The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (28 page)

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 onlookers.

“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.

“I have so noted it, my Lady. This is the will of House Viamar then?”

Eldin Viamar nodded firmly. “It is my will that my grandson, Luc Viamar-Ellandor, be given all rights currently held by the Crown,” he said. “He will be the voice of the nation and the weapon to bring the Earthbound to their knees.”

There were mild cheers. Polite for the most part. The majority of the hall seemed locked in disbelief. Perhaps they dismissed his right. He had rights they did not know, even if he was reluctant to claim them. With the First Clerk still transcribing, Luc straightened. Scanning the attendants, he caught a glimpse of Trian seated to his right. He was almost certain something in her expression conveyed the belief he had made the right decision. Absently he wondered if she was aware in some far off way that one of the Furies had appeared here. He was going to have to take steps to ensure they knew the nation of Penthar was sacrosanct.

“My Lord?” Luc looked up. The First Clerk was eying him questioningly. “I see your name has previously been entered into the rolls of House Viamar,” he repeated. “You are Luc Viamar-Ellandor?”

“Yes.”

“And do you claim any other title or tie to another house or nation?”

The question hung in the air. Glancing at his mother, he saw her purse her lips expectantly. Almost the same from his father, standing just to the rear of his left shoulder. No doubt what the Warden expected from him now. It was the slightest movement, the briefest flicker of the eyes.

Pulling in an extended breath, he announced it. In some ways the acknowledgement felt liberating. “I am Siren.”

The man hesitated. He appeared about to sick up. “You wish that recorded?”

“Yes.”

“That will be difficult to witness and attest to, my Lord.”

Luc shrugged. “I can provide a demonstration if need be,” he said coldly.

Looking at him steadily, the man appeared to shudder. “If there are no objections, I will so record it.” The First Clerk did not wait before proceeding. There was absolute silence in the hall now anyway. “It is so entered. Luc Viamar-Ellandor—Siren—son of the Warden of Ardil and the White Rose, and of direct decent of the Lord Eldin Viamar, do you accept the weight and obligation of this duty and promise to uphold the freedom and collective will of the people of Penthar?”

The question made him tense. He had seen the masses—multitudes beyond depiction, but these appeared the highest ranking officials of the realm. They would hold House Viamar responsible if he failed. Staring directly into his mother’s face, he knew what he had to do. For him there had never been a choice in the matter. This was the first step to safeguard the Nations. He accepted the role because it was required of him, not because of some distinct definition of duty, but because it was inherent in him. Born once to shatter. Now to shelter. There would be no signs or demonstrations today. Just his word he would do more than try.

“My Lord?”

Ensuring his voice remained clear and firm, he pressed a fist to his heart. “I will do what I must to ensure Penthar is held inviolate. I will ensure there is both justice and fairness and pledge to serve the people always, preserving the dignity of House Viamar and the legacies of the Lord Viamar and the White Rose.”

The First Clerk continued to transcribe furiously. Luc caught murmurs of approval. His mother’s eyes continued to shine.

There was a slight pause, then, “We welcome your return, Lord Siren, and hope in your lifetime we have peace and prosperity. There are just a few more matters for the formal record. In your absence, you must name the ranking officials of state. Whom do you wish to hold such offices?”

He did not have to consider it. “My mother, Ariel Viamar, and my grandfather, Eldin Viamar. In their absence, my father, Ivon Ellandor, Warden.”

 “And your chief of staff?”

He knew what the man meant. “Elhador Imrail. We name him Steward with the full authority of the Crown.”

There was a grating sound behind him and whispers of surprise that trailed through the audience. Some resentment as well, no doubt. “It is so noted,” the First Clerk stated. “And your top aides, my Lord?”

“General Vandil and the Companions.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Carefully setting the quill pen aside, the clerk stood. Raising both hands, he took in the audience. This was it. No more running. No more hiding. “All rise and witness then!” the First Clerk thundered. Forever sealed to the Children. Pledged to serve, pledged to provide strength and succor. His first appearance had shocked the Powers and rocked the Betrayers. Dimly he was aware of the First Clerk leaving the dais. There had been no denying the dreadfulness of the Storm. “I give you the new master of Penthar!” The onslaught had been terrible beyond imagining. This time would not be any different. “The Lord Viamar-Ellandor! Siren, Lord of the Dread City and absolute ruler of Penthar! Kneel!”

