by Matt Thomas
“What is it?” her husband asked.
She looked at him. “Surely you sensed it.”
He nodded, face blank and expressionless. “Yes,” Ivon admitted. “He was furious, but at least he held it close.” He did not say he had warned her. He rarely would, whether publically or in private. Gliding towards him, she rested a hand on his arm. She was well aware he knew that was not what she had meant. Brushing a strand of her hair back, he looked into her eyes. Over the years the movement had become automatic, but she never tired of it. At the moment she desperately needed his consent and approval. Early on he had often joked she was little more than a child beside him. A near decade in exile had changed that. So often she saw the tangible impact he had on others. He had a forceful persona, striking features, and a physique he tried to conceal in his drab apparel. Today he wore the mantle of Ardil and was in full command of the power and authority he still wielded. It startled her that their son and only heir already commanded forces unheard of, if the rumors were true, surpassing even the Warden’s skill on some levels. Sparks ignited when the two met. Now she was no longer certain how long he would even remain their son.
Seeing her so unsettled, her husband led her to one of two armchairs opposite an opaque table. Adjusting her skirts, she sat, then glanced at Imrail.
“He’s so cold and distant,” she began, unable to contain her frustration. “He doesn’t seem aware of the fear he is capable of eliciting. I look at him and his eyes pierce my soul. He’s consumed with thoughts of vengeance”—she glanced at Ivon pointedly—“something we are all intimately familiar with. He has memories of his foes, memories that likely predate the rise of the Builders. There is also some black despair that preoccupies him. I understand the Nations need him, but . . . I . . . we need him too.”
“He is vying against, or coming to terms with, two distinct personas,” Ivon said. “One we cannot begin to comprehend, the other . . . Well, we will have to wait and see.”
“The other is still your son,” Imrail countered, looking up. She wondered what had the man so preoccupied. “Both hold to similar ideals, but I would not discount Peyennar and its lasting influence just yet. I’ll admit the changes are occurring rapidly, but it seems to me imperative he come to terms with his role if he is to vie against the Furies. They have ages of experience and abilities none among us can comprehend.”
“True,” she agreed. “But I still worry. What if he chooses to leave?”
Imrail shook his head. “No chance. He knows his duty. You instilled it in him at a young age. He grieves for the Lord Viamar. He grieves for the Warden. And he absolutely adores the White Rose. You did not see how anxious he was making for the city. Some of that was certainly his anticipation to see it, but I know his mind. Some of it. At the moment I would say only the White Rose commands the Lord of the Dread City.”
“Truly?” She held her breath.
Finally they appeared to have the general’s full attention. Looking at her, he nodded firmly. “Of course there is one other, but it seems clear you have an attentive son, my Lady. He is ready. The memory of Amreal will keep him, but the guidance of his mother and father will temper whatever it is that disturbs him. That and Mistress Emening, I think, will make the transition somewhat smoother.”
Ivon studied the man. “It seems he holds you in high esteem as well.” He had folded his arms, waiting—no, in some subtle way, compelling the man to answer.
The newly raised general suddenly grew cautious. So the man was caught up in Siren’s wake as well, she thought. A good thing as there was no one else she trusted more to serve him. Imrail cleared his throat, choosing his words intentionally. “He’s a good lad, my Lord Ellandor. Solid. Dependable. Thoughtful and deliberate. The other Companions have elected to follow him into the darkness. We did so once before. Doing so again knowing the risks says something. There are more than a thousand men who likely feel the same way. Most understand the road ahead will be bleak and full of danger, but still feel something momentous is coming. With half of those here, the word will spread. We can expect the people will soon hear rumors about Peyennar and Siren’s Stand. Some may discount it at first, but I suspect with the Warden for a father and the White Rose a mother, most will take it as a sign.”
