by Matt Thomas
When his father returned the man firmly motioned Luc to take a seat on a cushioned chair with room enough for two. Folding his arms, the ancient-eyed man waited for him to comply. Head still tight, Luc saw no real reason not to comply. He had wanted a private moment with the man; he supposed now was as good a time as any. Sitting, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on the back of his hands.
“Your mother tells me you’re worried about the city and the possibility the Legion will strike. I can assure you we have taken precautions,” Ivon said.
“There are other reasons you above all should be well aware of,” Luc countered.
“Don’t insult me with the obvious, boy,” Ivon growled. “If you want to sulk, do it in private. I’ve lived too long to be anything other than direct with you.”
“Sulk!”
Ivon flexed his arms. “You heard me,” he said. “I won’t pretend to understand what this moment means to you. But there are too many who sacrificed everything they had, everything they hoped for, for this day. Perhaps it came sooner than any of us expected, but at least we survived to see it come. This is what Amreal died for. Eighteen years ago I never would have considered the notion—Penthar strong and poised to face the Earthbound. You taking your first steps and embraced by the nation. So you see, there is more riding on this than just your reluctance to declare yourself openly.”
Ivon nodded, perhaps to himself. “It’s time, lad,” he said a little less sternly. “Your grandfather stepped down in your mother’s favor. She has done so for you. If you deny her . . .” Ivon looked at him meaningfully. Luc knew where this was headed. At the moment the man could have been a father giving counsel and direction to a rebellious son. The eyes were not right, though. They were the eyes of the Warden and right then reminded him somewhat of Eridian’s, not that the comparison was complimentary. Even garbed in earthen brown he was swathed in power, in insights other men would never know. He doubted there would be another man of his father’s abilities to draw breath in the next three hundred years, if ever. “Consider it,” Ivon went on. “If you deny her you will not only break the Crown but the heart of the most beloved woman in the nation, my wife and your mother. Do what she asks—what we ask—and you cement the future of the nation. You will need children of your own, of course. One day. No one expects you will ever choose to stay for long, but we have the means to make it so you will be able to cross great distances at need. You will be able to return and rally the capital when it is needed most. Triaga to the south will only be seconds away.”
Luc nearly stood. “What?” He knew he was gaping.
“We will show you before you leave,” Ivon said, face still intent. “If you agree, I will summon the First Clerk and our aides to make plans. In one night Penthar will have a new master and the Nations a plan to check the Furies. That is what you intend, I am told, to strike at them first, to counter them should they attempt to seize control of our forces.”
He was just about to respond when a number of servants entered. A young woman came first and set a tray down between them, pouring tea and managing to avoid looking at the Warden directly. It seemed he had a certain reputation. For Luc the broad-shouldered man was some vision out of memory. He had a hard time believing they were both here. He was going to wake and begin his duties in the Shoulder, or go out scouting with Ingram. But that lifetime was literally hundreds of miles away. If the servant avoided the Warden’s gaze, she made no secret she was appraising Luc openly. Her nod and brief curtsy showed skin that had taken on a pinkish hue. Another pair of men appeared to be making preparations for a bath in one of the adjoining chambers.
“It’s happening too fast,” Luc said quietly. “I’d stay just to remember what we had in Peyennar, but there’s no time. One of the Furies was just here—in this room. They know me. I know them. They could pick apart Alingdor in minutes.”
Ivon grew still at the news. Face darkening, it was his turn to look grim. “The Annals make mention of their return. The Dark Maw, the Iron Fist, the Gaping Chasm. I will not pretend I have the power to face them. What did this one want?”
Luc struggled to recount it. The thought of the creature defiling these halls was too infuriating. “Maybe they want me to stand aside and stay here while they tear Ancaida and Tolmar to pieces,” he said, both hands gripping his face in frustration. “The rest of the Nations. Leave us defenseless. I don’t know. They’re capable of anything. There’s some . . . connection between us. Part of me wonders if Eridian hopes I’ll actually succeed but can’t express it openly. Not yet at least. He’s been watching me closely. Since I was a child I think.”
