The memories were pleasant, but the sight of his favorite retreat left him confused. How am I here?
A torrent of air whipped up along the shore, kicking snow over the ice covering the lake. Tyrnen and his father materialized, and for an instant, Aidan felt confused. Edmund stood with his back to Aidan. His head rested on Tyrnen’s shoulder and his arms were around the old man’s neck, as if sweeping him up in a hug. His father was affectionate toward his family, but kept a respectful distance from others, as befit the stations of king and general, especially valorous ones.
Suddenly his father stumbled backwards and fell to the ground with a grunt. Tyrnen stood with his arms out, and Aidan realized that the old man had pushed his father.
Edmund shot to his feet, his face twisted in rage. “What is the meaning of this, Tyrnen? Where—” His eyes darted around, then narrowed. “Lake Carrean?”
“Bow to me.”
The color drained from Edmund’s face. “What did you say?” Edmund’s voice shook, and not from fear.
“For centuries I have had to kneel before wretches who did not possess even half of the power of which I am capable. Kings, queens, other Touched... No more. Bow,” he said again.
“You forget yourself, Eternal Flame,” Edmund said, his voice deadly quiet. He too stood motionless. “First you grab me and bring me here, without my consent. Now you presume—”
“Perhaps you did not understand my command.” Tyrnen lifted a gnarled finger and pointed behind Edmund. “He will explain it for you.”
Edmund uncoiled in a flash. One minute he was standing before Tyrnen, the next he had ripped Valor from its sheath and spun to parry a blade arcing down to his skull, sending his attacker stumbling. Aidan had watched his father duel. The king never rested; he fought in constant motion, keeping his opponent offbalance. Now Edmund was frozen, his face a mask of confusion and fear. Armor covered his attacker’s body, but its head was a cracked skull peppered with dried blood, its mouth curved in a macabre grin.
“A vagrant,” Aidan whispered hoarsely. He commanded his feet to rush to his father’s side. They wouldn’t listen. He was paralyzed. He tried to call out to Edmund, but his voice caught in his throat. He could do nothing but watch.
Edmund’s initial shock had worn off; his fighter’s senses assumed control of his feet, arms, and mind. Steel rang against steel. Block, chop, dodge, thrust. The vagrant fell, and despite his knowledge of his father’s skill, Aidan felt overwhelming relief. No man could stand toe-to-toe with Edmund the Valorous, but a vagrant was no man. Not anymore.
Two other vagrants appeared.
The creatures rushed him, but he turned their blades aside in one smooth motion and pressed forward, gaining ground against his assailants as they fought to keep pace with his measured attacks. A third vagrant appeared. Then a fourth. A fifth, a sixth. More and more surrounded him, and those he’d cut down rose again and again.
Aim for their heads! Aidan wanted to shout. But he could not. Valor was a blur of motion, but Edmund was not fast enough. His leather clothing, soft gear meant for riding, not fighting, was torn in a dozen places. Blood covered his face like a crimson mask. His attacks did not slow. He crouched to avoid a whistling chop and brought Valor up in a wide arc. The blade sliced cleanly through the bony neck of a vagrant. Its body dropped to the ground as its head plopped into the snow.
Edmund smiled. Faster and faster he fought, the pile of heads growing on the ground at his feet. Valor spun in a vicious backhand that removed yet another skull from its body until at last he stood alone, his breath coming in long yet controlled pulls. He paused for only an instant then whirled toward Tyrnen, Valor raised for a killing strike. His eyes found a new enemy and he froze.
The opponent grinning at Edmund Calderon, sword extended as he glided forward, was Edmund Calderon. Every feature was identical: black hair tinged with gray, his eyes, his smile. Edmund’s face suddenly twisted, astonishment becoming agony. He looked down. A dagger protruded from his side. Grunting, he fumbled at it. His fingers would not close around the hilt.
“Please,” the new Edmund said. His teeth bared as his grin widened. “Allow me.” He pulled the knife free. Aidan heard his father gasp as blood stained his side like a blooming rose. Valor fell from limp fingers, disappearing in the snow. Edmund dropped to his knees, clutching his side. His doppelganger shoved him facedown and planted a boot in his back. Tyrnen came smoothly forward, gripping Edmund’s head like wood caught in a vice.
