“Welcome back to Sunfall, Cynthia Alston,” Edmund said, kissing her hand.
“It has been too long, King Edmund,” she said, smiling.
Romen inclined his head to Edmund. Turning, he greeted Aidan in the custom of Darinians, placing a fist to his left breast. “Steel is stronger than flesh,” the big man said.
“Blood stronger than steel,” Aidan finished, mirroring the salute.
Romen nodded, pleased. “It is good to see you well, Aidan Gairden,” he said, speaking the words slowly as if they were a maze for his tongue to navigate.
“And you, war chief,” Aidan said. “Your common is excellent.”
“My wife is a fine teacher,” he said, glowing as he beheld his Leastonian beauty.
“My husband is a quick learner,” Cynthia said, and she smiled up at him.
“How fares Darinia?” Edmund asked.
“We are blessed with fast horses, good hunting, and the Lady’s warmth,” Romen said.
“And Nichel?” Edmund asked, looking at the clansfolk standing behind and around Romen and Cynthia. “My future daughter-in-law accompanied you today, yes?”
Every thought of the Sallnerian woman from earlier flew from Aidan’s head.
“She couldn’t be here today,” Cynthia said, then cast a worried look at her husband.
Romen also frowned. “Our daughter was not well enough to make the journey. I am afraid your wedding vows will have to wait, Aidan Gairden.”
“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Aidan asked, genuinely concerned. Nichel was only a year younger than he. They had played together during the infrequent visits his mother made to Darinia during Aidan’s boyhood. She might be another chain that shackled him to his throne, but she was his friend.
“Her illness came on suddenly,” Cynthia said. “She insisted we be here today without her. We will reschedule the wedding.”
Romen nodded. “You will see her when the snows melt, Aidan Gairden.”
“I look forward to it,” Aidan said, feeling relieved. Nichel would recover, and he had more time to adjust to the idea of starting a family of his own. He’d give back every one of his gifts in exchange for more time to adapt. Most of his gifts. A few.
After exchanging farewells and a promise to unite Aidan and Nichel at the first hint of spring, Romen and Cynthia rejoined the crowd. The clansmen melted into the crowd behind them. Several moments passed. Gradually, eyes swiveled toward the closed doors. As if on cue, they swung open to reveal a solitary figure standing in the center of the doorway, a sword sheathed at her side.
Everyone along the aisle fell to one knee as Annalyn Gairden, Crown of the North, sword-bearer, Guardian Light, flowed down the aisle to her family. The light filtering through the icy stainedglass windows played against the jewels weaved through her hair, which shined almost as brightly as the smile she fixed on her family as she glided toward them. Tyrnen nodded to Annalyn when she approached; she nodded back and fixed all her attention on her husband, who was rising from bended knee. Each swam through the other’s eyes, seeming to forget the hundreds of people watching. Edmund lowered his head and kissed his wife’s curly brown hair, streaked with blonde as if the Lady’s tears had ran down it. A few women cooed softly.
Aidan cleared his throat, and his mother turned her smile on him. When she opened her arms, Aidan stooped and embraced her. Leastonian perfumes made her hair smell like fresh peaches. He breathed deep.
“Dancing snowmen, I understand?” Annalyn murmured in Aidan’s ear.
He tensed, then loosened as he felt her shaking with laughter.
“They were quite talented,” he said. “I’m sorry you missed them.”
She laughed softly. “I do hope you can bring them back for an encore.”
“They met a terrible fate, but their kin would love to perform for you, I’m sure.”
She squeezed him and turned to face the assemblage. “Today, my heart bursts with love and pride. You have come here today, friends, countrymen, and honored guests, to witness my son’s Rite of Heritage, our family’s passage to adulthood. Before this hour has passed, you will see the new Crown of the North and swordbearer before you—and more, besides.”
Annalyn raised her hands and spread them far apart, and the windows faded to darkness. A golden flush appeared in the center of the ceiling and inched outward like fog, bathing the room in a golden glow. Folding her arms across her chest, Annalyn flung them up and out. As she did, the golden veil ripped away to reveal a blackened ceiling speckled with stars. The assemblage made low sounds of appreciation before lapsing into silence—the Crown’s story had begun.