Ivon rubbed his face, expression for the first time troubled. The arrival of another servant made him pause. This one had a white cloth hanging over his arm, a cake of soap and razor in the other. Setting them down, he bowed and left for a moment. “Hard choices to put on you,” Ivon said after a pause. “I am sorry, lad. I did not mean to press you. I had not realized. . . . I would rather we had the autumn and winter to make plans with you safe and in my sights the entire time. The truth is I believe you were made for this moment. You will know what to do when the time comes. After all, I raised you. But were I to hazard a guess, I would say they are unwilling or unable to move against us just yet.”
“There’s an edict against it,” Luc acknowledged. “I know that much. The Fallen are not bound by such constraints, it seems.”
Finally moving to sit, his father suddenly appeared thoughtful—no, fascinated. At that moment he reminded Luc of Amreal. That made his throat constrict, though he managed to hide it with one hand rubbing his forehead. “Then they become tools and vessels under the Furies’ direction,” Ivon mused. “This edict . . . Under whose authority . . . ?”
“Under the One,” Luc whispered, eyes far away. The open admission was haunting. His failures stretched out before him, beyond the Tides and Infinity. He was a miserable fool and was now humbled beyond imagining. And yet he knew something miraculous had occurred, something undeserved, when the White Rose had given him life and a new perspective on his existence.
His father was looking at him closely. “You do not . . .” He leaned forward. “. . . speak to the Giver, do you?”
Luc flushed. “Hardly. I’m not crazy, you know.”
Ivon chuckled. “Far from it. I realized years ago I would not be the one to end this conflict. That was humbling. I have yielded most of my authority for the strength and stability of your mother’s nation. I see now you have experienced something similar. But I must tell you, your mother and I are proud of you. She thinks of little else but you. What we are asking for is that you trust us one more time, perhaps one last time. I do not know how many of us will survive the coming conflict.”
Before Luc could respond the servant returned with a large basin filled with steaming water. Setting it on the floor, he bowed and dipped the razor in the water. Luc grimaced but straightened, allowing the man to be about his work with minimal awkwardness. The man was old, but still hale and with steady hands. Troubled by what his father had told him, he pondered what he was to do. Duty came to mind first. His duty to House Viamar, to his mother. The coming conflict was one no one would be spared. They wanted this, if not for him, for the ability to have the steel of the nation behind him when he openly declared himself to the world.
“On your word we will half five companies make for our southern border,” his father stated. “A significant force. I will join you.”
Luc forced himself to focus. “I’d like that. On oath. But I’d prefer it if you stayed with—”
“She wishes to join you as well.”
Luc shook his head, forcing the servant to pause. “No chance,” he said decisively. “If I accede to your wishes, that’s the one point not open for discussion. I need to know you’re both safe. There’s still the Ardan city in the north to contend with. I suspect Maien herself rules it.” He shook his head again. This time decisively. “How many men do you think we
will add to the ranks?”
“After today . . .” Ivon considered it. “After today, thousands. Hundreds have already signed up, perhaps more. The Guild’s Commission is complaining about the losses. I think once the news spreads across the nation, we will have an army almost a hundred thousand strong.”
Luc just stared at the man. The servant had been quick at his work and was already toweling Luc’s face off. Was it his imagination, or were his hands a touch unsteady now? Carefully, he began to trim Luc’s hair. “That many?” Luc said.
“That many. Need you wonder why our enemies are concerned? If you succeed in Ancaida, you gain a close ally.”
He nodded absently. Had the man not been snipping at his hair, he suspected it would have been standing on end.
“Do you agree then?” Ivon asked. His tone was more than suggestive. “There are official documents that must be signed. We can do so with select witnesses. Your mother would be pleased. We would both be pleased. After we can summon our top aides and begin planning the war against the Furies. I understand Imrail needs you for a private errand. That will mean a full day ahead of you yet, Son. I am sorry.”
