by Matt Thomas
Lowering himself to one knee, he extended a hand slightly, studying the flames in the dim morning light. He considered attempting to allow his waking mind to probe the site, but the effort would have drained him. Vandil knew his importance and would not get careless.
“Imrail?”
He dusted off his hands and stood quickly, turning. Lanspree. The woman had come to a stop a few feet short of him. Still fully garbed, he shied away from her eyes and blanketed his thoughts. He did it automatically now. “What is it, girl?” he said. Even in his own ears his voice sounded harsh. He sometimes wished he could smooth it around the edges. Sometimes he did.
She sniffed. “Why do you insist on calling me ‘girl’; it’s always ‘Off with you, girl’ or ‘On your way, girl.’ ” She took a step forward, then stopped. Her skin suddenly took on a shade almost a perfect match for her sun-streaked hair. Hair like spun gold. At the moment she was visibly unsettled, outraged perhaps. The sight set him slightly off balance. “You are just about the coldest brute this side of the Plains of Power. Girl! Humph. Next you’ll be asking me to mend your trousers and launder your soiled garments!”
Imrail regarded her coldly. “You will do as I say, Lanspree.”
The woman threw up her hands. “I have been doing what you said for eight years, Imrail,” she hissed. “Eight years in the service of the Lord Viamar. Maybe it isn’t enough. Not anymore. Have you considered that?” She finished it quietly, surprised she had spoken so freely. Carelessly. She had been a flighty girl, some claimed, but that had been years ago now. Ingram had left for Peyennar by the time the Lord Viamar had placed her under his care. A girl with a strain of Ardil’s blood, he was certain. He had visited her folks more than once. They resided in the Guild’s Quarter of the First City, her father a Guildsman of some repute. In her youth there had been wild rumors of someone with her unique talent, rumors that eventually reached the eyes and ears of the Crown. Her father had put a stop to it and reached an arrangement with the Lord Viamar. The other Companions had come to their attention under similar circumstances.
The years the Warden had lived in Peyennar had been relatively quiet, the Stand having ended some years prior; then a watchful peace, with rumors of the Storm coming; then Andus and the Siege, black years for the Companions. Imrail and the others had served as silent assassins crossing the nation for word of the Ardan. Thankfully the Lord Viamar’s tax exemptions had spurred innovation. Just as one tide had turned, Viamar’s sudden abduction had caught them off guard.
Now the World-Axle had come to a halt and a new page in the Annals was being written. He had been so driven there had been no time for anything other than duty and service. She knew that and now mocked him for it. She did not know the truth he had sought to spare her, though: He had never intended to serve another master or mistress. Avela, Riven, or Lars would have succeeded him under the rule of the White Rose while he stayed in service of the Lord Viamar until the man’s death. Now he served the Chaos Master and the Lord of the Winds. He shivered at the thought, a distant part of him instinctively becoming cold with dread. He and Vandil had spoken of it briefly in Peyennar after convincing the boy to join them. Vandil himself had been shaken. The boy commanded memory and power. Or would. But he had some grievous sin hanging over him he feared. That fear might prove a weakness.
“Imrail,” Avela said softly, “it’s over now. He bent fate. It’s time to let go.”
“That is hardly certain . . .” He caught himself before adding “girl.”
She sighed and covered her face with both hands before glancing skywards. “Why must you always be so stubborn? Do I have to come out and say it and shame myself? At least the Lord Viamar-Ellandor is honest with himself. And others. Modest and humble almost to a fault. You, however—”
He snarled. “Would you have me reopen all of my wounds? I was there with you from the start. That should be enough. I endured the scorn of my peers for not bedding the palace servants or looking to the girls in the Merchant’s Quarter. I told Viamar to put a stop to it and end the Lawless in the Watch. Eight years, you say. Eight years and you did not once speak your mind or share your thoughts. Why should it be any different now?”
