by Matt Thomas
Nella sniffed. “He’s still asleep. Soused himself. Won’t talk to anyone. Go on up. And make sure he doesn’t have any of my father’s brew about. I’ll bring you a sip of brandy.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving her a wink.
They found Rew sprawled out face down. It was a wonder he could even breathe. Gaelin startled Luc with a low growl and quick strides that instantly took him to the bedside. Seizing the young man’s shoulders, he shook Rew mercilessly. “Get up, boy,” he snapped. Rew groaned. His hands instantly came up to the sides of his head. “You’ve slept through more than half the day.”
“So what?” Rew whined.
“What’s the problem, boy?” Denail demanded.
“My head.”
Luc chose a different tact. Rew was one of the threads in the tapestry of his life that kept him grounded. His parents were two others. If his friend was having difficulty accepting the rapid changes, it was understandable. Particularly after what they had both seen and done. “Look,” he began, “it’s no problem if you’re having second thoughts. You don’t need to come with me, Rew.” He would have actually preferred it if Rew stayed behind, if only for his friend’s sake.
“Luc—?” Rew sat up, still groaning. “Sorry I didn’t swing by like I promised. I . . .”
“You’ve been dousing yourself silly,” Gaelin said. “I did not agree to take you on to allow such idiocy. Get cleaned up. And get dressed. Now.”
Rew glared at the man. “Thinks he owns me. You stay away from me, Denail. You hear me? You can have your bloody knives back, too!”
“Fool,” the silver-haired man whispered. He started to turn, but Luc halted him with a glance.
“What’s the problem, Rew?” he asked. This was not like him. Not at all. His face was stretched and had a miserable cast.
He hesitated, then sighed, giving in. “It’s the damned dreams. No, not those ones. Haven’t had one since the plains. Just . . .” He swallowed. “There was a girl. I met a girl in Alingdor.” Now it was Denail’s turn to groan. “It’s not like that, man! I swear. I see her eyes. Green eyes. White hair like a . . . a . . . I think she’s dead, Luc. She told me I had to be here. She could see things, too. I know it. But she can’t be dead. She’s my sister’s age. She . . . saved me.” He finished it hoarsely.
“Then we all owe her,” Luc said.
Gaelin was intrigued now and crossed his arms. “I think you would have found your way back here regardless, boy. Besides, what is it about this girl that strikes you?”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.”
Something in the man’s eyes changed. A light of empathy perhaps. Or irritation. “Get up, Acriel. She is no more dead than you or I. You’ll see her again, I’m certain.”
Rew let out a breath, then shuddered. His skin definitely had a gray cast. “I suppose you would be. Fine. Have it your way. I’ll get up. Anyone feel like a drink?”
Luc chuckled. Gaelin looked as though he wanted to throw his arms up. “I must attend the Lord Viamar,” he said stiffly. “Though I would like to get to know your friend here. Another time perhaps.”
Nella appeared with the brandy she had promised. Luc took his while still holding the man’s eye. “What did you mean with that bit about my name?”
Gaelin Denail gave him an odd look. “You didn’t tell him, did you Acriel.” He was not asking. “It seems young Master Acriel is having a hard time accepting his fate, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor. You see, I am from the Free City of Emry.”
Luc let out a whistle of surprise. So that was why. . . . “You have a seat on the Assembly?” he asked.
“Yes.” One of the Guardians then, in some parts known as the Sentinels. He suddenly wondered if some of the Oathbound had ties to Emry. Well, if he thought he had lived to see and survive almost everything the world had left to show him, he was wrong. Utterly and completely. “You will get to know us one day,” Gaelin added.
“How so?”
The Guardian took a sip of the brandy before crossing his left arm behind his back. He did not smile. Luc did not think this man was one to smile often. He had the burden of his oaths to protect the Nations, and the authority to move openly and take independent action. Authority and great power. And a secret charge, Amreal had said. “We have been waiting for you,” the man said quietly as if choosing his words carefully. “I think it will be a welcome day when the Guardians learn of your . . . ancestry. I have known for some time, but have been cautioned by the Warden. He convinced me to keep your secrets close. He can be quite persuasive. There were times when it was difficult. Now it is apparent he foresaw this day. You see, our people are well aware of the Mark. It is the reason for our existence.” He scanned Luc’s face and shifted abruptly as if sensing his mood. “I should take my leave now, my Lord. I wish you well.”