Steeling himself, he felt the wind pick up suddenly. It was downright freezing now. He could not help one last burst of bitterness. “She should be queen, Father.”
Ivon laughed, some resonant sound rising from deep in his throat. “Is that what troubles you? She’s been a queen all her life, lad. Not only that, she is the co-ruler of Ardil. The Diem are not finished yet, you will see. Coupled with being the mother of Siren, I hardly think there is a woman in all of Valince with the rank to defy her. Even the Gintaran Queen bows before the will of the White Rose. She needs no other formal title.”
Luc sighed. Finally giving in, he squeezed his eyes shut. He hoped the brush of cold steel against his neck was not an indication of what was coming. “Tell her I’m ready,” he decided with a finality that made his head spin.
He was not entirely sure, but perhaps he was.
* * * * *
Less than an hour later he was buttoning up a white shirt cuffed at the sleeves. Stuffing it into a pair of formal trousers, he buckled on his belt and had to sit to pull on his boots. These were new and had been polished to a fine luster. Moments after his father had sent the word Luc intended to comply with the official transfer of power, the main chamber and corridor outside had quickly become hubs of concentrated activity. A full delegation seemed to have descended intent on escorting him to some official hall where his mother and grandfather would be waiting. Mouth dry, he tried not to chew his lips, selecting a dark coat cut low in the front. Taking his sword, his hands shook as he sheathed it. Imrail and Ivon were doing a passable job pretending they weren’t watching him. When it was clear he was ready—he had risked only a brief glance in front of the mirror—both men moved to study him. Imrail pinned the insignias of House Viamar and the Mark on the standing coat-collar, fussing about something. His father remained silent.
“You ready, boy?” Imrail asked him. The man’s closely cropped hair was slightly damp, his uniform either new or recently pressed. In Alingdor he had an air about him that made it clear his rank and standing were absolute. It did not help any that at the moment he appeared slightly apologetic.
Luc muttered something non-definitive.
“This shouldn’t take long,” the general told him. “An hour, maybe two.”
Luc just looked at him. “Wonderful,” he said. He managed not to make it sound too acerbic.
Ivon seemed more than just a touch amused. Surprising on his otherwise concentrated features, features that at the moment could have mirrored his own. There was no denying the pride on the man’s face. That too was somewhat unexpected. “I would be remiss if I did not give you at least one opportunity to recount, lad,” he said quietly. “I know we gave you little choice in the matter, but neither one of us wants this to end with you resenting us.”
“I know,” Luc responded tightly. He did understand the reasons, perhaps even the necessity. He did not have to like it, though. “I understand,” he managed to say, thinking back to the moment he had agreed to accompany Imrail on the quest to rescue the king and recover the Sword of Ardil. There had been suggestions this might come, strong hints at least. The Lord Viamar’s declaration in the Shoulder of Peyennar, while sudden, had occurred in the far north still with some hope the decision was not final. Now he was here, in the heart of the nation. There was no way out.
His father griped his shoulder. “Might as well get this over with,” he said. “We have a great deal to discuss and little time. If it helps, I am here. I will step in if there is a need, lad.”
“Thank you.” Waiting for the two men to turn and move forward, he tried not to think about the throbbing sensation at his temples. He still had Eridian to worry about. Trailing them, it soon became evident the corridor outside was crammed tight with waiting attendants. Soldiers in their palace gear stood at attention. He recognized several others but did not have the opportunity to acknowledge all of them outside of Hireland and Mearl—one on the younger side and the other whose hair was touched with frost. Both bowed. Outside of Lars and Graves, the Companions were fully assembled. So much for making this painless. Rew managed to worm his way through.
“They wouldn’t let me in,” he complained. “I half thought you’d found some way out of here. What changed your mind?”
