Now that he could actually form a thought, Aidan studied the crowd. Hundreds—no, it had to be thousands—had journeyed from all across Crotaria’s three realms to see him. They deserved a fitting way to remember the day they had traveled an absurd number of miles to see a man wave around a sword and sit in a big chair.
With a flourish Aidan threw back his cape and began his long march up the center road toward Sunfall. Occasionally he pointed at mounds of snow, kindled, and prayed in the Language. The snow rose upward in a dazzling coil that sprayed out in every direction, and the crowds lining the street burst into applause and cries of delight.
Aidan’s skin warmed again. Suddenly a torrent of snow arced over his head and froze in place, glittering like a rainbow caught in ice. Up ahead, snow on either side of the road leaped high into the air and collided, freezing to form another arch. Another arch appeared, and then another and another, crowning the road with ribs of ice. Aidan looked over at Tyrnen to see the old man’s eyes sparkling as his lips and fingers waggled.
The prince broke out in a grin, his first genuine smile of the day. A challenge, old man?
Aidan drew in more light and directed it all across the snow shoveled to either side of the street. Clumps of snow spun together to form miniature snowmen who scrambled up Tyrnen’s arches and capered about, spinning and bowing and leaping and tumbling. He turned to Tyrnen and gave him a bored look.
“Showoff,” Tyrnen mouthed, then flicked a hand. The ribs popped one by one, raining flecks of ice over the onlookers. Aidan’s snowmen fared less well. With their platforms destroyed they twirled through the air magnificently—he wouldn’t let Tyrnen have the last word—until they plopped to the street, splattering to piles of slush.
As if on cue, Aidan and Tyrnen turned to opposite sides of the road and bowed. Aidan couldn’t hear them, but the renewed enthusiasm of the crowd as they surged against the lines of Wardsmen and strained to touch him made him smile.
Word of the duo’s antics appeared to have spread to the throngs bordering the shallow mountain trail leading up to Sunfall. At every turn, people watched with pleading eyes and waved their hands in gestures that only the magically un-gifted believed had anything to do with conjuring up the fantastic. Aidan obliged them, juggling balls of fire that zoomed in and out of tendrils of snow that Tyrnen spun with a finger.
Aidan was in the middle of a particularly deep and graceful bow when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Looking up, he saw Tyrnen pointing. He had been so busy bowing and showboating that he only just realized they had reached the southern courtyard. The doors to Sunfall stood open ahead, revealing a great hall filled with columns and banners. The fun part of the great day was over. Grudgingly, his feet suddenly weighing as much as a Darinian blacksmith’s anvil—or, indeed, most Darinian blacksmiths—he marched over a scorched patch of stone toward the maw of the palace, opting to meet fate with his head held low.
As he crossed the threshold, one pair of eyes seemed to settle more heavily on Aidan than all the rest. He stopped and turned back, fixing on the wall to one side. A young woman of about his age, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, stood calmly amid the tumult, moving only when others jostled her. She watched him with her almond eyes, and when he finally noticed her, she gave him a lopsided smile. She was Sallnerian, he realized, perhaps the only southerner who had dared make the journey north to witness his ceremony. And she was the most beautiful woman Aidan had ever seen in his life.
He stared, transfixed. She noticed him noticing and smiled, and his heart once again took off at a gallop. Then Tyrnen pulled him inside the palace and the doors boomed closed behind them, cutting the woman off from view.
Chapter 2
Choice and Destiny
AIDAN STARED THROUGH THE doors at the spot where he’d seen the Sallnerian girl until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Tyrnen mouthing words and gesturing wildly. With regret, Aidan dissipated the swabs of air in his ears. Sound rushed back in: bustling footsteps, shouting, the creak of armor worn by the Wardsmen ringing the room, and Tyrnen’s reproving tone.
“—showing off like that. Honestly, Aidan, you need to learn to act—”
“—my age,” Aidan cut in dryly. “You’re right. I should act my age. Even better, I should act your age. Or was there another Touched in the crowd building bridges from ice?”
Tyrnen snorted. “Thirteen years of lessons, all so you can create dancing snow people.”
