The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (7 page)

“I know your mind, Son. You fear the world will denounce you. But consider what it will mean to the Nations to know the two of you are among us. Shall we wait indeed? Then why come at all?” His gaze took in Trian. “What do you say, Mistress Emening? I know your soul, girl. You are the Dreamweaver. Will you wait as well only to redeem a world beyond saving? What do you say, Elloyn of the Highlands? When my soul comes to you will you reject me for forcing you to choose?”

Trian appeared to stiffen at each word. In the cold hall she was like a white flame, the image marred only by a hint of sudden fatigue. She masked it, though, and still managed to stand with her back straight. “The Warden is astute. The time has long since passed, I suppose. It might have been kind to consider our wishes, but I understand your haste.” She looked at Luc. The pairing of colors on the dress really suited her, but he was still too incensed to dismiss what had been done here. “I think I would like to leave now, Luc,” Trian said. “We will be up and on the move at first light, I understand.”

“We will see you off,” Ariel said.

“That pleases me, my Lady,” Trian murmured. “Truly. If you will excuse us.”

Luc had to lengthen his strides to match her paces. Difficult to describe the range of emotions he felt. Something in the awareness the two of them shared told him an apology on his parents’ behalf would hardly suffice. At least he had been allotted the time to process the implications. It was like shedding one’s soul for another. This would prove hardest on her.

 Not speaking, they descended the lower levels barely aware of those they passed. They found Mistress Tanalo in quarters she had converted for her own use. Seeing the wan color of Trian’s face, Reeva took her aside to help her out of the gown. Mistress Tanalo had chosen not to return to her home, claiming she had enough to do here yet with a small army of men needing their uniforms stitched and mended. Luc hid in the shadows of the hold until Trian reemerged garbed once more in her coat and slender breeches. He took the bundle with the dress and had her on his horse and on the way home within minutes. The early autumn storm had passed and the snow had all but melted, but the passes were still slippery. As the moon reached its high point, they reached the glade leading to the only home he had ever known.

Taking in the familiar surroundings, the cold separation he had felt on the plains returned. He managed to distance himself from the budding anger, but knew there would be no turning aside the storm that raged through him, that was him. Well, they had made their choice, and to his undying shame announced his ancestry, effectively forcing his hand.

Now it was time to force theirs.

Still locked in a state of anger and disbelief, Luc hauled his belongings out into the main chamber and went through his stowed gear. Most he swapped out, choosing to go with a newer rucksack and blanket roll. Back in his room Trian was similarly engaged. During their stay in the port city the Companions had expertly outfitted them. Events leading up to his return to Peyennar were a blur now, but the thought of Imrail’s company summoned the memory of their flight through the Third Plane and their offensive against the Earthbound camped to the northeast within a two day march of Peyennar. A decisive move. Some would say desperate. That had been the night everything had changed. Around his mother and father he’d been able to dismiss it, but knew now he did not have the luxury to wait or stand on sentiment any longer.

That had also been the night the truth about the Val Moran had been uncovered.
Elloyn of the Highlands
. He braced himself with both hands gripping the mantle above the fireplace, his stomach in knots, spurts of acid searing his throat. If his knowledge had grown by leaps and bounds, there were still far too many gaps. How such a thing was possible was well beyond him. Tonight the sight of her in the dress had him feeling fits of cold and flashes of heat. The ensemble had been some gift from Mistress Tanalo. It was his mother’s firm suggestion—as commanding as he had ever seen the White Rose—that Trian stand with them before the nobles of the realm. He understood what the revelation had cost her; no one else could know better. Seeing the masked pain brought back the remoteness, though, that sense of separation. He did not understand it.

After ensuring Trian had a duplicate set of everything he intended to carry—one of the notched knives he had from Urian, a file and flint, two skins, utensils, and other camp ware—he took their bags and stacked them near the door. He caught a glint in the young woman’s eyes when he took her saddlebags without speaking. He did not expect the fierce embrace.

“This is not your fault, Luc,” Trian said quietly. She reached up and touched his forehead. “You are on fire. Promise me you will not say anything that will undo what you—what we—gained here. I know you are angry, but they are only trying to prepare you and the nation for the trial ahead.”

He stared at her. “
I’m
angry? What about you?”

She pulled back. “If your father knows about us, our . . . enemies . . . know too,” she finished limply. Something in her eyes, infinite pools of memory and wisdom well beyond her years, made him suddenly wary. “We are not ready for this, Luc.”

“Perhaps not,” he whispered. Hard to distance himself from the image of the woman or resist the temptation to breathe in her scent. He did not say the day they came for her would be the day existence itself would end. The knowing smile that touched her lips told him she already knew, though. She read him that easily. He wondered if she always had.

