by Matt Thomas
Lars nodded. “We’ve been fully briefed, my Lords,” he said. He did not have the arrogant hitch to his strides or stance Luc remembered. If anything he appeared a touch introspective. A remarkably changed man. Shaiar, the Third Plane, could do that to a man—that is, if the man trapped there ever managed to escape. He suspected they had been among the first to do so since the Stand at Imdre. “We had word of your victory over the Legion. And of the Lord Viamar’s rescue. The company you sent ahead is camped to the west. It seems the Landing—the name has stuck—it seems the Landing has been anticipating your arrival for several days. Other than that all appears well. No sign of the Ardan or Earthbound.”
“We had a skirmish two days ago that will make them pause before making an attempt against the Lord Viamar-Ellandor anytime soon,” Graves said grimly.
Lars glanced at the man, confused. He did not recognize the soldier. Imrail responded before Lars could probe the man. “We won’t be staying long, Eduin,” the general said. “We’ll need to notify the factor. She’s the only one with room enough to house the men. They need a day at least. Two would be better. The horses need it too, but we don’t have the time.”
Lars nodded. “She anticipated as much,” he said. “There’s quite a bit of room on the lower levels. It might be tight, though.”
“We will have to manage.” Imrail scanned the street, adding, “Let’s get moving. Seems she is not the only one who anticipated our arrival.” Luc glanced in the direction the man was gazing at. He flinched at the crowd that had assembled. This was no small gathering. Half the town appeared to have descended on the northern gate. “Well, Anaris, welcome to the Landing,” Imrail said. “Looks like someone is intent on having word of your ascent spread throughout the nation.”
Luc regarded the man coolly. “I wonder who,” he muttered.
Imrail came close to grinning. Returning to the saddle, he waited for Luc to mount before starting forward.
Taking in the street, he quickly caught himself gaping. It was entirely possible the whole town had gathered to observe their arrival. They lined the street on either side. Townsmen hoisted their sons and daughters onto their shoulders hoping for a better view. Women whispered among themselves; most were far too inquisitive to curb their enthusiasm. Imrail and Lars commanded the majority of the attention. Luc stayed in the rear, riding between Trian and Rew. If this was the reception the factor had prepared for them, he wondered what she would do when she learned of his folks’ planned arrival. For Luc the sight of so many people in once place was daunting, but these were a well-mannered, diffident folk by all accounts. Few understood the omens that had spurred the company to these parts. Better they not know, he thought. If what he had been told was correct, a score of similar communities had been founded in the last decade, men and women who settled the remote parts of the nation hoping to start anew. Few knew the underlying reason: to cushion Penthar and set up a network of easily accessible and defendable positions. Siren’s Landing, they called this town now. A reminder that if the Earthbound came here, it would be on his watch. A terrible, crushing burden. He could only ride in silence, shielding his eyes from the bright colors of their apparel and the pomp of the occasion.
“There were moments, like this, when I wanted to strangle your grandfather for permitting such displays,” Imrail said beneath his breath. Luc blinked. He had not noticed the man slowing to ride alongside them. “There were times when I was certain he would reassign me, I was so insistent his safety came first. I would have put him in a cage to protect him. Perhaps to spare him. I understand the lesson well now, my Lord.
“You ride through the Landing without acknowledging her people and the memory will have ripples that will live on a hundred years. With you, who knows how long? If nothing else, these folk deserve to know who commands the nation and what price he is willing to pay to see it free.” Imrail looked at him. “That is your intent, correct? To save them? The Almarans—some of them—thought you would have the same lust for power that drives your kin.”
Luc squeezed the reins. His kin. He did not think he deserved that. Meeting the general’s eyes, he thought the return gaze he directed would make the man wilt where he sat in the saddle. Not Imrail. Still, it was no surprise that if there was anyone he was open to listening to, compelled to accede to, it was Imrail.
“General . . . ” he began. What had the Fallen done in Almara? Spread fear and panic, no doubt. Seized power, too. There were a few shouts that muted out the response. He shuddered and had to blink several times before he could add, “. . . I have no sense of myself or who or what I am. I’m . . . afraid. I . . . feel . . .” He searched for the right word. “. . . lost.”
