The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (36 page)

Now Elloyn was advising patience, not understanding he worried most about her. If a coin had three sides, destruction, annihilation, and oblivion were among the fates that awaited them. While some of the Powers had chosen to, if not remain neutral, stand aside, her undying commitment to him put her in immediate harm’s way. It also made him literally melt whenever the two of them were alone. His folks maintained he had to embrace this existence. If that was so, what would that mean for them? What could it mean? Those were the questions that continued to trouble him. Patience was all well and good, but he expected events in Ancaida to come to a head within weeks. Any longer would leave the nation beyond saving.

Sighing, he turned from the fire and reached for a wineglass Trian must have filled earlier. Taking a sip, he unbuttoned his sleeves and sat on the floor within reach of her. “You never told me why,” he replied finally. Stretched out as she was, he had some difficulty keeping his eyes locked on her face. “You were the first. Now there’s another.”

Shaking her head, perhaps in disbelief, she shifted and held out her arms. Setting aside the wineglass, he inched towards her, head nestling into the small of her neck. Her skin was soft, satin, warm and fragrant. “Some things were meant to be from the beginning, Luc.” She gripped him hard. “There’s no need to explain it, or question it. I loved you then, and I love you now. Trust that if you trust nothing else. Trust that when there is nothing left to trust in.”

Sensible advice. Perceptive too. Deciding it high time he focus on something other than the coming engagement, he soaked in the feel of the woman and what might prove the last time the two of them would be alone in weeks. Months perhaps. He had no doubt dawn would bring new tidings. Tonight he decided he had other things to consider.

Waking early, stiff from sleeping on a throw rug, Luc sat up, trying to orient himself. Small wonder the night had passed without incident, Luc privately worried some calamity would come of their self-indulgence. Still, daybreak had come sooner than was welcome. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he sat up. A quick glance at the raven-haired Val Moran made him let out a breath. One night to forget, but morning had brought no comfort. Resisting the impulse to cup her cheek or soak in the feel of a hanging ringlet, he stood.
Time for it,
he told himself. Making his way to the morning room, he came to a clear basin and filled it. Dipping both hands into the lukewarm water, he paused, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. The face that greeted him seemed a stranger’s, familiar but not.
Not ever again,
a quiet voice told him. Not now or ever.

Best not to delay, he decided.

A short time later he returned to the sitting room and peeled back one of the curtains. Some sense told him the day would dawn clear and free of the recent cloud-cover. This window looked west. From what he could see dawn had just now broken. With one night in Innisfield behind them, he turned his thoughts to the coming storm, storing the memory alongside a few select others. Their time was coming.

Coming with the storm.

Having spent much of the night exchanging accounts, fragmented as they were, of their upbringings, sharing impressions of Alingdor, and moving on to what they expected to find in Ancaida, they had both fallen asleep still in the sitting room. Each had consumed more wine than was sensible, but he had some reason to feel encouraged. He had proven to himself he could be suitably proper when it was just the two of them. For the time being what they had, what they shared, was enough. Waking the Val Moran with a light shake of the shoulders, he breathed in her scent. It was a moment or two before she opened her eyes fully.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

Trian stretched and yawned. “So soon . . . ?” Closing her eyes, she held out her arms. “That was about the shortest night in memory. Few Val Moran lords could ever hope to rival your modesty, my Lord, but you do seem to stretch the boundaries some.” Luc glanced at her. “I don’t believe you kissed me, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor.” She said it tartly.

He grinned. “We could try again tonight.”

She stretched a second time. The sight made him shiver. “Imrail will have our ears. Kiss me already before I—”

She did not need to ask him twice.

Sometime later, weak-kneed and out of breath, he left the room in search of Hireland. He found the man in the common room with a full squad of men standing at attention. It appeared the general had been privy to their movements after all. Narrowing his eyes at Mearl, the soldier endured his probing looks with an expression twice as blank as the one he normally assumed.

