The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (24 page)

He was home.

* * * * *

It was almost noon when they finally reached the city’s threshold. The sight made him swoon. Spires and domes did touch the sky, white walls so high they eclipsed the view of the surrounding countryside and dominated the landscape. To the north and west clusters of one and two story structures poured out of the walls as if the city could not contain them. At the heart of Alingdor he caught sight of a noticeable rise, likely the seat of the Lord Viamar’s power, presently concealed from their current vantage point. Breathing hard, he let out a powerful burst of air. He almost cursed. Alingdor, like some city out of memory. For a moment the image of another city, one existing outside the Axle, appeared to superimpose itself on the other. Both made it difficult to focus. The word massive did not describe this one. It was colossal. A reminder to the Furies that the Children could live free of fear and prosper even under the constant threat of war and annihilation. It was all he could do not to stare. If the others spoke, he did not notice. Perhaps they left him alone to take in the moment.

His time in Peyennar had shaped him into what he was. He knew he would never trade it for any other existence, but on some level still felt robbed being forced to enter his mother’s city a virtual stranger.

It took some time to reach the southern gate. The highway widened when they came to a registration station where a substantial number of foot soldiers were standing at attention. It was all a blur in his mind, but he did note these men wore silver shields and helmets. Imrail’s rank granted them immediate passage. The noise. He could hardly make sense of all of it, finding it almost deafening. And the smells, some sense of the westward wind bringing in a briny scent, smoke, curing meats, furnaces, stoves, and a network of sewers. This was not the distant nation of Val Mora. This was Penthar, and Alingdor, First City of the nation, did not make any secret of her wealth or strength. They passed green fenced in fields, markets, establishments whose owners appeared welcoming and gracious. Like Peyennar and unlike. He could not say how long it took to reach the city walls where they were again subject to inspection. Looking up at the surfaces of the walls, he had to crane his neck to see the men standing on the battlements. The gates themselves were so thick and held in place by hinges of a size he could hardly fathom any smith or team of smiths able to replicate the craft and expertise that had originally gone into their making. Once more they were admitted without interference, this time directly into the Merchant’s Quarter itself, home to Alingdor’s enterprising citizens.

Abruptly he felt an elbow dig into his ribs. “Not sure if this is the time for sightseeing,” Rew said, leaning close. Something in his voice, something hard to pinpoint, made Luc glance at him. “Try not to think about it. Just ride. We’re with you.”

He shook himself. Taking in a short series of breaths, he grimaced. “Thanks. It’s just . . .”

“Big, isn’t it?” Rew said around a grin. “You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”

Luc was not so sure.

Crowding behind Imrail, they continued into the city. The streets were overflowing with folk who for some reason appeared at a standstill. Still absorbed in its construction, he rode on, now flanked on both sides by Urian and Altaer. Something about that seemed odd but he did not have the opportunity to comment. He knew now why Imrail had insisted he come here. He had to see it for himself, to see it and understand what was at stake. It gnawed at him that his mother was not here with him to witness it. He remembered her immeasurable delight at just seeing him, also the fear that he would not accept her. On some level he had always understood she was an individual of select importance, but now there was no disregarding the duty and responsibility that had kept her from him for all those long years back.

Continuing to work their way along the street, still wide and bordered with intricate stonework, sculptures, trimmed hedges, lawns, gardens, and fountains, he shuddered to think about how much time and investment went into maintaining such opulence. Here one could almost forget the Furies even existed. A black feeling took hold when he thought of Amreal and what it would have meant to have his uncle here, but that sparked only anger. He did not think Amreal would want him to be angry.

They rode on. The street twisted here and there, but for the most part held straight, if at an obvious incline. On either side they passed buildings of a singular size and importance. One to the left stood almost as high as the city walls themselves. The city was so vast it was daunting. An hour may have passed already, maybe two. Not that it mattered. At the moment he had no real conception of time. Taking it all in, he found himself beginning the shiver. Unable to place the sensation, he struggled to come to grips with the twin perceptions awakening in his mind. In one state he was present, in the other he felt only an absence, a gaping hole that bored into the deep places of his soul.

