I need Heritage in my hands, he sent to his grandfather.
—So you have a plan?
Sort of. Mostly.
Charles sighed. —Very well. I will help your father retrieve Heritage and reach you.
Suddenly a hand tore away his hood. More than a few hairs went with it. He blinked in the harshness of the Lady’s light until his eyes focused. In front of him stood a man nearly a head taller than Romen of the Wolf. His thick, muscular arms were folded across his chest. His pants were the color of dried blood and hugged legs as big around as tree stumps. A black hood masked all of his face except his eyes, eerie yellow orbs narrowed into slits.
Hundreds of onlookers filled the courtyard below the platform. Turning to follow their gaze, Aidan saw a large wooden block at the far side of the platform. Its top and sides were stained crimson. An axe nearly as long as Aidan was tall was buried in its top. The heads of Cotak of the Spirit and the apple vendor from the market rested at its base, their wide eyes gazing up at a Lady who had not answered their pleas. Their bodies had been shoved to one side like dirty clothing.
Aidan turned away, his lips a thin, white line. Grandfather?
—Yes?
Please hurry.
Edmund looked around as the stone panel slid closed behind him. The throne room was empty. He moved toward the twin thrones at the far end. Between them sat a small oak stand. Curved arms rose from either side like antlers, ending in claws. Heritage lay between them, one claw gripping the blade and the other holding tight to the hilt.
Edmund frowned. This stand had been present when he had delivered the sword to the monster wearing his wife’s face, after the monster wearing his had taken notice of him in the alleyway during Aidan’s arrest. He’d never seen it before. When the sword wasn’t at Annalyn’s side, she kept it in the sword chamber where no one but she or their boy could get to it. The stand was a new addition to the throne room, like the creatures that occupied the thrones.
He grabbed the hilt of Heritage and pulled. The sword did not release. He twisted and tugged, trying to snap the wooden claws from the stand or cut through them with the sword’s razor-sharp edge, but the sword held fast. He crouched down and examined the stand. A gem was set at the base of each arm. Magic. No surprise, there. He ran a hand through his hair. He had come up against more than his fair share of magic as the General of Torel’s Ward, but Annalyn was usually on hand to help with those matters.
Edmund rose and placed a hand on Valor, sheathed at his side. The stand looked like wood. Maybe he could cut Heritage free. If not, Aidan would have to—
The stand trembled. Edmund took a cautious step back. The table trembled again. No, he realized. The table was not moving. Heritage was shuddering, nearly convulsing. The clawed arms abruptly snapped away and clattered to the floor. Heritage followed right behind it, thudding against the carpeted walkway.
Across the room, the door began to open.
Instinct took over. Edmund ducked behind his wife’s throne and held his breath. The doors boomed shut, and footsteps came forward, leisurely at first then breaking into a run.
“What is this?”
He stiffened. Her voice was more familiar to him than any other. Annalyn. Or rather, the thing that looked like her. He stepped out to face her.
“What are you...?” Her lips curled in a smile. “There you are, dear.” She gestured to the shattered stand. “Tyrnen sent me for the sword. I see it gave you trouble. Better you than me. Our master says he’s running out of bodies for these souls.” She laughed. Edmund tried to suppress a shudder and failed. The laughter and the words were issued in Annalyn’s voice, but there was a flatness to them that flew in the face of his memories of his wife. Even in the worst of times, Annalyn’s voice sounded like chimes in a spring breeze, at least to his ears.
“I thought you would be with our son,” she continued, her grin twisting cruelly, “in his final moments.”
Edmund pushed away a surge of anger that mixed with cold fear for Aidan. He did not trust himself to speak. How dare you look like her! How dare you speak of our son using her voice!
The Annalyn-harbinger’s face contorted into a wicked expression. “Gather it up, then, though be wary. I am all too familiar with how the sword reacts when touched by someone it dislikes.” She chuckled; it was a dry, vindictive sound. “I’m looking forward to this. It is a pity Aidan Gairden’s death will be a quick one.” She turned and began to cross to the doors. “His soul will make a fine addition to our ranks, though,” she continued, “alongside his mother’s. It gave me great pleasure to watch as our master broke Annalyn Gairden’s soul as easily as he broke her body. Her screams made me quiver. I still dream of them, of—”
She gasped as Heritage appeared at her throat, cold and razor sharp.