Mistress Carlin left in a panic when she saw him enter. Perhaps unable to summon up the nerve to speak, she curtsied and disappeared into the kitchens. A bit of air entering caused him to glance at the inn’s doors, cool but carrying a suggestion of power. Urian entered then. The agile bowman moved purposefully. On his own, he was capable of eliciting an immediate reaction in any venue. He was perhaps the most intimidating of the Companions, and not just because of his slant-eyed looks and bulk. Today the bowman was in full command of the retinue, and it showed. With Riven gone the man was going to be that much more important. In the end their successes and failures might hinge on the Lord Viamar’s judgment in choosing the handful of men and women who served under Imrail.

“My Lord,” Urian said deferentially, bowing.

“Angar,” Luc acknowledged. “Were you here the entire night?”

“No, arrived an hour or so ago. Not much to report,” the bowman added, “though we’ve had at least thirty men sign the registers. Most are raw. Imrail’s consented to send them to Alingdor under light escort. We can expect dozens more by week’s end. Fools, all of them,” he finished it in a mutter, expression grim. “Bloody fools with no idea what is coming.”

Luc waited. “Anything else?” he asked.

Urian thumbed an ear. “No,” he said. “The night was quiet. Checked in on Acriel. Had a tankard or two with him before turning in.”

Luc narrowed his eyes. “He isn’t angry?” He did not mean Rew.

The Companion scratched his face, glancing at him sideways. “Not sure what you mean,” he said quietly. “Imrail’s usually fussing about something or other, but no more than usual. He’s worried, I’ll grant you, but not without reason. We’ve leagues of ground to cover and any number of plans to set in motion. This is going to be a close thing.”

Luc remained skeptical. “He isn’t the least bit cross?”

Urian scratched an armpit. “Cross? Imrail was born cross. He understands. We all understand.” The man grunted. “He’s a hard one to figure out, that’s certain, but he’s changed. Has hope now. I’ll wager he still expects to die. Nothing unusual about that other than he seems certain. That’s what has Lanspree in a huff. Well, in any case, I’d wager you already know he’s taken to you. We all have. Vandil will have his hands full with the war, but Imrail and the Companions will serve you.”

Luc’s head came up. “You’re saying Vandil won’t?”

“Not in the same way,” Urian said after a moment, confused. “That’s not his role.”

Luc stabbed a finger at the bowman, suddenly feeling afire. “Vandil will do what’s required of him, Urian,” he snapped. “You make that clear. This isn’t Imdre. And I’m not the Warden or the Lord Viamar. You understand me?”

Urian shot a nervous glance around them, looking momentarily shaken. Beads of sweat instantly glistened on his forehead. “Vandil serves,” he said, spreading his hands. “I didn’t mean to claim otherwise.”

“Just tell him.”

Urian blinked. “I was with the man a week after you got Viamar to safety,” he said slowly, carefully. “Armenis was dog-set on sending the bastard to the pit after the trouble he’d caused. He was torn over leaving, likely still is. He’s your man for sure or I’m a turncoat. I’d share my last tankard with him without hesitation, my Lord.”

Luc sagged. He was becoming unglued. “I know.” But others had betrayed him before. “Just you tell him. He needs to be more. You and I both need to be more. That man has responsibilities that extend beyond the borders of this nation. Clear?”

“Clear.” Urian swallowed and looked away. “How about a bite?” he said, changing the subject. He looked a bit on edge, likely from needing to choose his words so carefully. Normally every third word out of the hook-nosed man’s mouth was a curse, but he had proven himself time and time again.

Nodding, Luc moved towards a nearby table. He motioned Mearl to ensure Trian joined them. Urian made a crisp gesture towards the kitchen before taking a seat. It was not long before servers were moving back and forth rapidly.

Fingering the bit of crystal at his neck, Luc pressed Urian for further news. He started with the state of the mid-sized town, Trian joining them in the middle of the account. Urian seized the opportunity to emphasize the importance of the Innisfield’s location and the need to fortify it with reserve guards. Given the surrounding wood, a Legion push here would come without warning. That could prove disastrous to their plans. This year’s harvest had been particularly good, enough so the stores of grain were full. Anneth to the south on her own was overflowing with golden wheat and barley. The news was welcome and boded well for what was coming.