Luc sighed. A few hours and he could almost forget. Now the changes were coming to the forefront again. “Thank you,” he said softly. He did not know what else to say.
The days continued to speed by. Most evenings, between spending time at the Brendar inn or accompanying Trian to see the Barsos, Acriels, or stealing a moment just for the two of them, they sat in on briefings the Lords Viamar and Ellandor received. Sometimes Rew and the Lord Denail were there. Imrail, it seemed, had been elevated in rank and was their lead in all matters. The rugged-faced man did not look pleased, but did his duty. Mearl and a small contingent of aides from the Sons of Thunder sat in. They began to make plans. They changed their plans. No one seemed decided on whether Luc would accompany his folks to Alingdor or head south immediately. Still they planned. They poured over maps, Ancaidan maps more than most. They picked the route south. Ivon drilled Imrail on what he knew of the Unseated. The Fallen. Outside of Sevion and Rusgar, he did not know all who had become infected by the Furies servants, but he suspected. Clearly the discussion was meant for Luc as well.
On the eve of their departure, their destination still undecided, the king finally called for his council. They assembled on one of the upper levels of the Shoulder. The Lord Viamar sat in an armchair at the end of a narrow hall. The surfaces of the walls and floor were smoother than marble and of a making now forgotten. During Luc’s tenure with the Oathbound the area had been restricted. Now the polished stonework and vaulted ceiling caught the lamplight, giving the hall an ominous feel. The king sat with his back straight arrayed in flowing robes, silver and black. His advisers, nobles who had arrived under heavy guard, lined either side of the hall. No doubt some were at first daunted by the Shoulder and the existence of Peyennar. Now with the arrival of the Lord Ellandor and the Lady Viamar a little of that apprehension returned. Awe at the powerful strides of the Warden even without the mantle of his office and the timeless face of the White Rose. Wonder at the two figures the pair flanked. Behind them Imrail and at least a half hundred men added to the intrigue. The king had permitted some of the villagers to attend the audience, too. He thought Rew was somewhere in the back, Master Renfather as well.
Luc met their assessing eyes without blinking; sound advice from his mother. He and Trian came to a halt between the two. Imrail had nearly stuffed Luc into the light armor. With the sword of House Viamar hanging at his side, he caught more than one lord or lady give him a second glance or mouth a whisper to someone standing near. Trian stood in a sapphire blue and white beaded gown—blue at the bodice until cinched at the waist, and white below, sometimes appearing silver. It flowed to the heels of her open-toed shoes. She was equally a mystery to them. On first seeing her he had nearly tripped over his tongue. Those in attendance wondered at the woman in blue and white whose presence seemed a match for the daughter of the king. Luc still had difficulty taking his eyes off her. Something in him always seemed to awaken whenever she was near, but now. . . .
“These are the words of House Viamar,” the king began after a lengthy silence. He was leaner now, a shadow of the man Luc remembered. But his voice was still commanding. “The Nation of Penthar rides against the Fur
ies. We will not wait for them to declare war. War will exist between us until the Earthbound and their masters are no more. There will be losses. Of that I am certain. But we will not submit to the forces of the Legion.”
Silence. It was the silence of fear and the dread of their certain doom.
“The Sparrow will cede its will to that of the White Rose, my daughter, Ariel Viamar, who will rule in the name of the next Lord of Penthar. This is her wish. It is granted. She will hold all oaths until such time as she decrees. You are here to witness the transfer of power and the will of the Sparrow. Has it been witnessed?”
“Witnessed, Sire,” Imrail snapped crisply from the rear of the hall.
“Thank you, General,” the king said. “And this is your will, Daughter?” Eldin asked softly.
