—It was not your time, Aidan Gairden, a grandmotherly voice whispered in his mind.
“Hmm?” he mumbled, his breathing already beginning to even.
—Sleep now. Your time will come.
Chapter 5
Nichel’s Gift
JONATHAN HILLSTREAM, TOUCHED AND adviser to Romen of the Wolf, smiled as his charge appeared in the doorway. “It is good to see you out of bed at last, wolf daughter.” His smile wavered. “You look... much better.”
Nichel shuffled into the council room of Janleah Keep. One hand ran through her head of dark, wavy hair damp with sweat. The other was splayed across her belly, and her eyes shied away from the Mother’s light blazing through the windows.
“How are you feeling?” Jonathan asked, concern creasing his handsome face.
Nichel opened her mouth, snapped it shut, swallowed. “Better,” she managed.
“Your attendants will be pleased to hear that,” Jonathan said lightly, offering an arm. “They’ve only recently declared it safe to change their clothing.”
“Dinner did not agree with me, it seems,” Nichel said.
“Dinner, wolf daughter?” Jonathan guided her to her mother’s seat, a chair carved from stone that jutted out of the far wall.
“Yes,” Nichel said as she sank into the cushioned seat. Her mother had never quite adapted to the idea of sitting on solid rock. Nichel, too, preferred a bit of padding to support her curved frame, though she never used it when her father was around. His throne jutted from the wall next to her mother’s seat, and was even craggier.
“I thought the meat tasted a bit off, but no matter,” she said. “I assume my parents left for Torel last night as planned. I’ll be ready to set off after them shortly.”
“Your parents have been away for a fortnight, wolf daughter.”
Nichel blinked. “A fortnight? No, that’s not possible. We were going to leave for Sunfall to attend my wedding, and Aidan’s Rite of Heritage.”
“Aidan Gairden’s Rite of Heritage took place days ago, actually.”
“Days?” Nichel repeated weakly.
“That’s correct. You’ve been bedridden since just before their departure. I imagine your parents will bring word of how the new Crown of the North has handled his responsibilities thus far.”
Nichel’s mouth worked silently. “How is it that I slept for so long?”
“You were delirious most of the time, barely able to keep anything down.” He paused. “You do not remember any of this?”
She shook her head slowly. “Could it have been the food I ate the night we were supposed to depart?”
“That is my guess, yes.”
“Did either of my parents fall ill?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Nichel nodded absently. “They left as planned?”
“Yes, though I do not expect them to return for several days. I expect the weather in the north has made travel difficult.”
Nichel ran a finger along the designs carved into the arms of the throne. “And they didn’t... that is, did they come to see me?”
“Of course, wolf daughter,” Jonathan said, patting her hand. “They refused to leave your bedside that entire first night.”
Nichel bowed her head to hide the tears welling in her eyes. Her father would frown at the display, but her father wasn’t here, was he? “What made them decide to go to Torel without me?”
“It was only food poisoning. I assured them you were in no real danger, and you never were, I promise you—just as I promised them.”
“But, wouldn’t they have wanted to—”
“—see Aidan Gairden take up the sword? Of course, and so they did. It was only after I worked on you that the war chief consented to leave your side for a short time. I had a bit of healing instruction when I studied at the Lion’s Den, though it wasn’t my primary area of expertise.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t fret too much. A spring wedding would be much more beautiful than one where icicles were used as a substitute for a chandelier.”
Nichel managed a smile. Aidan. Her betrothed. It had been too long since she’d last seen him. He’s probably as handsome as he ever was—even more so. Nichel had gone to great lengths to select just the right shade of blue for her gown, giggling over fabrics with her mother, who knew all the best colors and materials for every season. It had been fun to indulge in the Leastonian half of her blood, and to listen to her mother cooing over how much Aidan would fancy her in this or that color. Aidan. He was the Crown of the North, now. In just a few months, she would be his queen.
“If you feel up to it, wolf daughter, I have reports to convey,” Jonathan said.