  Suddenly faint, he exhaled and blinked repeatedly. His fool knees chose that moment to begin to buckle. Clenching his hands, he realized he was the only one standing.

The Giver defend them,
he thought distantly. He had complied with their wishes. Now they’d have only war and carnage in exchange. He hoped the nation did not pay the price and would emerge relatively intact and unscathed. A fool’s hope, he knew. But one he would have to hold to if he was ever to turn his thoughts to restoring the First Plane.

Rew had to clamp his mouth shut to keep from gaping like a backwater mooncalf. With the stunned audience finally beginning to disperse, Luc, the Lord Viamar, and the White Rose continued to sign documents making the transition permanent. A procedural convention meant solely for display. In Penthar House Viamar’s reign was unquestioned. Right then no one would consider countering the iron will of Eldin Viamar, skin drawn and tight, or the piercing gaze of the White Rose.

Still, it was his boyhood friend out of Peyennar—if notably unrefined, instinctively touched by some inborn power—who ruled the day.

He felt sorry for his friend. How Luc managed to look and sound the part was beyond him. Even the Companions appeared taken aback by some parts of the declaration. Not only them, the higher ranking lords and ladies in attendance. Some eyed the newly raised Lord of Penthar speculatively, though, likely sizing him up or looking to exploit a few of his more evident points of weakness—namely knowing next to nothing about Alingdor or her inner workings. Court politics were dangerous, he had discovered. These were men and women of significant rank and standing; already more than one had attempted to corner him.

Standing in an out of the way spot, he followed the line of nobles making their way to the dais. It seemed Luc would have to speak to each and every last one of them. He supposed that was what kings did.
My friend, the king
. He was hardly sure what to make of it. He suspected the Renfathers had known. Blasted, half of Peyennar must have known. Well, if the suddenness of it had not been shocking enough, the formal announcement of Luc’s other name had given rise to a series of images that had nearly sent him heaving. Rattled, he turned and made for the massive audience hall’s exit, nearly bowling over the girl with the green eyes. Shuddering a second time, he stopped hard in his tracks, guarded.

“The Lord Denail wants a word with us,” Lenora Yasrin said, studying him, eyes like jade opals. In recent days he’d made conscious efforts to avoid her, but she had a way of turning up when least expected. She at least knew why he had been selected to join the Companions. He had been . . . surprised—not the best word to describe it, but it would do—surprised to learn she had similar talents. It seemed more a curse really, some ability linked to a people long forgotten. Well, he had a bit of time to think on that yet. Maybe there was some cure. If some questioned why a gangly northerner had been given select honors, let them wonder. Oh, he had added some bulk during the punishing rides in and out of Peyennar. He had insisted on holding his own—tending to his own horse, laundering and mending his own gear, and doing his bit even when unasked. His only formal schooling had been sessions with Amreal and Luc when the two had been younger, sometimes with Master Renfather too, but he had paid attention. He could accept the awkwardness and even live with it. He had no choice.
Do for yourself,
Allard had advised him pointedly prior to setting out.
Ask for nothing. And do the Acriel name proud. He needs you. The world will need you.
Sound enough advice, it seemed, even if some parts seemed sorely unwarranted. He was just sorry there would be no chance to explore the streets with Luc. Whatever the man had been was quickly becoming displaced, soon only to be a memory.

Glancing at Luc again, he pitied his friend for having to endure the lines of ranking men and women who bowed and murmured pledges of loyalty, most of whom would likely begin jostling for his favor the moment they left the audience hall. They would leave loyal—there were no turncoats in Penthar, but they might not leave pleased. Rew did not have the stomach for such matters, and having had no time to nap or steal a quick bite would have to forgo both now and explore the city by himself if he was to find what he needed. There had been no time before with the nation locked in stasis and a massive beacon of light leading off into another realm where only the darkness existed.

