Aravon’s eyebrows flew wide. He scarcely dared believe his ears.
“The Grim Reavers serve a purpose,” Prince Toran said. His eyes locked on Aravon’s, his gaze piercing. “Yet they can continue even without you.” He stepped closer and rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “There can be more Grim Reavers, men and women who take up the call to arms and don the mask to conceal their true identities from those who would threaten them. But Duke Dyrund never expected that you would remain dead to the world around you.”
Aravon felt the embers of hope flaring to life within him. Is he really saying…?
“It was his fervent hope—and mine as well—that we would find a way to end this war.” Prince Toran met Aravon’s eyes. “We anticipated it might take years to push the Eirdkilrs back, but with the Fjall, Deid, and Eyrr joining our cause, we truly believed the battle would be won and peace restored to Fehl. Duke Dyrund fully intended to bring you back to life. That was why he told Mylena the truth that you still lived.”
The words rocked Aravon to his core. He felt as if the ground had suddenly been ripped out from beneath his feet.
“M-Mylena…knows?” He struggled just to form those simple words.
“She does.” Prince Toran’s face sobered. “She has known since the day the Duke suggested I recruit her into my service, helping me look into the Lord Virinus matter.” His expression grew almost apologetic. “The Duke insisted she know, if only to give her the strength to hold on until the day you came back to life.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped. The Prince’s statement set his head spinning, so violently Aravon thought he might collapse. Yet joy and hope blossomed bright within him. She knows! Tears sprang to Aravon’s eyes. She knows I’m alive!
All this time, Aravon had borne the anguish of knowing his wife and sons believed him dead. First him, then General Traighan. Mylena had loved the old man as much as any daughter-in-law could, and both deaths would have been painful losses. Worse, she had suffered alone. Suffered, even as she wore a brave face for Rolyn and Adilon, worked in the Prince’s service to spy on Lord Aleron Virinus and unmask the traitor.
But she hadn’t suffered alone. Not truly. Though the loss of her father-in-law would have left deep pain, she had known that Aravon still lived. Her husband still lived, and would spend every moment fighting to return to her side. The knowledge that she was safe and cared-for had kept him going through even the darkest days. Now, the burden of what he’d chosen to do grew a fraction lighter because his wife had known they would be rejoined one day soon.
“What do you say, Aravon?” The Prince spoke his name with extra emphasis. “You were willing to die for the sake of the Princelands, but now it calls you to return to life. Do you accept this, Duke Dyrund’s last mission?”
Aravon stared at the Prince, speechless. The whirling in his mind refused to coalesce into cohesive thoughts, much less words. Everything the Prince had just said left him at an utter loss.
“Of course he does!” Skathi spoke for him. “The Captain here—er, I mean, the Duke here—accepts gladly.”
“Y-Yes,” Aravon managed to stutter. “I-I...” He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I accept.” His voice grew stronger, emotions blazing bright and hot within him. “Of course, Your Majesty. It would be my honor to serve the Princelands.”
“Good.” Prince Toran’s handsome face broke into a beaming smile. “Then kneel, Captain Aravon of Icespire.”
Somehow, despite the violent trembling of his legs, Aravon managed to drop to one knee without falling on his face. He bowed his head as the Prince drew the sword from his belt. A reverent hush descended over Camp Marshal in that moment. Even the marshland birds fell silent, the wind slowing its gentle whispering, as if the world held its breath to watch what came next.
“I, Prince Cedenas Toran, ruler of Icespire and the five duchies of the Princelands, hereby declare you the true and rightful heir to Duke Sammael Dyrund and the Duchy of Eastfall.”
The Prince’s sword tapped the top of Aravon’s head, then his right shoulder, then his left.
“Do you, Aravon, swear to serve your duchy as its duly appointed ruler? To honor the Dukes who have gone before you, to continue their efforts to maintain peace, law, and order in Eastfall, and to bring prosperity to all the Princelands? To serve your Prince with loyalty and honor, to seek justice for all who come to you, and to champion the cause of righteousness?”
“I do,” Aravon managed to say.
“Then, in the eyes of the thirteen gods of the Princelands, and before sworn witnesses, I hereby anoint you as Duke of Eastfall, with all the rights and responsibilities accompanying the title. Rise, Duke Aravon.”
