by Matt Thomas
Growing more intent, he gripped her arms. “It will never happen.” Maybe whatever was going on with Imrail and Avela was weighing on her. “You sure there isn’t something else?” He felt certain by the slight hitch to her tone there was something else.
He was grateful she did not show any indication of doubt. “I know. As I said, sometimes it’s nice to hear, but we both know this will not soon be over.” She paused. There was an indication of movement outside the door. “First the Warden’s son. Now a king. Don’t let it get to your head. And don’t forget. They will do everything they can to provoke you. Be patient. Events will play out as they were meant to. And I will be with you. Outside of that, there is nothing else. Just one or two things a chaste Val Moran must work through for herself.”
Crushing her to him, he felt a sudden sense of urgency in her return grip, in her heartbeat. A knock at the door made the moment short-lived, though. Grimacing when she pushed herself away, she swayed to the door. Riven looked in indicating the evening meal was ready. Standing, Luc gave the young woman a long look and tried to put down the searing forces churning through him.
Hardly tasting the food, they did not bother to discuss the news that Naeleis had finally revealed himself. Or that Amreal was apparently still out there. Something about Imrail’s sudden decision to seek Avela’s hand made the moment one that left Urian and Altaer in good spirits. Both men had tankards of cool ale that went well with a rich stew. Rew stretched his feet out when he finished. Neither Avela nor Imrail joined them. The small band spoke briefly of the move south but for the most part took in their last night in the First City with some sense of reflection. Urian suggested a hike up to the battlements. Thinking the air would do him some good, he agreed. Trian, seated across from Lenora, gestured for him to go on without her.
Alingdor viewed from the heights of the city wall, by nightfall no less, was a sight he did not think he would soon forget. The hike up to the ramparts took some time. The wind gusted in the heights. To the west Seafarer’s Way made the port city accessible. Alingdor herself was shining under the light of a half moon. The city by starlight was fascinating, the palace compound just visible in the distance, while the Merchant’s Quarter appeared the most active, bathed by the light of open inns and taverns. It was a moment worthy of memorializing their departure. To see Riven, Urian, and Altaer, one would have thought it their first time scaling the walls. Perhaps the magnitude of the city was no less gripping no matter how many times one viewed it. The three men—the five of them really—all having some connection to Peyennar made it a memory of more than minor significance. Urian congratulated him on managing to make it through the last few days. No way to make that grin of his appear anything less than evil. He did not stop with that, though. He issued oaths. Oaths that made Luc grow numb. Riven and Altaer, knifelike in the darkness, echoed the man. Rew for once looked speechless.
They were up on the walls at least a half hour before someone signaled to them from below. “That would be the Warden and the White Rose,” Riven said. Exchanging a quick look with the others, he led them back to the lengthy descent. There was no quick way down, and no support or handgrip to fall back on. Rew swallowed and grimaced but followed directly after Luc. His breathing was noticeably shaky during the descent until they were back on solid ground. The troops hanging at the entrance were a sizable company. It made him wonder if his mother and father had decided to accompany them despite his objections.
Re-entering the post, Imrail stood when he saw them. Avela still not had reappeared and Lenora was nowhere in sight. Kirran waited out in the hall. “Lad,” his father said with a nod. Looking at the others, he still appeared to elicit a tangible aura of power. No wonder the others were a little reluctant to remain. Tonight he wore a dark cloak that appeared to consume the light. Nodding at each of them in turn, the Warden’s eye stayed on Rew a hair longer. Each of them greeted Ivon and Ariel in turn, and no one stayed a moment longer than was necessary.
Luc acknowledged the ancient-eyed man’s look with an expression he knew was just as tormented as it likely had been so many years prior. It was evident they did not mean to stay long. He did not see the others file down the hall to their rooms, but in moments it was just the four of them. No denying the look on his mother’s face. He had seen it before as well.
“You won’t change your mind?” Ariel asked softly.
In her customary white, she seemed some image out of memory.