“I have left you alive,” the old man whispered, “so that you can observe what happens next.” The Eternal Flame shifted away, kicking up snow. Edmund struggled, grunting into the still winter air. Blood leaked through fingers clamped to his side. The impostor sneered and applied weight to his foot. Edmund cried out, a single sharp cry that bounced off the trees and rode the next breeze away from the shore.
Tyrnen popped back in, and he brought Annalyn with him. Rage and terror consumed Aidan. Bruises dotted his mother’s face, and a thin line of blood ran down her lip. Tyrnen shoved her forward and she fell face-first into the snow. Rolling over to sit up, she spit away snow, blinked ice out of her eyes, and saw her husband, tattered and bloody. Rising, the Crown of the North rounded on Tyrnen and raised her hands. Tyrnen watched her. A smile spread over his face as Annalyn’s snarl melted into frustration and—evident, to her credit, only by a slight widening of her eyes—fear.
Tyrnen drew a bejeweled golden scepter from his robe. The Lady’s light glinted against its stones; Annalyn’s eyes sparkled along with it. A voice, soft and purring, entered his thoughts.
—Touch me, Annalyn. Embrace eternal life. Embrace power the likes of which you have never known. With me, you can destroy Tyrnen Symorne. Your kingdom will flourish and prosper, your people will chant your name for eternity. Heritage is nothing compared to—
Abruptly Annalyn shook her head and turned from the scepter, mumbling and whining. She blinked as if awakening from a deep sleep. “What...?”
Nodding as if he had expected just such a reaction, Tyrnen replaced the scepter. He rolled back his sleeves. “Even after what I’ve put you through, you still have the strength to resist. I have often wondered which of us is stronger. Many have said that you are worthy enough to hold the title of Eternal Flame. Did you know that?”
Tyrnen tapped a finger against his lips. “I have an idea. Why don’t we have ourselves a friendly duel? If you win, you and Edmund will be free to go. After all, I’ll be dead, and therefore unable to stop you.” He gestured toward the impostor that held her wounded husband down to the ground. “You’ll have them to deal with, of course.”
Annalyn took in the two Edmunds, the blood leaking from her husband’s side, in a single glance. Her eyes widened slightly.
“What kind of dark magic...?” She shook her head, her features once again composed. “And if I refuse to fight?”
Tyrnen’s smile was frigid. “I will kill your husband, and you will fight me anyway. Now, then. Are you ready?”
“You know I’m not.”
Tyrnen slapped his hand against his forehead. “Of course! You’ve been tied, haven’t you?”
She clenched her fists at her sides but said nothing.
He shrugged. “It’s just as well. There is one other thing I forgot to tell you. You are familiar with harbingers, are you not?”
Her face paled as she slowly turned back to her false husband. Its mouth curled into a vicious smile. She swallowed and faced Tyrnen. “You are... her?”
Tyrnen ignored the question. “If you try to kill the harbinger, or attempt to free your husband, I will kill him. Do you understand?”
“Annalyn,” Edmund said. His voice cracked, fell into a whisper. His face had gone pale, and blood continued to drool from his side. “Don’t worry about me. I can—”
“I understand,” she said in a harsh whisper to Tyrnen. “When I am through, you will—”
Tyrnen kindled. Hissing, Annalyn clamped one arm around her stomach
. In the next instant, the old man raised his arm with a flourish and spit another prayer. A lightning bolt ripped from his palm.
But Annalyn was already gone.
The attack shattered the ground where she’d stood, throwing ice and snow and earth in all directions. Smiling, Tyrnen spun as she reappeared some distance behind him. Fire spewed from her hand before she disappeared again, reappearing in another area to throw lightning. He vanished and materialized just as quickly, hurling an attack of his own.
Aidan watched in awe as shafts of lightning and columns of fire scorched the air and ripped the ground. A bolt shattered a tree near him, but Aidan was too absorbed in what was happening to react. Again and again they shifted, shouting prayers and throwing magic. Aidan’s fists tightened. His mother’s spells were growing fainter with each successive cast, and her shifts did not take her nearly as far away. She was tiring; the fever crept over her.