With most of their preparations complete, he hefted his blanket roll and trudged back to his room. Moving towards the wardrobe, he dug his right hand deep into the middle drawer and pulled out a silver rod with a sphere clasped on end that appeared to encase the flowing winds. The instant his hand touched it images flashed, burned. He quickly set it in the middle of his blanket roll. He was going to have to find somewhere safer. Returning to the outer room a little unsteadily, he unsheathed the king’s sword, refusing to believe the jewel on the hilt pulsed in time to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Standing, he breathed deep.
Let go,
he told himself.

He left it standing point down in the corner.

 “What are you doing?” a voice said sharply. Glancing up, he only then realized Captain Imrail—General Imrail now, he reminded himself—had made his way in.

Luc kept his voice steady. “It’s not my sword, Imrail.”

Imrail scowled. “It’s the sword of your house, boy,” the man said bluntly. “Did you stuff your ears with wool? The Lord Viamar and your mother are laying the foundation for you to rule the nation outright. They sacrificed more than you know tonight. That sword
is
yours now. You don’t mean to deny them by refusing their emblems, do you?”

Luc bared his teeth. “You heard what they said. I have no . . .” He left it hanging.

The man regarded him a moment with a look almost as intense as his own. “We’re leaving, Anaris. You and me. Now.”

“Now?” he began to protest. “But it’s—”

“We need to move,” Imrail cut in. “Now. In secret. The Warden is all but certain the enemy has eyes and ears in Peyennar, wights perhaps, or worse. Events are beginning to outpace us. I doubt the Earthbound have been idle; if they are going to strike, it will be here. Best to be far away before they regroup and think taking Peyennar worth a second attempt even with the Warden here. The Lord Viamar insists he attempt the trek to Alingdor and make his declarations public. You are to stand with him. And you
will
carry his sword.”

“Enough Imrail,” Trian said. She crossed her arms. “He never chose this. If the king is going into retirement, I doubt it will be easy for the people—for the nation—to move on even if it is his daughter who succeeds him. The Lord Viamar has been a symbol of stability across the west, more so here, to his grandson who planned to serve in the First City itself under the banner of the Sparrow, to the Companions Viamar placed here. I doubt the transition will be a smooth or easy one for any of you—especially you. Give it time. Besides which, you cannot begin to comprehend what they did tonight. To openly announce that name . . . There will be consequences.”

Imrail folded his arms, studying the Val Moran as if the words hit the mark a little too closely even for his own comfort. The newly raised general exhaled slightly before responding. Perhaps he had been reluctant to go along with the Lord Viamar’s plan after all. “It’s the way of the world, girl,” he said finally. “We live, we breathe, and then are gone. In Penthar we do not begrudge our kin the gifts we leave them.” Imrail turned, keenly regarding Luc. “The Lord Viamar is counting on you, boy. We are all counting on you. What you did here, what you managed . . . Don’t make us regret it now by sulking in silence. If you feel guilty attempting to step out from under his shadow while he enters his twilight years, well, you are not the only one.

“As for openly announcing who you are . . . Well, that is done. It cannot be undone now.” Imrail finished it bluntly.

Luc flushed. This was one thing he did not want to discuss or go into great detail. Tonight they had exposed him to the world. Too soon, he knew. “I thought we were going after them straightway, Imrail,” he said instead. “That sword is important. Events in the south are important. I can feel it in me. I can
see
it. If we wait, there’s no telling what
he’ll
do with it. Besides, I never agreed on Alingdor. Tell me you don’t think they already hold Ancaida and perhaps I’ll reconsider.” Ansifer.
He
would pay. “Tell me you think the delay, any delay, will not cost us.”

Imrail was stroking his square jaw. “We have already been delayed. Even if we could save another week, I would still advise caution. With Vandil gone—”

“My uncle said you would be the Steward of Alingdor, Imrail,” Luc pressed. He suspected the man thought he had forgotten. With Lenora’s predictions that Imrail might die to the oppressive haunts they had faced in the Mirror Plane, maybe the man himself had forgotten. Luc only hoped Imrail had side-stepped that fate. Now there was no one he trusted more. Unlike the others, Imrail treated him no differently than he had on their journey to rescue the king. Luc needed that now, but knew Alingdor needed the man far more.

“As I was saying,” Imrail went on, ignoring the observation, “with Vandil gone someone has to take thought to our southern border. That is why I am going with you, not that I would leave either one of you to the Furies.” He said it frankly, but there was a hint of fondness in his rough tone. “But we
are
going to Alingdor, and I
am
coming with you when the time comes for you to head south. Whatever your uncle saw, things have changed—or his vision is one that will not take place for years yet. Regardless, my place is with you. Your mother and father agree. The Lord Viamar agrees. The White Rose rules the nation in your name. After a few days in Alingdor, you and I will be bound south—well, we will first have to deal with the Ancaidans perched on our doorstep. But we will ignite the nation with word of the Lord Siren’s return.” Luc flinched at the declaration. “Say your goodbyes quickly,” Imrail continued. “We will need to reassemble the Companions and pave the way for the leaders of Penthar to follow. Some of them are hesitant given what they have seen and heard.”