Ariel Viamar raised her head. Still appearing a young woman only a half-decade his senior, she held every eye. “Yes,” she announced clearly. “It is my wish that while we are at war the Nations will be led by our example and willingness to yield all authority to my son and heir.” Luc stiffened. He would have stepped forward were it not for his father’s hand and a sharp elbow in the ribs from Trian. “The last decedents of Ardil have witnessed that Peyennar was founded after the Stand at Imdre. Founded to raise my son and heir, my Lord. The son of the Warden and of House Viamar. We hid him here to bring us hope, hope that his hand might shelter us, lead us, through the storm.”
Eldin Viamar nodded, unable to mask the pride he felt for his daughter. “I will witness it. This is your son, Daughter. What is his name? He has been known by more than one, I understand.”
Luc felt dizzy. Too fast. This was happening too fast. Ariel’s voice stayed calm and sure. “He is the Lord Siren. He needs no other name. But he will bear the names of both the House Viamar and Ellandor. This is our will.”
“So be it,” the king said gravely. “We will make preparations to formally declare it, but from this moment forward the assembled will kneel before the Mistress of Penthar and the Lord of the Winds. Kneel!” he commanded.
Luc held in a groan when, to the very last man and women assembled in the hall, all knelt. He locked his arms behind his back to keep from raising them in fury. The Lord of the Winds. After a few moments his mother moved forward to take her place at the head of the hall. Even the Lord Viamar knelt. “This audience is ended,” she said. A whisper that carried far. “Go in peace and without fear. We will not fail you.”
The hall, silent before, broke into a tumult. Men and women scrambled to their feet. Luc moved to one of the far walls and pressed a trembling hand against it. It was going to take time for the place to clear. He was thunderstruck that they would do this without his consent. He wanted to cover his face. He soon realized there would be no hiding here today, though. Guided steadily by Imrail, he was propelled to stand alongside his mother. Then, one by one, the assembled came to pay their respects to the White Rose. And the Lord Siren. In one stroke they had bared his maimed soul. Siren. Sirien in the earliest ages of the world. If the nobles felt fear at the mention of the Unmaker, at least the name was one they knew, even if only from legend. A chance mention in the Annals most thought a myth. He doubted the Nations were even aware of it. But word of what had taken place here today would spread. The wise and learned would undoubtedly expose his crimes. He was still only vaguely aware of the far removed past and had to search the locked parts of his mind when he wanted more, something he had made a conscious effort not to do. He thought it had something to do with the bouts of lightheadedness.
Eventually the hall disassembled. He had to endure Master Varel and Ingram on their knees before him. The Acriels, too. His patience was at an end and he felt cold and disjointed. “Why?” he demanded. He glanced at his mother. “That name is cursed.” Trian was beside him and forestalled him with an arm looped through his tightly. He would have jerked it away but for the presence that stilled his worries whenever she was near. Besides that her dress was just too distracting.
Viamar answered first. “The nation believes I am dead,” Eldin said. “I served my time. No need to undo what need not be mended.”
“That does not answer the question,” Trian said. “We had decided not to speak of this.”
Ariel looked at her without expression. “It is done and cannot be undone,” she said. She met the icy look he shot her with a sigh.
“You are both dragging your heels,” Ivon growled. “You want to wait, but the wolves have been loosed and the Nations are ripe for the plucking. If not now, when?” The Warden gave him a piercing look. Direct and deliberate. “Would you wait for Naeleis to assume the throne of Val Mora? Imagine the carnage he would bring. Her people forced into slavery by the Earthbound. Martyre would fold and quickly follow. The Furies have existed as spirits of malice gnawing on their hatred in the dark places of the world. Why do they rise now? Because the being that spawned in the War of the Furies has or will take physical form. Do we have the time to wait? A generation has passed since the Stand at Imdre. We have had our reprieve. Now is the time.