“Very well,” Nichel said, and her roiling stomach permitted a sigh to escape her lips.
Jonathan’s voice faded to a dull buzz as Nichel sank into her mother’s chair. Making sure to keep her gaze fixed on Jonathan, and to nod at all the right parts, she swept her eyes around the cavernous, brightly lit hall. Janleah Keep had been built eight hundred years ago and named in honor of her ancestor, Janleah of the Wolf. The Serpent King and his undead army had razed Leaston first before marching into the west and overwhelming several clans with their superior numbers and dark magic. Janleah had gathered the surviving clans and united them under his banner, making him the first war chief. He had gone on to forge an alliance with Torel, and it had taken their combined might to drive the Serpent King back into the south. Back into the kingdom that had become his grave.
After the war, the clans disbanded, but they paid respect to Janleah for the courage he had displayed in battle and the wisdom he had shown in bringing them together by building a fortress worthy of the war chief, a title they would honor only in times of greatest need. The builders had cut and smoothed sandstone and marble using the Mother’s light, and raised Janleah’s Keep beside the largest oasis in the west.
Pride filled her. She had been raised on the hot, dusty plains of Darinia, her dark hands calloused from wielding tools, hunting spears she’d sharpened herself, and from scaling her ancestral home. She was as hard as any Darinian, and she would bring that hardness and honor to her marriage. Her thoughts returned to her betrothed, and she blushed. She was also a girl—a woman at fifteen—and had as much right as any Torelian or Leastonian woman to fantasize about her wedding.
Her gown. That was the problem. She’d wanted blue, but blue just wasn’t appropriate for a spring wedding. She would ask Mother to make her a new one. Still, Aidan did love blue. His parents made him wear white, but she wondered if maybe—
“... should be in your chambers, wolf daughter.”
She raised her head. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I...” She blushed. “I’m still quite tired. I’m afraid I faded out.”
He gave her a warm, sympathetic smile. It occurred to her that, if not for her betrothal to Aidan, she would let Jonathan court her.
“Certainly,” he said. “Earlier this morning, a messenger arrived bearing a gift from your parents. No doubt they intended for it to reach you before they returned home.”
A thrill of excitement swept through her. “Where is it?”
“I requested it delivered to your chambers.”
Nichel squealed with glee. Jonathan raised an eyebrow, and Nichel composed herself.
“Thank you, Jonathan. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll make sure my father knows of your diligence.”
She crossed the room in what began as a youthful stride but ended in careful lurches, and almost reached the entryway before Jonathan cleared his throat.
“Was there something else?” Nichel asked.
“Much more, I’m afraid.”
Nichel sighed. “Follow me.”
They walked through passages that twisted and turned. Nichel nodded where appropriate as Jonathan rambled on and on. Through an open window, she caught the scent of roasted meshia. To her surprise, her stomach growled instead of cowered. The hide of the horned beast was thick—she had broken enough spear points to know—but be
came deliciously tender after hours cooking over an open flame. She slowed, tempted. More than tempted. She was contemplating crawling through the aperture and tearing the beast from the spit with her teeth. But, no. Gifts first, food second.
When she arrived at the closed door of her chambers, she gave Jonathan a flat look as he attempted to enter alongside her. He stepped back, raising a fist to his chest in salute as he moved to stand beside the door. Closing the door behind her, Nichel’s face broke into a grin. A large silver package sat waiting atop the tangled mess of sheets and blankets.
She moved as fast as she dared, not wanting to break the peace treaty her stomach had signed with movement of any kind. A tiny piece of parchment was attached to the lid. Nichel plucked it off and prepared to read it, but her eyes drifted back to the package as if caught on a fishing line. She let the note drop to the floor.
As had been her custom since she was old enough to understand what gift-wrapped boxes meant, she gave the present a delicate shake. The contents thudded against the side of the box, causing the princess to wobble as she steadied herself. Nice and heavy! She tore the paper off in a gleeful frenzy, threw away the lid, and screamed.