The words felt ripped from him. He did not think he could have acknowledged the point to anyone other than Amreal. But he was gone now. Imrail regarded him keenly. There was a hint of knowing, perhaps understanding, in that look. “Not lost,” he whispered. “Just passing through. You will find yourself and awaken. And know when and where you are most needed.”
Luc shook his head. “You say that now,” he muttered bitterly. “What if I had not taken up his emblems? Would you have ridden away? There were others who did so before.”
Imrail chuckled. “Anaris, you surprise me. I thought you knew. The Lord Viamar was my master. You are . . .” He paused, then added, in a serious tone with slight touches of emotion, emotions that clearly troubled him, “. . . you are also my friend.”
Luc inhaled. His friend. He caught Trian extending a hand out towards him. Rew seemed intent on ignoring them. Somehow Imrail understood the reference to another Plane of existence. Shooting the man a grateful look, he pulled Lightfoot to a halt. Slowly he dismounted. A bitter taste was on the lips. He did not fear the Furies, not as he should. He did not fear the waking force that would eventually rise to give challenge to the Nations. He feared this much more.
Glancing around, he marked a gray-coated man who appeared caught up in the moment. The man paled when he made straight for him. On reaching him, Luc stuck out a hand. He thought it was trembling. “My name is Luc Viamar-Ellandor,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Some call me . . .”
“. . . the Lord Siren,” the man finished, bowing. It was hardly smooth or practiced. “How m-may I serve?” That too was slightly off balance.
Quickly finding himself encircled by the throng of onlookers, Luc rubbed the back of his neck. He almost swayed. Avela worked her way towards him, though. Resting a hand on his arm, she raised a hand and called for a little room. “The Lord Viamar-Ellandor would like to see some of the town, maybe meet some of her people. Can you arrange it?” she asked.
“At once.”
Giving the woman a grateful look, he swallowed and started forward. These folk did not know him, but someone had clearly spread word of his kinship with the White Rose and the Lord Viamar. More. Word of his true nature. He was not sure which he disturbed him more.
* * * * *
Three hours later the streets were all but vacant and the last residue of daylight was a pale glimmer in the west, the sky cloudless and the night cool. Luc felt spent. They had perused almost every main street, openly moving up and down Edgewood, locals scrambling to reopen their establishments. Imrail had given the men leave to spend the evening as they would; several had taken the opportunity to stroll through the ordered streets. A taproom facing the town square saw the most activity, but Avela had him moving in and out of almost every open establishment a few streets over, spending coin freely, steering him with a hand on his elbow. When he did not speak, she would comment for him. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor was impressed with this, would like to see that; he had an interest in the proprietors and residents and where they originated from. They visited a pastry shop and sampled assorted sweetbreads. A tanner had handbags that caught Trian’s eye, dyed coats and belts and boots that impressed Rew; he did not have any coin but Avela seemed to have an endless supply. She laughed and tossed the young man a pouch that made him gape when he looked inside.
Luc caught himself grinning. While the two women visited a seamstress’s shop, moving from rack to rack of linen, cotton, wool, and silk apparel, Imrail led him to a nearby smith’s shop where a stout man beamed over the tools of his craft he had on display.
All in all the visit proved instructive, if at times awkward. Trian and Luc were inundated with bows and curtsies from the young and old. Murmurs and whispers of the Lord Siren made him grow cold; for the moment Elloyn was a name only those in their inner council were aware of. That was something at least. He was troubled at how many went out of their way to sneak a peek and felt himself grow almost as fatigued as he had after the encounter with the Earthbound a few days prior. Seeking the unity and center with the Tides helped some. His native affinity to the elements, still something of a mystery, felt more a buzz in his ears. By the time they returned to the town square he was ready to turn in.
Having been alerted to their arrival, the factor stood waiting on the doorstep of a sizable structure near the town inn. Two broad pillars supported the enclosed entryway. He had been told the building housed several administrative offices and served as the official seat of government for the small town. Leaving their horses and gear for grooms to handle, Imrail met the woman with a nod and a word of greeting. Kalyn Tanaran appeared young for such a noted office, perhaps of an age with Avela or only a handful of years older. She handled her duties capably, though. And she knew his mother.