“I am coming too, Imrail,” Trian said firmly.

The rugged-faced man nodded. “Good. Avela will be pleased. I’ll have your belongings taken. We’ll scout the pass and camp at the base of the hills. We should be within sight of the Landing within four days. You have two hours.”

Imrail nodded at them and strode out. He paused at the door and seemed to hesitate, but read something in Luc’s eyes that made him clamp his mouth shut. Instead he left without bowing or speaking. Luc could do without the bowing, especially from him.

“We will need to say goodbye, Luc,” Trian said, seeming to read his thoughts. “It would not do just leaving.”

“I suppose not,” he agreed. He owed Peyennar that much. Taking a few steps to retrieve the Lord Viamar’s sword, he clenched his right hand around the hilt a moment before sheathing it. He suspected he was getting better with the blade, but still had far to go. The sword had never been his way, but he did understand what Imrail was getting at. Obligations he expected. He did not resent them or the expectations. He was just troubled he might not live up to them. The thought of a second strike against the mountain retreat made him taste bile. This delay might well prove even more costly. A week to center himself; a week for the forces of the night to plan their next move. He wondered if the enemy suspected what their response would be. Likely not. Imrail himself did not. Even Luc shied away from what he was considering now.

* * * * *

After saddling Lightfoot, he and Trian circled the remote village. As goodbyes went, he knew these would prove among the most difficult he would ever have to make. They paused first for one final look at the impenetrable Shoulder of Peyennar, ancient sanctuary of the Builders. Some of his earliest memories were centered on the hold. In more than one way, it defined the Oathbound and the people of Peyennar—their staunch defiance of the bitter northern elements and the unseen enemy taking shape in the east. Now he was leaving, more than likely never to return. The thought allayed some of the urgency to make for the south and the heart of the Ancaidan realm where, somewhere in his soul, if he truly possessed one, he knew the hand of fate was leading him.

Despite the hour, he guided the bay through familiar paths easily, pausing at Ingram’s yard and Master Varel’s humble homestead. Both men had plenty of advice. He only partially listened, until they gave him leave to speak. He thanked them, or tried to. Between the bowing and the gruff handshakes he was hardly able to get a word in. Master Varel’s wife smiled between them fondly and winked towards Trian. Ingram was harder to take leave of. The man had practically hauled Luc through the wild all those years back. The former king’s captain was getting on in years, but appeared content. He hinted Peyennar still had a purpose. Varel, the Brendars, Barsos, and even the Acriels had kin in Penthar. Some were sending word. Some were intent on making the mountain village a thriving community. None of it made sense, but some hint of foresight seemed to capture Trian.

“I have no doubt Peyennar still has a role to play,” Trian told the man. “Yours will be perhaps the most pivotal. Wait for the day. I believe the Lord Siren will return.” She paused, studying the man with a faint smile, perhaps even a grin. “You will know peace, my Lord Ingram, and more joy than you yet foresee. Fare you well.”

After stops at the Acriels, the Barsos, and then the Renfather’s, they approached the two hours Imrail had appointed. Returning to the green, they made for the Brendar inn. For the first time in memory a guard had been posted. This one was considerable. Allowing two men in silver and black to push back the double doors, he entered, savoring the contrast in the mountain air and the familiar surroundings at the town heart with the aromas wafting in from the kitchens. He had never seen the inn busier. Nobles of the realm had left the safety of the Shoulder for the evening meal, it seemed. He expected they would be leaving in a day or so with his mother and father. Members of Imrail’s inner council were present, too. He nodded towards Rew, who would be joining them and apparently had come by to say his farewells as well. On entry, a half hundred men came to attention. No, more. Far more.

The remainder of the allotted time passed swiftly. He saw the faces of those he had grown up with but felt a keen sense of disconnect. He was leaving, best to remember that. Taking it all in, he steeled himself. He clasped hands with men he barely felt he knew now. Reeva Tanalo knelt. Master Jessip, still with his arm in a sling and the other wrapped tightly around Gianna Altree, bowed. Altree’s left arm ended in a stump. He swallowed at the sight. Eva Brendar pressed them to eat what proved a savory meal. Surprisingly, her hazel eyes were as fond as ever. Unable to fend her off, he acceded and took a seat at a table four men hastily abandoned. Somehow he endured the bitter partings. The fare was as fine as he remembered. When Imrail and his mother and father arrived, he stood and made his way to the inn’s double doors. He felt more than a little unsteady.