Shaking his head, he did not speak.
“He refuses to risk it,” Trian said, hands folded. “You warned us. Now we must warn you. The plans you have made may give you a few weeks of safety, but not much after that. The two of you have been bold. Penthar the most bold. The Stand is still very much in their minds, the remnants of Ardil as well. The will blame you. My advice is to see to the stability of the north and make preparations to protect the city. Do not act needlessly. There will be a time, but this is not it.”
Ariel looked long at Trian, a queen considering the advice of an outlander and a woman some might still look on as a girl. Well, she was nothing near that now. He did not find it even the slightest bit odd that the Val Moran matched the pair’s dignity, and decisiveness. “We will see what counsel the day brings,” was all Ariel said. “We wish you both well, my dear. We will not be staying long. Best not to risk it.”
His father looked at him. His look was not stern, and it was not the look of the Warden. “You’ve done well, lad.” The words came out roughly. Strange with the powerful edge to them. “It appears the time has come. Word is some parts out of the south have heard the news and rumors. Dreams and visions of a menace and a Mark meant to save them. The city is ripe with it. Before the Stand I would have turned away the numbers of men and women trying to enlist. Your grandfather is pleased. You will have thirty thousand more before the end of the year. All the inns are already bursting. I have no advice except to say we are pleased. Amreal would be pleased. Just remember there are some things worth hanging on to, worth holding on to. Your humanity is one of them.”
Ariel stood and crossed to her husband. Joining hands and exchanging a long look, the two eventually turned to face him. He was shocked to see Ivon Ellandor unmasked. Almost broken. His father had finished it in a low, throaty tone. Suddenly alerted, he realized what was coming. They’re letting me go. Again. Likely the hardest thing either had ever done. “You don’t know why you’re here,” his mother said. “For good or ill, most see it as something straightforward. Defeat the Furies. Face the gathering darkness. Then deal with what comes. Neither of us believes it is that simple. Maybe not even possible. Were Ardil still whole the subject would be one of tireless debate. It would have torn us asunder a second time. A good thing there will be no such discussion.
“Your father and I chose to believe your coming is not just to bring war, but to live, to love, and to learn to lose. These are qualities our enemies would consider weak and wasted, but in the end may prove more valuable than even regaining the Sword. Do you understand? Does Sirien understand?”
He sagged. “Mother—”
“You must listen,” she said insistently, stepping forward. “Amreal will not be the first. Your father and I may soon follow. Others undoubtedly will. There is goodness in loss, too. That is part of the beauty your kind cannot perceive. We exist. We persist. This is my one and only command to you, if I have any right to hold such a claim. Will you obey me? Will you remember these things?”
Seeing him unable to answer, she stretched out her arms and beckoned him to come forward. “You have the right,” Trian murmured.
Looking up, the woman smiled. “Will the two of you see us out? We wish a word in private.”
Glancing between them, he nodded reluctantly. His throat was raw and he could find no words. He knew immediately he was not prepared for this.
In the end no one saw them say their farewells. The moment had come and he could only face it on his own. Endure it on his own. Maybe it was better
that way. Something to hold onto and spur him southward. When the streets were finally empty he tore himself away. He did not truly expect see either of them again.
* * * * *
It rained the next morning. Not a damp, drizzling rain. This one came out of nowhere, clouds rolling inland sometime during the night, thunder pealing in the distance. Judging it just less than two hours prior to dawn, they grouped under the looming shadow of the city wall and western gate, horses saddled and gear already stowed on four packhorses. Setting out almost immediately, they left without escort. After moving through the Third Plane he did not think there was much Imrail and the other Companions were not equipped to deal with.