Tyrnen’s onslaught showed no signs of slowing. Aidan watched the old man in disbelief. How could this be? Didn’t Tyrnen possess the same limitations as any other Touched? He had thought only one of Gairden blood was strong enough to—
“Annalyn!”
Aidan turned. The voice was female. He and his mother found its source at the same time, and they both stared in shock at the figure emerging from behind the cabin. It was a woman of medium height. Her brown hair was long and streaked with gold, as if the Lady’s tears had stained her hair.
The figure was Annalyn Gairden. Aidan turned to his true mother, and then back to the woman striding from the forest. A sickly smile was stuck on her face, as if she was unsure of the emotion such an expression required.
Aidan looked at Tyrnen, and again wished he could speak, could shout, could at least point. The old man whispered a prayer to the Lady. A streak of lightning smashed into Annalyn’s legs, sending chunks of flesh and bone scattering in all directions. She fell to the ground with a wordless scream as crimson mist from twitching stumps sprayed over the white blanket of snow. She stared up, mouth agape, eyes opened wide, her scream trailing off in a hoarse whisper. She flopped around on her back and began to inch backwards, gibbering in fright.
“NO!”
For a moment, Aidan thought he had finally found his voice. Then he saw his father. Edmund struggled to reach his ruined, twitching wife. He raised his bloody hand and reached toward her. Tears spilled down his cheeks, cutting a path through the drying blood on his face. Then he shuddered, gasped, and went still. Nearby, Annalyn gibbered and continued to twitch. She raised herself on shaking arms and tried to scuttle back but fell to the ground, rose, fell again.
Aidan’s world rocked. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to close his eyes and let unconsciousness sweep him into its embrace as it had when he had accepted Heritage. But his body would not fall, would not run toward his parents or away from the sight of them. He could only stand and watch.
Tyrnen gestured to the harbinger. “Take him into the woods and bring me his head. Bury the body, and bury it deep. No one must find it.”
“No,” a small voice gasped.
As one, Tyrnen and Aidan turned to Annalyn Gairden. Through teary eyes, Aidan watched his mother weakly lift a hand and whisper. He could not make out the prayer. Her eyes fluttered open and a small white particle like a snowflake lifted from her head. Another snowy speck lifted from Edmund’s still form.
Tyrnen lunged toward her. “She must not—” the old man began. The specks disappeared. Tyrnen ripped an orb from his robe and slammed it to her chest. Annalyn’s scream pierced the still winter air.
Abruptly trees, frozen lake, cabin, vagrants, Tyrnen, parents— everything warped and blended together like spilled paints. Aidan found himself once again on the floating stone platform among the clouds, but he barely noticed. He stared straight ahead in stunned, silent disbelief where his mother had fallen.
A hand grabbed him from behind.
Chapter 26
Recall
AIDAN STARED AT HIS Grandfather Charles in shock. Tufts of wispy hair grew around his bald pate. He wore baggy Leastonian clothes, preferring loose-fitting garb to armor and a crown even in death. He smelled of dirt and sawdust, and pine trees. He reached out a leathery hand and pulled his grandson to him, wrapping his arms around Aidan and burying his head in Aidan’s shoulder. Aidan held back his own grief until he felt wetness leak from his grandfather’s eyes and soak his shoulder. His grandfather’s tears shook loose his own like the last leaves of autumn torn from their branches by a breeze.
Minutes later he pulled away. “They’re dead?” Aidan asked hollowly.
Charles took a shaky breath and straightened. “Yes. I’m sorry, boy.”
Aidan felt heart-wrenching sadness—then a moment of panic.
“Am I dead?”
Charles shook his head. “You are in Sanctuary.”
Sanctuary. The spirit realm contained within the Eye of Heritage, where Gairden souls came to rest after stepping off the mortal realm. That did nothing to ease Aidan’s rising panic.
“A Gairden comes to Sanctuary at least twice,” Charles went on. “Once during the Rite of Heritage, and again upon death. Upon acceptance of Heritage, sword-bearers establish a mental link with the sword. Their consciousness is transferred here so they may learn about—”
“The Thalamahns,” Aidan said, catching on. He had known that Gairdens learned many secrets once they inherited the sword. The fact that Dimitri and Luria Thalamahn’s souls were hidden across Crotaria was likely the biggest.
