“Don’t even watch where they’re walking,” came a growl at his side. Aidan turned to find the shopkeeper whose establishment he’d ducked into standing beside him and staring after the departing party with a baleful expression.
“Why are they out in such large numbers?” Aidan asked, adjusting his hood.
“Are you a fool?” The man spit as he flicked away a tuft of hair. “The war, man. Orders direct from the Crown. She says the streets are dangerous, though I ain’t seen nothin’ to account for harassing people the way some of them do.” He snorted and huffed back into his shop.
The merchant didn’t seem to be the only one unhappy with the armed Wardsmen. All around him furtive glares stabbed at armored backs. Those who looked up to where Sunfall sat narrowed their eyes and quickly looked away, as if the palace might suddenly pounce on them.
Aidan’s stride quickened. His stomach churned. He was home. The reality of what that meant sank in like a stone. He had to confront Tyrnen and the impostors, but how? He could not just walk up to Sunfall and ask for an audience. He—
“... have to pay for that like everyone else.”
Aidan turned toward the voice. His eyes found a rotund man standing in front of an apple cart. The vendor’s face was bright red. Across from him was a Wardsman. He leaned against the cart, smirking as he bounced an apple on his palm.
“Surely an exception can be made for a loyal member of Torel’s Ward,” he said. Some of the Wardsmen with him looked a bit uncomfortable. Some wore amused or excited smiles, like wolves watching prey that had not yet realized it was cornered.
“I’m as loyal as the next man,” the merchant replied, “but I’ve also got a family to feed.”
“And one apple will put your family on the streets, will it?”
“It might, ’specially during these times,” the man replied. “I preserved those apples through the whole winter. They—”
“Perhaps you should join up,” the Wardsman said. “The sooner we rub all those wildlanders into the ground, the sooner your worm-ridden fruit may turn a profit.”
The vendor went pale. “I wouldn’t fight in the Crown’s foolish war if it would save my own mother.”
The Wardsman straightened as if struck. “Foolish?” he repeated, tossing the apple aside. His fellows tensed; the ones who had been watching in amusement looked eager.
“That’s right,” the vendor replied. “And I wouldn’t serve in the Ward for all the gold in—”
The Wardsman’s sharp backhand sent the man staggering. He gaped at them, one quivering hand touching his cheek.
“You’d better watch what you say, friend,” the Wardsman said. “One might think you were speaking treason. We know what happens to those who speak out against the Crown.”
Aidan heard his name sweep through the crowd in nervous whispers.
Suddenly the merchant spit in the Wardsman’s face. The nervous whispering ceased.
“Kahltan take you,” the vendor croaked, “and Annalyn, and her damn war, too.”
The Wardsman’s face darkened. He lunged and grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s collar. A few men in the assemblage raised their voices in protest, but fell silent when other Wardsmen drew steel.
Aidan was not so easily cowed. He pushed his way through the crowd and shoved the Wardsman away from the trembling vendor.
“Don’t touch him,” he said. Instantly he was aware of every gaze in the growing crowd locking on to him. What he did not realize was that his brisk march forward had pulled his hood from his head.
“An accomplice to treason, are you?” the Wardsman asked, then cut off with a strangled gasp.
“This man was being bullied,” Aidan said. “Everyone here saw it.”
“You,” the Wardsman whispered. The crowd inched away, murmuring. Aidan again heard his name pass through dozens of lips in tones of fear—and another tone, one he didn’t recognize.
“Well, well, well,” the Wardsman said, confidence replacing his initial shock. “Aidan Gairden. Welcome home. Things have changed since you ran off, boy. The biggest change of all being the price on your head.”
“I am here to settle things with my... parents,” Aidan replied. “You will take me to them. Now.”
For the first time the Wardsman appeared unsure. Glancing around, he straightened. “You will come with us,” he said loudly. “As our prisoner.” He stepped forward.
“Do not lay a hand on me.” Aidan’s hand rested easily on the hilt of Heritage.
—Don’t hurt him, Charles said. He is an ass, but he is also a man of the Crown.