“I know your mind, Son. You fear the world will denounce you. But consider what it will mean to the Nations to know the two of you are among us. Shall we wait indeed? Then why come at all?” His gaze took in Trian. “What do you say, Mistress Emening? I know your soul, girl. You are the Dreamweaver. Will you wait as well only to redeem a world beyond saving? What do you say, Elloyn of the Highlands? When my soul comes to you will you reject me for forcing you to choose?”
Trian appeared to stiffen at each word. In the cold hall she was like a white flame, the image marred only by a hint of sudden fatigue. She masked it, though, and still managed to stand with her back straight. “The Warden is astute. The time has long since passed, I suppose. It might have been kind to consider our wishes, but I understand your haste.” She looked at Luc. The pairing of colors on the dress really suited her, but he was still too incensed to dismiss what had been done here. “I think I would like to leave now, Luc,” Trian said. “We will be up and on the move at first light, I understand.”
“We will see you off,” Ariel said.
“That pleases me, my Lady,” Trian murmured. “Truly. If you will excuse us.”
Luc had to lengthen his strides to match her paces. Difficult to describe the range of emotions he felt. Something in the awareness the two of them shared told him an apology on his parents’ behalf would hardly suffice. At least he had been allotted the time to process the implications. It was like shedding one’s soul for another. This would prove hardest on her.
Not speaking, they descended the lower levels barely aware of those they passed. They found Mistress Tanalo in quarters she had converted for her own use. Seeing the wan color of Trian’s face, Reeva took her aside to help her out of the gown. Mistress Tanalo had chosen not to return to her home, claiming she had enough to do here yet with a small army of men needing their uniforms stitched and mended. Luc hid in the shadows of the hold until Trian reemerged garbed once more in her coat and slender breeches. He took the bundle with the dress and had her on his horse and on the way home within minutes. The early autumn storm had passed and the snow had all but melted, but the passes were still slippery. As the moon reached its high point, they reached the glade leading to the only home he had ever known.
Taking in the familiar surroundings, the cold separation he had felt on the plains returned. He managed to distance himself from the budding anger, but knew there would be no turning aside the storm that raged through him, that was him. Well, they had made their choice, and to his undying shame announced his ancestry, effectively forcing his hand.
Now it was time to force theirs.
CHAPTER 4 — CHASING HISTORY
Still locked in a state of anger and disbelief, Luc hauled his belongings out into the main chamber and went through his stowed gear. Most he swapped out, choosing to go with a newer rucksack and blanket roll. Back in his room Trian was similarly engaged. During their stay in the port city the Companions
had expertly outfitted them. Events leading up to his return to Peyennar were a blur now, but the thought of Imrail’s company summoned the memory of their flight through the Third Plane and their offensive against the Earthbound camped to the northeast within a two day march of Peyennar. A decisive move. Some would say desperate. That had been the night everything had changed. Around his mother and father he’d been able to dismiss it, but knew now he did not have the luxury to wait or stand on sentiment any longer.
That had also been the night the truth about the Val Moran had been uncovered. Elloyn of the Highlands. He braced himself with both hands gripping the mantle above the fireplace, his stomach in knots, spurts of acid searing his throat. If his knowledge had grown by leaps and bounds, there were still far too many gaps. How such a thing was possible was well beyond him. Tonight the sight of her in the dress had him feeling fits of cold and flashes of heat. The ensemble had been some gift from Mistress Tanalo. It was his mother’s firm suggestion—as commanding as he had ever seen the White Rose—that Trian stand with them before the nobles of the realm. He understood what the revelation had cost her; no one else could know better. Seeing the masked pain brought back the remoteness, though, that sense of separation. He did not understand it.
After ensuring Trian had a duplicate set of everything he intended to carry—one of the notched knives he had from Urian, a file and flint, two skins, utensils, and other camp ware—he took their bags and stacked them near the door. He caught a glint in the young woman’s eyes when he took her saddlebags without speaking. He did not expect the fierce embrace.
“This is not your fault, Luc,” Trian said quietly. She reached up and touched his forehead. “You are on fire. Promise me you will not say anything that will undo what you—what we—gained here. I know you are angry, but they are only trying to prepare you and the nation for the trial ahead.”