He finished it with a finality he expected would have given her cause to end any discussion on the subject, now and forever. The rustling of tent flaps told him the Lord Viamar-Ellandor was still awake and peering out at them, his mouth hanging open. Imrail ignored him and began to stride away. Avela took two steps and had him by the wrist. Not anticipating the move, he grimaced at the icy indifference she displayed at nearly snapping bone in two. He did not risk moving further.
“I didn’t know how you felt,” she whispered. A warm breeze; a gentle caress. “But I never hid my thoughts. I have spoken now. Now it is different. Tell me I am wrong and I will leave. But tell me here and now. No more waiting.”
For the first time in years Elhador Imrail did not know what to say. With his arm and wrist bent behind his back, he could not see the woman. But he pictured her quite clearly. He always could. Exhaling, he let the mental blocks around his mind—blocks he had for years practiced and perfected—drop. “The truth then, Lanspree, since you leave me no choice.” He took in a steadying breath. “Back in the Third Plane I abandoned the Lord Siren.” Another breath. The air felt decidedly warm now. “I did it for you. To see you safe and in the First City. Now let me go before I have you mending my trousers.”
Avela released him. When he was finally able to gather himself, unable to resist rubbing his wrist—a good thing it was not his sword hand she had seized—he was stunned to see the woman’s wild look melt. Her smile had never seemed so glorious.
“Imrail,” she breathed, closing her eyes, palms pressed to her midsection. “Imrail . . .”
“Enough,” he snapped, conscious enough of the extra attention directed their way.
“You fool, why do you care what anyone thinks?”
He could not answer that. “We will speak,” he promised. “Later.” Much later, he vowed.
Moving to the fire, he continued to rub his wrist, reeling. The woman had vetted his most secret thoughts now. He did not begrudge her that. But Yasrin’s vision still worried him. When they were safe with Ancaida secure, then it would be up to the boy to finish matters.
“Are you sure about making for Alingdor?” Avela asked. “Do we have the time to wait?”
He nodded. “If we don’t wait, we won’t know what we’re walking into. We need to marshal our forces in the First City. We also need the Redshirts, and you know they will be hard to win over. If we cannot find the Ministers, we will have to convince the Whitefists and Lancers to put aside their differences and aid us.” That would require them putting more than a decade of mistrust aside. Then there was the Privy Council. A blasted tangle indeed. He was not sure if even the boy’s luck would see them through it. “Besides which, he needs time to adjust his mindset. He’s only had a few weeks.”
Avela nodded. “Weeks and an eternity. He is not what any of us expected.”
“Agreed.”
They sat for a time. When it became apparent he was not moving to eat, Avela shook her head and muttered something, making a sharp motion. Mearl took her meaning and came forward with a bowl and sizeable spoon. Filling it, she handed it to him and reseated herself beside him, close enough they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Neither spoke again.
* * * * *
Luc woke a few hours later. For much of the morning he had dozed in and out of consciousness. No dreams at least. Now he had only the fog of fatigue to contend with and a dull ache at the ridge of the forehead. He began by seeking the unity and center his father instructed him to achieve. With his eyes closed and his palms open, he strove to seek the substance at the heart of the Making. This morning it was like catching flies. The awareness was there, but he did not have the focus or alertness to achieve the balance necessary to read or direct the currents. He gave up after about a half hour, intent on trying again when t
hey stopped for the night.
Not knowing why, he elected to don the armor Vandil had forced on him. Perhaps it was because he knew the enemy would not be content to let them roam through the plains uncontested. Finding his clothes freshly laid out and his boots polished, he took his time getting dressed. A bit of broth and cool water refreshed him enough he almost considered seeking the symmetry and balance he needed, but there was no time.
They set out at high noon, a fresh wind flying off the Peaks and the clouds rolling westward. The plains felt alive. For the first time Imrail kept his stallion a few paces behind his left shoulder, a sizable force fanning out behind them. The exchange between Lanspree and Imrail had been unexpected. He was privately shocked but kept his thoughts to himself to spare the pair any additional embarrassment. Imrail’s face was blank, but there were a few times Luc thought the man looked noticeably troubled.
