The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (26 page)

Glancing at Trian, he sighed. “This may mean trouble.”

“Perhaps.” At the moment her porcelain-like features were unreadable. “What now?”

He shrugged. Taking in the room and its finery, it was impossible not to notice they were alone. Finally alone. The thought made his knees weak. He realized she had taken notice of the same thing. Her eyes widened, and her face, suddenly flushed, grew hesitant, then firm. “Sometimes you make me feel . . .” She shivered. “Maybe it’s best to get it over with.” Crossing the room, she planted both hands on his chest. With a sudden warmth spreading through him, he took her by the forearms, grip tight. He tried to push aside the memory of the night in her tent, but failed miserably.

 Looking down into her eyes, he touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Any regrets? You think you could be . . . happy here?” he finished.

“Luc,” she said seriously, pulling him nearer, if that was even possible, “I have never been happier. I thought you knew that.”

“No, I mean . . .”

She was still looking at him. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

He did that. Not roughly as before, but gently. There were bleak times ahead, but one or two days might not matter. In the end he settled for gripping her in his arms for several seconds. Minutes perhaps. Then he led her to a balcony with an overlooking view of the palace grounds. He had some trouble finding the latch to open it; the terrace window appeared to move on wheels and hinges. Finally figuring the contraption out, they stepped out into the open air, the sky still clear and a lustrous blue. The day was bright, but the night would bring changes. Seizing the railing, he took in the view. Neither moved for some time.

* * * * *

Exiting the apartments, Ariel Viamar left with a dread weight settling into the pit of her stomach. She made straight for her rooms, anxious, disturbed. She had refused the First Clerk’s suggestion that they convene a formal hearing to discuss the succession. Doing so was neither required nor a matter for public debate. These matters were entirely too private in any case. The world was hardly ready to understand what they had done, the choices they had made. No need to publicize it.

Acknowledging a pair of men in formal livery, Malik and Kirran, both First Rank Protectors under the Crown’s direct authority, she continued down the hall to her rooms. They were not far. Her father had been adamant about relinquishing his quarters to Luc, or failing that to her. She had dissented, knowing full well he meant to make the transfer of power immediate. He was preparing for his death, she knew. The ride from Peyennar had been far from easy on him, but there was no sense in making any lasting changes until they sealed her son to the First City. She was reluctant to do so unless Luc willingly assented. She had other reasons of course.

You cannot leave us. Not yet.

Amreal’s death still weighed on her. Surely her father’s would likely cripple her.

Reaching her apartments, Malik held the door open and peered inside. Satisfied it was safe for her to proceed, she entered. Ivon and Imrail were waiting. Reading something in her expression, her husband stood. Imrail, absently swirling the contents of a wineglass, bowed without quite seeing her.
He’s not quite the same either
, she thought. Searching the outer room, she saw the three of them were alone as she had requested.

“What is it?” her husband asked.

She looked at him. “Surely you sensed it.”

He nodded, face blank and expressionless. “Yes,” Ivon admitted. “He was furious, but at least he held it close.” He did not say he had warned her. He rarely would, whether publically or in private. Gliding towards him, she rested a hand on his arm. She was well aware he knew that was not what she had meant. Brushing a strand of her hair back, he looked into her eyes. Over the years the movement had become automatic, but she never tired of it. At the moment she desperately needed his consent and approval. Early on he had often joked she was little more than a child beside him. A near decade in exile had changed that. So often she saw the tangible impact he had on others. He had a forceful persona, striking features, and a physique he tried to conceal in his drab apparel. Today he wore the mantle of Ardil and was in full command of the power and authority he still wielded. It startled her that their son and only heir already commanded forces unheard of, if the rumors were true, surpassing even the Warden’s skill on some levels. Sparks ignited when the two met. Now she was no longer certain how long he would even remain their son.

Seeing her so unsettled, her husband led her to one of two armchairs opposite an opaque table. Adjusting her skirts, she sat, then glanced at Imrail.

