by Matt Thomas
“What . . .” She shot him a look that was all Elloyn. He hesitated. He had no idea what she meant to do. But he had to trust her. If she was hurt. . . . He was surprised he had not considered her capable of dealing with this. Undoubtedly she had access to any number of abilities and insights he did not. Blind, fool ignorance. Crossing towards her, he reluctantly took her hand. When they touched an awareness of the woman more familiar than anything he had ever experienced struck him, staggering him. He sensed something of her mind, feelings that stretched. Vast. Infinite. Among the expanse of pure power one thought shimmered through. An unwavering commitment to him and his cause. The world might end up hating him, but he would never have to fear it from her. Resisting slightly so he would not be pulled in too completely, her thoughts, her awareness, touched him. Now he knew what needed to be done.
A sound filled the air. It was not the sadistic, crooning sound of the Harbingers or the deadly embrace of the Haunts of Maien. This was softer, more melodious. Tracing the breach, he felt the fibers where the holes had been drilled begin to close as if sewn with a needle and thread. A work of her will and spirit. Elloyn of the Highlands who held the power to heal and purge. He had no idea she could direct his thoughts to aid her here in such a manner. With their hands firmly locked, the awareness on the other side of the opening awakened. She was too quick, though, deft, mentally using threads to seal the ruptures. Some part of him was actively involved in the sealing. He could cross through the Mirror Planes, but his tears were violent. This required a nimbler hand. If Maien thought the woman easy prey, she was in for a surprise.
Luc could not say how long it took. He was too caught up in the joining, in the woman standing beside him. It was the first time he had experienced her doing something deliberate. It sparked something within him. Now he understood why Rew was uncomfortable around her. That she could do this now with such precession meant she had access to more of the memories than she had related. When he finally opened his eyes, Imrail and the others were staring. For the first time they had seen her use her power and discovered she was a force that could balance at least one of the Furies. Now they knew beyond any reasonable doubt.
Now there were two.
Still not releasing her hand, he scanned the room. Free from the mist-like substance, the walls and floorboards were bare again. But for the symbols scratched into the walls, this was just another room in the inn again—one he himself would never sleep in. The air was still a touch rank, but at least the innkeeper and his wife would be able to sleep in peace.
“We’re done here, General,” Trian said. Visibly exhausted from the effort, her voice stayed even. Still feeling a sense of her mind, he knew differently. A part of him felt just as drained, but he had not been an active participant. Most of it had come from her but for combined effort to seal the tiny fractures. What she had done with the darkness he could not say.
No one spoke. Riven and Imrail just looked at the two of them. Avela had both hands pressed against her stomach. Plainly they were stunned by whatever it was they had witnessed. Breathing in the woman’s scent, he felt a little shaky on his feet when he turned and led her out of the room. Her mind could soar, her will sing with sorrow and longing. Each moment, each day, he was learning to understand the woman in a way no one alive was capable of. That brought him some comfort. Gripping her hand a little more tightly, he led her down the stairs, wishing they could sneak away to steal a moment or two. That would have to wait. How long he could hold off other impulses was the question that worried him far more.
He found Lightfoot and the rest of their mounts saddled and waiting for him. Judging by the position of the sun, some time had passed. The Companions were already assembled. Roughly twenty men had been selected to accompany them and word had already been sent on ahead. Reluctantly releasing Trian’s hand, he checked the blanket roll to ensure the Rod was where he had left it. Relieved it was still there, he waited for a sign from Imrail to mount.
They were leaving the Landing. The realization was surprisingly bittersweet. He had expected at least one more night, an off chance to see his folks or at least say goodbye. Now they were moving towards the open world. He did not relish the prospect—leaving his youth behind, Peyennar behind. Well, they could hardly hide now. Best be on the move. Timing would be everything. If Ansifer thought they meant to follow immediately, all the better. Let him know what it felt like to be hunted and pursued. This time he would not have the time to flee when Luc found him.
