The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (27 page)

“Thank you.”

Waiting for the man to depart, he planted his feet firmly, resolutely. He had known the moment would come eventually. They had revealed they had the means to track him. First at the Watch and outside of the Landing. Now here. He had been a witless pup the first time they had met in the port city. Now he knew what he was and why he felt suffused with energy the likes of which no living man would ever know.

“A delightful vintage,” Eridian remarked, glancing at a vessel filled with a clear liquor, voice deep, resonant. “I sometimes forget the finer comforts of the civilized world. It would appear your city is one of wealth and luxury, Lord Sirien. But I sense a certain comfort. Laxity. You are certainly deserving. You broke the Dread City. This is almost as expansive. I suppose it stands to reason. I rule the mites while you rise in glory. As it has ever been.”

“You’re insane,” Luc snapped, ignoring the harshness in the air. The creature’s voice carried the same rancor, but he no longer held himself threateningly. Maybe that was because Luc was no longer without his own defenses. Eridian took in the room with some mild interest and appeared oblivious to the fact Luc was ready to rush him.

“Perhaps.” A grudging admission. “We are ancient. Our memories become twisted. It may be we have outlived our purpose, but our pride has no limits. One bound to make war, the other to bring ruin. It is all they know. I, however, have a personal interest vested in the outcome of this conflict. The Second Plane is mine by right.” Eridian, no longer Mardanin Far in this incarnation, paused, seemingly remembering. He made the armchair appear a throne. Luc, aware of the innate power the Furies commanded, felt something within mounting in response. But he was not one of the Furies. He had no memories predating the War of the Furies—impressions, maybe, but he was limited in his present form. In some way he had chosen to be limited. He loved his land and his people. He had dreamed of this day, coming to serve the king and the nation that had taken the lead during the Stand at Imdre. He would not suffer its defeat.

“I still remember the rallying cries of the defenders,” Eridian went on finally. “The Chaining, if marred, was still effective. It broke the will of all our people. Now we are few and are ruled only by the darkness.” Glancing at him, he touched the narrow wineglass to his lips. “You have disrupted the balance and have made more enemies in weeks than you did when you denied our offer of friendship. You understand now. Some of it. Do you recall the exile you forced on us? It gnaws at me. At the others. Naeleis will not suffer your presence. Your strike, while bold, has only kindled his desire for bloodshed and vengeance.”

“If you have something to say, say it and be done with it,” Luc snapped. “You were always there, observing. You could have stopped it. Finished it with one stroke and freed the world from death and darkness.”

Eridian shrugged. “If that had been in my authority, I would have done so. As I said, I have no interest in destroying the Second Plane. Why, when I rule it? Today I come in friendship and bring you warning. Fair warning. You cannot win. Stay here or be punished. I have held to the Oaths. Even now the others are rallying to strip the Nations of any ability to respond when the darkness comes. If you stood in the Vale you would see
him
.
He
is there.
He
is terrible and boundless.
He
is the Lord of the Legion. Even Naeleis bows before his might. You who offered freedom and friendship might make a better master, but you have few followers left. Had you not—”

“Friendship?” Luc said it disbelievingly. “When did I ever offer you friendship?” Why were they wasting time discussing ages past? That was over and they were beyond redemption. This was just their attempt to bait him, to taunt him. It was just too deliberate, a needle picking apart the threads holding his battered soul together. “I would not offer friendship to you or any of the others if it meant the end of everything we know. You drew the line. There is only good and evil. We will take immediate action against any who break the Ban. If you take part in it, it will be your end—not mine. An end that will deliver the Children. That is my new purpose, Master Far. You are welcome to tell the others.”

Eridian snorted. “You think your little demonstration enough to make them quit this action? Some are so demented only their obliteration will stop them. Are you capable of bringing their defeat? A man? Nay, a child? You cloak yourself in their form. Will your death end your soul or bring the return of the Chaos Master? None of us know. That is the doubt that lingers in their minds. So again, I prove myself by bringing you the truth. Maien is a pestilence. Her very existence an affront to nature. I wish only to maintain my ancient rights.”

“You’re strafing both sides?” Luc said disbelievingly. Was he actually hearing this? “No one was spared the last time. Why do you think it will be any different now?”