Ivon apparently agreed. He appeared to weigh each word carefully. “Amreal did well,” he said finally, a shadow passing across his face. Ariel resisted the impulse to reach a hand out towards him. She knew his brother’s passing had changed him in ways neither of them fully understood, or would for years yet. If they lived, that was. The two brothers had all but held Ardil whole during the years of strife and discord. Amreal had given up a great deal to take up a permanent residence in Peyennar, but counted it a singular honor. There was some debate as to whether he was truly gone. So much of the world and all that ordered it was still unknown. Meeting her eyes, Ivon smiled suddenly. He was not one to smile. “By all accounts he is as fine a son as either of us could have hoped for,” he said. Looking at her decisively, he added, “Best if it be his choice. Ours will be trusting he makes the right one.”
Ariel acknowledged Imrail’s points were convincing. Whatever it was that was troubling him may or may not have been connected. Regardless, he had served her father faithfully for more than a decade, trained and instructed by a select group of men. Only Vandil had risen in rank more rapidly, but Imrail had refused every advancement to the point of almost open defiance. That was just his sense of loyalty to House Viamar and the Companions, something she admired and could contemplate at a later time. Looking at the two men, she could not quite compose herself.
“He’s hardly the same,” she whispered. “He insists we are making a mistake. I fear he’s right. We must prepare for it. I know he’s hurting, for Amreal and . . . other reasons, for those who did not make it when my father was rescued. But there is no denying a storm is gathering in him. He is a young man capable of wielding forces ancient and inherent to the Making. He is also a young man struggling to form an identity. His abilities are expounding at an alarming rate. He is a conduit, but he possesses other powers. Frightening powers. I see it. I know it. What happened, Imrail?”
Imrail looked at a loss. “I’m not sure if I can accurately recount it, my Lady,” he said. “I will try.” Beginning to pace, he took a sip of the wine, face growing intent. “He singlehandedly faced two Syphers. I’m certain he would have challenged them had we not restrained him. Before that he wiped out an entire Earthbound contingent. His blade became white—suffused with some power or energy not native to this Plane. Beads or pockets of the storm exploded into ranks of the Legion. He was a force of vengeance, elemental, untamed. He spent most of the next day recovering. Then there was the incident at the Ancaidan camp. . . .”
Imrail’s description made them both sit up. Even Ivon looked shaken. Speechless. Imrail took that as a sign to continue.
“My advice is to proceed with your plan,” the general said. “The Lord Viamar proclaimed the succession publically. The people responded. You spoke to him, my Lady, and may have already swayed him. If I may suggest, perhaps it’s time to show him what the Lord Viamar found. Coupled with the relics already in our possession, we achieve a balance and a way to counter our enemies quickly. Talk to him, give him an indication of our plans. He is marching to war. With the nation’s backing, he may succeed. Without it. . . .”
Ivon thought about it, then said, “I will go to him. Make the necessary preparations for the signing this evening. We will convene our aides and lay out the necessary plans. He is my son. I know he will make the right decision.”
“Maybe,” Ariel said. The fluttering in her stomach, however, was hardly convincing.
“I need one thing,” Imrail added, hesitating. “An errand of some urgency—a personal matter. I’d like the lad to accompany me. The girl too. It’ll give them an opportunity to see some of the city. I’ll ensure we have an adequate escort.”
Ariel looked at him, nodding. “Do as
you see fit, General. After he accedes to our wishes.”
Imrail inclined his head politely. She had no idea why his normally intent eyes immediately became unfocused.
* * * * *
With chimes tolling in his mind, Luc wandered the palace corridors and explored some of its passageways. He knew he was pushing himself beyond reasonable limits. The weeks in the saddle certainly warranted he make some attempt to rest. He had lost count of the days; the most recent march through the night and surreal entry into Alingdor, coupled with just seeing his parents again, had drained him. Satisfied Trian was reasonably comfortable, he had taken to wandering. Perhaps it was the undeniable enchantment of the First City that kept him moving. Images of masses beyond imagining still gripped him. Too much to sort out in his mind. Eventually realizing he was only circling the same halls and that he was being shadowed by men in formal armament, he returned to the quarters his mother had assigned him. He had hoped to find Rew and talk things through. Failing that, Imrail. Entering the vast outer room, he looked around a moment, considering asking for Amreal.
