A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine

by Quaintrell, Philip C.

  A hand sneaked between Asher’s arm and chest as Faylen linked herself to him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. The ranger had seen her coming but her actions still surprised him. Rather than question the affection, he squeezed her hand and lightly kissed the top of her head. Her friendship, he knew, was a comfort he had purposefully avoided. An immortal now, Asher was pleased to know that he had a very long time to work on their friendship and, perhaps, even give Nemir a chance.

  For now, he simply enjoyed their closeness and let his thoughts drift across the memories he retained from his brief bond with Alijah. Thankfully, Avandriell had pushed almost all of Malliath’s memories into the abyss, leaving only Alijah’s earlier life to recall. He had, indeed, been a good man.

  As the fire consumed his body, Asher dwelled on an image of the young half-elf from his time on the road with Vighon. He saw him wearing a green cloak, taken from Asher’s locker beneath The Pick-Axe, and a familiar silvyr short-sword and folded bow on his back, taken from the Galfreys’ home.

  Once upon a time, Alijah Galfrey had wanted to be just like him, a ranger doing his part for the world. That was the man Asher would remember.

  59

  New Beginnings

  It had been three weeks since the start of the victory celebrations, three weeks since The Rebellion had nothing to rebel against. In that time, winter had unleashed its full force, an unwelcome shield against the warmth of the sun. Namdhor was struck daily by blasting winds and the snow came day and night.

  Nothing, however, could stop the Namdhorians, nor the dwarves, from enjoying their freedom from the fear and the violence that had dominated their lives for so long. Nor did the prevailing cold prevent a wedding, especially when it was the wedding of the Age.

  Every soul in the city had gathered in the streets, filling the main road from top to bottom until the numbers spread throughout the lower town and beyond. With bated breath, they looked up to The Dragon Keep, their eyes fixed on the ramparts above the main gate.

  Reserved a space on those ramparts, Galanör Reveeri had one of the best views in all of Namdhor. He was also freezing to his bones. He adjusted the fur collar draped over his shoulders before quickly returning his hands to the inside of his navy cloak.

  “Only in the north,” he muttered under his breath.

  Beside him, Aenwyn contained her amusement behind a tight smile. “I think it’s a beautiful tradition,” she whispered.

  “Tradition isn’t going to keep my toes attached to my feet,” Galanör complained.

  “I thought you were a ranger of the wilds,” Aenwyn said innocently.

  Galanör had a witty retort on the edge of his lips when Aenwyn’s comment lodged itself in his mind and brought up a very important question: what was he now? He had once been a soldier in the elven army, but his skills with a blade had caught the eye of King Elym before long. Thankfully, his time as an assassin for the king had been cut short after meeting Gideon Thorn. Being a ranger had been easy, a job the elf had discovered he was more than capable of. But now his allegiance had been pledged to Reyna and Nathaniel and, to date, his role remained undefined.

  Perhaps, he mused, he would be given a high-ranking position in the army. Just thinking about returning to life in Ayda brought a dark cloud over Galanör. Despite his centuries in Ayda, he had only learned to be his true self while living in Illian and, in the process, it had become his home.

  In the absence of a response from him, Aenwyn leaned in. “Sir Ruban told me royal weddings are typically planned for the summer for just this reason.”

  Galanör considered the bride and the groom. “I don’t think there will be anything typical about Vighon and Inara’s reign,” he said wistfully.

  Aenwyn agreed with a contented smile. “I don’t think the people could have waited until the summer,” she remarked. “The excitement has been building since news spread of their union.”

  And what a strong union it was, Galanör thought. Both were heroes of their time, warriors in their own right. Together, they would steer the world of man into its strongest age yet. Their obvious pairing aside, Galanör was overjoyed to see them brought together by a love they had held in their hearts since childhood.

  That was worth the cold.

  “They’re coming,” Asher said, his voice loud enough to be heard by Vighon.