“General,” she said with a formal curtsy, lavender skirt held in one hand. Her shawl, he noted, was white, but had spiraling lines of intertwined silver and black at the seams. “My Lord Siren,” she added quickly. Keeping her head down, she put a hand over her heart. “We have anxiously awaited your return. I have followed your instructions and seen to your men’s needs. The Companions are within and a meal will be ready within the hour. Will that be sufficient?”
“The Landing has clearly prospered under your leadership, Kayln,” Imrail said, taking in the square. He paused, almost reflectively, before turning back to the clear-eyed, smooth-faced woman. “Unfortunately you are being recalled to Alingdor to serve under the White Rose. If your aid is capable, I suggest selecting him to replace you. That is, if you are willing.”
“Recalled . . . ?” She masked her shock smoothly as if schooled at a young age. “I will be led by the wishes of the White Rose, of course.”
“Excellent,” Imrail said, nodding. “One more thing. Do you have access to a courtyard or enclosure out of doors? Somewhere private.”
“Around back, my Lord Imrail. I will show you.”
“Good.” Imrail glanced at Lars. “Assemble the Companions in one hour. See the men are adequately accommodated first. I’ll need to review the reports out of Alingdor, too.” He swung his eyes on Luc. “You’re with me, my Lord Siren.” Puzzled, Luc spread his hands when Trian glanced at him questioningly. The square was well lit with at least two dozen men standing guard. Imrail’s men, not the factor’s. He wondered if the man expected trouble to find them here. Turning, he let a slight sigh escape him. He had hoped for at least an hour or so on his own. What’s the man up to now?
Trailing the factor, they followed a cobblestone path that straddled the town square and looped around back, ignoring a few junctions that branched off through the modest grounds. Fenced in gardens gave it a quaint feel. Still not sure what Imrail was up to, he stifled a yawn. For once they did not need to worry about sleeping out of doors or about what might be waiting in the midnight shadows. Imrail was hardly the histrionic sort, so whatever he was about it must have been important. Luc decided he was going to need to look in on Rew. Something was troubling him, not that there was not more than enough to worry about, but this went beyond the encounter with the Earthbound. Rubbing a hand over his face, he detected a hint of stubble. He found himself wishing his parents were here. Maybe a layover in Alingdor was best, particularly for Imrail’s men. Deciding to think it over, he quelled a rising sense of impatience. Working their way through the grounds, eventually they reached the rear; the dominating structure appeared to occupy a full city block on its own, if not more. Coming to an open courtyard, Imrail stopped and turned to face the factor.
“A word, Kalyn,” he said to the woman, stepping forward.
The factor pursed her lips. She was a slight figure even in her skirts and light cloak, striking in the dim light, he realized, dark hair caught back in a silver clasp. She had a distinct air, a cultured mind and practiced poise. Clearly she was more than capable in her current post. “What can I do for you, General?” she asked finally, gaze steady as she looked up to meet the man’s eyes.
“Two things,” Imrail responded, studying the yard. “No, three. First, this is Ariel Viamar’s son, as you know. The Lord Viamar has formally abdicated in his favor.” Luc’s head came up. He did not shoot the man a threatening look. Not precisely. “Not my doing, my Lord,” Imrail added, emphasizing the words before going on. “It is the Lord Viamar’s will that his daughter rule the nation in her son’s absence. They will be publicizing it when they reach Alingdor. You can expect them in a few days. See that the transfer here is handled smoothly so you can join them. If need be, I can assign someone to see to matters.”
Kalyn shook her head. “No need. Nerid is quite capable, General, I assure you. Loyal and deserving. I have known him since I was a girl. You and the Lord Siren should speak to him and inform him of the . . . opportunity. He will be pleased. There are any number of clerks to support him. In recent months we have seen a steady traffic from Alingdor. Word of Edgewood—the Landing now—has spread; several have settled here permanently from distant parts. I expect the town to thrive for years, if Altris wills it.”
“Good,” Imrail said. “The second point then. After a short stay in Alingdor we will be bound south pursuing the Sword of Ardil. A man who calls himself Ansifer—former Diem and one of seven who refer to themselves as the Forerunners—is in possession of it. I’m told he stayed here. I will need to speak to you about everything you recall and inspect the room he leased. Inform the innkeeper.