No, he nearly choked. He was gone now. Seeing one of the armed guards bow and push beyond him, he stopped.
“Well met,” a man said, rising.
The reason for warning signals immediately became clear. Stepping forward, Luc deliberately put himself between the soldier and the being out of memory sitting in an armchair for all the world as if he belonged. Skin was pale, eyes charged with power. He seemed somehow taller, garbed in black, white lace at the sleeves and collar, features slightly altered. His presence, his very existence, was a reminder of ancient grievances and disputes. Losses beyond imagining and a realm that was all but broken and abandoned.
“I let myself in,” Eridian said lightly. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
“An old friend,” Luc told the palace guard firmly. “I’m anxious to hear what he has to say, if you don’t mind excusing us.”
The guardsman looked at him and saluted. His expression, however, conveyed some doubt. “I will be outside if you need me, my Lord Siren,” he said. “Orders, I’m afraid. You aren’t to be left alone.”
“Thank you.”
Waiting for the man to depart, he planted his feet firmly, resolutely. He had known the moment would come eventually. They had revealed they had the means to track him. First at the Watch and outside of the Landing. Now here. He had been a witless pup the first time they had met in the port city. Now he knew what he was and why he felt suffused with energy the likes of which no living man would ever know.
“A delightful vintage,” Eridian remarked, glancing at a vessel filled with a clear liquor, voice deep, resonant. “I sometimes forget the finer comforts of the civilized world. It would appear your city is one of wealth and luxury, Lord Sirien. But I sense a certain comfort. Laxity. You are certainly deserving. You broke the Dread City. This is almost as expansive. I suppose it stands to reason. I rule the mites while you rise in glory. As it has ever been.”
“You’re insane,” Luc snapped, ignoring the harshness in the air. The creature’s voice carried the same rancor, but he no longer held himself threateningly. Maybe that was because Luc was no longer without his own defenses. Eridian took in the room with some mild interest and appeared oblivious to the fact Luc was ready to rush him.
“Perhaps.” A grudging admission. “We are ancient. Our memories become twisted. It may be we have outlived our purpose, but our pride has no limits. One bound to make war, the other to bring ruin. It is all they know. I, however, have a personal interest vested in the outcome of this conflict. The Second Plane is mine by right.” Eridian, no longer Mardanin Far in this incarnation, paused, seemingly remembering. He made the armchair appear a throne. Luc, aware of the innate power the Furies commanded, felt something within mounting in response. But he was not one of the Furies. He had no memories predating the War of the Furies—impressions, maybe, but he was limited in his present form. In some way he had chosen to be limited. He loved his land and his people. He had dreamed of this day, coming to serve the king and the nation that had taken the lead during the Stand at Imdre. He would not suffer its defeat.
“I still remember the rallying cries of the defenders,” Eridian went on finally. “The Chaining, if marred, was still effective. It broke the will of all our people. Now we are few and are ruled only by the darkness.” Glancing at him, he touched the narrow wineglass to his lips. “You have disrupted the balance and have made more enemies in weeks than you did when you denied our offer of friendship. You understand now. Some of it. Do you recall the exile you forced on us? It gnaws at me. At the others. Naeleis will not suffer your presence. Your strike, while bold, has only kindled his desire for bloodshed and vengeance.”
“If you have something to say, say it and be done with it,” Luc snapped. “You were always there, observing. You could have stopped it. Finished it with one stroke and freed the world from death and darkness.”
Eridian shrugged. “If that had been in my authority, I would have done so. As I said, I have no interest in destroying the Second Plane. Why, when I rule it? Today I come in friendship and bring you warning. Fair warning. You cannot win. Stay here or be punished. I have held to the Oaths. Even now the others are rallying to strip the Nations of any ability to respond when the darkness comes. If you stood in the Vale you would see him. He is there. He is terrible and boundless. He is the Lord of the Legion. Even Naeleis bows before his might. You who offered freedom and friendship might make a better master, but you have few followers left. Had you not—”
“Friendship?” Luc said it disbelievingly. “When did I ever offer you friendship?” Why were they wasting time discussing ages past? That was over and they were beyond redemption. This was just their attempt to bait him, to taunt him. It was just too deliberate, a needle picking apart the threads holding his battered soul together. “I would not offer friendship to you or any of the others if it meant the end of everything we know. You drew the line. There is only good and evil. We will take immediate action against any who break the Ban. If you take part in it, it will be your end—not mine. An end that will deliver the Children. That is my new purpose, Master Far. You are welcome to tell the others.”