“You’re just upset because you were outdone,” Aidan said, adopting an imperious pose. “On this day, the student became the teacher.”
“I bow to your superiority in the art of foolishness.”
“Ah, don’t sell yourself short. You made your master proud.”
“And shifting instead of walking? What a flair for the dramatic, and a superfluous use of the Lady’s light.”
“It was a much more impressive entrance than strolling through the gates,” Aidan said. “People came from leagues away to see their beloved Prince Aidan—”
“Beloved?”
“—so I gave them something special to remember.”
“Special? I’ve seen you shift across a room to pick up a book.”
“I’ve never done that!”
Tyrnen scratched at his chin. “You’re right. What would you do with a book?”
“Actually,” Aidan said, his thoughts returning to the woman outside the door. “There was a girl outside the door, just in the courtyard. Do you think she liked the display? She was Sallnerian, but—”
“No good can come of that,” Tyrnen said quickly, steering Aidan from the closed doors. “Best to forget about it, especially when you should be focusing on what is to come.”
Tyrnen guided Aidan to the doors of the throne room. Aidan’s chest tightened. All thoughts of the beautiful Sallnerian fled from his mind. He felt as if his world had suddenly been carved into two separate realms: the one outside the throne room, and the one within, the one that would change everything.
Tyrnen placed a wizened hand on his shoulder. “It won’t be so bad, you know,” he said, his voice soft. “Or so different.”
Aidan laughed nervously. “I’m beginning to think you really can read minds.”
The old man squeezed. “Only yours.” He winked. “I enjoy light reading now and again.”
Before Aidan could retort, the Wardsmen flanking the doors threw them open. A red carpet divided the marble floor. Merchants, tradesmen, sailors, visiting foreigners from the farthest corners of the realms filled the space on either side, peering over shoulders to catch a glimpse of him. Above, galleries wrapped around and around the room all the way to the ceiling. Colorful banners bearing crests and sigils lolled over the lip of each gallery like tongues. Nobles dressed in flowing golden robes looked down at Aidan from on high, weighing him as if he were a fish at market. Great windows between galleries flooded the room with the Lady’s light.
Fighting the urge to bolt, Aidan took one last breath and took a step forward. A tug on his sleeve made him look back. Daniel Shirey stood like all the other Wardsmen: straight and tall, spear held parallel to his body, mail freshly polished, eyes boring a hole through the wall across the room. Aidan swallowed a laugh as he noticed the one flaw in Daniel’s image of the perfect Wardsman. Red hair spilled out from beneath Daniel’s helmet like sloppily bundled hay.
“Good luck,” Daniel mouthed. Aidan nodded back. Tyrnen nudged Aidan forward, well aware of the mischief that seemed to spontaneously occur when Daniel and Aidan were together for longer than a few moments.
Men and women bowed low as Aidan passed, like wind flowing over tall grass. Visitors from the western and eastern realms of Darinia and Leaston inclined their heads. At last he mounted the handful of steps that led to a tall throne, lacquered gold and polished to a shine. The Crown of the North, men called it—both the ornate chair and the Gairden who sat upon it. Beside it sat a smaller companion chair where a Gairden’s mate, co-ruler of Torel, sat during
court.
A bearded man adorned in ceremonial mail only slightly less silvery than his hair stood between the thrones, one hand gripping the hilt of the sword at his waist. Aidan knelt and waited until he felt the man’s gauntleted hand touch his shoulder. Then he rose slowly, digging through his memory to remember just how the customs of the great day dictated he greet his father.
Edmund Calderon was known by many names. King. General of Torel’s Ward. Many, mostly the Wardsmen and the clansmen of Darinia, referred to him as Edmund the Valorous. Twenty-three years ago, Edmund had been a lieutenant in the Ward when a wave of barbarians from across the Great Sea had stormed through the Ihlkin Mountains and cut down General Lotren Kietel in a surprise attack. Edmund had rallied the beleaguered Wardsmen and pushed the invaders back in a series of clashes through the mountain range’s peaks and valleys to sweep them from the cliffs and back into the sea. After the war, Charles Gairden, Aidan’s grandfather and then Crown of the North, had bestowed the title Valorous on the Ward’s new general. In repayment for his aid and bravery, the best smiths in Darinia fashioned him the sword he wore at his waist. Valor was etched into the flat of the blade.
