by Matt Thomas
He stared at her. “I’m angry? What about you?”
She pulled back. “If your father knows about us, our . . . enemies . . . know too,” she finished limply. Something in her eyes, infinite pools of memory and wisdom well beyond her years, made him suddenly wary. “We are not ready for this, Luc.”
“Perhaps not,” he whispered. Hard to distance himself from the image of the woman or resist the temptation to breathe in her scent. He did not say the day they came for her would be the day existence itself would end. The knowing smile that touched her lips told him she already knew, though. She read him that easily. He wondered if she always had.
With most of their preparations complete, he hefted his blanket roll and trudged back to his room. Moving towards the wardrobe, he dug his right hand deep into the middle drawer and pulled out a silver rod with a sphere clasped on end that appeared to encase the flowing winds. The instant his hand touched it images flashed, burned. He quickly set it in the middle of his blanket roll. He was going to have to find somewhere safer. Returning to the outer room a little unsteadily, he unsheathed the king’s sword, refusing to believe the jewel on the hilt pulsed in time to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Standing, he breathed deep. Let go, he told himself.
He left it standing point down in the corner.
“What are you doing?” a voice said sharply. Glancing up, he only then realized Captain Imrail—General Imrail now, he reminded himself—had made his way in.
Luc kept his voice steady. “It’s not my sword, Imrail.”
Imrail scowled. “It’s the sword of your house, boy,” the man said bluntly. “Did you stuff your ears with wool? The Lord Viamar and your mother are laying the foundation for you to rule the nation outright. They sacrificed more than you know tonight. That sword is yours now. You don’t mean to deny them by refusing their emblems, do you?”
Luc bared his teeth. “You heard what they said. I have no . . .” He left it hanging.
The man regarded him a moment with a look almost as intense as his own. “We’re leaving, Anaris. You and me. Now.”
“Now?” he began to protest. “But it’s—”
“We need to move,” Imrail cut in. “Now. In secret. The Warden is all but certain the enemy has eyes and ears in Peyennar, wights perhaps, or worse. Events are beginning to outpace us. I doubt the Earthbound have been idle; if they are going to strike, it will be here. Best to be far away before they regroup and think taking Peyennar worth a second attempt even with the Warden here. The Lord Viamar insists he attempt the trek to Alingdor and make his declarations public. You are to stand with him. And you will carry his sword.”
“Enough Imrail,” Trian said. She crossed her arms. “He never chose this. If the king is going into retirement, I doubt it will be easy for the people—for the nation—to move on even if it is his daughter who succeeds him. The Lord Viamar has been a symbol of stability across the west, more so here, to his grandson who planned to serve in the First City itself under the banner of the Sparrow, to the Companions Viamar placed here. I doubt the transition will be a smooth or easy one for any of you—especially you. Give it time. Besides which, you cannot begin to comprehend what they did tonight. To openly announce that name . . . There will be consequences.”
Imrail folded his arms, studying the Val Moran as if the words hit the mark a little too closely even for his own comfort. The newly raised general exhaled slightly before responding. Perhaps he had been reluctant to go along with the Lord Viamar’s plan after all. “It’s the way of the world, girl,” he said finally. “We live, we breathe, and then are gone. In Penthar we do not begrudge our kin the gifts we leave them.” Imrail turned, keenly regarding Luc. “The Lord Viamar is counting on you, boy. We are all counting on you. What you did here, what you managed . . . Don’t make us regret it now by sulking in silence. If you feel guilty attempting to step out from under his shadow while he enters his twilight years, well, you are not the only one.
“As for openly announcing who you are . . . Well, that is done. It cannot be undone now.” Imrail finished it bluntly.
Luc flushed. This was one thing he did not want to discuss or go into great detail. Tonight they had exposed him to the world. Too soon, he knew. “I thought we were going after them straightway, Imrail,” he said instead. “That sword is important. Events in the south are important. I can feel it in me. I can see it. If we wait, there’s no telling what he’ll do with it. Besides, I never agreed on Alingdor. Tell me you don’t think they already hold Ancaida and perhaps I’ll reconsider.” Ansifer. He would pay. “Tell me you think the delay, any delay, will not cost us.”
