The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2

by Matt Thomas

  “You need to be careful,” Imrail warned. “Both of you.” The man glanced around the tiny cottage. Apparently satisfied they were safe enough here, he started to turn.

  “No word of greeting, Captain?” Avela whispered.

  The Companion paused. For what was perhaps the first time Luc could recall, the man looked a touch wary. Hand on his sword hilt, he appeared to close his eyes momentarily. Hard to say for certain standing in the flickering lamplight. “It’s good to see you,” he said after a brief hesitation. “Both of you,” he added quickly.

  Avela, searching his face, nodded. “You too.”

  “A girl?” Luc found himself smiling, pleased. Children had always been rare in Peyennar. Perhaps the birth was the first indication the mountain haven still had a future. “When?”

  Trian touched his face again. Rousing to say the least after the long climb and the bitter days of searching. “This morning. It was a difficult delivery, but Aena did well.”

  Having the knowledge of a Blade Orphan, he suspected she must have assisted with the birth, if not more. “There will be dancing at the inn, no doubt,” he said. “Have most of the people returned to their homes?” He had worried about it—over what would become of Peyennar now.

  Trian nodded. “Most,” she said in her lyrical tones. “There are still some who have been displaced. Others are aiding the soldiers. I think the Elders will be discussing the best way to go about it, to go forward, depending on what the Lord Viamar and your parents decide. You . . . you know they are here.” She took the slight shift in his stance as an affirmative. “I suspect they must be on their way already. If you would prefer, perhaps I should look in on Aena.”

  “No.” He drew in a steadying breath. He suddenly felt faint. There was that slight pressure at the temples again. No longer an itch. Well, he had wanted this moment. He feared it some, but the overwhelming desire to see them again made his knees tremble. He hoped they were well.

  “I think, perhaps, that it might be best if we leave them to it, Imrail,” Avela said.

  The captain shook his head. “I need to speak to the Lord Ellandor. If the Sypher makes an attempt on Peyennar, it will be here. We have plans to make, besides.” The captain began to pace. “The boy is intent on moving south. If he is given leave, you and I will need to join him. I had intended for Vandil to . . .” The man paused. He glanced at Lanspree. “Have you spoken to the king? What does he intend?”

  “He has not fully recovered, my Lord,” she said seriously. “I expect he has plans, but he may be leaving it for his daughter to decide. And the Warden. He trusts their instincts.” The woman closed some of the distance between them. “Whatever they intend, I do not think any will begrudge you the choice if you decide to leave. There is no doubt where the Companions belong now. It will be difficult, but sometimes you have to look forward, Imrail.”

  The king’s captain looked at her for some time before sighing. “I know, girl.” He did not sound pleased about it.

  Luc felt Trian guiding him down the hall. Surprised, he followed mutely. She took the left turn into his room and waited for him to come to a stop before exhaling. “Me first,” she said, fisting him in the side. “You had me twisted with worry, Luc Anaris. You move too quickly. I half thought you were going to go after the Sword of Ardil without me.”

  Watching her face carefully, he waited before responding. Finally, he said, “I considered it. Not leaving without you, but leaving.”

  “You considered it. . . .” She said it tartly.

  “Not without you,” he insisted. “I’d let the world burn first.”

  She flinched. “Do not say such things. Ever.” Pausing, she gave him a searching look. “Your word on it?”

  “Yes.” He had no choice in the matter. Not anymore.

  He hadn’t realized he was holding her by the forearms. She had just that effect on him. He wanted, perhaps needed, to do more. “Well then,” she said softly, hands on his chest. “Do you want to talk about it yet?”

  “Do you?”

  She frowned. “Sometimes I think you enjoy being mysterious, Luc. No, as a matter of fact, I do not. You only just returned and I would rather pretend we had a few more days yet.”