* * * * *
The ride east took several days. The first was easily the most grueling. Besides feeling a little out of sorts from the night out with Rew, whatever it was Trian had done had exhausted him, tapping into reserves he hadn’t even been aware of. Still, he was far more concerned about her. After leaving the town by the western gate, the company filed into columns. Trian remained distant much of the day, even during assigned halts, choosing to ride in the rear with Avela and Lenora. From what he could see she was more than just a little preoccupied, not that she did not have good reason.
Reunited with the members of his company, Imrail had Urian and Altaer take up their traditional scouting roles. The addition of Landon Graves gave Lars another sword arm. Imrail rode in the lead, for the first time in weeks content to leave the minor details to Riven. That left Luc riding with Rew. His friend appeared somewhat distracted.
That night they reached the main body of Viamar’s formidable squad, the Sons of Thunder. Entering the encampment escorted by a half dozen men, he found himself moving as if in a dream. It was almost surreal, five hundred men bedded down for the night all with one purpose, seeing him to Alingdor or the far south. Whatever he decided. Fires still dotted the terrain, but most were tepid indicating the hour was later than he’d expected. At the heart of the compound someone had hoisted a perfect replica of the banner. It was difficult to make out, but the symbol blazed in his mind, the autumn air alive and in harmony with the silent earth. Most of them took to their tents or blankets almost immediately.
Over the next few days he fell into a strict routine. Each day he woke an hour before dawn seeking the center of the Tides. He hoped he was reaching the mental discipline his father claimed he would need. Between the dreams and worries Maien was planning to make a move against them, he found it difficult to focus. At least the effort gave him an opportunity to train his mind to attain the Oneness. Still imperfect, but a beginning. Yielding to the Tides was not in his makeup. He accepted that. Acceding that he was a part of the Tides was the likeliest answer. Once it had not been so.
After the perceptual drills, Riven and Imrail would arrive and the three of them would review the night’s reports over bread and broth while the company pulled down the compound and made ready to move out. The day’s marches were not as difficult as the first four from Peyennar. Moving a large company took time, but there was still a sense of waiting hanging in the earth, air, and sky, in the causeways of the world, a feeling that was ripe and irrefutable. Eons of waiting coming to an end. No wonder he could not feel at ease.
In this part of Penthar the siege had seen some of the nation’s most fertile land lie fallow. Viamar and the White Rose were intent on changing that. Twice they came on significant patrols, large companies pouring over the land determined to purge the Earthbound stain. Imrail met their leaders and made a point of introducing Luc and Trian, displaying them like a pair of string-puppets brought out for show on some high day. He chose not to comment, pleased they were active and intent on liberating the nation. If everything worked out, the Warden would see the people of Penthar free. Luc had an engagement to the south he could not afford to miss.
During the evenings prior to a light meal Imrail continued to teach him the sword. The man seemed almost desperate to complete the education Amreal and the Oathbound had begun. Luc was troubled by his intensity. Several days did not see it relent any. When the sparring sessions concluded, Imrail would appraise him of his mistakes. Mental lapses grew less frequ
ent. Now it was his form and mechanics. Typically scant with his praise, he appeared more and more approving. That was something at least.
Almost by accident he stumbled over the others similarly engaged. One night Jisel had him look over a passage in the Annals the huntsman thought significant. Jisel camped for the most part with their scouts, overseeing their deployment. Luc crossed the considerable compound to the man’s tent and passed Rew sparring with both Lars and Graves. If that was a surprise, seeing Trian working forms with Avela and a handful of men made him stumble. It seemed Imrail’s subtle hand was hard at work.
Steering a course south of Alingdor, they did not catch a glimpse of the first city this time. He was disappointed, still not ruling out continuing south after meeting the Ancaidans. The further west they rode the more the sky became covered in a dense cloud cover. Riven told him this part of the nation was known for violent storms, winds out of the east and west, the two often meeting, east out of the Mournful Peaks and west out of the Raging Sea. The weather was unpredictable at best during the autumn season, he said.
