waited, waited for the rustle of fine cloth and the clank of lethal metal and then finally, the soft clunk of doors shutting.

  Silence—and Thargodén closed his eyes, willing his frantically beating heart to still. It was true; he loved Rinon, but his son was too young to understand, to empathise with the one he believed had been the cause of his own misery; too young to see through the veil of his own suffering and to the other side, where another reality stood waiting, waiting for a time in which he could finally see it and understand it. Thargodén would not blame him for that, for his youth and inexperience. He could only wait and trust that his heart was still good, trust that those loyal to Band’orán would not take advantage of Rinon’s weakness and use it against them all.

  One hand came to rest upon the coloured glass before him, the gem upon his hand clicking against it, calling him, obliging him to look at it.

  Luck was not a contender in this game, and Thargodén knew he needed to play it well if he was to regain his crown prince, know the love of his son once more, and close the gaping wounds that stood open and bleeding between them.

  Harsh footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, and two guards shared a concerned glance at each other before resuming their rigid, unmoving positions. Solid oak slammed into stone and then there was silence. It wo
uld not last long.

  Rinon leaned heavily upon a table, his breathing erratic and his mind in utter turmoil.

  ‘A child was conceived…’

  How dare he—push his mother away, banish her in all but word, for what alternative had been left to her?

  With a strangled moan, Rinon’s hand closed around an ornate vase and hurtled it across the room, smashing it into small pieces before whirling around and setting his hands on all that lay upon his bookshelves, pulling it all away, smashing it all to pieces just like his father had done with Rinon’s life.

  Break it, break it all, shouted his mind as his eyes searched and his hands reached. Smash, break, tear it all apart.

  At last Rinon sat with his legs sprawled out before him, panting and sweating, everything in utter disarray around him. He wanted to scream, to roar his ire to the skies, and although he had broken everything that could be broken, still it was not enough, and his jaw clenched furiously.

  How could he have done the one thing—the one thing that would push her away; how could he show his devotion in the clearest and most unequivocal way to another, one that was not her? For if Rinon knew anything at all about his mother, it was that she had loved the king beyond all reason.

  His face hardened until it was chiselled ice and his eyes seemed lighter, the pupils almost gone. Anger had invaded his soul.

  ‘I loved you once...’ he had told his father.

  ‘I love you still...’ echoed his mind.

  ‘You love me, but you sent her away,’ his mind screamed as if his father could hear him. ‘You sent her away as surely as if you had decreed it. Is the love a father feels for a child secondary, less powerful than the love of his soul mate? Is it? Is the love of a mother undermined by the love she feels for her spouse?’ he asked himself desperately.

  ‘You sacrificed your soul mate, Father, for love of king and land, just as surely as you sacrificed the happiness of your own children.’

  ‘How could you? How could she?’

  Rinon pulled his knees up and circled them with his arms, and there he lay his head and passed the day, his mind unable to release itself from the endless loop of incomprehension. Who should he blame for this mess his life had become? His father? His mother?

  It had always been his father’s fault, damn him, and yet—his mother had not loved her children enough to stay, despite Thargodén’s infidelity, and Thargodén had not loved his children enough to sacrifice his heart. His mother was in Valley, out of Rinon’s reach, but his father was here, vulnerable to Rinon’s reproaches.

  The seed of doubt had wormed its way into his soul, and he no longer knew who was to blame for his bitterness.

  The following morning, Thargodén sat in silence as he sipped on his morning tea, eyes unfocussed, and Aradan watched him, debating whether or not to interrupt his moment of quiet contemplation. He seemed miserable and yet even that, mused the councillor, was a vast improvement when compared to the block of solid ice the king had been but a scant few weeks earlier.

  Of course, he knew the object of the king’s thoughts: Rinon. He had spoken to his eldest son, and by the looks of things, it had not gone well. There was no surprise in that, of course, for Aradan knew the crown prince well. He was volatile, an elf of war rather than diplomacy, yet he was also devoted, relentless in his duty. If one combined all these qualities, well the result was simply—Rinon, he concluded lamely to himself.

  “It went ill then,” said Aradan quietly, his eyes fixed on the king as he drank.

  It took a moment for Thargodén to gather himself. Straightening his posture and focussing his eyes, the king looked at Aradan.

  “As well as I expected it to. At least,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I have not lost my ability to impose respect,” he finished with a humourless laugh.

  “That is in your blood, Thargodén, you have quite an ability, I will say that,” said Aradan, for it was true. The king had inherited it from his father—that envious ability to convey emotion through speech and semiotics. He had seen Thargodén quieten raving humans with but a wave of his hand and a quiet word.

  “Was he much adverse to the boy then?”