Another thought slammed into him. “Where is she? Where is my mother?”
Charles’s mouth quivered slightly. “Aidan...”
“Mother should be here. With us. With you.”
Charles started to speak, then stopped. He looked up at the clouds streaming fast and slow. The midsummer-blue sky grew sickly, becoming gray. Snow-capped trees surrounded them, bordering Lake Carrean and the cabin where he and his parents had enjoyed one another’s company away from the palace. Tyrnen, his face dark and terrible, towered over them like a human inspecting ants crawling along the ground.
Aidan fought the urge to shrink away. “What is this?”
“Recall,” Charles said. “It’s a spell that saves a memory for future examination. You can then go through it step by step, experiencing every moment, analyzing every nuance, at your leisure.” Charles smiled sadly. “Your mother used it once, though she’d had no knowledge of it before asking me to pass her the spell through the sword, as I passed you magic for—”
“The fire in the cave,” Aidan finished.
Charles nodded. “Your mother used recall to solve a theft, I believe, a case in which two parties accused each other of the same crime.” His smile faded. “Before she died, Annalyn extracted the memory of what happened to her at Lake Carrean, and of what befell your father.”
Charles raised a hand and slowly lowered it. Tyrnen began to move toward Annalyn’s broken, bleeding form, though sluggishly, as if wading through waist-high snow. With his other hand Charles made a gesture as if he were pushing aside a curtain. To Aidan’s amazement the view rotated. Charles let his hands drop, showing them a close view of an object clutched in Tyrnen’s hand.
“Look,” Charles said, pointing.
Aidan looked. It was a glass orb. A large, storm-gray cloud sat stationary within it. Charles gestured at the orb, and the cloud began to roil.
“What is it?” Aidan asked.
Charles took several moments to answer. “A spirit stone. It holds souls. Whoever holds the stone controls the souls within. Souls can be placed within bodies, and those bodies can be reanimated and reshaped—new faces, statures, colors, but all the memories and abilities of the soul locked within the flesh.”
He looked at Aidan. Tears leaked from eyes that had gone stony. “He took your mother’s soul, boy. He took my daughter.”
“But a Gairden’s soul comes to Sanctuary upon death,” Aidan said.
Swallowing, Charles shook his h
ead. “Ordinarily, but Tyrnen took her soul with the stone before she died. She is lost to us. As is your father. A Gairden’s mate passes on into Sanctuary so that they may remain together always rather than be separated.” He paused. “Edmund did not come to us.”
Nausea swept through Aidan, making him swoon. Then his grandfather’s words took on a different meaning.
“You said my father isn’t here. Maybe Tyrnen didn’t take his soul. Maybe he’s still alive!”
Charles was shaking his head. “No, boy. I’m sorry.” He raised a hand and Sanctuary changed again, melting into the image of the vagrants, piles of dead surrounding Edmund, and the Edmund impostor. The impostor stared down at them, face frozen in a sneer. Aidan realized he was looking at the world through Edmund’s eyes. A gauntleted hand appeared—Edmund’s— reaching, straining toward Annalyn. Then it went limp, and blackness descended. Clouds on blue sky returned a moment later, some speeding by while others swam lazily across the expanse.
“That is where your father’s memory ends,” Charles said.
“They’re gone, boy. Tyrnen took them both.”
Aidan closed his eyes as more tears spilled down his cheeks.
“I’m truly sorry you had to find out this way, Aidan,” Charles said. “I’ve been watching you since your birthday. I wanted to talk to you, to tell you all that had happened, but the Prophet told us that you needed to find out this way in order to—”
“And you thought that was necessary?”
“Because you had to grow up. Her words, boy, not mine, so you can wipe that look off your face. You weren’t ready. That’s what she said, and she was right, and you know she was right. You had to accept all of this on your own: Heritage, your parents’ fate. You had to learn to make your own choices, to act. I didn’t agree at first, but the Rite of Heritage is different for every Gairden. There are similarities, of course. We all learn about the Thalamahns and how they cheated death. But for you, the Rite of Heritage was about surviving.
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 22