“I considered it,” Luc whispered. “I guess I couldn’t find the back door.”
“A shame there isn’t one,” Rew agreed, glancing around them. Narrowing his light brown eyes, he looked almost as concerned as he had back at the Ancaidan camp. “You all right? Everyone’s tightlipped. What’s going on?”
Luc gripped both hands behind his back. “You wouldn’t believe it. Where’s your room? I was looking for you.”
“Third floor. The maids are . . . something.”
One of the soldiers chuckled.
At a cue from Imrail, the escort formed up and started underway. The corridors in this part of the palace were wide enough, but in no way meant to contain an escort of this size. Standing in the doorway, he tried to ignore the layer of sweat forming along the base of his spine. Feeling a slight pressure on the arm, he filed in between the ranks of the men, Imrail a step ahead and Riven behind. He wondered if he had ever had any hope of escaping this. Altris likely meddling again. He forced himself not to think about it. Eridian’s arrival had changed things. He doubted the Furies thought their warnings would sway him. More likely they meant to provoke him. There was just no way their offer to leave Penthar in peace was legitimate.
Working their way down the halls and stairs leading into the heart of the palace, he disregarded the bits of chatter he sometimes caught above the din of their strides. He acknowledged Avela and Lenora’s encouraging nods. Riven murmured something likely meant to be congratulatory. He knew in moments everything he was or had been would change.
His land. His people.
And a sacrifice the world was unlikely ever to remember.
After spending countless minutes winding through the bustling palace corridors, moving as if caught in a waking dream, eventually they reached a circular assembly hall with an elevated, domed ceiling. Cushioned pews in the shape of a semi-circle sat around three ornate tables that stood on tiered platforms. He hardly expected the hall to be full. On their arrival a hush fell over the attendants. Recognizing the First Clerk seated on the lowest tier, a balding, middle-aged man in silver and black who seemed capable enough, if overly conscientious, he risked a glance at his mother, still in her shimmering apparel. The sight of the Lord Viamar, garbed in his formal robes and noticeably a whisper of the man Luc remembered from his early years in Peyennar, made him swallow hard. There was no suppressing the rising bitterness. This was Eldin Viamar’s assembly hall after all, but Imrail’s hand on his lower back compelled him forward until he came to a stop just short of the first tier. With his heart pounding, he was hardly aware of the onl
ookers.
“My Lords and Ladies of Penthar, we have convened to witness a matter of great importance,” the First Clerk intoned, “the greatest perhaps in the history of our nation since the Lord Eldin Viamar first assumed the throne. He and his daughter wish to express their apologies for the haste with which you have been summoned. There are reasons. Attend me.”
For the first time he shifted his eyes to Luc. Mere paces away the clerk’s sudden shiver was noticeable. “By what right do you come forward?” he asked directly, if in a half whisper.
Luc inhaled. He was uncertain if some formal answer was required. Not having been prepped in advance, he answered simply, back straight. They would not cow him, not here. This was one nation that would rise above the darkness. “By the right of birth,” he said, his voice crisp and steeled by his indignation that they would taunt him here. “My mother is the White Rose of Alingdor, my father Ivon Ellandor, Warden of Ardil.”
Dipping a quill pen into an inkwell, the First Clerk recorded his response. Luc wondered if the man was going to transcribe every word. “Welcome, my Lord,” he said deferentially, inclining his head. “The First City has anxiously awaited word of Ariel Viamar’s son.” Glancing over his shoulder, the clerk glanced at Luc’s grandfather. “Lord Viamar, you have publically proclaimed it is your will and desire that another assume your role and responsibilities. Is this so, my Lord?”
“It is my will,” Eldin said simply, “that either my daughter or my grandson succeed me.”
“And it is mine that, given the peril of the nation and the known world, my son rule in my stead,” Ariel Viamar said. Her voice was soft but carried. He did not have to read her expression to recognize the look of thanks on her face. More. Pride.