First moving west at a uniform pace, Altaer, taking the lead with Urian, broke south just after clearing the last of the clustered homes and establishments extending out of Alingdor along Seafarer’s Way. It was a considerable distance. Scouts occasionally appeared out of the mist, reporting in at various intervals. Urian pinpointed their locations nonchalantly. The gale did not appear to trouble Lightfoot either, who cut through the wind effortlessly. This appeared among the most secure part of the realm, farms dotting the landscape for miles. Most of the fields had already been harvested. As dawn neared they skirted around a few minor villages. It was hard to take notice. Even wearing gloves and a hooded cloak, he was soaked through to his skin and undergarments. Near impossible to see more than a few paces ahead. Still Imrail showed no sign of relenting.
“This rain is going to make it slow going for our troops,” Riven told them. The man said nothing about a night spent weighing the offered posting in the port city, an eminent one from what the others had said. More than one of was surprised he had decided against it.
“They’ll manage,” Imrail said. “As will we.”
Avela tugged her hood down, some sound from deep in her throat broadcasting her displeasure. Luc had no idea what had passed between the two during the night. Imrail had remained awake for some time, looking over maps, making notes—generally just brooding. No one knew what time the man had finally turned in. Trian’s slight shake of the head told him she was not sure either.
“Can’t you do something about this?” Rew said irritably.
Luc glanced at him. “About what?”
“This.” Rew made a cryptic motion of the hand. “You know . . . What you do.”
He let that pass.
The day plodded on, the downpour continuing. One thing he had not missed about the road during their brief stay in Alingdor was the endless marches, Imrail gauging precisely how far he could push them. Well, the man had every reason to push. It was too bad really, as this part of Penthar appeared lush, rolling hills and fields that in the late summer seemed shimmering seas of green and gold. Today no one could really enjoy it. By midmorning they were all miserable. Not the way he envisioned setting out. Not for the first time he thought about his parents. Reaching a gloved hand to grip a silver chain hanging around his neck, he fingered a colorless bit of crystal clasped to it. The Warden had given Trian a replica. He had actually inclined his head when presenting it.
Recent events had certainly held no shortage of curiosities, that being one of the more surprising.
He had given up the hope of ever getting dry when even Imrail was forced to concede the weather was not going to let up anytime soon. Cursing under his breath, he ordered Altaer to strike east. Luc caught Avela looking at the man with a glint in the eye. Plainly whatever exchange had taken place between them had not gone as smoothly as either had predicted.
Sometime around noon they reached one of the sentry posts they had passed on their way to Alingdor. Reluctant to take the same course, Imrail had planned to steer clear of the highway for as long as possible. During their private deliberations both he and Draiden insisted enemy spies had been placed among the populace. As of yet they had only rumor and supposition to go on. Now with no choice but to risk losing their anonymity, they returned to the highway and continued south. There was a surprising amount of traffic headed north. Upon reaching the outpost, the general barked at a pair of men on duty. They came to attention immediately. Sliding out of the saddle, Luc adjusted his belt, now with the weight of his sword offset slightly by the Ruling Rod. His father had cautioned him against letting it out of his sight. This was the only way. He was careful not to touch it and his companions slid their eyes over it.
Five or six men appeared out of the highway post to take their mounts. Imrail ducked inside, the rest of them following. He had the commons cleared and the fire stoked. Most of them quickly laid out their coats and cloaks on the empty tables, but without anything dry to change into would be forced to wait until their gear dried on its own. Imrail spent the time checking on the progress of the companies that had left the First City the day prior. Riven and the others pulled up chairs and waited.
“Maybe this would be a good time to bring everyone up to speed on your plans,” Riven suggested. He had chosen not to shave in recent weeks other than to keep his beard carefully trimmed. It gave him an indefinable quality Luc could not quite put his finger on.
“That would be considerate,” Lenora suggested a little too sweetly.
“The best plans are the ones no one knows of,” Urian said bluntly. He was digging a finger into his ear. His slanted features, always on the rough side, looked especially brutish and wind-worn now.
“An extended campaign against the Ancaidans would not serve us,” Altaer said. The bowman had retied the chord holding back his long hair. Still on the lean side, he was quite capable of instant brutality. “Are we talking war, my Lord?”