Eridian snorted. “You think your little demonstration enough to make them quit this action? Some are so demented only their obliteration will stop them. Are you capable of bringing their defeat? A man? Nay, a child? You cloak yourself in their form. Will your death end your soul or bring the return of the Chaos Master? None of us know. That is the doubt that lingers in their minds. So again, I prove myself by bringing you the truth. Maien is a pestilence. Her very existence an affront to nature. I wish only to maintain my ancient rights.”
“You’re strafing both sides?” Luc said disbelievingly. Was he actually hearing this? “No one was spared the last time. Why do you think it will be any different now?”
“Because we are all different.” Eridian stood, looking him over as if taking careful note of the fury ripping through his flesh and bone. Luc felt so cold he would have made a sheet of ice seem warm. “I have given you the terms as I promised. The choice is yours. They are waiting for your answer. Follow and see what will come of it. Your end. The heralded nation of Penthar erased from memory. Decide carefully, little one. You have no hope of staying what rises in the east.”
Seeing Eridian stand, Luc felt a sliver of power activate. Just a shard. Raising his hand in some long forgotten sign or gesture, Eridian vanished. Luc did not need the plume of darkness that followed to know the creature had shaken off the old oaths. He had given in to the darkness and was now a force with power native to two Planes. Just the thought of what would happen when the two met in open confrontation—and they would—made him shudder. Once he had known no fear. Now its caress left him hollow and shaken. The time was coming when forces on both sides would quiver and wish they had never been given leave to simply be. Clutching his head, he stumbled towards a side chamber.
He h
ad no idea what he was going to do.
CHAPTER 11 — SEALED
An hour might have passed. Perhaps two. He had given some thought to sleep, but flashes of indignation and contempt continued to sweep through him. Eridian, here. And changed in some outward way. Well, he could alter his appearance all he liked. There was no altering what he was. The Furies belonged in the Third Plane, remnants of a forgotten time. Their existence threatened the natural order and balance of the world and was an affront to the Making. It incensed him he had not given challenge; maybe it was more the worry he was not capable of giving challenge. Why the creature did not just attempt to end him was beyond him.
His father’s arrival sometime later was almost as startling. Ivon took one look at him and crossed his arms. “What’s the problem?” he demanded in a no-nonsense tenor. “You look like you lost your lunch. You haven’t changed. Your hair needs a trimming and you definitely need to shave. A hot bath wouldn’t do you any harm either.”
Not waiting for him to respond, Ivon turned and strode out of the bedchamber. Muttering to himself, Luc worked his way to the edge of the bed. It was embarrassingly large and in his present mood only served to make him more irritable. Someone had gone to great lengths to ensure the bedchamber and attached rooms were suitable for a young lord. Where Trian’s was white with lavender trimmings, his was dark, ornamented with unpretentious depictions—images of the city, distant battles, and landscapes. This part of the palace stood several stories above the main floor. The sheer height was one of the few things he did not find disturbing.
Setting his jaw, he brushed the hair out of his eyes and made his way into the sitting room. Having opened every window he could find, the air was undeniably icy. Autumn was in full breath, it seemed. He would have given anything for just an hour in Peyennar. Crossing the carpeted floor, he searched through his belongings where someone had set them in a walk-in storage area that seemed made to function like an oversized wardrobe. The fool thing was larger than his room in Peyennar and already held robes, formal shirts, coats, and trousers of every hue, some bordering on ridiculous. Peering into his saddlebags, he mouthed a silent thanks when he found the Rod stuffed beneath a cloak where he had left it.