Abruptly he realized the girl was still watching him. Watching him while chewing her lower lip. Straightening, another image blurred across his mind’s eye—the slight girl laid out in a lifeless slumber. He had been certain she had died that day, the day Ivon Ellandor had breached the Mirror Plane. And just as certain the memory had dogged him for weeks. Glancing around, he stifled a yawn. He tried to appear disinterested. He did try. “Tell Denail I’ll be in my quarters in a day or two,” he said finally. “He can find me then if he wants to talk.”

“You’re insolent,” the girl snapped.

He gave her a slight bow and a grin. “Old habits. See you later.”

Picking his way through the crowd still hanging on the newly raised king’s every move, he managed to cleave a path to the hall’s exit but had to struggle through the honor guard stationed at the door and extending well out into the corridor. Tight quarters with everyone wanting a view. Some of the men grumbled when he forcibly made his way through, but once free of the bottleneck he stepped quickly, moving off in search of his quarters. He thought he was familiar enough with the palace’s passageways and corridors that he’d eventually find his way to the main entrance. Locating the right man and navigating the streets were going to prove the more troublesome parts.

He had gone no more than a corridor or two when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “You had better stop, Rew Acriel. Where are you going?”

He groaned. Before he could react, the girl caught his arm, pulling him around. He still had a hard time meeting her eyes directly. “To see some of the city, I suppose,” he replied carefully. “I have a few things to do.”

Her suspicious glare turned into a knowing smile. “Perfect,” she said. “I’ll join you. I need to stop and get a few things, though.” She pulled a hand through one of her white curls. “The Lord Denail wishes us to accompany him to the Black Talon. I’ll send word he can meet up with us there.”

Rew caught himself narrowing his eyes. “He wants us to what? Me and you? Why are you so interested in tagging along?” He finished it pointedly.

Her arched expression made him flinch on the inside. “Hardly interested, Acriel. Just doing as I was ordered to, something you had better get used to. You coming or not?”

He shrugged. “I need to stop by my quarters on the way.”

“Fine. We can stop by mine first.”

Suddenly suspicious, he looked hard at the girl. “You two didn’t cook this up between you, did you?”

The pale-haired, green-eyed girl not a day past sixteen, if that, shrugged mysteriously. “You’ll have to find out for yourself, Acriel. Come on.”

In the end it took them almost an hour to quit the palace. He had needed a few things. Servants had unpacked his belongings and not thought it necessary to share where they had stowed them. He found his lined coat hanging on a hook, freshly pressed. Sheathing one of the Guardian’s blades in a new belt he had purchased in the Landing, he dropped the other in a small burlap sack he had asked one of the maids to fetch and tied it shut. It took him longer to find the pair of slim daggers Urian had given him. The greasy-faced bowman had taken to him, it seemed. Either that or his father’s brandy. Stealing a last glance around the spacious quarters, he dipped a hand beneath his coat to feel for his purse. He had only been a handful of minutes. The girl on the other hand appeared in no rush. She took her time selecting a cloak a match for her button up coat. She was slight but with a lithe figure. He supposed that was why more than one man gave her second and third glances. He himself chose to ignore it.

At least her quarters were in a nearby section of the palace. He twitched his thumbs waiting for her to finish, unused to standing in a woman’s apartments. She had keepsakes on the mantle above the fireplace that caught his eye. Not for the first time he wondered what it was about the girl that made him uncomfortable. Not like Trian or Luc’s ma, of course. He supposed it was the lack of younger folk in Peyennar; the thousands housed in Alingdor presented opportunities he would have to think over.

In the end it was nearly nightfall by the time the two of them left the yard with passable mounts. No one challenged them at the palace gates. The girl’s rank drew curt bows from the guards. Their eyes just flickered over Rew. He supposed he was lucky she had decided to come along after all.

The streets of Alingdor were damp and misty at this time of year. No matter. When he told her where he needed to stop first, she looked at him quizzically. “There are smiths on the palace grounds,” she said, scanning the streets while they rode. Alingdor was never lacking in activity, and she did seem alert. Best he keep his wits about him as well.

“I need someone better.”

She raised an eyebrow but let that pass.

A set of knives was personal, Ingram had said when he had displayed them to the man. Ingram was a steady sort, someone he could trust. Someone all of Peyennar trusted. He did not know what to make about Denail yet.