All things considered they made good time. Even if he was unable to shake a sense of urgency, he was grateful to Imrail and the Sons of Thunder. They had bound themselves to his cause with an iron resolve. Word had spread about their encounter with the Legion. Several of these men had been there when Viamar had been rescued, most when they had held off the Earthbound in the Shoulder of Peyennar. Imrail was careful not to push them too hard, twice halting their marches prior to nightfall. The factor had provisioned them with more than just dry rations. If Imrail was sparing with his praise, he was hardly frugal when it came to their supplies. He made it a point to allow the men to indulge. They ate tender roasts served with wine and ale, bread with freshly churned butter, harvested corn and greens. These were not raw recruits and Imrail was careful not to treat them so.
Four days after leaving Edgewood Imrail peered into Luc’s tent. It was already well after nightfall and this was the first time he and Trian had been alone. She had taken to wearing her sword again. He was not sure how he felt about that. “This is it, my Lord,” Imrail said a touch formally. Usually he refrained from such conventions when others were not around. “It’s time to make some decisions. The Companions are already assembled.”
Turning over—he had been resting on his elbows, feeling saddle-soar and stiff—Luc grudgingly came to his feet. The look he shared with the Val Moran was touched with annoyance. Exasperation. She was equally displeased. The tent was spacious enough that he could stand fully; it was certainly too refined for his liking, fine rugs carpeting the floor, double-stitched blankets and plump cushions to rest on, and a metal brazier with red hot coals to guard against the cool autumn weather. He had protested right from the start, but Imrail had just nodded and walked off. He hadn’t even bothered to answer. Well, even if such comforts did not suit his tastes, he had been looking forward to an evening with Trian. Alone. No such luck now. Muttering under his breath, Luc held the tent flap open for Trian. Her sudden shiver and quick look seemed comprised of a range of emotions he could not easily decipher.
Outside the others were waiting expectantly. Most stood. Landon Graves and Rew appeared somewhat uncomfortable to be included. A handful of lanterns hanging on wooden stakes illuminated the area. Not much light, but of late Imrail had ordered extra precautions. Each night saw another random rotation, torches and larger fires lit, men appearing to guard positions of greater importance. Luc did not think the Furies would be so easily deceived, but after what Rew had told him it made sense. Imrail’s tent was always next to his though, if the man even slept.
The general began without preamble. “We’re close to the highway,” he said. “I think this is where young Acriel’s vision may prove most useful.” That made Lenora’s head come up. Rew looked sick. “If we start the men south we should have some surety the roads will be safe. We have a day to deal with the Ancaidans and another two in the First City, maybe three. Your family should arrive in Alingdor by then and make the agreed upon proclamations.”
“It’s a mistake, Imrail,” Luc warned. Looking at the man, he spoke firmly but did not force the issue. Not yet. They did not understand. He had been born for one purpose—not to rule. He knew that now. Besides which, he had no desire to. The White Rose would have to lead the nation to a new day.
He did not expect any of them to comment, but Riven, rubbing a thumb against the blade of his belt knife, glanced at him. “I’ll admit the news took me by surprise, my Lord, but this wasn’t a decision the Lord Viamar or the White Rose made in haste. If I may say, you’d be wise to consider a few matters. Years of planning have gone into this, prior to the founding of Peyennar even. The White Rose’s aim is to give our cause legitimacy among the Nations. Not only that, a new day for Penthar and our people. Consider why Amreal apprenticed you to the Oathbound. You understand the fidelity they held to the Crown. The feeling runs deep in all of our people. The Viamar line is venerated. The line of Ardil perhaps even more so. Even the Lawless are known hold a reverence for your mother. We are forging a nation meant to take the lead in the stand against the Furies. We cannot appear weak or without purpose. You give us that purpose, if you will pardon my saying.”
Imrail nodded when the man fell silent. “Well put,” he murmured.