Before Aidan could speak, the king swept him into a warm embrace. The cloud of worry hanging over Aidan’s head vanished in a puff. Torel’s people could keep Edmund the Valorous. Aidan had Edmund the Father.
“Happy sixteenth birthday,” Edmund said, speaking over cheers of “Valorous!” and “Long live the Ward!”
“I am so proud of the man you are, and the man I know you will become,” the king continued.
“Thank you, Father,” Aidan said.
Edmund held his son out to arm’s length and gave him an amused look. “I trust you left the capering snowmen outside, Prince of Mischief?”
Aidan grinned. Edmund had given him the title when he had caught the eight-year-old prince and his newest playmate, Daniel Shirey, whose family had just moved to Torel from the east, sneaking down to Helda’s kitchens in the dead of night in search of sweets. Aidan probably would have pulled off the late-night raid if he hadn’t managed to stumble into every suit of armor lining the wide and otherwise empty corridors. Prince of Mischief didn’t hold the same weight as Edmund the Valorous, but Aidan did his best to live up to the title. Secretly, he vowed it would be one of many.
His stomach gave a lurch as his father came to stand by his side, giving Aidan a view of the throne. He turned away.
“I left a little something for you in your bedchamber,” Edmund said, draping an arm across his shoulder and leaning in close to whisper as the assemblage resettled themselves.
Aidan’s eyes brightened. “What is it?”
Now it was Edmund’s turn to look mischievous. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
Aidan’s mind, enflamed by curiosity, turned over at least a dozen possibilities as Tyrnen approached the thrones. The old man did not fold himself over, but simply inclined his head to Edmund, who returned the gesture.
“For the past thirteen years,” the old man said, his voice magically amplified to reach the far corners of the room, “it has been my privilege to instruct Prince Aidan Gairden in the development of his gift.” He paused. “A privilege most of the time, and a trial at others.”
Waves of soft laughter swept through the room.
“The opportunity to step aside from the onerous responsibilities involved in leadership and personally instruct a Touched is a privilege for any Eternal Flame,” Tyrnen continued, his voice serious. “But the opportunity to instruct a Gairden, a duty never before shared by any outside the royal bloodline, is a true honor.” Tyrnen raised his hand dramatically then plunged it into a pocket, withdrawing—nothing. Frowning, he fished through a dozen pockets in his blue tarp until he at last revealed a gold ring set with a plum-colored stone. The sight of it made Aidan’s mouth go dry.
“I am delighted to say that today is the culmination of my efforts,” Tyrnen continued, holding the ring high for all to see. An identical ring adorned his right forefinger. Lowering his arm, Tyrnen held the ring out to Aidan.
“As the bearer of the Lady of Dawn’s Eternal Flame,” he continued, “I hereby grant Aidan Gairden his Cinder Band, an honor earned, not given.”
Extending his quivering right hand, Aidan allowed Tyrnen to slip the Cinder Band on to his right forefinger. Aidan eyed it, stunned. Most Touched did not ascend to Cinder rank until the age of thirty, sometimes even older. Tyrnen had always told him he was the most gifted Touched he had ever taught, evidenced by the first sip of light Aidan had taken at the age of three. But to receive such an honor at sixteen...
The longer he gazed at his Cinder Band, the more his chest swelled with pride and emotion. Aidan Gairden, Cinder, he thought in wonderment. He looked up at his master and tried to speak, but could only nod.
“Congratulations,” Tyrnen said, his voice thick with emotion. Then he folded his arms behind him and peered at Aidan over his spectacles. “Have you selected a creed?”
“Soldier,” Aidan replied automatically. After earning a Cinder Band, many Touched went on to pursue healing, architecture, engineering. Some joined the crew of a Leastonian ship to navigate the seas by following the stars. Others entered the Temple of Dawn to spread the Lady’s light across Crotaria. As a Gairden, Aidan’s creed, like everything else in his life, was predetermined. If that meant sacrificing himself for the good of Torel or all of Crotaria, so be it. From this day forward, he was a tool, an instrument of the Lady, not a man. Not a person.