  The king straightened up and turned to the city. Galanör narrowed his eyes down Namdhor’s slope but even his powerful eyes failed to find the approaching bride. A moment later, bells rang out, starting in the lowest tier of the city and rising higher until finally joined by the great church outside the keep. In their wake, musicians and choirs heralded Inara’s arrival from various balconies up and down the main road.

  In due course, the bride came into view for all on the ramparts to see. The dense crowds parted, creating enough space for Avandriell. The bronze dragon led the bridal party with Inara seated astride her. Side by side, Reyna and Nathaniel trailed her on horseback with Faylen and Captain Nemir close behind them. Elves, three abreast and twenty deep, followed them all, their melodic voices slowly but surely replacing the human choirs that overlooked the affair.

  Galanör peered over the edge to watch Inara dismount and enter the keep via the decorated gates. Her parents filed in behind her until Nathaniel offered his daughter an arm to see her through the courtyard and up the steps. The remaining elves took up positions on the steps and continued to sing as they made their way across the ramparts. Like the others before him, Galanör gave a deep bow as Inara, Nathaniel, and eventually Reyna passed him by.

  Galanör took a moment to admire the bride’s flowing blue dress that parted at her waist, revealing her dark leather trousers and tall boots. It was the perfect blend of elven princess and hardened warrior, with a variety of soft and harsh materials. A delicate silver circlet adorned her head, ringing the half-elf’s black hair.

  It wasn’t her clothing, however, that put her apart from the average bride. On her hip rested Firefly, the powerful Vi’tari blade. Its crystal pommel twinkled in the light with the promise of great power inside. Of course, it was the carrying of the weapon that was truly powerful. It was a symbol to the people that their king wasn’t acquiring a pretty bride or a stand-in queen to agree with his every word. They were getting a ruler who had already proven she could stand between the light and the dark.

  “Beautiful and fierce,” Aenwyn commented in his ear.

  Galanör smiled, entranced by Inara. “Indeed,” he said, noticing the small red dragon scale that hung from her necklace.

  Nathaniel kissed Inara’s hand before she moved to stand beside Vighon. The couple exchanged broad smiles and resisted the obvious temptation to kiss. As Ilargo’s head arched over the pair, his bulk taking up much of the courtyard, Gideon Thorn stepped in, his travelling leathers replaced with a long flowing coat that hugged his figure.

  Galanör had been there when they asked the old master to perform the wedding rites. The priests of Atilan had naturally opposed, pointing out that their order had always performed royal weddings. Inara and Vighon had politely, if firmly, told the priests that it was an elven custom and that there would be no further discussion on the matter.

  Minutes went by as Gideon read through the marriage liturgy, words he had been rehearsing for days in the keep’s garden. From his pocket, he eventually removed a single strap of leather that he wrapped around Inara’s forearm and then around Vighon’s.

  “You are bound!” he announced. “Never to be broken! Never to fade! Never to fear! For together, you are, now and forever… one.” Gideon beamed with happiness. “I believe this is the part where you kiss,” he said quietly.

  Neither required more encouragement than that. The entire city shook with an almighty cheer that rippled from top to bottom as the news spread. Ilargo and Avandriell lifted their heads to the sky and added a roar to the resounding glee.

  Vighon stepped towards the edge of the rampart and held up his hand, calling
for silence. When, at last, the city knew of their king’s wishes and grew silent once more, the northman gave a subtle nod to Sir Ruban, who approached with a wooden box in his hand.

  Inara shot her new husband an inquisitive look but he maintained his calm, yet serious, demeanour. “As Inara and I are bonded,” he called out, “so too is Inara bound to you, the people, and you to her, your queen!”

  Without another word, Vighon turned to Sir Ruban, who opened the lid for him, and removed a crown for all to see. Thankful for his elven eyes, Galanör was able to examine it in great detail from where he stood, and what a crown it was. He had seen the crowns of queens before, often delicate sculptures designed to reflect their beauty rather than identify them as a ruling monarch.