Lightfoot was in his element at the head of the company. They moved rapidly, much more swiftly than they had when headed for Peyennar from the Landing, not being slowed by wagons loaded down with supplies. Now they had a train of packhorses for that, the weight equally distributed among them. Men expertly groomed them. Master Jebb and his companions had also joined them. Sometime back the industrious man and his four companions had been given permission to garb themselves in silver and black. They wore it well. All in all, the day passed smoothly. With Rew for company and Trian and Avela near, he felt for the first time a calm and rightness to the world. Rew started out quiet, but after a brief halt and a bite began to loosen up and privately admitted he had parted on good terms with his folks. It seemed Master Acriel had not only given him leave depart, but had done so with several pointed words. Now it was for his son to prove he had a place among Imrail’s company.
At various intervals throughout the day scouts reported in. Imrail had them report directly to Luc. If the men were uneasy around the “Lord Siren,” they were no less so when they had to address him directly. So far all appeared to be going well, though.
Imrail and Ivon had worked out a plan to leave a sizable escort behind for the nobles setting out of Peyennar and still leave Luc with a considerable company. The rest of Vandil’s men had departed a few days earlier and were camped west of the Landing. If all went according to plan, they would reach the First City in a week—though that was still largely undecided—depending on how long they stayed in Edgewood.
Between passing the hours riding and seeking to center himself with a deluge of far-off images at times intruding on his thoughts, he had come to terms with putting Peyennar behind him. There was nothing he could do for his people now except put as much distance between himself and the mountain haven as possible.
Prior to the dusk Imrail rode up beside him. “How do you feel?” the general asked him pointedly.
Luc shifted in the saddle. The man was asking? That was new. “It’s difficult,” Luc acknowledged. He kept his gaze forward. “I’m not the same. I don’t think I will ever be the same.” The admission may have been cryptic, but the matter was hardly easy to relate. He owed this man, though. The onetime captain had been responsible for singlehandedly saving them during the early parts of their journey, and after. Without him Peyennar might not even exist now.
“Perhaps that’s part of what makes them fear you,” Imrail said, his intent eyes scanning Luc’s face. “They don’t know quite what are becoming. I certainly don’t. We have that advantage, I suspect, and several others that may surprise you. You’ll feel better in the morning, I think. Do you have any objections to our plans?”
Luc considered it. “Just Alingdor. I’m all for finding out what these Ancaidans are doing in Penthar. If they have ties to the Furies, they’ll have to be eliminated. After that, we find Ansifer. And the sword.” He said it matter-of-factly. Weeks prior he would never have believed either effort anywhere in his power.
Imrail nodded, keeping his eyes on Luc. “And if one of the Furies is waiting for you?” he said.
Luc snorted. “They would not.” Not in this lifetime or the last one. “They would not.” He said it definitively.
“And if the three of them decide the risk worth it? All three?” Imrail pressed. “What then?”
Luc jerked Lightfoot to a halt. “What are you getting at, Imrail?”
The general looked at him calmly. “Just preparing you for the possibility. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
The question was one he was unprepared to face. Imrail read the sudden rush of emotions that flashed across his face and motioned for him to start forward quickly. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” the general said carefully. “A smart ruler understands the conventions of war and the needs of his people. If you stay behind at Triaga, we can have teams inside Ancaida within a matter of days. With help and some of your luck, we may be able to flush your enemy out.”
Luc shook his head adamantly. He felt strangely flushed and lightheaded all of a sudden. “I will not send our people to their slaughter, Imrail. It’s my responsibility. If they come for me together, they risk everything. They want to rule unhindered, not fragment existence in the process. If they wish to face me . . .” He did not know what the outcome would be, but the thought made him go cold all over. He would gladly give his life to end the suffering of the Children, but he refused to leave Trian and his folks in a world where the Furies’ rule would go unchallenged.