With effort, Aravon pushed to his feet, locking his knees to keep his legs from shaking. Prince Toran’s voice was as solemn as his face, but his eyes smiled as bright as the midday sun.
“Serve well, Duke Aravon of Eastfall.” The Prince lowered his sword. “Your Princelands have need of a man as courageous and steadfast as you.”
Aravon could only bow. “I will do my utmost, Your Majesty.”
Before Aravon straightened, a huge hand clapped him on the back, so hard he nearly stumbled. “Congratulations, Captain!” Belthar’s rumbling voice shattered the reverent silence.
“That’s congratulations, Duke!” Noll jabbed an elbow in Belthar’s ribs. “Keeper’s teeth, Belthar, you’re going to have to learn some proper courtly etiquette. You never know what Duke Eastfall here will do if you piss him off. Send you to the stocks or have your ears fed to the pigs or something worse!”
“Like lock us in a tiny room with whatever pair of boots you stink up next?” Belthar shot back.
Pain twisted Noll’s face and his eyes darted to the ashes that had once been his prized possession.
“Damn, sir!” Skathi fixed Aravon with a smile, a hint of sorrow mingled with her joy. “I think they’d have been proud of you.”
Aravon understood who she meant by they. “Rangvaldr would have wanted to break out a barrel of ayrag to celebrate.” A grin tugged at his lips. “And Zaharis would have made something that either stopped the Seiomenn from getting drunk, or got him drunk twice as fast!”
Skathi laughed, and the pain in her eyes lessened a fraction. The Grim Reavers all felt the loss of their companions keenly, even weeks later, yet there was a healing comfort in laughter, in the memories of the two men who had fought and died at their side.
“Still,” Skathi said, “it’s a shame.” She gave a wry shake of her head. “We were just getting used to having you order us around. Now, only the Keeper knows who we’re going to end up with.”
“About that.” Prince Toran’s voice drew Aravon’s attention. The Prince’s expression had grown pensive. “The return of Gunnarsdottir gives us a chance to try and negotiate with the Eirdkilrs. Which means you—” He stabbed a finger at Skathi. “—are going to be awfully busy in the next few weeks. And, with the Eirdkilrs halting their attacks, at least for the moment, perhaps the Grim Reavers have earned a bit of time off.”
Belthar and Noll exchanged eager glances. “Dibs on Polus’ ale!” they shouted in unison and turned to race into the barracks.
“Not to get drunk.” Aravon’s voice stopped them before they’d taken a step. Their faces fell. “Well, not only to get drunk.”
Hope shone in the two soldiers’ eyes.
Aravon looked to the Prince. “You’ll want us to train the next crop of Grim Reavers, yes? Make sure they’re ready if the Gunnarsdottir plan fails?”
Prince Toran inclined his head. “I was hoping you’d be willing.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Aravon said. “It would be an honor.”
“Good.” Prince Toran smiled. “Since the first success at Bjornstadt, Duke Dyrund set one of his people the task of compiling a list of candidates for the next company of Grim Reavers. Legionnaires, Agrotorae, mercenaries, ducal regulars, even a few Fehlans from both sides of the Chain.” He fixed Aravon with a stern gaze. “If you
’re up for the task, I would have them brought here by the week’s end.”
“I am.” Aravon bowed. “But I won’t be able to do it alone.” He turned to his three companions. “I’m going to need help to whip them into shape, get them ready to fight the way we did.”
Belthar and Noll’s eyes widened.
Skathi only smiled. “Of course, sir. If nothing else, to make sure we don’t end up with any more archers as piss-poor as Noll here.”
Noll spluttered, outrage flaring in his face. Aravon ignored the scout’s protest and turned to Belthar.
“What of you, Belthar?” He stared up at the big man. “There are few men I’d trust more to train the next crop of Grim Reavers. Whip them into fighting shape, teach them what they need to know to stay alive in a fight with the Eirdkilrs.”
Belthar’s face flushed, and something akin to disbelief shone bright in his eyes. Yet a moment later, a massive grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I-It’d be an honor, Captain!”
Aravon clapped the big man on the shoulder. “Good.” He grinned. “You’ll need something to keep you busy while Skathi’s off playing heroine with the Eirdkilrs.”