Lenora Yasrin was an equal enigma. All of the Companions were. At the moment she appeared to be studying him, biting her lower lip once more. He grudgingly admitted she was a competent rider, far more adept than he was. He had never had the opportunity or the training. Was that what it was about her that put him off balance? He had seen any number of young women crossing the palace halls and corridors. Well, none had hair the shade of hers. Or eyes. And just the subtle hint of curves that—

“Why, exactly, do you need an expert smith?” Lenora asked, steering a little closer to avoid a passing wagon train headed for the palace.

He started. He realized he was reluctant to share it. “A few reasons,” he said casually.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” she observed.

“My ma used to say otherwise,” he said a bit defensively.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” she added quickly. “I guess we take a little getting used to. Riven and Altaer were stationed in Peyennar the longest. Both said you used to be quite . . . undependable. I haven’t seen it myself, to be honest.”

He drew in a breath, gripping the reins. “Some things change.” He sighed, taking in the enormous city. “Some things have to change, I guess.”

He had seen it. The Guardian had all but pronounced it. He would die if he stayed behind. The souring part was that he did not want to stay behind.

Lenora took a moment to ponder that before swinging her eyes back to the paved streets. “I will see if I can help, but we have to hurry. I hadn’t expected a tour of the city, you know. We’ll be moving to the Guild’s Quarter and back to the Administrator’s. That’s quite a distance. You’re going to owe me. I’m not sure we can make it back in time. Denail and Imrail are going to have our heads.”

Rew glanced at her. “I wouldn’t mind a night out,” he said guardedly. It might do him some good to explore the city on his own. Besides, he did not think anyone would miss him. Well, not exactly.

Looking at him, he caught a sudden vacant look in her eyes. They were almost entirely white now and made him pull to a halt, glancing around them quickly. A fool thing to ride in a city, he thought. But this one required it. Seconds became a series of prolonged moments. “Yasrin,” he muttered, “you all right?”

She did not appear to hear him.

“
Lenora
,” he hissed. What was wrong with the girl? Seeing her sway, he quickly wheeled his horse and caught her with an arm coiled around her lower back. Seated on horseback in the middle of the open street the two were beginning to draw eyes. A minute or more passed with him shaking her helplessly. “Damn it, will you answer?”

He almost winced when her eyes broke open. “I’m . . . f-fine,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. Her shaky intake was hardly convincing. He could feel her trembling. Realizing he was holding her familiarly, she quickly pulled free. He did not understand why her face was so drawn, but he was beginning to think he might have made a mistake when he’d agreed to allow her to come along. “Let’s go,” she said, drawing herself up. “We don’t have all night.”

“I suppose not,” he said in a neutral tone. “You sure you’re up to it?”

“I’ll be . . . fine.”

Somehow he did not think so. Noticing the faint but perceptible flicker of her eyes, he let the matter drop but continued to watch her closely.

Letting the girl choose their pace, they rolled along the streets of Alingdor at a trot. There was something invigorating about the First City after nightfall. Not at all like Peyennar. They cleared the central district in a little over a half hour. Noting taproom, inns, and taverns of considerable reputation, he realized he was famished. In the garb of the Companions Lenora caught the interest of those making their way on foot through the city. Some moving on horseback bowed in the saddle or tipped their hats respectfully. A few looked at her suggestively after the pair passed, but most of the men and women seemed of a decent sort. Guards and patrols gave the city an ordered feel. No longer daunted by Alingdor’s size or the structures looming overhead, some appearing to touch the sky, he found himself catching a second wind. Lenora noticed and even appeared to shed some of her restraint.

“The Guild’s Quarter is this way,” the girl said. “Try to keep up.”

Nodding, he let her to take the lead. The least he could do was be polite.

Having no shortage of wonders, he had to give Viamar and his daughter credit for the city they maintained. The streets were in remarkable repair and the city itself was in the height of her power and influence. Homes and establishments were loosely knit together but for the most part appeared separated by distinct districts. But for the news he had kin in the south and Luc was bent on vying with the Earthbound, he might have stayed here. Of course he would have to find some sort of honest work. He was reluctant to admit it, but his folks were right about his less than enthusiastic approach to his daily responsibilities. Oh, he was diligent enough during the harvest season, but for the most part Peyennar lived off of Alingdor’s bounty and the generosity of the king.