“Because we are all different.” Eridian stood, looking him over as if taking careful note of the fury ripping through his flesh and bone. Luc felt so cold he would have made a sheet of ice seem warm. “I have given you the terms as I promised. The choice is yours. They are waiting for your answer. Follow and see what will come of it. Your end. The heralded nation of Penthar erased from memory. Decide carefully, little one. You have no hope of staying what rises in the east.”

Seeing Eridian stand, Luc felt a sliver of power activate. Just a shard. Raising his hand in some long forgotten sign or gesture, Eridian vanished. Luc did not need the plume of darkness that followed to know the creature had shaken off the old oaths. He had given in to the darkness and was now a force with power native to two Planes. Just the thought of what would happen when the two met in open confrontation—and they would—made him shudder. Once he had known no fear. Now its caress left him hollow and shaken. The time was coming when forces on both sides would quiver and wish they had never been given leave to simply be. Clutching his head, he stumbled towards a side chamber.

He had no idea what he was going to do.

An hour might have passed. Perhaps two. He had given some thought to sleep, but flashes of indignation and contempt continued to sweep through him. Eridian, here. And changed in some outward way. Well, he could alter his appearance all he liked. There was no altering what he was. The Furies belonged in the Third Plane, remnants of a forgotten time. Their existence threatened the natural order and balance of the world and was an affront to the Making. It incensed him he had not given challenge; maybe it was more the worry he was not capable of giving challenge. Why the creature did not just attempt to end him was beyond him.  

His father’s arrival sometime later was almost as startling. Ivon took one look at him and crossed his arms. “What’s the problem?” he demanded in a no-nonsense tenor. “You look like you lost your lunch. You haven’t changed. Your hair needs a trimming and you definitely need to shave. A hot bath wouldn’t do you any harm either.”

Not waiting for him to respond, Ivon turned and strode out of the bedchamber. Muttering to himself, Luc worked his way to the edge of the bed. It was embarrassingly large and in his present mood only served to make him more irritable. Someone had gone to great lengths to ensure the bedchamber and attached rooms were suitable for a young lord. Where Trian’s was white with lavender trimmings, his was dark, ornamented with unpretentious depictions—images of the city, distant battles, and landscapes. This part of the palace stood several stories above the main floor. The sheer height was one of the few things he did not find disturbing.

Setting his jaw, he brushed the hair out of his eyes and made his way into the sitting room. Having opened every window he could find, the air was undeniably icy. Autumn was in full breath, it seemed. He would have given anything for just an hour in Peyennar. Crossing the carpeted floor, he searched through his belongings where someone had set them in a walk-in storage area that seemed made to function like an oversized wardrobe. The fool thing was larger than his room in Peyennar and already held robes, formal shirts, coats, and trousers of every hue, some bordering on ridiculous. Peering into his saddlebags, he mouthed a silent thanks when he found the Rod stuffed beneath a cloak where he had left it.

When his father returned the man firmly motioned Luc to take a seat on a cushioned chair with room enough for two. Folding his arms, the ancient-eyed man waited for him to comply. Head still tight, Luc saw no real reason not to comply. He had wanted a private moment with the man; he supposed now was as good a time as any. Sitting, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on the back of his hands.  

“Your mother tells me you’re worried about the city and the possibility the Legion will strike. I can assure you we have taken precautions,” Ivon said.

“There are other reasons you above all should be well aware of,” Luc countered.

“Don’t insult me with the obvious, boy,” Ivon growled. “If you want to sulk, do it in private. I’ve lived too long to be anything other than direct with you.”

“
Sulk!
”

Ivon flexed his arms. “You heard me,” he said. “I won’t pretend to understand what this moment means to you. But there are too many who sacrificed everything they had, everything they hoped for, for this day. Perhaps it came sooner than any of us expected, but at least we survived to see it come. This is what Amreal died for. Eighteen years ago I never would have considered the notion—Penthar strong and poised to face the Earthbound. You taking your first steps and embraced by the nation. So you see, there is more riding on this than just your reluctance to declare yourself openly.”