Imrail was stroking his square jaw. “We have already been delayed. Even if we could save another week, I would still advise caution. With Vandil gone—”
“My uncle said you would be the Steward of Alingdor, Imrail,” Luc pressed. He suspected the man thought he had forgotten. With Lenora’s predictions that Imrail might die to the oppressive haunts they had faced in the Mirror Plane, maybe the man himself had forgotten. Luc only hoped Imrail had side-stepped that fate. Now there was no one he trusted more. Unlike the others, Imrail treated him no differently than he had on their journey to rescue the king. Luc needed that now, but knew Alingdor needed the man far more.
“As I was saying,” Imrail went on, ignoring the observation, “with Vandil gone someone has to take thought to our southern border. That is why I am going with you, not that I would leave either one of you to the Furies.” He said it frankly, but there was a hint of fondness in his rough tone. “But we are going to Alingdor, and I am coming with you when the time comes for you to head south. Whatever your uncle saw, things have changed—or his vision is one that will not take place for years yet. Regardless, my place is with you. Your mother and father agree. The Lord Viamar agrees. The White Rose rules the nation in your name. After a few days in Alingdor, you and I will be bound south—well, we will first have to deal with the Ancaidans perched on our doorstep. But we will ignite the nation with word of the Lord Siren’s return.” Luc flinched at the declaration. “Say your goodbyes quickly,” Imrail continued. “We will need to reassemble the Companions and pave the way for the leaders of Penthar to follow. Some of them are hesitant given what they have seen and heard.”
“I am coming too, Imrail,” Trian said firmly.
The rugged-faced man nodded. “Good. Avela will be pleased. I’ll have your belongings taken. We’ll scout the pass and camp at the base of the hills. We should be within sight of the Landing within four days. You have two hours.”
Imrail nodded at them and strode out. He paused at the door and seemed to hesitate, but read something in Luc’s eyes that made him clamp his mouth shut. Instead he left without bowing or speaking. Luc could do without the bowing, especially from him.
“We will need to say goodbye, Luc,” Trian said, seeming to read his thoughts. “It would not do just leaving.”
“I suppose not,” he agreed. He owed Peyennar that much. Taking a few steps to retrieve the Lord Viamar’s sword, he clenched his right hand around the hilt a moment before sheathing it. He suspected he was getting better with the blade, but still had far to go. The sword had never been his way, but he did understand what Imrail was getting at. Obligations he expected. He did not resent them or the expectations. He was just troubled he might not live up to them. The thought of a second strike against the mountain retreat made him taste bile. This delay might well prove even more costly. A week to center himself; a week for the forces of the night to plan their next move. He wondered if the enemy suspected what their response would be. Likely not. Imrail himself did not. Even Luc shied away from what he was considering now.
* * * * *
After saddling Lightfoot, he and Trian circled the remote village. As goodbyes went, he knew these would prove among the most difficult he would ever have to make. They paused first for one final look at the impenetrable Shoulder of Peyennar, ancient sanctuary of the Builders. Some of his earliest memorie
s were centered on the hold. In more than one way, it defined the Oathbound and the people of Peyennar—their staunch defiance of the bitter northern elements and the unseen enemy taking shape in the east. Now he was leaving, more than likely never to return. The thought allayed some of the urgency to make for the south and the heart of the Ancaidan realm where, somewhere in his soul, if he truly possessed one, he knew the hand of fate was leading him.
Despite the hour, he guided the bay through familiar paths easily, pausing at Ingram’s yard and Master Varel’s humble homestead. Both men had plenty of advice. He only partially listened, until they gave him leave to speak. He thanked them, or tried to. Between the bowing and the gruff handshakes he was hardly able to get a word in. Master Varel’s wife smiled between them fondly and winked towards Trian. Ingram was harder to take leave of. The man had practically hauled Luc through the wild all those years back. The former king’s captain was getting on in years, but appeared content. He hinted Peyennar still had a purpose. Varel, the Brendars, Barsos, and even the Acriels had kin in Penthar. Some were sending word. Some were intent on making the mountain village a thriving community. None of it made sense, but some hint of foresight seemed to capture Trian.