“He’s so cold and distant,” she began, unable to contain her frustration. “He doesn’t seem aware of the fear he is capable of eliciting. I look at him and his eyes pierce my soul. He’s consumed with thoughts of vengeance”—she glanced at Ivon pointedly—“something we are all intimately familiar with. He has memories of his foes, memories that likely predate the rise of the Builders. There is also some black despair that preoccupies him. I understand the Nations need him, but . . . I . . . we need him too.”

“He is vying against, or coming to terms with, two distinct personas,” Ivon said. “One we cannot begin to comprehend, the other . . . Well, we will have to wait and see.”

“The other is still your son,” Imrail countered, looking up. She wondered what had the man so preoccupied. “Both hold to similar ideals, but I would not discount Peyennar and its lasting influence just yet. I’ll admit the changes are occurring rapidly, but it seems to me imperative he come to terms with his role if he is to vie against the Furies. They have ages of experience and abilities none among us can comprehend.”

“True,” she agreed. “But I still worry. What if he chooses to leave?”

Imrail shook his head. “No chance. He knows his duty. You instilled it in him at a young age. He grieves for the Lord Viamar. He grieves for the Warden. And he absolutely adores the White Rose. You did not see how anxious he was making for the city. Some of that was certainly his anticipation to see it, but I know his mind. Some of it. At the moment I would say only the White Rose commands the Lord of the Dread City.”

“Truly?” She held her breath.

Finally they appeared to have the general’s full attention. Looking at her, he nodded firmly. “Of course there is one other, but it seems clear you have an attentive son, my Lady. He is ready. The memory of Amreal will keep him, but the guidance of his mother and father will temper whatever it is that disturbs him. That and Mistress Emening, I think, will make the transition somewhat smoother.”

Ivon studied the man. “It seems he holds you in high esteem as well.” He had folded his arms, waiting—no, in some subtle way, compelling the man to answer.

The newly raised general suddenly grew cautious. So the man was caught up in Siren’s wake as well, she thought. A good thing as there was no one else she trusted more to serve him. Imrail cleared his throat, choosing his words intentionally. “He’s a good lad, my Lord Ellandor. Solid. Dependable. Thoughtful and deliberate. The other Companions have elected to follow him into the darkness. We did so once before. Doing so again knowing the risks says something. There are more than a thousand men who likely feel the same way. Most understand the road ahead will be bleak and full of danger, but still feel something momentous is coming. With half of those here, the word will spread. We can expect the people will soon hear rumors about Peyennar and Siren’s Stand. Some may discount it at first, but I suspect with the Warden for a father and the White Rose a mother, most will take it as a sign.”

Ivon apparently agreed. He appeared to weigh each word carefully. “Amreal did well,” he said finally, a shadow passing across his face. Ariel resisted the impulse to reach a hand out towards him. She knew his brother’s passing had changed him in ways neither of them fully understood, or would for years yet. If they lived, that was. The two brothers had all but held Ardil whole during the years of strife and discord. Amreal had given up a great deal to take up a permanent residence in Peyennar, but counted it a singular honor. There was some debate as to whether he was truly gone. So much of the world and all that ordered it was still unknown. Meeting her eyes, Ivon smiled suddenly. He was not one to smile. “By all accounts he is as fine a son as either of us could have hoped for,” he said. Looking at her decisively, he added, “Best if it be his choice. Ours will be trusting he makes the right one.”

Ariel acknowledged Imrail’s points were convincing. Whatever it was that was troubling him may or may not have been connected. Regardless, he had served her father faithfully for more than a decade, trained and instructed by a select group of men. Only Vandil had risen in rank more rapidly, but Imrail had refused every advancement to the point of almost open defiance. That was just his sense of loyalty to House Viamar and the Companions, something she admired and could contemplate at a later time. Looking at the two men, she could not quite compose herself.