I want to hurt him, Aidan sent back. But I won’t.
The Wardsman drew back, hesitant. The crowd watched in silence. “Very well,” he said, not as assertively as before. “If you would please—”
At that moment all heads turned toward a ruckus from up the street. Columns of Wardsmen mounted on armored horses draped with caparisons of striking colors marched ten abreast down the street toward Calewind’s southern gate. The crowd parted like a curtain, hugging storefronts and dropping back into alleyways to make room for the force. This must be the force leaving for Darinia, Aidan thought. Then he noticed the figure at the head of the procession, and his mind went blank.
Tyrnen led the sinuous column that wrapped through Calewind’s streets and up the mountain pass that led to Sunfall.
Aidan’s mouth went dry. He was unable to move, barely able to breathe. A flurry of emotions whipped through him. Part of him wanted to cry out in rage, to ask why the old man he had loved had betrayed him so viciously and completely. Another part of him loved the old man still, and wanted nothing more than to shut himself away in Tyrnen’s tower and drink hot cocoa while Tyrnen told stories.
He watched Tyrnen lean over to speak to the man riding beside him. No, not a man, Aidan realized as his father nodded and straightened, sweeping a cold gaze over the people huddled along the street. The harbinger wore Edmund Calderon’s face, but that thing was not Edmund the Valorous, General of Torel’s Ward. It was not his father.
Aidan remained standing in the center of the road, lips drawn together, one hand gripping the hilt of Heritage hard enough to stamp imprints of jewels and grooves into his palm. At first the Eternal Flame seemed not to recognize Aidan.
“Get out of the way,” the old man shouted at him. Then he drew his horse up and gaped. Noticing Aidan, Edmund’s face went hard. He shouted the command to halt. The order echoed down the columns behind them. Horses snorted into the silence.
“So you’ve come home,” the impostor said. His voice carried down the still, silent street. Aidan said nothing, glaring at the creature seated atop his father’s horse, wearing his father’s armor and face.
“Have you had a change of heart, son?”
“You are not my father.”
The harbinger’s eyes narrowed. “No, I am not. Not anymore. Aidan Gairden, you are under arrest for treason. You will surrender yourself to—”
Aidan’s hands burst from beneath his cloak. He kindled and whispered a prayer for pure-fire, wanting nothing more than to see the impostor burning and screaming until he became a pile of melted flesh and bones.
—Watch out! Charles cried.
Tyrnen’s hands had appeared, too. Aidan turned to the Eternal Flame, swallowing his first prayer and forming a new one. Too late. A sharp pain gripped his chest, spread down into his gut. He winced as tears formed in his eyes. It felt as if claws were rending his stomach. Desperately he tried to draw light again, but the Lady’s light did not soak through his skin to heat his blood. He had been tied.
The sword, he remembered. His ripped Heritage from his scabbard just as something crashed into his side and drove him to the street. Air left his lungs in a great whoosh. Heritage flew from his hands and skittered to a stop in front of the Eternal Flame. Aidan struggled in the arms of his attacker—the Wardsman who had bullied the apple vendor, he saw—as hard as he could, but the other man was bigger, stronger. The Wardsm
an wrenched his arms behind his back, strung thick cords between his hands, and hauled him to his feet.
The Edmund-harbinger stepped down from its horse and came to stand before the sword-bearer. Aidan’s eyes radiated hatred. The harbinger smiled and slapped Aidan across the face. At Sharem, the harbinger had slapped him with a bare palm. Now it wore a gauntlet. Pain exploded across Aidan’s face. Tears filled his vision. He felt warm blood run down his nose, over his lips, dribble down his chin.
The harbinger turned back to Tyrnen. It was clear to Aidan— and everyone else, judging by the uneasy muttering that had broken out—that the king and general of the north was waiting for the Eternal Flame to tell him what to do next. The old man gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes seeming to hover on Aidan’s chest. Reaching below Aidan’s collar, the harbinger grabbed the chain that held his lamp and tore, shattering the chain and raining links to the street. It pocketed the lamp then climbed back onto its mount.