  “What? No, well, I do not know, for the conversation did not progress well. We were stuck on the queen finding out about Lássira’s pregnancy—we got no further,” said Thargodén, his eyes momentarily losing focus once more as he remembered the hurtful words his son had uttered.

  ‘I loved you once...’

  “He blames you for it all, incapable of blaming his mother for leaving. It is easier because you are here,” ventured Aradan, watching the king for a reaction to his risky analysis. “There is no satisfaction to be had from blaming one that is absent, for one cannot enjoy the hurt inflicted.”

  The king thought on Aradan’s words. “And is he not right, Aradan? We took a drastic decision. To create a child we knew would grow without a father.”

  “True, but we had no way of knowing Lássira’s final fate—it was highly unlikely she would be—hunted.”

  “Unlikely, but not impossible,” said the king. “We underestimated the enemy within.”

  “Indeed, but what was the alternative, Thargodén? Death? It is about the better of two evils, nothing more, nothing less.

  “And yet we were all victims, Aradan,” mused the king quietly. “It solved nothing. Lássira did not make it to Valley, the child grew up an orphan, my children turned against me for my faithlessness, and my queen suffered for my deception, to the point of leaving her own children.”

  “Well,” breathed Aradan, “when you put it like that, yes. But we did not have the benefit of foresight, Thargodén. It was the right thing to do at the time. Given the same circumstances, my council would have been identical.”

  The door opened then, and Rinon entered, bowing to the king before helping himself to the tea that stood upon a side table.

  “Am I free to leave the fortress today, my king?” asked the crown prince, his tone cutting.

  “No. We have a conversation to finish.”

  “I do not want to hear it.”

  “I did not ask you,” said the king curtly. “It is not an option, Rinon, but an obligation.”

  “I am uninterested in the lives of Silvan peasants.”

  Thargodén stood slowly and turned to his son. “Silvan peasants?” he asked quietly, dangerously.

  “If you prefer Forest Dwellers...”

  “Look at me, Rinon. You refer to our people with disdain. Tell me, what is it, to be crown prince? What do you believe is your duty to your land?”

  Rinon turned to face his father and spoke. “To defend them, to give them the best life they can possibly have.”

  “And by ‘them,’ you include the ‘Silvan peasants’?”

  “Yes, them, too.”

  “You talk as would a commander, albeit a racist one. A prince is not only a commander but a politician. You must learn it is not all about serving in the field, Rinon. It is about loving the people of this land, serving them, sacrificing yourself if necessary so that we are all as prosperous as we can be.”

  “As you sacrificed yourself when you indulged in the love of another woman?”

  “Oh yes—just that. You see, loving that woman was not a choice I made—you may understand that one day when your heart sets its mind on a mate, despite your will.”

  Rinon frowned, but to his credit he did not interrupt, and so the king continued. “I was forbidden to marry her, but my father understood the wiles of the heart. He could not ban me from loving her, for that was never in my hands. Instead, he asked of me a boon. Take a suitable wife, and I would be allowed to see Lássira, discreetly.”

  Rinon scoffed audibly. “What woman would ever accept that, ever marry you under those terms?”

  “Your mother, Rinon. Your mother did.”

  The Crown Prince looked away, unable to answer. At last he asked, “Why did you conceive a child with her? To humiliate my mother? To force her away, p
erhaps, so that Lássira could finally be accepted as your queen, is that it?” asked Rinon angrily.

  Thargodén stepped back and forced himself to think for a moment. Was that it? Was that why Rinon was so bitter? He thought his father had flaunted Lássira’s pregnancy to force his mother away?

  “Never that,” said Thargodén, showing his son his concern. “I would never have done that, Rinon, this I promise. Your mother was a loving woman—intelligent and noble—she had my utmost respect, child—she still does.”

  Rinon looked away, and for the first time, Thargodén allowed himself to feel a spark of hope, however remote.

  “Someone else was responsible for that. Our secret became known to the queen, and shortly after, Lássira was—murdered.”

  Rinon spun about, his hair flying around his face as he searched his father’s expression.

  “What? You are saying there is a murderer here? The same person that told my mother of the child?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, that is what I am saying.”

  Rinon breathed noisily through his nose and turned towards the window, where he remained for long minutes.

  Thargodén knew this was the moment to make his move, and with a short nod from Aradan, he picked up Rinon’s tea and stood at his son’s shoulder at the windows, the Evergreen Wood sprawling before them into the distance, the future—one that would, perhaps, be defined by this very moment.

  With a glance at his son, he reached out and offered the cup. Rinon held his father’s gaze for a moment before his eyes dropped to the steaming tea in silent contemplation.

  ‘Take it, take the cup; give me this one gesture, my son...’ thought the king to himself.

  Cool eyes lingered on the king’s offering, and Thargodén knew then, knew that his son had understood the gesture for what it was.

  A calloused hand took the cup, eyes once more on those of the king.