Luc had been shaking his head almost from the start. “You won’t—you can’t—understand, Harridan. I—”
Trian had been watching the exchange closely. “You did not break the Dread City, Luc,” she edged in. “If it’s in your heart to remake it, what better way to start than by repairing what was broken here?” He stared at her. Remake it? He had claimed no such thing. Or had he? “Who else is there?” she went on. “Why were you born with the parents that raised you? I never knew mine. They are dead. You must see this has all been predetermined for some purpose. Better that you embrace the role for all concerned. There is no one else I would follow, no one else I could follow. Eventually these men will grow tired of constantly hearing you reject them. What then? You accepted your role in Peyennar. You accepted your role against the Furies. Accept this now. We fight for the nation. For all Nations.”
The woman finished it by folding her arms, face expressionless. Locking eyes with her, he exhaled softly. He was not sure how he felt about these spontaneous insights. She was still the same Val Moran he had met in his father’s house; the difference now was that she likely had access to memories that predated his own. The change was occurring remarkably fast. In one moment she had cut through to the heart of the matter and left him with little to no ground to stand on.
“I trust you will make the right choice, my Lord,” Imrail said finally. He did not say it wryly. Not quite. He would not in front of the others. “Some of the men are asking to send for their wives,” he went on. “The Lord Viamar permitted it during the Stand at Imdre. Some were even shared tents. Officers mostly. No children were allowed, but more than a handful shared in the fighting. If we have a long campaign ahead of us, it stands to reason the men will serve you better knowing their wives are near. I say that because I do not know when or if we will be returning. You have not indicated what you intend, but the choice is yours.”
Luc found himself feeling on the defensive. He gestured at the man irritably. “Do as you see fit, Imrail. I can hardly say where we’ll be moving.” He was not sure if the lie registered on his face.
“Very well,” Imrail indicated, nodding. “Scouts will be moving out to the Ancaidan camp at dawn. Do you wish me to accompany them?”
“I’ll be there.” He thought he managed not to sound jaded.
“And after?” Imrail pressed.
He moved to a mossy mound that appeared free of excessive moisture. The nights were getting colder. Sitting so his sword did not dig into his side, he glanced at the others. Urian had a thumb in his ear. His savage expression held a hint of expectancy. “Afterwards I mean to move against Eridian and Naeleis,” Luc whispered. The words just le
ft him and seemed to only slowly settle over them. Silence. A drumming silence. Searching their faces, he realized something he had said had shocked them. “I mean to hang them by their heels and make them remember their oaths. I’ll see their names erased from existence and the Annals if I must. If either moves against us, I’ll know it. If they come, you ensure our people know there’s no shame in running. There is no place they can’t reach, no form they can’t assume. If you suspect anything, tell me. I’ll know the truth.
“One more thing,” Luc added. “I won’t abandon Penthar or any of the people who serve under the sign of the Giver. My oath on it.” He waited. The intensity of his words appeared to startle them. For him there was only the bitterness of a broken city and flashes of fear the same would occur here. That was what made the Warden’s presence in Alingdor so vital. If only there was some way to be in two places at the same time or move from point to point at will. He thought Eridian had the ability. And Maien. His loathing for the creatures almost eclipsed the bile he tasted whenever he thought of Naeleis. “I need someone to watch over Trian,” he told them, searching their faces. His eyes settled on Avela. Her curt nod was grave.
“We will see it done,” Imrail said. The general’s eyes were narrowed, but he did not add anything else. “That’s it for now,” Imrail said. “Dismissed.”
Not seeing the closed fists the Companions directed his way, Luc realized his hands were gripping his knees and peeled back his fingers one by one. He would have to don the armor in the morning. No one had any real idea of what they would find, but it was safe to say it likely would not be good. Before he knew it most of the others had departed. Imrail did not count. Rew glanced at the General hesitantly, then spoke for the first time.
“How about a drink?” he said, running a hand through his tan hair. “You look like you could use it.”