  He was holding her fiercely now. He would have given almost anything for that. Neither of them was fully willing to confront the changes, though. It would likely take something pressing, something more immediate, for either of them to openly acknowledge the transformation occurring within each of them. For now he just relished in the link they shared and the knowledge that it was real. He could forget himself when near her, but with the Val Moran in his arms. . . . Sometimes he thought he hardly existed when with her. Or maybe those were the only moments he truly did exist.

  “Luc . . .” He was grateful he was not the only one breathless. “Your parents are likely almost here. The Giver only knows what Imrail thinks we are doing. You will want to look your best for them, wash up a bit. They are nervous. More than nervous. I think your father would have left immediately to find you. He is . . . a forceful man. I can see where you get some of your intensity.”

  He watched her reluctantly pull away. “Did they speak much with you?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. Your mother looked in on me. She is afraid you may not forgive her for leaving, I think. Promise me you will be understanding.”

  Understanding? He was always understanding, at least most of the time.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said somewhat regretfully. “I’ll get cleaned up.”

  Trian stood on her toes and kissed his forehead lightly. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  She hesitated when he caught her wrist to keep her from leaving. “I missed you,” he whispered. His throat felt raw, the more so when she leaned into him once more. She was all curves but felt slight in his arms. Her sigh was a light exhale against his bare skin.

  “I nearly broke when you disappeared with . . . You were a storm of rage. You must be careful. Promise me you will be careful. If I lost you . . .”

  He cupped her chin. Razmoen. That had been necessary, but it still left him with the burden of a difficult choice, a dangerous one. The first of many, doubtless. Their enemies had to know he had no fear, had to see him as a creature without mercy. “I’ll be careful.” He wiped her cheek. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it yet? Listen, they are going to remember the moment. I am through being afraid. And I . . . I don’t want you to be afraid.”

  Trian leaned even closer into him. “I am not afraid,” she said. “Not for myself,” she added. “Just you. This will be worse than we know.” She shivered. “Enough already. If you don’t go . . .” He felt her reluctance, shared it. “Best you get ready. It will not do, keeping your folks waiting. I think you should shave.” She squeezed him once more, then somehow wormed her way out of his grip, leaving him breathless when the door closed behind her.

  Staring, it was several seconds before he thought to move. Half bemused, he unbuckled the light armor and peeled off his sword belt. He wondered if he was ever going to work out why she cared so. He gave some thought over what to wear, but under the circumstances thought it best to continue in the livery of the First City. Making his way to the morning room, he used a little soap and water to wash off the grime and dirt from the days in the saddle and made use of a razor Amreal had given to him some time back. The memory made him momentarily go still. Lost in grim thoughts, he dressed, returning to his room for his overcoat. Pulling it down firmly across the shoulders, he exited and made his way down the dim hall. Nodding towards the others on his way out, no one objected when he headed towards the door and made for the woodland clearing.

  Momentarily absorbed by the sudden feel of the icy air against him, he paused. The light from within was bright enough to guide him towards the slight rise in the hills overlooking the cottage. The sound of his booted footfalls were masked by the snow, and he let his mind roam until he reached it. The Acriel sapling he had pl
anted in his uncle’s memory had not taken in the cold, perhaps in part due to the sudden snowstorm. Leaning down towards it, he touched a withered leaf and mouthed a word.

  Amreal.

  He was not sure how long he stayed there. Long enough that the unrelenting snowfall and cutting winds began to penetrate the skin. He had lived here long enough to know the shifting currents in the causeways and arteries of the world were bringing change. He only wished Amreal had lived to see it.

  “Son.”

  He caught himself with a hand and one knee firmly pressed against the soil. Still unable to see clearly, he looked up. No mistaking the resonant voice. He had heard it often enough. Finally there was no need to doubt it.

  They were here.