Inside the container, leaving gory trails where they had rolled around during their long journey, were the decapitated heads of Romen of the Wolf and Cynthia Alston.
On the floor, the crumpled parchment slowly unfurled like a blooming flower. In the center was a design—the letter ‘H’, the blade of Crotaria’s most well-known sword sheathed in the letter’s center bar. Below it, written in the blood:
Long Live the Crown of the North
Chapter 6
Bad Dreams
AIDAN OPENED HIS EYES with a start, deeply afraid and confused over why. Blinking, he looked around. Galleries cascaded upward around the walls. Torches flickered in between each gallery. The floor beneath him was cold, hard. Stone. Raising his head, he saw the Crown of the North and its companion throne across the room. They looked small from where he lay, like toy chairs meant for dolls.
I’m in the throne room. Another thought: Why? The last thing he remembered was dozing off in bed after a long day riding the hills outside Calewind. Had he walked here in his sleep?
Shadows writhed along the walls. No light stretched beyond the flickering pools of orange cast by the torches. A chill hung in the air, as if the windows—all clamped shut—had been left open. Aidan shivered. He could sense... something, a vague presence that was not welcome. It smelled dirty and rotten.
He attempted to rise when he noticed movement at the edge of his vision. Turning, he stared around in confusion, wondering what had caught his attention—then drew a sharp breath. The torches mounted around the walls flickered, but the shadows they made had gone still. As he watched, they stirred as if awakening from sleep then oozed toward the center of the ceiling, a confluence of streams of tar.
Aidan’s breath caught. Low laughter drifted into his ears as the shadowy bulk, twice as wide as his bed coverings, seeped down the wall. The fiery heads of torches shied away. Suddenly the dark mass pounced, snuffing out the flames. The room grew dimmer. The shadow continued downward, gaining speed. Again it slowed near a line of torches, and again it flowed over them, wrapping around the room and extinguishing the lights with a hiss. Smoke curled up from each bald torch, its dying breath. The raspy laughter grew stronger, the shadow spilling down now, choking all the light from the room until Aidan was left lying in darkness.
Unable to move, barely able to breathe, Aidan shivered, waiting. An icy vapor ran up his legs; he felt as if he were slowly sinking into a lake in the grip of winter. The coldness slid forward, spreading over him. The laughter was all he could hear now, drowning the pounding of his heart and his clacking teeth.
The darkness reared, considering him, laughing. Then it lunged, streaming into his mouth and down his throat, gagging him. He tried to raise a hand to pry it away. He couldn’t budge it. The shadow was light as air, solid as steel. It pinned his arms to the ground and surged into his nose. He was choking, suffocating...
And then it was gone. His chest heaved, pulling air into his lungs in sharp gasps. His eyes watered, his throat and nostrils burned, and the sweat covering him chilled his bones. His clothes were drenched, leaving him a sopping, shuddering mess. But he was alive.
Footsteps nearby, hard boots biting into the stone, bouncing echoes off the walls. As the footfalls drew to a halt, his father appeared, standing over him, somehow perfectly visible in the darkness as if the Lady illuminated him and only him. Edmund cocked his head, considering his prone son, and the relief Aidan had felt at the other man’s appearance leaked away.
Edmund’s face was contorting, skin warping like shifting sand and bones snapping like dry twigs until the face became plain and expressionless. His eyes, flat and lifeless, rolled back and sank into his skull. The king grinned; dirt and grime caked gaps where teeth should have been. Vertical strips of flesh ran from his top lip to his bottom, like fleshy cell bars.
“You are a failure to me,” he said, voice thick with earth. The fleshy strips vibrated like taut strings as he spoke, and clumps of dirt spilled from his lips like crumbs. “Your mother and I gave you opportunity, provided you with everything a man could need, everything he could want. But it wasn’t enough for you. You are not fit to lead Torel’s Ward, Aidan. You are not fit to take your mother’s throne.”
The terrible face leaned in closer, its rotting mouth hovering inches from Aidan’s ear. He spoke in a whisper, but the words boomed through the room like thunder.