“A lesson,” it said, its voice ringing through the assemblage, “to any who would speak out against the war or my wife.” It looked down into Aidan’s eyes as it continued. “You have committed treason for the last time, boy. Aidan Gairden’s trial shall be carried out when the Lady takes her leave this evening, in the west courtyard of Sunfall. Let it be known that the punishment for those found guilty of treason is death.”
“Your Majesty,” the Wardsman holding Aidan said. He straightened as the harbinger’s gaze fell upon him. “That man,” he gestured with his head to the terrified apple merchant who was attempting to melt into the crowd, “also spoke out against the war with Darinia.”
“Did he?” the harbinger said coolly.
The Wardsman bobbed his head.
“Arrest him,” the harbinger said. A Wardsman detached himself from the throng and tied the vendor’s arms behind his back. The vendor gibbered, his face ashen and covered in sweat.
The harbinger turned and signaled. After a few moments, Brendon Greagor emerged and steered his horse to a stop beside his commander. “Continue the march to Sharem,” the creature commanded. “The Eternal Flame and I will join you after matters here have been settled.”
Brendon nodded, casting a quick glance at Aidan. A fleeting look of regret flashed across the man’s face. Then it was gone. He returned to the head of the column, barking orders as he went.
“You!” the harbinger bellowed at a Wardsman standing near the mouth of an alleyway. The man stiffened and bowed low, fastening his gaze to the ground.
“Your Majesty?” he asked.
The harbinger pointed at Heritage. “Pick up the sword.” The man did as commanded.
“My son stole that blade from his mother. I am certain she will be most pleased to see it returned. You, and you, and you,” the harbinger continued, thrusting his finger at three other Wardsmen. “Go with him. Do not stop until the sword reaches the throne room.”
The Wardsman holding Heritage nodded, head still bowed, and fell in with the three other men heading toward Sunfall. The harbinger turned back to Aidan and the vendor. A humorless smile split his face.
“Take them to the depths.”
As the troop holding Heritage disappeared around a bend, Aidan watched his last hope vanish with them.
Chapter 33
Choices
THE DEPTHS WERE LESS a dungeon and more a pit, a hole in the ground dug six hundred years ago while construction of a proper prison in Calewind was finished. No Crown of the North had used it since then. Aidan, it appeared, warranted special treatment. Torches hanging high above the cells that ran along either wall lit a dim, flickering path down the center of the aisle. Water dripped from the mossy ceiling into puddles. The stench of mold permeated the air, seeping into the stained walls and broken, uneven floor. Mold, and worse. Bodies. Waste. Death.
The Wardsman fumbled with a large set of iron keys and finally threw open a cell door. The rusted bars squeaked open.
“Get in,” the Wardsman said, shoving the apple vendor inside. He slammed the door and pulled Aidan further down the passage. When he stopped, Aidan peered into the cell across from the one his captor was unlocking. Aidan barely recognized the man huddled in one corner.
“Cotak?” Aidan breathed. The clan chief who had been captured on the day his parents—on the day the harbingers— declared war looked as wasted as the ruins Aidan had passed on his trek through Sallner. Cotak’s eyes were glassy and vacant, like a vagrant’s. His skin drooped from his bones like loose clothing. Flies buzzed over the waste heaped around Cotak. Others swarmed over still forms shoved into the corners of adjacent cells. The clansmen that had accompanied Cotak.
“In you go,” the Wardsman said cheerfully, steering Aidan to the cell across from the clan chief’s. Aidan entered wordlessly, turning when he reached the far wall to slide to the ground with a soft thud. The Wardsman slammed the door closed and strode from the room. The single door in and out of the depths boomed shut, leaving Aidan with the crackling torches and the steady drip of water plopping into puddles for company.
Aidan squeezed his eyes shut. Every Wardsman up above knew of his capture by now. Even if he made it out of the depths, there was no way he could possibly get to the throne room. He leaned his head back against the wall. I’ve failed them. I’ve failed them all.
“You’re a hero, you know.”
Aidan raised his head. The voice came from the merchant’s cell down the passage.