Feeling some distant part of himself grow cold, he rode on. He was uncertain if anyone noticed. He was reminded of the losses, eternal losses. The forces of the Giver being humbled and embracing their certain defeat. In some ways the Children were better off, even if besieged. Little left for the Faithful to cling to. And the Fallen reaping the rewards of their treachery. 

Sometime later, after continuing to press through the city and scanning its heights to no end, he had no warning when Lightfoot came to an abrupt halt.

Rubbing his neck—hard to keep from peering around him—he looked over when Imrail brought his stallion close enough the two horses were baring teeth at one another. “What—” he began, trying to pull free of Imrail’s arm gripping him above the elbow.

“Get a hold of yourself, boy,” Imrail snapped. “Mind your surround-ings.”

He shook himself. Following the trail of Imrail’s eyes, he froze.

“
Father
.” The word came out in a rasping croak.

Ivon Ellandor rode forward, pulling up just short of him. A sizeable company waited at his back. Garbed in a dark mantle, his eyes were like twin orbs burning with naked power. The Warden of Ardil, no doubt, solid, real, gripping his son’s shoulder. Feeling the world beginning to topple beneath him, he knew it was only the man’s grip that held him in the saddle. Suddenly alerted by Imrail, he looked to his left and right. On either side of the street the masses were pressing forward, barely contained by lines of men in formal gear—long spears, polished breastplates, and silver helmets gleaming in the midday sun. It continued as far as the eye could see. Taking it in, a sinking feeling settled over him. He suddenly realized what they had done.

“I’m sorry, lad,” his father said. The din around them at the meeting of Ivon Ellandor and his son was thunderous. Soldiers beat their spears on their silver shields. Men who did not even know him were shouting. This was Alingdor unfettered caught in the changing winds of time. “I warned her . . .” Ivon sighed. “Come on. Your mother’s waiting.” Glancing at Imrail, he passed the man a grave look. “I have a ward of protection in place around us. Let us hope it isn’t necessary.”

Imrail nodded gratefully. Even he seemed a little shocked at the display around them. “I appreciate it, my Lord Ellandor,” he said, needing to raise his voice so he could be heard above the commotion. “I think it best if your son ride between us.”

Ivon nodded and shifted the reins, turning his mount. Digging the heel of a boot into Lightfoot’s side, Luc started forward with a jolt. The roar around them had become deafening.

Forcing himself to look straight ahead, he fought back a wave of nausea. Being the focal point of so much attention felt alarming and stretched the nerves. He knew who was responsible. With the armed escort forming up around them, they continued across the main street up the incline into the heart of the city. Somehow he summoned the awareness to mask the bitterness.
Just breathe
, he told himself
.
At their plodding pace it was another hour or more. As he had when he was a child, he focused on his father’s forceful presence. While the disbelief on first seeing him had passed, being around the man was still new and illusory. The Warden of Ardil riding through the streets of the First City—he never would have dreamed it possible when he was young. Plainly the people of the First City did not fear the man or hold him in the disdain Luc feared he himself would be met with. Now there was just one thing left.

Upon reaching the city summit the throng filled his scope of view from every angle. Thousands appeared to pack the streets to catch a glimpse of the son of the Warden and the White Rose. Risking a glance, he saw their expressions, noting the awe and wonder, but also flickers of pride and hope, even reverence. Some might have used stronger terms to describe it, but there was no mistaking the status he had suddenly attained if only by right of birth. He heard the shouts. They knew his name.
Siren
and the
Lord Viamar-Ellandor
. Chants of Siren picked up most and spread suddenly. It thundered in his ears. If the Unmaker did not hear, he was either dead or still in his slumber.

These men and women did not know their imminent danger. All because he had been lulled and enticed to come here. Now it would truly begin, if it had not already.