A hint of a scowl cracked Skathi’s smile.
“About that, sir.” Belthar hesitated a moment, his eyes darting toward Skathi. “I…I’d like to join her when she heads south again. She’ll need someone to watch her back—”
“Backside, more like,” Noll muttered.
“—and make sure the Eirdkilrs stay in line.” Belthar ignored the little scout’s jibe. “I’d be happy to help you here. Just as soon as we get back, that is.”
Aravon inclined his head. “I accept, Belthar.” He clapped the big man on the shoulder. “No one I’d trust with keeping our Gunnarsdottir Reborn alive.”
“Keeper’s teeth, not you, too!” Skathi threw up her hands. “That’s going to grow old Capta…er, Your Grace.”
Aravon grinned. “Get used to it.” He turned to Noll. “And what about you?” The little scout, who had recovered from Skathi’s insult enough that his face was no longer bright purple with anger, only a simmering red. “Will you stay and help?”
All trace of anger faded from Noll’s expression, and his features grew unreadable. Long moments of silence passed in contemplation. Then Noll turned to the Prince. “Your Majesty, when you said ‘dead men can come back to life’, were you only talking about the Captain here, or…” His words trailed off, as if he struggled to voice his thoughts.
Prince Toran’s lips pursed into a musing smile. “What did you have in mind?”
Noll turned, and for the first time, Aravon saw a glimmer of hope there. A hope he hadn’t dared put into words for fear that it would never come true.
“I…” Noll’s voice cracked. He swallowed, hard. “I think I’d like to go home to my family, sir.”
Aravon stepped close to the scout, gripped his shoulder. “Go.” A single word, backed by all the emotion Aravon felt at the knowledge that he, too, would soon be reunited with his own wife and sons. “Go to them, and show them the man you’ve become.”
Prince Toran stepped forward. “Perhaps when they see this, they will know the truth of who you are.” He held up a pair of jeweled pins: two white gold long swords, with deep blue sapphires set into the pommels.
Noll’s eyes flew wide as he stared at the jewelry. He, like every other Legionnaire, recognized the Sword of the Princelands—the highest military honor on Fehl—immediately.
The little scout seemed frozen in place, paralyzed by surprise and disbelief. He didn’t move a muscle as Prince Toran pinned the ornate swords to his collar.
“There will be no official ceremony,” Aravon said quietly. “The world may never know what you have done. But your name will be written down in the records, there to see for all time.” He gripped the scout’s shoulder. “Wear it with pride, and be the man I know you are.”
Tears sprang to Noll’s eyes. “Thank you, Captain!” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, yet it rang with relief and gratitude. “Thank you!”
At that moment, the creaking of huge hinges echoed through Camp Marshal. Aravon spun toward the sound in time to see Clem hauling the wooden gates into the camp open. He tensed, his heart leaping into his throat, yet when he glanced at the Prince, he found only a hint of a smile on the man’s lips.
“Speaking of family,” Prince Toran said under his breath.
A plain wooden carriage—little more than four walls with curtained windows and a flat roof atop two pairs of iron-rimmed wheels—splashed along the muddy track into Camp Marshal. The two clay-red draft horses pulling the carriage appeared as unimpressive as the two shabbily-dressed men driving it. Save for its presence in what should have been a secret camp, there was nothing at all remarkable about the vehicle. Nothing to indicate who it conveyed.
Aravon’s hand dropped to his belt, to the hilt of his sword. Yet, the fact that Clem hadn’t called out—either in warning or greeting—gave him pause. The watchman had opened the gate without hesitation.
His curiosity blazed even brighter as the two drivers leapt down from their bench. The movement twitched aside their cloaks, revealing a pair of scabbarded swords and black lamellar armor beneath the ragged garments. The Prince’s Ebonguards.
Aravon’s eyes darted to the Prince. Prince Toran had ridden into Camp Marshal alone an hour earlier, clad in equally simple, dust-covered robes, riding a nondescript horse that could have been found in any town or village in Eastfall. He’d dismissed his bodyguards’ absence as nothing more than a precaution to protect Camp Marshal’s secrecy.