“Eight hundred years ago, Crotaria was divided into four realms of equal power and territory—Darinia in the west, Torel in the north, Leaston in the east, and Sallner in the south. King Dimitri Thalamahn, ruler of Sallner, became discontent with his borders. He yearned to expand, to conquer, and to own. When Dimitri’s grown daughter, Princess Anastasia, became smitten with Ambrose Gairden, Crown of the North, it was hoped that a union between the two kingdoms would quell Sallner’s desire to expand. But Dimitri and his bride, Luria Elden, did not desire unity. They desired dominance.”
The crowd emitted awed gasps as the stars began to shift and contort, taking the shapes of humans, castles, and sprawling battlefields to accompany Annalyn’s words.
“Dimitri, known as the Serpent King across the four realms for his malevolence, gathered his army and stormed Leaston, which was unprepared for invasion. The banner of Sallner flew over the ruined realm. Thus began the Serpent War. With the east conquered, Sallner set its sights on Darinia. Janleah, war chief of the west, united the clans and called upon Torel for aid. King Ambrose Gairden allied with the clans and led the north against Sallner. Anastasia, a supremely gifted Touched, defected from Sallner and joined her beloved at the head of his army.
“It soon became known that Dimitri and Luria Thalamahn were more than just ruthless tyrants—they were disciples of Kahltan, the Lord of Midnight. Calling upon dark magic, Luria and Dimitri corrupted their people, guiding Sallnerians down the wide road of evil, greed, and bloodshed. Luria grew more wicked as the war continued, and became known as the Queen of Terror for her depravity, for the blasphemous acts she committed on those she slaughtered. Combing the battlefields, Luria breathed life into the dead and turned them against the living.”
Sharp cries and sounds of revulsion sprang up as corpses made of stars rose from the ground, glowing a deep scarlet, and threw themselves against former allies. Aidan watched the spellbound audience. Most stared at the events unfolding above them, enraptured by the history of his family’s bloodline. Lifting his eyes to the galleries, he noticed several nobles watching him, measuring. Aidan felt the weight between his shoulders increase. He could almost hear their thoughts: How will history remember Aidan Gairden?
Taking a breath, he looked to his right. A gap of at least two feet separated the last line of tables and the wall. Perhaps if he moved quietly, he could sidle to the door. Daniel would surely let him slip out. After that he could—
“... after so much death and destruction, Ambrose wasted no time. He married Anastasia in the southern courtyard of Torel Fortress, and guests from Leaston and Darinia flooded to act as witnesses. As the ceremony drew to a close, legends say the clouds parted and a crone descended from the Lady’s light. She had come, she said, on behalf of her goddess to bless the marriage. Each Gairden would produce only a single heir, and the blood of Anastasia and Ambrose would flow through their line, but forked like a river. Along one fork flowed the blood of Anastasia, the most exceptional Touched of her time. Along the other, a finely balanced savagery and skill in combat inherited from Ambrose Gairden, considered by many to be the greatest warrior who ever lived.
“On the battlefield, the Darinians had stood in awe of the strength of Ambrose and Anastasia. They called Ambrose Ordine’kel, or the Guardian Blade; Anastasia was Ordine’cin, the Guardian Light. As a show of respect toward
their allies in the west, the Gairdens named the gift Ordine, and their strength of the Guardian would guard Crotaria until the end of time.”
Aidan stole a glance at his father. Whether Edmund the Valorous could have equaled or bested the Gairden patriarch was the subject of many boisterous tavern debates. Aidan had spent hours watching his father spar in the training yard, wondering what it would be like to move so gracefully. He would never know. He had inherited Ordine’cin, and could wield a sword about as effectively as he could wield a log. That was fine by Aidan. Being born with Ordine’cin did not make a Gairden a Cinder the first time they kindled, or make those born with ’kel equal to Ambrose Gairden the first time they picked up a blade. Aidan had studied hard—most of the time—the same as any Touched outside his bloodline had to do. He fingered the gold loop around his right forefinger, admiring it. He had earned it.
He blinked and redirected his attention to his mother as she concluded the tale.