“Last, I expect your stay in Alingdor will be short. We have need of your . . . skills elsewhere.”
She blinked. “Riven did not speak of it. May I ask where?”
“Aldoren’s Watch. You have not spoken of it, but I see the fear in your eyes. You remember the Stand. This will be worse. The Watch is going to be important. I have yet to fill Draiden’s post, but I need your help in restoring order. We will likely need to put down the Lawless. Whoever we choose will need you. Fill the detention cells if you must. Build more if need be. Just see it done. If it needs a formal curfew, then do it. You will have ample men and arms. Build up a surplus of food. We are at war and will need to marshal all of our strength to prepare for a strike against the Earthbound in the north. Be cautious of them. They sent a considerable force against us and are capable of more, spies and other hornets’ nests. The Warden and I intend to see their city obliterated. Do you understand?”
She was speechless. A significant undertaking. Clearly Imrail and Luc’s father had made extensive plans. “This . . .” She glanced at them. “. . . this is unexpected. You believe they will accept my authority?” She sounded doubtful.
“You will have the full weight of the Crown to back you. I expect the Lady Viamar will escort you herself. And the Warden. No one will second guess you. A formal visit is long overdue. Again, you will have their full backing. Will that be sufficient?”
She bowed gravely, a little overwhelmed by the flushed tinge to her skin. “More than sufficient, my Lord. Thank you.”
Imrail chuckled. “Don’t thank me. It won’t be easy, Kalyn. But if there is a chance of saving any of the Lawless, do it. Some know no other life. Some are simply desperate. Give them a way out. Ensure you tell them about . . . this.” No doubt what this meant. “Some may willingly volunteer for service under the banner of Siren. Raise the Mark high, a sign of hope perhaps. More. You may achieve these designs quicker than we expe
ct when the word spreads that he was there. Now, if you will ensure we are not disturbed, I need to discuss a few matters with the Lord Viamar-Ellandor.”
“Yes, General.” She inclined her head politely. “My Lord,” she said with a deep curtsy, her eyes focused on Luc. Hard to say for sure with her voice smooth and her expression tightly controlled once more, but he thought he detected the hint of a shudder. And not for the assignment the man had forced on her.
Luc waited until she was well out of earshot before glancing at the man. “What are we doing here, Imrail?” he demanded.
“We have a problem.” Imrail appeared to hesitate. Odd from the man, that. He was usually the embodiment of coolness and composure. “You aren’t afraid.” It came out like a sudden slap. “You say you are, but not about matters that would frighten even the most unwavering men. Back there you stared into the eyes of two creatures that wreaked havoc during the Stand—stared into their eyes and did not flinch. Two. I was almost certain you were going to give chase, and I have no idea what would have occurred if you had. I’m told you were a pragmatic young man. You’ve lost that. In weeks no less. What you did . . . Was it blind luck or some instinct and intuition you had?” He moved on quickly, not expecting an answer. “Until we know for sure, you had best exercise a little caution and good sense. In other words, get the soup out of your head and start thinking. You don’t think you can lose. Well, you can. Your blade is not your only tool, so you don’t rely on it. But there may come a time when it will be all you have, when you will have to focus all of your attention on its use. That’s why we’re here. To teach you a little mental discipline and remind you a little fear is welcome on the field. And to answer a question.”
Luc sagged a little. “You want to practice the sword? Now? I’m beat, Imrail.” It sounded a little too much like bellyaching for his comfort. Something else occurred to him. “Wait, what question?”
Imrail ignored him, beginning to pace. Imrail could pace with the best of them, he had discovered. “We have no idea when the enemy will strike. With your luck it might be after you have rested, but if Shaiar is any proof, it will come when you least expect it. Your enemies do not just dislike you, boy. They loathe you. They hate and despise you. And they are wise enough to fear you. As of now you have only one wayward, fallible man to guide you. I expected it to be Vandil, or your father. Either would be preferable. Vandil is older and has held a position of authority since the Stand. He is known throughout the west. Your father is . . . Well, you know what your father is. I am not them.”