“I have no doubt Peyennar still has a role to play,” Trian told the man. “Yours will be perhaps the most pivotal. Wait for the day. I believe the Lord Siren will return.” She paused, studying the man with a faint smile, perhaps even a grin. “You will know peace, my Lord Ingram, and more joy than you yet foresee. Fare you well.”
After stops at the Acriels, the Barsos, and then the Renfather’s, they approached the two hours Imrail had appointed. Returning to the green, they made for the Brendar inn. For the first time in memory a guard had been posted. This one was considerable. Allowing two men in silver and black to push back the double doors, he entered, savoring the contrast in the mountain air and the familiar surroundings at the town heart with the aromas wafting in from the kitchens. He had never seen the inn busier. Nobles of the realm had left the safety of the Shoulder for the evening meal, it seemed. He expected they would be leaving in a day or so with his mother and father. Members of Imrail’s inner council were present, too. He nodded towards Rew, who would be joining them and apparently had come by to say his farewells as well. On entry, a half hundred men came to attention. No, more. Far more.
The remainder of the allotted time passed swiftly. He saw the faces of those he had grown up with but felt a keen sense of disconnect. He was leaving, best to remember that. Taking it all in, he steeled himself. He clasped hands with men he barely felt he knew now. Reeva Tanalo knelt. Master Jessip, still with his arm in a sling and the other wrapped tightly around Gianna Altree, bowed. Altree’s left arm ended in a stump. He swallowed at the sight. Eva Brendar pressed them to eat what proved a savory meal. Surprisingly, her hazel eyes were as fond as ever. Unable to fend her off, he acceded and took a seat at a table four men hastily abandoned. Somehow he endured the bitter partings. The fare was as fine as he remembered. When Imrail and his mother and father arrived, he stood and made his way to the inn’s double doors. He felt more than a little unsteady.
Taking a last look, he gripped his sword and the Mark on the hilt. His sign. His infamy. No escaping it now.
He waited until they were standing on the green. Trian read something in his expression and rubbed his forearm. Luc kept his eyes on Imrail. “You should have told me,” he said, resisting a glare, his anger bubbling to the surface, his eyes burning with a light that made even the Warden exchange a glance with his wife. “I was tasked to help you. I did it willingly. You and Vandil said it was the king. You did not say he was my grandfather.”
Imrail eyed him impassively. “Your point?”
He stabbed a finger towards the general. “That man is my mother’s father. I deserved to know. I needed to know. No more secrets, Imrail. Your word on it.”
Imrail continued to eye him impassively. “You needed time to find yourself first, Anaris. You still do. Now, if you’re finished, we need to be on our way.” He glanced at Ivon and Ariel, nodding respectfully before moving off.
“You all right, lad?” His father asked after a moment. The man’s ancient eyes seemed slightly guarded. Luc thought he understood. Clearly they expected he would hold them responsible for openly declaring him. Glancing between them, he knew he could deny them nothing. He had lost something of himself in recent weeks. Their return had ensured he at least would depart with some part of himself to hold onto.
“Yes,” he said finally, turning. “You seem to know a great deal. About the beginning.”
Ivon shrugged. “Too little, but enough to know we approach the end.” Ivon appeared to close his eyes momentarily. When he opened them he suddenly seemed exposed, haunted. “I spent too many years planning and wrestling with my conscience to consider what this moment might mean. You understand why we made the choices we did? You understand there was never any choice? I was born to face the darkness. I did not know my son was destined to defeat it.”
He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Ariel’s face had clouded over. Plainly the Warden was not the only one feeling exposed. “You move off at the beginning of the end as we know it,” Ivon went on. “I must yield,” he added softly. His face twisted slightly at the admission. “I will ride with you if you wish it. This . . . Ansifer . . . He is beyond feeling, beyond regret. He is one of the Fallen and a Diem of great power both. I do not see him easily defeated, Son, but together . . . perhaps together.”