“The crone bestowed one final gift to Ambrose Gairden:
Heritage, a blade crafted from the Lady of Dawn’s light and passed from generation to generation. She departed, and the Darinian builders worked with the Gairdens to rebuild Torel Fortress. They renamed it Sunfall, named in honor of the disciple’s appearance. With the Serpent War ended, Ambrose and Anastasia took Heritage into Sallner and carried out the realm’s punishment for succumbing to sin.”
Overhead, the stars that made up the southern realm of Crotaria winked out, one by one. Abruptly the other lights vanished, leaving the room blanketed in darkness. Nervous muttering broke out. A sharp hiss rang through the room as Annalyn pulled her sword from her sheath and raised it high. Cords of fire shot across the room, lighting torches hanging from either side of each balcony. The windows remained dark, as if looking out on a black, blank sky. No one noticed. All eyes, Aidan’s included, were on Heritage.
The double-edged blade was unblemished. Legends said Heritage was made from magically reinforced steel, and could not be chipped, dented, or broken. Engravings of lightning bolts curled down its length. The hilt was wrapped in leather to provide a surer grip. In the center of the guard that joined hilt and blade was the Eye of Heritage, an egg-shaped ruby. At Annalyn’s touch, the Eye glowed a warm scarlet.
“There is but one criterion that must be met for a Gairden to become sword-bearer,” Annalyn said as she faced Aidan. “Heritage must be willingly accepted. By so doing, it is not only the blade that is accepted, but the responsibility it carries.”
Annalyn ran her free hand across Aidan’s cheek, then dropped her arm and donned a sober expression as she lowered herself to one knee and held Heritage hilt-first to her only child.
“I extend Heritage to my son, Aidan Gairden. Aidan, do you accept Heritage, knowing that doing so names you Crown of the North and sword-bearer, guardian of the four realms? Do you swear to lay down your life before harm comes to friend or kin, to people or land?”
Aidan looked at his mother. Her smiling face spoke of confidence, pride, and love. He looked at his father. Edmund’s left hand gripped the hilt of Valor as he nodded to his son. Then Aidan sought Tyrnen’s eyes. The Eternal Flame stood rigid, his hands lost within the many folds of his robe. He gave a small nod.
Aidan took a deep breath and raised his eyes to take in the faces gathered all around him. A baby’s cry cut through the room’s absolute stillness, followed by a mother’s soothing voice as she rocked the child to stillness. The torches above fell into low muttering, and the throne room itself seemed to hold its breath.
This was it. This was what all the people had journeyed hundreds of miles to see. He would take Heritage, hold it over his head. The crowd would cheer, they would all sit down to Helda’s feast, and then he could go back to bed, claiming the excitement of the great day had caught up with him. All he had to do was hold a sword.
He reached for Heritage.
—Destiny is never a choice, Aidan Gairden, a voice whispered.
A chill swept through him. Looking around, he heard only smothered coughs. He stared at his mother. She was looking at him, smiling, nodding. She must have been the one who had spoken. She was always going on about destiny and making choices.
He took another deep breath, and, with as much confidence as he could muster, he reached out to the sword.
Heritage wrenched from Annalyn’s grip and tumbled to the floor. Crimson sparks shot from the Eye, crawling along the floor toward Aidan. He leaped back with a cry. Spitting sparks, the sword convulsed on the floor as the Eye bathed the room in red light.
Heritage gave a final shudder and went still. The Eye went dark, and light flooded through the windows. A nervous muttering broke out as Annalyn lunged forward to scoop up the sword, staring at it with large, intent eyes.
“What happened?” Aidan whispered.
She was silent.
“Mother?” he asked, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She jumped and looked up at him as if just realizing he was there.
“I’m sorry, Aidan,” she said. “Heritage does not accept you.”
Chapter 3
Under Shadow
CYNTHIA ALSTON THREADED BETWEEN clansmen and horses until she found her husband in Sunfall’s stables. Romen of the Wolf, war chief of the west and a man chiseled from stone, looked like a mountain bowed from the wind. He brushed his stallion absently, stroking the same patch of hair over and over. Wolf Runner snorted his displeasure at the lack of attention, but Romen ignored him. His eyes were clouded with worry.