  CHAPTER 2 — THE WARDEN AND THE WHITE ROSE

  Ivon Ellandor peered at the lifeless Acriel seedling. “You planted this for Amreal,” he said. From those deep, powerful inflections, and a profile most sane men would find terrifying—dangerous, cutting, and yet at that moment tempered, restrained—he did not appear to be asking. Luc still nodded. At least he thought he nodded. He was hardly sure. His father stepped forward. The man made no grand sign or gesture; he simply touched the stem of the sapling. A moment later the withered stalk and shoots actually appeared to uncurl, the indication of roots taking. Instinctively Luc knew it was the work of the Tides. When done, his father stood to his full height. No doubting this was the Warden. Snow dusted his unassuming russet cloak and dark hair untouched by strands of gray. Now that the moment had come, Luc had no idea what to say.

  Pushing himself up, he coughed. He felt perilously exposed. He blinked and breathed. Even then he could not find it in himself to stand.

  Unbeknownst to him, a second, slighter figure had joined them. He did not allow himself to see. This was not real. Nothing in existence seemed real or comprehensible. He was sitting in front of the only memorial he had of his uncle, Amreal Anaris, and all he could do was mourn the man and the years he had been forced to live in ignorance. He hoped his parents felt the same. He had Trian’s word to go on, but was not sure. He was hardly the boy they remembered.

  A sudden onslaught of grief rose up within him. He had never wept. Not even when the pair had first left Peyennar for good. Not for the Furies and their innate hatred of him. Not for the Nations staring into the unblinking eye of the Unmaker. Only for them, and for him. For the boy who would never know the dangers and the binding sorrows the enemy had caused them.

  Reaching up, Ariel Viamar, now on her knees, pulled his face down to her. He thought he heard the whisper of her voice, an echo out of the Annals, a voice that bridged memory and the places where Elloyn ruled. “I-I’m sorry. More than . . . sorry. You’ve endured so much—far too much.” She shook, and his hands became iron-like vices refusing to release her for the fear that this too would prove a dream and he would lose them again. Somehow she had made the impossible happen. For one moment he existed as Luc Viamar-Ellandor, nothing more. “We would have stood and faced them with you, Luc.” Her voice still shook. “We would have forsaken the Nations just to shield you. We do not expect you to forgive us.”

  He was not sure whose grip was fiercer. Her words were piercing, the gut-rending edge to her tone haunting. He did not attempt to forestall her. Some part of her needed to say the words. Slowly it came to him, though, that no matter what passed between them, they would find no healing here. Just a grudging, reluctant acceptance at best.

  Eventually he became aware of the firm pressure of his father’s hand on his shoulder. Wiping his eyes with the back of a hand, he glanced up at the man hesitantly. Ivon Ellandor had always had a focused presence, an iron will. He spoke with power, sheathed himself in it. Now he was just a man reliving a broken past. He did not weep—perhaps he had lived through too much—but two tears leaked out of his powerful eyes nonetheless.

  “You were gone a long time,” Luc whispered. It was perhaps the most inane thing he could have said. Tentatively, like one unused to outward expressions of emotion, Ivon squeezed Luc’s shoulder and slowly moved his arm up until he caught Luc by the back of the neck. The man trembled once, an outpouring of emotion from any other. Pulling him into a crushing grip, he encircled the three of them in his arms. Luc could do nothing but swallow hard. He had no conscious thought for several minutes, none of them willing to speak or break the spell of the moment.

  In the end his mother finally answered. “Too long,” she agreed. “But there was no power under the One that could prevent us from coming to you again.”

  Luc was finally able to see her. “You are the White Rose.” Daughter of Eldin Viamar, Lord and King of Penthar. And next in line for the throne.

  She looked up at him and appeared to shiver. “Also your mother, Luc.”

  The admission from her own lips made it somehow sink and settle in. He leaned forward. “I have no . . .” He regretted the words instantly. A child of the winds. A creature of chaos. He sank back. The inner admission was jarring.

  Her eyes flashed, and the momentary glance she exchanged with her husband conveyed an unspeakable loss. “Forgive me, Luc. I . . .” She did not say should have expected it.

  He blinked, on the verge of panic. He had to bring focus to his thoughts to speak clearly. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m not myself. It hurts. Not seeing you. This . . . thing I am. I am sorry. More than sorry, Mother. I didn’t know if you lived. You were rarely here and I . . . Amreal helped me survive it. The Oathbound shaped a tool to rise above it. But I always feared the worst.” He took her hands firmly. “Welcome to Peyennar, Mother. I have no roses, but perhaps this will do.”