“Well,” Imrail said softly, “at least we have time to think about it. I still urge caution, but we can discuss it when it becomes necessary. Until then, whatever you need.”
Imrail spent the remainder of the day going over Ancaidan law and custom. Once a splintered people, a settlement had been reached within the nation when the Ruling Houses agreed to arm the Whitefists to offset the Golden Lancers after the death of their last king. Now rule was jointly shared in some strange way between the three prime Ruling Houses and the Privy Council. Today the Ancaidan people were a proud people, their land fertile and trade robust. Relations with Penthar under the Lord Viamar remained relatively stable, though border clashes were not unheard of. After the Stand and the fall of Ardil their own infighting had made it difficult to normalize relations. Now they mistrusted outsiders. In truth, both nations did. Their capital, Rolinia, stood at the southern point of the continent. Driving that far south was going to be difficult. “Convincing them to support you may not be possible, Anaris,” Imrail warned.
Luc tried to listen attentively, but a seed of doubt seized him that soon spread. He did not think he was capable of contending with the Furies. Not yet. He suspected once it had been otherwise, but the spirits of Earth, War, and Ruin had ruled unchecked and unhindered for ages. After the shattering of the Dread City. . . .
They reached the second compound just after nightfall. Even as they dismounted Imrail pulled off his coat and gestured for him to follow to an area within Hireland’s compound relatively free of movement or activity. “Time to see to your training, my Lord,” he said with a blank look. “I understand Ayden pushed you hard. You may find I am somewhat more instructive.” Luc did not think the man one for boasting. He had seen the Companion face a Sypher in the Third Plane nowhere near his full form or ability. Word had spread that during the Earthbound offensive against the Shoulder Imrail had singlehandedly rallied the defenders multiple times, rebuffing the Angrat onslaught. Luc felt a touch hesitant.
The general opened by having him repeat a series of defensive moves he demonstrated precisely. He went over stances, sequences, movements of the wrist, and a shift in mindset that at first puzzled Luc. Why the man was intent on doing this now was the question. At the moment Luc was beset with doubt over what to do if one of the Furies was to intercede when he found Ansifer. He had worked through the problem of facing the Fallen, mentally preparing a nasty surprise he dared not attempt here. But the direct intervention of his ancient adversaries had never occurred to him. Once it would have been unthinkable. Now the prospect was chilling.
He found
subtle differences in Imrail’s approach to the blade than he was familiar with. Quickness, reflex, anticipating, and countering. Imrail worked him through the defensive poses. He suspected he would prove just as disappointing to the man as he had to Ayden, but something in the man’s eyes told him differently. Emulating the man in full armor was difficult, and he was hardly focused on the task with the Furies occupying his mind. Even the Tides seemed to beckon invitingly in the open expanses around them.
“I want you to remember something, Anaris,” Imrail said in a voice he reserved for when he was most intent. It was perhaps an hour after they had begun, both of them pouring sweat. “You are capable enough with the blade, but you don’t have any practical experience. That is what separates you from the others. But if you use your sword and your reflexes in harmony as tools to defend, few opponents will be able to overwhelm you until help arrives. Do you mark me?”
He supposed he did at that. “Yes.”
Imrail nodded curtly, sheathing his sword. “Good. Now come.”
Striding alongside the man, they returned to the compound. Luc nodded towards Eubantis and Mearl, grimacing when they bowed formally. The expectations were mounting by the second. He was not the Warden or the Lord Viamar, but their reputations and whatever he was becoming made them accept him implicitly. They found Hireland overseeing the detachment he would be leading to the next base camp. That meant riding through the night. Luc’s muscles, already screaming for rest, would have buckled under the weight of another ride. Imrail’s approach to the sword had him using all of his speed and quickness as much as his arms and wrists, but he had emulated the man’s alertness and listened attentively. Hireland, wearing the silver and black, had nothing new to report other than a sense of watchfulness.