  Inara’s crown was adorned with a variety of horns and small claws, all in differing sizes. They sloped back, reminding Galanör of a dragon’s head. Befitting, he thought.

  Vighon stepped forward and replaced Inara’s circlet with the crown, careful not to interfere with any of the delicate braids. Then he did what no king before him had ever done.

  He bowed the knee.

  With the exception of Inara’s parents and King Doran, every soul in Namdhor followed Vighon’s example and knelt in reverence to the new queen of Illian. Only when Vighon resumed his height did the rest of the city stand again. The next round of cheers was just as deafening as the first and Galanör happily added his own voice to the jubilation.

  As their last act of the ceremony, both Vighon and Inara freed their blades and held them high. The sword of the north came alive with flames and Firefly shone from the glow inside its pommel. Galanör was sure the responding cheer was powerful enough to be felt by the rest of the realm. He would certainly never forget it.

  * * *

  By late afternoon, as winter’s sun bade its farewell, the wedding feast had been consumed and the party began in earnest. Elves sang merrily, dwarves bellowed their laughter, and the men and women of Namdhor filled The Dragon Keep with a warmth it had long been lacking.

  Galanör moved from group to group, enjoying the stories they told as well as sharing a few of his own. He cheered Asher on as the ranger sat at a table, challenged by Thraal to an arm wrestle. It seemed, for a time, that neither would claim victory but, rather inevitably, Thraal slammed Asher’s hand down. There were few, even among the elves, who could best a dwarf in such a focused contest, their arms more akin to coiled steel.

  More than once, Galanör had offered his congratulations to the happy couple, never missing an opportunity to talk to them, but they were much in demand. Defying the winter conditions, lords and ladies had come from every region with gifts for them, but they also expected some face to face time with their king and queen.

  After a brief conversation with Kassian about the day’s affairs, Galanör found himself gravitating towards Gideon, who was often on the periphery of most social gatherings. They embraced as old friends and knocked their cups together.

  “Before the rumours begin,” Gideon said, “you should know that I am leaving soon.”

  “Your companion has long been a dragon,” Galanör replied. “It would be more of a surprise if you told me you were staying in Namdhor.” The elf took a sip of his wine. “Do I even need to ask where you’re going?”

  “Drakanan will have to wait,” Gideon told him. “Though Erador is my destination.”

  Galanör raised an eyebrow. “What business do you have there if not in Drakanan?”

  “The king and queen’s business,” Gideon answered, after waiting for a guest to pass them by. “Vighon and Inara have fears for Erador and I share them.”

  “Fears?”

  Gideon nodded gravely. “It was with fear that Alijah and Malliath held sway in the west. They killed anyone who opposed them and maintained order with an unnatural army. I can only imagine what’s happened there since the Reavers fell. There are good people in Erador, people just like those who call Illian home. They may need our help.”

  “Then I would be the first to bid you safe travels,” Galanör offered, clasping his friend’s shoulder. “I would love to see Erador myself some day.”

  Gideon laughed to himself. “You’re immortal, Galanör. Some day will come. It always does.”

  Movement caught Galanör’s eye and turned him to Aenwyn and Reyna, both a vision to behold. “Forgive me, Gideon,” Reyna beseeched, “but might I steal Galanör away?”

  Gideon gave a short bow of the head. “Who am I to protest so fair a queen?”

  Reyna flashed him a smile before planting a light kiss on his cheek. Then, rather playfully, she linked her arms with Galanör and Aenwyn, placing herself between them, and made for the side door of the throne room.

  “Are you enjoying yourselves?” she asked, as they weaved through the party.

  “How could we not, your Grace?” Aenwyn replied. “’Tis such a happy day for all.”

  “Quite,” Reyna agreed. “And the company?” she enquired.

  “We are among the best,” Galanör declared. “We are surrounded by friends and friends who feel like family, your Grace.”

  “And have you met any of the dignitaries from the other regions?” the queen went on, pausing while a servant opened the door for them.

  “I have spoken with a few, your Grace,” Galanör admitted. “Though I am not the one they clamour to meet.”