Ivon nodded, perhaps to himself. “It’s time, lad,” he said a little less sternly. “Your grandfather stepped down in your mother’s favor. She has done so for you. If you deny her . . .” Ivon looked at him meaningfully. Luc knew where this was headed. At the moment the man could have been a father giving counsel and direction to a rebellious son. The eyes were not right, though. They were the eyes of the Warden and right then reminded him somewhat of Eridian’s, not that the comparison was complimentary. Even garbed in earthen brown he was swathed in power, in insights other men would never know. He doubted there would be another man of his father’s abilities to draw breath in the next three hundred years, if ever. “Consider it,” Ivon went on. “If you deny her you will not only break the Crown but the heart of the most beloved woman in the nation, my wife and your mother. Do what she asks—what we ask—and you cement the future of the nation. You will need children of your own, of course. One day. No one expects you will ever choose to stay for long, but we have the means to make it so you will be able to cross great distances at need. You will be able to return and rally the capital when it is needed most. Triaga to the south will only be seconds away.”

Luc nearly stood. “What?” He knew he was gaping.

“We will show you before you leave,” Ivon said, face still intent. “If you agree, I will summon the First Clerk and our aides to make plans. In one night Penthar will have a new master and the Nations a plan to check the Furies. That is what you intend, I am told, to strike at them first, to counter them should they attempt to seize control of our forces.”

He was just about to respond when a number of servants entered. A young woman came first and set a tray down between them, pouring tea and managing to avoid looking at the Warden directly. It seemed he had a certain reputation. For Luc the broad-shouldered man was some vision out of memory. He had a hard time believing they were both here. He was going to wake and begin his duties in the Shoulder, or go out scouting with Ingram. But that lifetime was literally hundreds of miles away. If the servant avoided the Warden’s gaze, she made no secret she was appraising Luc openly. Her nod and brief curtsy showed skin that had taken on a pinkish hue. Another pair of men appeared to be making preparations for a bath in one of the adjoining chambers.

“It’s happening too fast,” Luc said quietly. “I’d stay just to remember what we had in Peyennar, but there’s no time. One of the Furies was just here—in this room. They know me. I know them. They could pick apart Alingdor in minutes.”

Ivon grew still at the news. Face darkening, it was his turn to look grim. “The Annals make mention of their return. The Dark Maw, the Iron Fist, the Gaping Chasm. I will not pretend I have the power to face them. What did this one want?”

Luc struggled to recount it. The thought of the creature defiling these halls was too infuriating. “Maybe they want me to stand aside and stay here while they tear Ancaida and Tolmar to pieces,” he said, both hands gripping his face in frustration. “The rest of the Nations. Leave us defenseless. I don’t know. They’re capable of anything. There’s some . . . connection between us. Part of me wonders if Eridian hopes I’ll actually succeed but can’t express it openly. Not yet at least. He’s been watching me closely. Since I was a child I think.”

Ivon rubbed his face, expression for the first time troubled. The arrival of another servant made him pause. This one had a white cloth hanging over his arm, a cake of soap and razor in the other. Setting them down, he bowed and left for a moment. “Hard choices to put on you,” Ivon said after a pause. “I am sorry, lad. I did not mean to press you. I had not realized. . . . I would rather we had the autumn and winter to make plans with you safe and in my sights the entire time. The truth is I believe you were made for this moment. You will know what to do when the time comes. After all, I raised you. But were I to hazard a guess, I would say they are unwilling or unable to move against us just yet.”

“There’s an edict against it,” Luc acknowledged. “I know that much. The Fallen are not bound by such constraints, it seems.”

Finally moving to sit, his father suddenly appeared thoughtful—no, fascinated. At that moment he reminded Luc of Amreal. That made his throat constrict, though he managed to hide it with one hand rubbing his forehead. “Then they become tools and vessels under the Furies’ direction,” Ivon mused. “This edict . . . Under whose authority . . . ?”

“Under the One,” Luc whispered, eyes far away. The open admission was haunting. His failures stretched out before him, beyond the Tides and Infinity. He was a miserable fool and was now humbled beyond imagining. And yet he knew something miraculous had occurred, something undeserved, when the White Rose had given him life and a new perspective on his existence.

His father was looking at him closely. “You do not . . .” He leaned forward. “. . . speak to the Giver, do you?”

Luc flushed. “Hardly. I’m not crazy, you know.”