But if that’s the case, why are his guards here with that carriage? And who in the fiery hell is—
A woman stepped out of the carriage. A woman with chestnut hair, pulled into two neat braids that framed her heart-shaped face. Olive-green eyes rimmed with kohl turned from the Ebonguard, and a smile tugged on perfect lips as her gaze rested on Aravon.
Mylena.
For a long moment, Aravon couldn’t move. A swirling, seething miasma of emotions held him rooted in place—too many emotions for his mind or heart to even begin to comprehend. He could do nothing but stand, jaw slack, his eyes locked on the most beautiful woman in the world.
Mylena’s lips parted in that dazzling smile of hers, revealing perfect teeth, and her eyes shone so bright Aravon felt himself going blind.
Then he was running. Sprinting faster than he’d ever run in his life, fast enough to outrace his Kostarasar charger. His feet fairly flew, barely touching the ground, his heart in his throat. He ran, with every shred of strength, toward his wife.
“Aravon!” The cry, thick with joy, relief, and delight, burst from her lips the moment before he swept her up into his arms. He buried his face in her neck, weeping openly now, great sobs shaking his shoulders. Yet there was no sorrow in that cry, no grief or anguish. Gone was the pain he’d felt—not forgotten, yet driven back in his elation at being reunited with his wife.
“I knew you’d keep your promise!” Mylena was whispering in his ear. “I knew you’d come home to me!” Her arms encircled his neck, a fierce strength in her clasp, holding him close.
Aravon held her with every shred of strength, like a drowning man clinging to floating debris. He wanted to remain like this forever, to never let her go. Never be apart from her after so many months spent separated by duty and necessity.
“I’m sorry!” The words poured from Aravon’s lips. “So sorry! Everything you had to deal with, on your own—”
“No!” Mylena’s voice rang with conviction, the edge of steely determination that had drawn him to her all those years ago. “No, you did what you had to. For us. For our family, and for the Princelands.”
Her breath was hot on his neck, sending shivers running down his spine. He pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her, her body melding into his. He dared not open his eyes, release his grip on her for fear she would melt away—and he would find it had all been a cruel, torment
ing dream.
Yet as he crushed her to his chest, felt her strength match his, the muscles along her back rippling as she embraced him, he knew it was no dream. It was real. She truly did stand here. Here, with him. As real as the mud beneath his feet and the hammering of his heartbeat in his ears.
Swallowing the lump that rose to his throat, he pulled back from the embrace. Looked into her beautiful face, her perfect olive-green eyes. Scarcely daring to believe that he stood before her once more, his mind ablaze with a thousand emotions. All joyous, elated, too happy to find words.
“The Duke and Duchess of Eastfall will be integral to the future of the Grim Reavers.” Prince Toran’s voice echoed seemingly a world away. “And not just the funding of Camp Marshal. Lady Mylena proved herself an admirably adept spymistress.”
But it was another voice that drew his attention. A child’s voice.
“Mama?”
Aravon’s eyes darted past Mylena to the young boy who stood before the open door of the carriage. Even at just nine years old, Rolyn had already begun to show his mother’s strength of spirit, her stubbornness etched into his features. He stood protectively in front of Adilon, the way he had on the roof of the Palace in Icespire. Yet Aravon saw himself—and his father—reflected in the hard set of Rolyn’s jaw, the squaring of his shoulders.
Adilon, the “baby” at age seven, peered out from his brother’s shadow. His wide eyes were locked on Aravon’s face. A question shone in his gaze, yet there was something else there. A flicker of recognition?
A fist of iron squeezed at Aravon’s chest. It had been nearly three years since he last saw the boys. Since they had clung to his legs and begged him not to leave. They hadn’t understood his duty—how could they at such a young age?—or why he hadn’t returned. Perhaps they never would.
Again, Aravon’s reflection stared back at him in the eyes of his sons. He had spent so much of his childhood angry at his father for leaving. Worse, for being a sullen, drunken, angry husk of a man when he returned. Now, at least, he had come to understand General Traighan’s reasons for leaving. Not out of desire—for what man could want to be hundreds of miles away as his wife lay dying—but out of duty. He’d made the same sacrifices his father had, sacrifices that would doubtless leave scars as deep as those that twisted General Traighan’s soul.
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