“Open the doors,” Edmund said.
“What are you—?”
“Open them.”
The harbinger lifted shaking hands to do as he commanded. Two Wardsmen bowed their heads as the doors swung open. “Your Majesty,” one, a young man named Ein, began, “is everything all—” His face went pale as he noticed the blade at the Crown’s throat.
The other man, Barth, wasted no time with words. He leveled his spear at Edmund. At first, he was surprised they did not recognize him. He supposed his mask of weeks-old beard and abrasions made a fine disguise.
“If you so much as touch me,” Edmund said, “I will hand you her head.”
The two Wardsmen fell in behind him as he passed. Other Wardsmen took notice and moved from their posts to surround him, drawing steel and looking between the Crown of the North and the man who would surely die for taking her hostage.
“Where is Aidan?” Edmund whispered.
“You have no chance of—”
The blade dug in, drawing a thin line of blood. He almost recoiled. It was dark, but not red. Green. A few of the Wardsmen gasped and looked around uncertainly, but did not lower their weapons.
“Back,” the harbinger gasped, waving away the closest men. “Stay back.”
“Where?” Edmund said again.
“The northern courtyard,” she said, voice not as steady.
He grabbed a fistful of hair and pushed her forward. The blade at her throat did not waver. As he moved, a line of terrified Wardsmen trailed behind.
Tyrnen led a group of Wardsmen onto the platform. They fanned out in front of Aidan, blocking his view of the assemblage. The harbinger stepped from the line and leaned in close to Aidan.
“Remain silent,” it hissed, “or I will continue the discussion we began in the depths.”
Aidan’s calm wavered like a candle flame in a breeze. The harbinger had bottled up a good deal of frustration with the unruly prince, it had explained down in the depths while it had pummeled Aidan’s ribs and gut—areas the gathered crowd could not see.
Its snarl transformed into a solemn frown as it turned back around. “The Crown of the North will join us momentarily,” he said, voice booming over the crowd. “My wife had to compose herself. She is still grief-stricken over the path her son has chosen.” The harbinger ran his eyes over the large gathering. “The sense of peace we have enjoyed for so long was shattered by Darinia’s betrayal. Our realm stands united against the savagery the west prepares to unleash against our kingdom. At the end of the long war we face, Torel will stand triumphant!” A few cheers sprang up, but most glanced around uneasily.
“Darinia’s treachery means more than the termination of a long-standing alliance,” the harbinger continued. “It means the end of centuries of friendship.”
Hurry, Grandfather.
The harbinger turned to regard Aidan. It shook its head, and a look of sadness ghosted over its face like a stray cloud. “To be betrayed by friends and allies is terrible enough, but to be betrayed by family is far worse. Aidan Gairden has committed treason. As much as it saddens me, I have no choice but to silence this voice of disunity, for the needs of a people must come before the love of
a father. I must allow you to see Aidan Gairden for who he truly is.”
Aidan blinked. His heart began to race. Grandfather, I know what to do. How close are you?
—There has been a development. Stall.
The harbinger stood before him. “Aidan Gairden, you are guilty of treason.”
“I was under the impression that this was a trial,” Aidan said, hoping he at least sounded calm.
“And you have been found guilty. Your sentence is death.”
Digging his hand into his blue robe, Tyrnen moved to stand before Aidan.
“Not only is Prince Aidan guilty of treason,” the old man said, slowly withdrawing his hand, “but he is a Touched. As the Eternal Flame, it is my duty to take a hand in deciding his fate. I will not allow my people to wantonly disregard the Crown’s—”
“I did not know the Eternal Flame kowtowed to any monarch,” Aidan said.