“He’s hardly the same,” she whispered. “He insists we are making a mistake. I fear he’s right. We must prepare for it. I know he’s hurting, for Amreal and . . . other reasons, for those who did not make it when my father was rescued. But there is no denying a storm is gathering in him. He is a young man capable of wielding forces ancient and inherent to the Making. He is also a young man struggling to form an identity. His abilities are expounding at an alarming rate. He is a conduit, but he possesses other powers. Frightening powers. I see it. I know it. What happened, Imrail?”

Imrail looked at a loss. “I’m not sure if I can accurately recount it, my Lady,” he said. “I will try.” Beginning to pace, he took a sip of the wine, face growing intent. “He singlehandedly faced two Syphers. I’m certain he would have challenged them had we not restrained him. Before that he wiped out an entire Earthbound contingent. His blade became white—suffused with some power or energy not native to this Plane. Beads or pockets of the storm exploded into ranks of the Legion. He was a force of vengeance, elemental, untamed. He spent most of the next day recovering. Then there was the incident at the Ancaidan camp. . . .”

Imrail’s description made them both sit up. Even Ivon looked shaken. Speechless. Imrail took that as a sign to continue.

“My advice is to proceed with your plan,” the general said. “The Lord Viamar proclaimed the succession publically. The people responded. You spoke to him, my Lady, and may have already swayed him. If I may suggest, perhaps it’s time to show him what the Lord Viamar found. Coupled with the relics already in our possession, we achieve a balance and a way to counter our enemies quickly. Talk to him, give him an indication of our plans. He is marching to war. With the nation’s backing, he may succeed. Without it. . . .”

Ivon thought about it, then said, “I will go to him. Make the necessary preparations for the signing this evening. We will convene our aides and lay out the necessary plans. He is my son. I know he will make the right decision.”

“Maybe,” Ariel said. The fluttering in her stomach, however, was hardly convincing.

“I need one thing,” Imrail added, hesitating. “An errand of some urgency—a personal matter. I’d like the lad to accompany me. The girl too. It’ll give them an opportunity to see some of the city. I’ll ensure we have an adequate escort.”

Ariel looked at him, nodding. “Do as you see fit, General.
After
he accedes to our wishes.”

Imrail inclined his head politely. She had no idea why his normally intent eyes immediately became unfocused.

* * * * *

With chimes tolling in his mind, Luc wandered the palace corridors and explored some of its passageways. He knew he was pushing himself beyond reasonable limits. The weeks in the saddle certainly warranted he make some attempt to rest. He had lost count of the days; the most recent march through the night and surreal entry into Alingdor, coupled with just seeing his parents again, had drained him. Satisfied Trian was reasonably comfortable, he had taken to wandering. Perhaps it was the undeniable enchantment of the First City that kept him moving. Images of masses beyond imagining still gripped him. Too much to sort out in his mind. Eventually realizing he was only circling the same halls and that he was being shadowed by men in formal armament, he returned to the quarters his mother had assigned him. He had hoped to find Rew and talk things through. Failing that, Imrail. Entering the vast outer room, he looked around a moment, considering asking for Amreal.

No
, he nearly choked. He was gone now. Seeing one of the armed guards bow and push beyond him, he stopped.

“Well met,” a man said, rising.

The reason for warning signals immediately became clear. Stepping forward, Luc deliberately put himself between the soldier and the being out of memory sitting in an armchair for all the world as if he belonged. Skin was pale, eyes charged with power. He seemed somehow taller, garbed in black, white lace at the sleeves and collar, features slightly altered. His presence, his very existence, was a reminder of ancient grievances and disputes. Losses beyond imagining and a realm that was all but broken and abandoned.

“I let myself in,” Eridian said lightly. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

 “An old friend,” Luc told the palace guard firmly. “I’m anxious to hear what he has to say, if you don’t mind excusing us.”

The guardsman looked at him and saluted. His expression, however, conveyed some doubt. “I will be outside if you need me, my Lord Siren,” he said. “Orders, I’m afraid. You aren’t to be left alone.”