  He pulled the strings loose to one of his belt pouches and retrieved a token she had given him several years prior. It had been hers, but this one had changed; Trian had the other. He set it in her hand and firmly closed it. “Wear it for me, Mother.” He brushed back one of her tears.

  “I will, Luc,” she promised. She gave her husband a second glance. He could almost feel the sudden outpouring of emotion. Elation. “Our son. He still . . . knows us,” she whispered.

  Ivon smiled. He did not speak, though.

  Changing the subject, Luc chose to ask after the Lord Viamar.

  “You grandfather is not well, Luc,” she replied in answer. “The Earthbound were cruel, vicious.” She was referring to the king’s abduction and the sacking of Alingdor. The series of events that had followed were the catalyst for his abrupt departure from Peyennar and the exhausting search for the king and the Sword of Ardil. At Luc’s direction, a select company out of the capital had swept north and made a daring strike against the Fallen, proxies of the Furies. Their strike team had come away with the king and lived through the first skirmish in what he was certain would be a war that would ravage the Nations. “They wanted word of the Warden,” Ariel Viamar went on. “And you. What they did went beyond torture. I understand your . . . friend was able to aid him, but I worry about his ability to make the journey to Alingdor. I think some part of him may not want to. He insists on calling a council. He is up to something, I fear. He is anxious. We were all anxious, afraid you would . . . rebuff us.”

  “Never.” Luc said the word firmly. Not his grandfather, mother, or father. Ivon Ellandor was too good for the world, only the Nations were too shortsighted to see it. “Never.”

  His mother smiled what was perhaps the most delighted smile he had ever seen. Studying her, something hit him. She had the trace. It was the rhythm of the pulse he felt within her that told him. She had the power. They both wielded the power.

  The realization explained a few things. “Will you tell me about Amreal?” he asked.

  Ivon shifted, glancing at the young tree. “My brother surrendered to the Tides,” he said after a lengthy silence. “I may too when the time comes. He did it willingly.”

  Luc was conscious of the snow melting beneath him but did not move. “Was that why . . . He was with me at the end. He saved me.”

  Ivon leaned fo
rward, shocked. Some distant foresight took him. “He knew, the old chinwagger.” The man sighed and his expression momentarily clouded. “Now he rides the winds, a voice of memory. His will echo for all time.” Finally standing, he helped his wife to her feet and pulled Luc up at the same time. “Let’s go on in. We waited for you. Perhaps it might be best if we settled in for a few days, if you will have us.”

  The man was asking? “Of course,” Luc replied, still unsteady. “This is your home after all.” Turning, he led them in, pleased to see the Warden nod approvingly.

  Imrail and Avela appeared to be glaring at each other with daggers in the eyes when the three of them entered. Trian looked a touch amused. At their arrival they all stood smoothly. Avela gave both the Warden and the White Rose a deep curtsy. Imrail moved forward and, with a fist pressed against the heart, bowed.

  “Dear Imrail,” Ariel greeted. Ivon acknowledged the man with a noticeable look of appreciation. “Captain,” he said, inclining his head, “we are in your debt.”

  Imrail bowed again. “I did my duty,” he said.

  Avela shook her head. “Duty again? Elhador, you’re about as . . .” She caught herself, biting her lip. Luc exchanged a glance with his father and shrugged.

  “Perhaps we should—” Imrail began.

  “Stay a moment,” Ivon said. “What news?”

  Imrail made a face. “No sign of Vandil, my Lord Ellandor. We had word of the Third Company, at least. They were instructed to sweep north of the First City and then cut east, but were hammered by a force equally as strong as the one the Legion sent against us here. It appears the Earthbound meant to split our forces so they could flee south.” He paused. “One thing. There is a Sypher loose, my Lord Ellandor,” he added darkly.