  “Indeed,” Reyna said knowingly, ushering them into the next chamber, where Nathaniel was already waiting for them. “Wealth and standing will always turn the heads of those who already have wealth and standing. For them politics can become something of a game. It is not a game for the masses, however. Reminding the powerful people of the world that peace is better for all requires…” The queen looked to her husband for assistance.

  “The occasional smack around the head,” Nathaniel finished with a confident smile.

  “Fortitude of character,” Reyna corrected, before joining the king. “And a tremendous amount of patience.”

  “And stamina,” Nathaniel added.

  Galanör took it all in and shared the same look of confusion with Aenwyn. “Your Grace?” he began inquisitively.

  “We are old friends - you don’t need to call us that in here,” Reyna told him with an inviting smile. “Only in company.”

  Galanör bowed his head in an effort to contain his own smile.

  “It is an honour,” Aenwyn replied.

  “Yes,” Galanör concurred. “And, in the spirit of friendship, I have to ask: what are we doing in here?” He gestured to the empty chamber, where the party could only be heard, not enjoyed.

  “And,” Aenwyn added, “why the speech?”

  Reyna and Nathaniel had the same excited expression. “We were going to do this earlier,” the king said, “but wedding plans and general meetings of every kind kept getting in the way.”

  Reyna opened the lid of a small box, resting on the side table, and removed two items no bigger than her palm. “We have had these made for you both.”

  Galanör accepted the token, as did Aenwyn, and inspected it nearer to the torchlight on the wall. The queen had handed them both an identical metallic pin that fastened to the join on the front of a cloak, just beneath the shoulder. Engraved on the pin was the sigil of house Sevari, an elven shield covered in the roots of a tree. Galanör ran his finger over the image, impressed with the craftsmanship but still none the wiser as to why he now possessed it.

  “We have already informed Vighon and Inara,” Reyna explained. “We have only to tell them you accept.”

  “Accept what?” Galanör asked.

  Reyna beamed. “Your new positions as Ayda’s ambassadors.”

  Galanör was stunned into silence.

  Aenwyn gripped the ambassadorial pin with both hands. “Truly?”

  “We could not take you from Illian,” Reyna said. “This is your home. But you did pledge your allegiance to us, and what folly it would be to miss the opportunity to have such skilled elves rep
resent our interests in Illian.”

  Galanör looked to Aenwyn as a growing and contented smile expanded across his face. He could see the answer in her eyes and knew it to be the same as his. As one, they said, “We accept.”

  Reyna threw her hands up in joy and quickly embraced them both. Nathaniel hung back and repositioned a long box on the table. “That’s not all,” he informed, though he seemed to be speaking to his wife more than the new ambassadors.

  “Of course,” Reyna responded quietly, moving to the large chest at the head of the chamber.

  Nathaniel opened the thin box on the table. “We also had this made for you, Galanör.”

  From the box, an exquisite scimitar was removed by the experienced hands of the old Graycoat. Its forging was in the style of the elves, making it a close replica to Stormweaver, though its pommel appeared to be that of an eagle’s head.

  Nathaniel held it out with two hands. “For you.”

  Galanör wrapped his fingers around the hilt and lifted the blade free. It was lighter than Stormweaver, lighter even than Guardian had been. Its edge was just as sharp though, and its balance was so fine that it could only have been made by elves.

  “This is the work of my kin,” he observed.

  “Yes,” Nathaniel said. “And, more so, the elven smith told us the name came to her in the last moments of her work.”

  Galanör looked to his king with immeasurable anticipation. “Rarely do elven hammersmiths know the name of the steel they work.”

  “Quite so,” Nathaniel agreed, marvelling at the scimitar. “Yet we already know this blade is called… Swiftling.”

  Galanör’s eyes roamed up the length of the weapon. “Swiftling,” he uttered. Gathering himself, he continued, “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. I haven’t received a gift like this since Queen Adilandra gave me Stormweaver and Guardian.”