“I disown you. You are not my son.”
Edmund vanished. Annalyn stepped forward. Aidan stared up at her, tears streaming down his face.
“Mother,” he said, struggling to control his voice. “Mother, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fail. I did everything I could! But Heritage— it did not accept me. It wasn’t my fault!”
Annalyn leered down at him. Like her husband’s, her eyes were dead and glassy. Emotionless, as if she felt nothing. Nothing for him.
“You,” she began, then shook her head. “What did I do, Aidan?”
“What do you mean?”
“It has to be something I did. Did I not love you enough? Did I not teach you faith? Or pride in our family?”
“No!” he said, reaching for her hand. She reared back as if he were a snake.
“Mother, please. You did everything right. It... It was me. I just wasn’t ready.”
“I know that now, Aidan. There was nothing I could have done differently.” Her eyes sank back into her head. Four vertical bars of flesh appeared, sewing lip to lip. “I did everything a mother should. I tried to raise you with a sense of honor and responsibility. I tried to show you the pride of being born a Gairden.
“None of it was good enough for you, was it, Aidan? Be silent!” she screamed at him when he opened his mouth. “Do not speak to me.” A worm wriggled from one of her empty sockets and through the other, vanishing inside her skull.
“Do not ever speak to me again, Aidan. You are nothing but a disappointment.” She leaned in closer still, just as his father had, but she did not whisper as he had.
“You are weak, Aidan. You are not a Gairden. You are not my son!”
She disappeared then, leaving him in darkness and with the echo of words that pierced him deeper than the shadowy cold that had almost drowned him.
A failure. A disappointment.
Why? Why did this have to happen to me?
He closed his eyes, letting pity overtake him.
A soft hum echoed above him. He opened his eyes to see Heritage suspended in midair, floating point down and twirling like a carefree girl. Rising to his feet, he lunged at the sword. The sword floated out of reach. Aidan went for it again.
“You! You did this. You made them hate me, made them turn away from me! Made me a failure!” He leaped for it, but every time the sword slid through the air, always just out of reach. Aidan fell to his knees, too drained to con
tinue. Cautiously, the sword drifted close. The Eye churned, fixing him in its gaze. Then, to his utter amazement, it spoke.
—You must have courage, Aidan.
His head snapped up.
—Your hardships have just begun. Will you face them, or hide in your bed?
Aidan shook his head slowly. “That voice,” he whispered. Where have I heard that voice before? Destiny...
—Awaken!
The Eye flashed. A storm rumbled within the stone.
— I can hold him at bay, but not for long. AWAKEN!
Aidan sat upright in his bed like an uncoiled spring. His bare chest and wrinkled trousers were soaked with sweat. A trail of tears laced his cheeks. He closed his eyes and rubbed at them, wishing he could scrub away the nightmare that replayed itself against his eyelids.
A gust of wind blew past him, upsetting his hair and snuffing the candle he kept near his bed. He opened his eyes to see his door slam shut, sending a weaker gust of air over him. The loud crash stunned Aidan for the briefest of moments before he shot out of bed. Thoughts came to him in a rush, broken and disorganized. How long had he slept? Days and nights had blended together since his parents had left.
Shaking his head to clear away sleepiness that clung to his mind like cobwebs, he bounded to the door and threw it open. The Lord of Midnight held court; all the torches lining the corridor had been extinguished.
Puzzled, he closed the door. How...? The wind I felt. He blinked. He glanced at his window. It was sealed shut, and he’d had no reason to open it. He could draw heat through the glass, which was a mercy during the coldest winter months.
I know I closed my door before falling asleep. So the wind would have to have come from... inside the room. But how? He rubbed at his arm absently, then frowned and studied it. His skin was warm to the touch, even though the stone floor felt as cold as a sheet of ice. His eyes widened. Someone had kindled. Someone had been here, or nearby, and had shifted away as he awakened. How, though? Wards set by Gairdens hundreds of years in the grave prevented anyone from shifting into or out of Sunfall.
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 5