Luc glanced at his mother. There were many things he was unsure of, but this was not one of them. “No. You’d be safer . . .” Where? There was an Earthbound city poised to move on the First City. One of the Furies, Maien likely, ready to seize the city out of spite. Vengeance and retaliation. No. Not even Alingdor was safe now, but Ivon leaving was wrong. He knew that instinctively.
“Look to your wife, Lord Ellandor,” Trian spoke up. “We will see to the south.” She hesitated. “You are redeemed. The Nations will remember it before the end.”
Ivon glanced at her sharply. “I did not ask for redemption,” he hissed.
“No, but your people need it. You have given them a future despite the bitter cost to yourself. You have already surrendered to the Tides as your brother did. Wait a bit longer and look to the future. The Nations will remember the will of the Warden before the end, and his sacrifice.” She turned, but added, “And his humility.”
“You will do as I ask and make for the First City?” Ariel asked in a quiet voice.
Luc wrung his hands. “Mother . . .” The First City. He had dreamed of it. Now he feared what would become of him and his people if he openly entered it. There were reasons, reasons he could almost unravel. “I will think on it,” he said finally. Stepping up to her hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her. This was one parting he did not think any of them able to endure a second time. Feeling a riptide of emotion surge through him, he shuddered. The air opened up to him, but he dismissed it. He was not sure how long he held her or if it was her holding him. He fought back a sense of panic when he reluctantly pulled away and turned to his father. So long now since they had lived here together. Breathing in deeply, he gripped the folds of the man’s nondescript earthen cloak. The Warden’s hands shook around him. When he finally pulled back, his father’s face was blank and devoid of color. Emotion. Swallowing, he masked his fear and gave them both reassuring nods. He stored the image of the pair in a distant place knowing that even if he did see them again, it would not be the same.
Trian embraced each in turn. It was surprisingly gratifying to see the reverence she held for them, and they for her.
“It’s time, lad,” Ivon said. “Go in peace and without fear. We are with you.”
Luc nodded. Imrail approached leading Luc’s bay and a solid mare for Trian. Everything was ready, it seemed. Except him. He risked one final glance at the pair, realizing this was a moment they too had feared. He never would have expected them letting him g
o like this, letting him choose. It was what he needed now, no doubt, but after so many years and no certainty about the end, he knew somehow it cost them far more. I will come back for you, he willed towards them. He would see the memory of the White Rose and the Warden become something more.
As they mounted up and turned their horses to leave, Rew strolled towards them, running a hand through his hair. Apparently someone had quite meticulously seen to his needs. He had a saddled and provisioned horse and had arrayed himself in riding gear, knee-high boots, a buttoned overcoat, and dark trousers. He had a pair of knives sheathed at angles across his back that could have passed for twin short-swords. Something about the gear seemed to transform him from the knobby youth Luc had grown up with to a . . . He was not sure what. That determined look did not fit on his face. Luc wondered at the change.
“Luc,” Trian said. “Look.”
He followed the trail of her eyes back towards the inn. Abruptly he realized a handful of soldiers and villagers had spilled out. Not just a handful, he amended. Some raised arms. Some trembled. Some went so far as to exhale and were forced to reach for their kerchiefs. Not the parting he had imagined. But here they were. Founded to foster the son of the Warden and rear the last hope of Ardil, those that knew what they had been about from the start looked inward, wondering how they would move forward when what had brought them here was departing. He was not certain if they would find the answer.
Sighing, he took in the image. He had no words to convey his gratitude and settled for a fist pressed against the heart. Exchanging glances with those he knew best, he bit back an ashen taste. Finally, he turned Lightfoot—the name he had chosen truly did fit the bay—and let Imrail’s stallion take the lead.
No one spoke during the ride down the lane leading to the pass down into the northern Pentharan mainland, but there was no mistaking the cry of a hawk somewhere high above. Somehow he found it less and less disturbing.