After an indeterminate span the street eventually opened up. Sculpted fountains and intricate gardens filled the plaza leading to the palace grounds. The massive construction ahead appeared similarly arranged, walled and gated, a compound that in and of itself might have taken up a tenth of the city. Sweating, he gripped the reins. The flanking men were each on one knee now. Finally able to leave the saddle, he moved forward with some relief, somewhat obscured from view and eager to put an end to the long march from Peyennar. Ahead within the confines of the palace grounds a large host had assembled and stood waiting. He saw her almost immediately. She stood out in a flowing lilac gown. White gemstones in her hair and at the throat and wrists were clear and reflected the light of the sun. She was glorious, some being out of the First Plane. A white cloak rested lightly on her shoulders. The sight of her now was not so different than it had been in Peyennar, stirring up distant emotions and memories in him. The marked difference here was that she was no longer just his mother. She was White Rose of Alingdor. Oh, Viamar had been king, but he simply ruled the nation. Only she truly commanded the hearts of the people.

Moving forward, he kept his eyes firmly on hers. Not allowing himself to feel or show any hint or outward sign of emotion, he knew he had a duty to this woman that would abide with him to the end. They could—and would—discuss the implications of what she had done in private. With the Lord Viamar standing a few paces behind her, he started to bow.

“Don’t.” The imperceptible movement of her lips was surprising and caught him off guard. “The people of Alingdor have waited eighteen years for this moment. I have waited. Today they stand witness to my father’s successor. You would do well to give them some sign or indication of feeling, that you reciprocate their affections at least.” She waited. “A stone would yield more sentiment, Luc,” she chided gently, her voice light, a memory whispering to him on the wind. “You know this city. You dreamed of it. What holds you?”

The anger was still there. He did not think he could contain it. “That was then,” he said with some heat. “Now I see another. And successors?” He would have shook his head, but was aware any sign of dissension would have been noted. “The Lord Viamar ruled this city. You are his heir, not me. You suffered for it, endured for it. What is this game, Mother? I’m learning to be your son. That has to be enough. Let me be. I’ll be dead soon. What will any of this matter then?”

Her face darkened, the rage he felt a light gale beside the woman’s sudden fury. “Your father and I did not spend countless years in the wild so you could die forgotten,” she hissed. “You will do as I say in this matter. Best to make that clear. And you will not allow yourself to think you will ever die. Neither of us will allow it.”

He just looked at her. “We could spend a week discussing this and get nowhere,” he managed calmly. “I have a day. Then all this will be behind me.”

“You’re obstinate, boy,” Eldin Viamar snapped. “Mind your mother.”

Luc glanced at the former king. It was the first time he had done so. He could not stop himself from casting a hand across his face, paled to see the man so thin and white-faced. Luc acknowledged his rank with a fist pressed to the heart. Then, despite her protests, he stepped forward and took Ariel Viamar’s hands, kneeling. Something inside broke then. He suspected it always would when she was near. Sudden cries took to the air at the movement. That spark of defiance still held firm in him, though. “I can assure you the White Rose holds all of my esteem,” he said. “I’ve made no secret of it. Neither she nor the Warden will suffer threats or intimidation. I will deal with any move made against them.”

Standing, he gripped the hilt of his sword. “As for signs, I could give them one to make them weep. There is something in my saddlebags that will prove they’ll be better off when I’m gone.” He took in the palace grounds. “What you’ve done will have repercussions beyond this day. Now this city is target and subject to retaliation.”   

“As it has always been,” Viamar said. “If you won’t honor our wishes, we will do what we must.” He stepped forward, startling Luc with the suddenness of the movement. The man’s face was red with anger. “Lords! Citizens! Attendees! Witness!” His voice carried, powerful, commanding. “This is my daughter’s son, Siren and the Lord Viamar-Ellandor. The years of exile are over. The Furies tremble at his rising. Penthar’s First Son has returned to claim the throne. Will you have him?”