Ivon chuckled. “Far from it. I realized years ago I would not be the one to end this conflict. That was humbling. I have yielded most of my authority for the strength and stability of your mother’s nation. I see now you have experienced something similar. But I must tell you, your mother and I
are
proud of you. She thinks of little else but you. What we are asking for is that you trust us one more time, perhaps one last time. I do not know how many of us will survive the coming conflict.”

Before Luc could respond the servant returned with a large basin filled with steaming water. Setting it on the floor, he bowed and dipped the razor in the water. Luc grimaced but straightened, allowing the man to be about his work with minimal awkwardness. The man was old, but still hale and with steady hands. Troubled by what his father had told him, he pondered what he was to do. Duty came to mind first. His duty to House Viamar, to his mother. The coming conflict was one no one would be spared. They wanted this, if not for him, for the ability to have the steel of the nation behind him when he openly declared himself to the world.

“On your word we will half five companies make for our southern border,” his father stated. “A significant force. I will join you.”

Luc forced himself to focus. “I’d like that. On oath. But I’d prefer it if you stayed with—”

“She wishes to join you as well.”

Luc shook his head, forcing the servant to pause. “No chance,” he said decisively. “If I accede to your wishes, that’s the one point not open for discussion. I need to know you’re both safe. There’s still the Ardan city in the north to contend with. I suspect Maien herself rules it.” He shook his head again. This time decisively. “How many men do you think we will add to the ranks?”

“After today . . .” Ivon considered it. “After today, thousands. Hundreds have already signed up, perhaps more. The Guild’s Commission is complaining about the losses. I think once the news spreads across the nation, we will have an army almost a hundred thousand strong.”

Luc just stared at the man. The servant had been quick at his work and was already toweling Luc’s face off. Was it his imagination, or were his hands a touch unsteady now? Carefully, he began to trim Luc’s hair. “That many?” Luc said.

“That many. Need you wonder why our enemies are concerned? If you succeed in Ancaida, you gain a close ally.”

He nodded absently. Had the man not been snipping at his hair, he suspected it would have been standing on end.

“Do you agree then?” Ivon asked. His tone was more than suggestive. “There are official documents that must be signed. We can do so with select witnesses. Your mother would be pleased. We would both be pleased. After we can summon our top aides and begin planning the war against the Furies. I understand Imrail needs you for a private errand. That will mean a full day ahead of you yet, Son. I am sorry.”

Steeling himself, he felt the wind pick up suddenly. It was downright freezing now. He could not help one last burst of bitterness. “She should be queen, Father.”

Ivon laughed, some resonant sound rising from deep in his throat. “Is that what troubles you? She’s been a queen all her life, lad. Not only that, she is the co-ruler of Ardil. The Diem are not finished yet, you will see. Coupled with being the mother of Siren, I hardly think there is a woman in all of Valince with the rank to defy her. Even the Gintaran Queen bows before the will of the White Rose. She needs no other formal title.”

Luc sighed. Finally giving in, he squeezed his eyes shut. He hoped the brush of cold steel against his neck was not an indication of what was coming. “Tell her I’m ready,” he decided with a finality that made his head spin.

He was not entirely sure, but perhaps he was.

* * * * *

Less than an hour later he was buttoning up a white shirt cuffed at the sleeves. Stuffing it into a pair of formal trousers, he buckled on his belt and had to sit to pull on his boots. These were new and had been polished to a fine luster. Moments after his father had sent the word Luc intended to comply with the official transfer of power, the main chamber and corridor outside had quickly become hubs of concentrated activity. A full delegation seemed to have descended intent on escorting him to some official hall where his mother and grandfather would be waiting. Mouth dry, he tried not to chew his lips, selecting a dark coat cut low in the front. Taking his sword, his hands shook as he sheathed it. Imrail and Ivon were doing a passable job pretending they weren’t watching him. When it was clear he was ready—he had risked only a brief glance in front of the mirror—both men moved to study him. Imrail pinned the insignias of House Viamar and the Mark on the standing coat-collar, fussing about something. His father remained silent.

“You ready, boy?” Imrail asked him. The man’s closely cropped hair was slightly damp, his uniform either new or recently pressed. In Alingdor he had an air about him that made it clear his rank and standing were absolute. It did not help any that at the moment he appeared slightly apologetic.