“A lot of us common folk support what you did, leaving Torel in protest,” the merchant went on. “Wish I’d had the courage to do the same.”
Aidan smiled sadly. “It didn’t do me any good.”
The merchant snorted. “People remember how a man died. You stood against this war, said out loud what everyone else is thinking.”
“You stood against it, too. I heard what you said.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why not? You just said you respected me for—”
“Who’s going to care for my family? I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Aidan sat forward, hugging his knees to his chest. “Neither of us should have to die for this.”
“True enough.” The merchant fell silent.
Aidan’s head thudded back against the wall. I’m sorry, Grandfather.
—You can’t give up yet, Charles replied. We can’t see what’s happening; the Wardsman draped something over the Eye. It’s up to you. You must keep trying to—
The entrance door banged open. Footsteps entered and stopped in front of Cotak’s cell.
“Out you go, wildlander.”
Cotak did not put up a struggle. He let the Wardsman haul him to his feet and drag him down the passage to the merchant’s cell.
“Not too late to give me that apple,” the Wardsman said. The merchant did not reply.
Keys jangled and the cell door creaked open. After a few moments, three pairs of footsteps made their way to the exit. Aidan heard the Wardsman mumble something. A moment later, the door closed, but lighter footfalls made their way slowly back to Aidan’s cell. A small flame hovering above an old, wizened palm floated into view. Tyrnen stopped in front of Aidan’s cell and folded his arms behind his back. The flame continued to dance in the air, sending shadows flitting along the walls.
The Eternal Flame chuckled as he shook his head. “I spend over a month looking for you, chasing you, and what do you do? You just... come back home. Your mother and I thought you were smarter than that, boy.”
“That thing is not my mother.”
“Maybe not. But as far as everyone else is concerned, that thing is your mother, and that is enough.” Tyrnen pursed his lips. “It didn’t have to be like this, you know. You could have followed orders, did as you were told. But you decided you knew better.” His eyes trembled inside their sockets. “You could have had it all, Aidan! But you chose to go against me.”
“I chose to take control.”
“And look at what that brought you.” Tyr
nen’s beard rustled as he shook his head. “We could have ruled Crotaria together.”
“I don’t want to rule Crotaria.”
“And what is it you do want, now that you’re a big boy who can think for himself?”
“I want my kingdom back—the kingdom you stole from me. More than anything, I’d fancy your head on the tip of my sword.” Tyrnen’s jaw quivered. “And what sword would that be, boy? Heritage? I think not. My faith in you was misplaced, it would seem. That blade is of no more use to you than it is to me, or anyone else on Crotaria. I waited so long for you to become the swordbearer, convinced myself that—”
“I am the sword-bearer, Tyrnen.”
“Oh?” the old man said, sounding amused. “Says who, boy? You?”
“The Prophet,” Aidan replied.
Tyrnen’s eyes narrowed.
“The Prophet,” Aidan said again, pronouncing each syllable clearly as if the old man were deaf. “I am your opposite, Mathias. I am the Champion of Peace.”
Tyrnen drew back with a hiss. “That can’t be.”
“Why do you think I took Heritage with me?”
“You’re lying!”
“Bring me my sword,” Aidan said flatly, “and I’ll prove it to you.”
Tyrnen’s lips worked soundlessly for a moment. Abruptly his eyes glazed over. Then he reached into his robe and withdrew Terror’s Hand. Aidan stared at the scepter, transfixed. Everything in his periphery disappeared. His grandfather’s voice, asking him why he’d suddenly gone silent, disappeared like water swirling down a drain.
“Touch it, boy,” Tyrnen said softly. Hesitantly, Aidan extended his hand. The scepter shook in Tyrnen’s grasp. “Touch it, and—”
He cut off with a grunt as Aidan’s hand suddenly snatched his robes and pulled him forward, slamming his face into the bars. With a strangled curse, Tyrnen clawed at Aidan’s grip, digging long, yellow nails into his flesh. Aidan flung him away and Tyrnen stumbled back, smoothing his robes.
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 27