Luc shook his head. “We are not planning one, no. Not against them.”
“Then how do you intend to retake the Sword?”
“There is a way,” Luc said, a touch flustered. He hadn’t expected them to question him about their plans or put them under scrutiny. Not yet at least. He could hardly blame them, though. They deserved to know what they were walking into. “We did it once before.” Faces blanched instantly. No one would be eager to walk under the pall of Shaiar again. “We discounted it. My father believes the Mirror Planes are collapsing. That may be why I’m here.” He paused when a pair of men entered with steaming bowls. A soup of some kind, he thought. Thanking the man who served him, he held his hands over it to warm them some. “We decided it best to send in an advance team first and attempt to locate the Fallen. They call themselves the Undying. The Immortals. The Forerunners.”
“I doubt the Lord Ellandor would think it prudent to just walk in and find them,” Avela said, leaning forward.
“I’ve been thinking,” Altaer began. “Are we certain there aren’t others? Those just in possession of the Diem who fled to Almara? Over the years there have been rumors of recluses with similar talents across the Nations. Some claimed Andus had some link to them.”
“It occurred to us there are others,” Trian said. “That is the danger. Some of the Aeris perhaps. Perhaps one of us here.” Everyone shifted. “There is no way to know until they reveal themselves.”
“I have to try,” Luc whispered, looking at them. He had never felt quite so helpless.
“We have no choice,” Imrail said, reentering. “We have one goal. Reestablishing a legitimate government and some semblance of stability. Earn the Ancaidans trust and turn our thoughts to Val Mora and the Mountains of Memory.” The silence in the air was foreboding now.
“There are still the others to deal with,” Luc reminded him.
“In time, perhaps,” the man said, leaving his bowl untouched. Shaking his cloak out, he draped it across the back of a chair. “Anyone who wishes to remain behind may do so once we reach Triaga. We have until then to decide.”
Riven folded his arms. “If it were a matter of just a border skirmish . . . Imrail—General—we can’t be cowed now. A full company engaged us north of the city. They are not coming to test our mettle. They are coming to finish us. This time the Lords of the Scales will not be there to save us.
We have to send emissaries to the nations. Now. Move to reinforce Val Mora. Why are we waiting?”
Imrail stroked his chin. “We’re not,” he said flatly.
“What if the Ancaidans choose not to side with us?” Lenora asked. “They stood apart during the Stand. They’re southerners. I know southerners. You’d have a hard time convincing them snow was real if they didn’t see the Southern Peaks capped with it.”
Quite intentionally Imrail did not answer. On this one point the Lords Viamar and Ellandor were in agreement. Imrail remained undecided. Slowly, deliberately, the collective eyes of the remaining Companions turned to Luc. “We talked about it,” he admitted reluctantly. His hand itched to take hold of the Rod. He knew the Sword to the south would complete the change and turn something loose on the world it had yet to witness. He had given some serious thought to going off alone. But Imrail was right. He was not ready. “If they choose not to side with us we seize the capital and install an interim government under the joint control of Penthar and Emry.”
“You’re not serious!” Avela hissed. Looking around the room he saw even Urian looking gut-punched.
Rew’s eyes suddenly became flat. “Denail told you this—agreed to this?”
“Yes.”
“Bloody hell. . .”
Imrail looked about to slam a fist down on the table. “Enough,” he snapped. “We have leagues to go yet. There will be time enough to consider it. You have an hour or two at most. I suggest you make the most of it.”
Reluctantly turning their attention to the meal, there were some mutters. No, not at all how Luc had anticipated setting out. Tonight would prove critical. Imrail would be attaching each of them to one of the squads setting out for Ancaida. Luc would have the Sons of Thunder under Landon Graves when they met up with the man. Half of the outfit was already some distance south; the other half had set out the previous day. Urian and Altaer would each take another. The final companies would likely fall to Lars and Riven. Timing was critical. All of this was occurring with a rain that would likely prove ruinous to their plans.