Cynthia placed her hand over his until it came to rest.
“Aidan will be fine,” she said to him in the Darinian tongue.
He looked at her but said nothing.
“Are you certain you wish to leave?” she asked, taking the brush from his hands and running it along her mare’s fine coat. Narra leaned into Cynthia’s strokes, her tail swishing. The horse had been a wedding gift from Annalyn and Edmund and seemed to take as much pleasure in her appearance as Cynthia took in beautifying her.
“Nichel needs us,” Romen said, cupping his wife’s chin in one rough hand. “And you need to be with her.”
“I do,” Cynthia admitted. “But you’re worried about our friends, as am I.”
Romen’s hand fell away. He was silent for several moments. “It was as if the sword slapped his hand away. I have never heard of an object able to do such a thing.”
“The Gairdens are a mysterious people,” she said. “Annalyn can consult her ancestors. Surely they can solve this matter.” She hesitated. “Unless you think we should stay?”
Romen turned her words over. “No. What happened is a family matter, and as you say, the Crown of the North will know what to do. And...” He gave her that small, almost sheepish smile he reserved only for her, as soft as the man who wore it was hard. “And I am worried about our daughter. It will do my heart good to see that she has recovered fully.”
His smile faded as he looked up at the sky and glared at the clouds as if they were enemies boiling over his mountains. Cynthia followed his gaze and shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The snowfall had stopped during Aidan’s Rite of Heritage, but the Lady bled into the sky. Soon, this half of the world would belong to the Lord of Midnight. Torches lined the path leading out of the stables and down the mountain to the city. Shadows danced over the snow. The world seemed a different place under shadow.
“Are you sure we should leave tonight?” she asked, truly torn. As much as she wanted to see with her own eyes that Nichel was on her feet again, the thought of the Lord of Midnight’s gaze on her as they traveled made her skin crawl.
He began to speak, caught her gaze, hesitated. “If you would rather...”
She forced herself to stand straighter and spared a quick glance around. The clansmen were preoccupied with their horses, preparing them for the journey home. That was good. Her husband’s clan respected her, but she knew many of them saw her as soft. As the daughter of one of Leaston’s wealthiest
merchants— and one of the most influential members of the merchants’ guild besides—she had grown up swaddled in the most expensive fabrics, not the rough, sand-scoured hides of animals stalked and killed across the sand-swept plateaus and fiery mountains of the west. Draping those fabrics over her body felt like wrapping herself in the softest clouds, a dalliance in decadence her husband encouraged. Unlike so many clan chiefs, he did not want his mate to give up who she was after taking his clan’s sign. Still, she wanted to be worthy of him as he was worthy of her.
Besides, Kahltan’s shadows held nothing her husband could not swat away. Romen would protect her, protect all of them. They would ride their horses south to the Avivian River and board a ship that would carry them into Darinia. She yearned to feel a deck bobbing under her feet and the sight of water around her, even if it didn’t carry the scent of the sea.
More than anything, she yearned for her daughter.
She touched Romen’s arm. “Let’s go home.”
He beamed at her, and the pride on his face warmed her like the Lady’s noontime touch. He scooped her up and set her in her saddle. She giggled, unable to help herself. The first time Romen had scooped her into his arms had been immediately following their marriage ceremony. He had made a habit of settling her into her saddle every ride since. It was courteous of him, certainly, but it was also one of their little traditions, an excuse for them to touch during an otherwise innocuous action, and she loved it.
After handing her the reins, Romen climbed onto Wolf Runner, gave the word, and the clansmen set off down the mountain. They rode at a canter down the shallow trail into Calewind and through the city gates. Romen set an easy pace as the night grew darker, trotting over rolling hills and across open plains to avoid crippling the horses in the deep snow. Clansmen fanned out around the war chief and his wife, lanterns dangling from poles. Occasionally they passed cities and villages. The buildings within their walls seemed to huddle together, waiting for the Lady of Dawn to rise. All around her, trees stripped bare of leaves reached for the sky with twisted, frozen limbs.
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 3