“They do not,” Tyrnen said. “I simply agree with Annalyn’s findings. Your actions affect your fellow Touched as much as they do Torel.” He withdrew his hand from his robe. Clutched in his fist was a small orb filled with a thick, fog-like substance. The spirit stone. Suddenly a face appeared from the roiling storm clouds within the orb. Her face was gaunt and drawn. Hands, wispy and ethereal, pressed against the glass, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. The fog-like cloud billowed over her, sucking her back in, and she was gone.
Rage consumed Aidan.
“You will not be executed like a common man,” Tyrnen continued. “You are guilty of—”
“The only thing I am guilty of is taking the lives of innocent men.”
The harbinger grabbed at his arm as Tyrnen reached for him with the orb. Shouts from the crowd caused them both to pause.
“He has a right to speak!”
“Let us hear what he has to say!”
Tyrnen took a step toward Aidan, ambivalent to the crowd’s cries.
“If you kill me right now,” Aidan said evenly, not looking the old man in the eyes, “none of the seeds of deception you planted will bear fruit.”
His face twisting in rage, Tyrnen stepped back. The shouting continued until the harbinger bowed, then moved to stand beside Tyrnen. The old man’s arms—and his spirit stone— disappeared within his robe. He watched his former pupil with narrowed, burning eyes.
Aidan continued. “I, like all of you, have friends in Darinia. Romen of the Wolf and Cynthia Alston, may the Lady warm them for eternity, were my friends. The men whose lives I stole at Sharem—they were my friends. I am a Gairden. I am charged with the protection of all Crotaria, not just this realm. I believe that the war between Torel and Darinia is wrong, and I chose to stand against it. For that, I stand before you today, preparing to part ways with my head.”
—We’re almost there, Aidan.
“As I have walked these streets,” he went on, “I have listened to the whispers of those who walked beside me. I am not the only person who believes this war is wrong. No one can take away your choice. I have made mine: to never again take the life of an innocent. Do not let fear keep you from doing the same.”
The harbinger’s face had gone crimson. “You dare encourage my people to participate in treason? You are a disgrace to your people and to your family. You are not my son!”
“That much is true,” a voice rang out from the back of the assemblage.
Shocked cries sprang up from the rear of the crowd, and from the Wardsmen fanned out across the platform. The crowd parted, allowing two forms to pass to where Aidan stood. Every pair of eyes flitted between Edmund Calderon who stood on the platform, and the two new arrivals—one of whom was Edmund Calderon.
Chapter 36
Eyes Opened
CONFUSION AND PANIC SWEPT through the crowd. A second Edmund the Valorous had appeared, but more alarming was the sight of Annalyn Gairden, one arm twisted behind her back, her own blade pressed to her throat and held by her husband. The string of Wardsmen followed, shouting at onlookers to stay back and fanning out to cut a larger path through the crowd. Only Aidan and the executioner stood unfazed. The big man remained just as he had been: feet spread, corded arms folded across his chest.
This must be done carefully, Aidan thought as he scanned the crowd. Most of the staring faces fell somewhere between utterly perplexed and terrified.
—What will you do? Charles asked.
I will show them the truth. Be ready.
“You’re powerful, perhaps even more so than I gave you credit for.”
Tyrnen stood next to Aidan, his face impassive, lips barely moving as he spoke. “I’ve seen power in you since you were an infant. You are the reason I came to this land, Aidan. With my help, you can have anything—you can have everything. I offer you one final chance. Together, we could—”
“Thank you, Tyrnen.”
The Eternal Flame smiled. “You’re welcome, boy. I—”
“If not for your unusual form of guidance, I would not have grown into the man I am today. Now get away from me. You smell like mothballs and death.”
Tyrnen’s gaze became murderous.
Slowly, his father came up the platform, wrangling the Annalyn-harbinger. The harbinger went willingly, eyes flitting between Tyrnen and the edge of the blade at her throat. The line of Wardsmen came with them, spreading out around the platform and glancing nervously between each other and the two kings.