“So you have decided, Aidan Gairden,” the old man said formally.
No, I most certainly didn’t, Aidan thought.
Tyrnen inclined his head to the king and prince again and glided to one side of the thrones.
The next phase of the great-wonderful-splendid day brightened Aidan’s mood considerably. Visitors lined up along the carpet and approached the throne one by one, each bearing a gift. He accepted medallions, jewels, colorful clothing that would have made him feel right at home aboard a Leastonian ship. Then the merchants’ guild, the governing body of the eastern realm, presented him with a ship—or rather, the deed to a ship.
Aidan assumed no other gift would trump a ship, but Torelian inventors from the Lion’s Den university proved him wrong. The inventors, a cadre of older Touched with singed beards, hands, and clothing, knelt and presented Aidan with a necklace fashioned from a clear, glass-like material. One clear cylinder as long as his forefinger dangled from the loop.
“We call it a lamp, Your Highness,” one of the inventors said from bended knee. “We just finished it yesterday.”
Aidan frowned. “It holds fire?” he asked.
“After a fashion, Your Highness,” one of the inventors said, rising. He swallowed as Tyrnen came around the thrones to stand behind Aidan, eyes alight with curiosity. “Think of it as a water skin for the Lady’s light, Your Highness,” the inventor continued, voice quivering with excitement. “The lamp collects light simply by exposing it to a light source. It holds the light for up to a full day and can be used when needed, even after the Lady has given way to the Lord of Midnight.” He shuddered, a reaction echoed by many throughout the room.
“This is amazing,” Aidan said, fastening it around his neck. “Thank you!”
“Does a lamp have to take the form of a necklace?” Tyrnen asked, lifting one of the jewels from Aidan’s neck and turning it over in his hand.
“Not at all, Eternal Flame,” the inventor said, hands clasped. “We wanted something practical for His Highness, but we are working to construct lamps in other forms.”
“We should talk more of this,” Tyrnen murmured.
“At your convenience, Eternal Flame,” the inventor said breathlessly as he and the others bobbed their heads.
The line of gift-givers continued. Aidan’s stack of trinkets, treasures, books—he shot Tyrnen a meaningful glare each time he received one of those, making sure to page through each one with a show of great interest—and medall
ions grew taller. He found his thoughts drifting to the Sallnerian girl—woman, he corrected— he’d seen in the courtyard. He had gazed at her for what felt like minutes, drinking in her fair skin, her long legs, and her eyes, which had been the color of... He frowned, annoyed. Her features had already begun to fade. He didn’t know her, didn’t even know her name, but he knew she was bold. A Sallnerian had to be to enter Torel, let alone Leaston or Darinia, so casually. Seeing him must have been important indeed. Maybe he could—
“... all the way from the Plains of Dust to bring word of your betrothed,” his father was saying. Aidan blinked at him, then followed Edmund’s gaze to see a Wardsmen step out from his place in line and bang his spear against the floor.
“Romen of the Wolf, War Chief of Darinia.”
He stepped back to admit a mountain of a man, tall even for a Darinian. Romen’s fur vest displayed his muscular chest tanned from life spent roaming Darinia’s mountains and deserts. Tattoos snaked up his arms and spread over his chest. Some, like the wolf running up his left arm, symbolic of his clan, were easily understood. Others, like the elaborate string of orbs, triangles, and a series of dashes and swirls that coiled around his right bicep, symbolized significant events in the wearer’s life, but Aidan could not interpret them. As a clan chief and the war chief of the west, Romen was especially decorated.
A tiny woman dressed in clothing dyed in blue and gold stepped out from the crowd and slipped her arm through the war chief’s. Every head on the floor craned up to take in Romen as he escorted his wife to the thrones. Her arms were adorned in gold and silver rings, and the bracelets looped over her slender arms chimed as she glided forward. A handful of clansmen fanned out behind them, each a head shorter than Romen and bearing a different tattoo: one wore a wolf identical to Romen’s, while different animals danced among the symbols that branded the other clansmen.
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 2