“Deception was used to describe Darinia,” Aidan said to the crowd. “Everything you have been told by that man,” he pointed at the Edmund-harbinger standing by Tyrnen, “and that woman,” he pointed at Annalyn, “has been a lie. Deception comes from within Torel, not from without. The day after my Rite of Heritage, my parents departed with the Eternal Flame on a short retreat. I was invited to accompany them, but I chose to stay behind. I doubted myself and my capabilities, but stronger than doubt was an overwhelming sense of negligence. I didn’t want responsibility. While I remained here, pouting, an attack on my parents did indeed take place, but it was not at the hands of Romen of the Wolf. It was at the hands of the Eternal Flame.”
The crowd broke into a new round of murmurs. Tyrnen stood still, seemingly unperturbed.
“Tyrnen lured them away from their home so he could kill them and replace them with creatures that would more easily succumb to his will.”
The uneasy muttering grew louder. For most, magic was uncharted land: unable to be felt or heard, only seen—all too often—as a destructive force. They would need proof of his claim, like men who needed to see the sky to believe it was blue.
“That is a serious charge,” Tyrnen said, nodding. “But I ask you to look at each Edmund Calderon closely. Who can see any difference between them? I, for one, cannot.” He pointed at Aidan. “Who’s to say that this deception is not Aidan’s creation?”
At this, many onlookers regarded Aidan uncertainly. He knew right then that targeting his false father would not work. That there were two Edmunds was the most obvious abnormality, but Tyrnen made a valid point. There was no easy way to prove the harbinger’s false claim. He needed to target his mother. The Crown of the North. The sword-bearer.
Get ready, he sent to his grandfather.
“The time for words has passed,” Aidan said. Mouths fell silent as Aidan turned to Annalyn’s impostor. “My mother has yet to share with us which story she believes. Surely the Crown of the North can point out her own husband.”
Aidan nodded to his father, and Edmund looked at him hesitantly before lowering Heritage and stepping away from the harbinger. She turned to Aidan, her face heated yet uneasy.
“Mother,” Aidan said, dipping into a low bow. “Your people and your family need guidance only a sword-bearer can provide.” He gestured to Edmund. “The sword my father—my true father— holds is Heritage, sacred to the Gairden family. Any man can hold the sword, but only the sword-bearer, can tap into its full potential. Mother,” he continued, his voice sweet, “please take your sword. Help us solve this mystery so that our peop
le may rest easy once again, safe in the knowledge that the Gairdens watch over and protect them.”
—That was dramatic, Charles said.
It’s a natural talent.
—No arguments there.
Aidan ignored that. “Father, would you please present the sword-bearer with her blade?”
Edmund knelt stiffly at the Annalyn-harbinger’s feet and held out Heritage. The creature’s hands fidgeted, clenching and unclenching.
“Mother,” Aidan said, sounding utterly perplexed, “why don’t you take Heritage?”
Annalyn glared at him. Then she slowly, slowly raised shaking hands and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. She flinched, as if expecting the sword to drive back into her belly. Nothing happened. A grin spread across her face. She gave a triumphant yell and lifted the sword high above her head. Tyrnen looked nonplussed.
Drop, Aidan commanded.
The blade dropped with a crash. A look of confusion splashed across the harbinger’s face. Her hands remained fastened around the sword’s hilt. She strained to lift it, grunting, but the point of the blade rested on the ground, immovable, as if fitted with a giant weight. Suddenly the Eye flashed, and a clap like thunder rang through the air. Red sparks hissed and spit from the Eye, which pulsed a low, angry red. As one, every voice in the crowd cried out in fear.
Calmly, Aidan crossed the dais to Heritage and picked it up. Grandfather, could you...?
The bonds around his magic fell away. Aidan raised Heritage and blinked. The people appeared as black outlines on a pure white canvas, their eyes wide as they stared up at him and pointed at his ivory-colored eyes. The masks worn by the harbingers vanished; they appeared to him in their true forms: hollow eye sockets, fleshy bars spread across their gaping maws.
“I am Aidan Gairden,” his voice rang out. “I am the Crown of the North. I am the sword-bearer.” He leveled Heritage at the Annalyn-harbinger. “And that is not my mother.”
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 29