Luc cut to the heart of the matter. He felt conflicted. Were they doing the right thing? Were they stripping Alingdor of too many men? Was it true, was the south looking to secede? Would the lieutenants hold to their plans if it came to occupying Ancaida? Had word spread among the outfits about what they were facing? Truly facing?

These were just some of the questions troubling at him. There were a hundred more he did not think anyone capable of answering.

Urian eyed him evenly. Strange that. These days few seemed particularly willing to do so. The man must have had ice in his veins, or was made of sterner stuff than anyone was aware of. Leaning forward, face noticeably reflective, the bowman ignored his untouched plate. “I met a man once,” he began slowly. “Sometimes I still wonder what became of him. He was nationless, his people scattered. His city had been razed and his sons and had been cut down in front of him. That was what came of Manx Andus and the hair-brained claim he’d been born to reunite Valince.”

Urian paused, eyes focused. “That was the first time, the only time, I had reason to question my orders. The man was starving and still scavenging for tools to rebuild his home. Didn’t make much sense to me. No one was left. One of our sergeants named him a fool twelve times over for not heading to the refugee camps. The man just looked at him. He showed no hate. No blame. He just said others had come before and would come after. Said there would be sons yet in need of a stout home even if his own lads would never live to see or finish it.”

Urian ended it in a voice that was tight and hoarse. He appeared to be lost in the memory. Well, that was until his face hardened and he glanced up. “Had Bevronail had more men like that she would have held,” he said tightly. He mopped the sweat off his face with a muttered oath, then abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. “You asked me if we were doing the right thing,” he said. “I’ve answered. You give us hope, even when refuse to keep any for yourself.” He bowed slightly. “I will be waiting outside, my Lord. Call if you need me.”

Trian took Luc’s arm, following the man’s exit. “He’s a great deal more complicated than he lets on.” Luc nodded. He had to consciously force himself to unclench his hands. That inner divide felt about to break, to burst open, in fury. “I think I would like to head back now, Luc,” Trian added. “I suddenly don’t feel much like eating.”

Luc understood the sentiment. He did not think he could stomach anything himself at the moment. Sighing, he stood and bowed in Mistress Carlin’s direction, returning to their rooms to collect their things, feeling cold. Empty. Exiting just minutes later, grateful for the open air, he found Urian standing under an awning fingering the hilt of his sword. Luc held the man’s eye a moment before starting underway.

By day Innisfield was a hive of activity. With Urian’s escort firmly in position around them, they made their way back to the barracks on foot, townsmen taking in Ariel Viamar’s son with some excitement. And some speculation. The scene did not quite rival his arrival in the First City, but for the town of Innisfield was a moment of more than minor note. A pity he barely noticed. He had firmly decided on something he had intentionally been putting off.

After returning to the barracks, he swiftly retreated to the modest room he had been assigned, ignoring the soldiers and aides who called out to him. Shutting the door firmly behind him, he found his gear had been attended to. Coats were pressed and newly mended. Boots had been polished to a fine luster. Pacing, he resisted the urge to snatch up the Rod. Unable to shake the tale Urian had shared, he spent the next few hours closeted in his room. No one disturbed him. On some level he knew no one was about to disturb him.

Grinding his teeth, he forced himself to a standstill. Caught up now, an overpowering sense of wrath and rage took hold of him. His movements quickly became unconscious. It still took a tremendous effort, an agony of focus not native to him: His conscious thought, not yet practiced; his active will, still untried and untested.

Time for it.
He knew it instinctively. This was important. A touch of mercy where he had none, perhaps. Or a raving madness beyond cure.

He had put this off long enough.

Body and mind heaved in protest, but he was a being of another Plane. His folks might have him deny it. His enemies as well. But the creature within begged to be unleashed, a storm unfettered during the dawning ages. His fears would become lost in the torrent. His hopes as well.

With a hiss, the air broke before him, a tear or forced fissure ripping open. Light so intense suddenly filled his field of view. He staggered, fumbling his way forward. The opening came precisely where he intended. Even with the searing pain lashing at him, he knew it. Endured it. The sight of the chained being did not hold him. It was another image, far off in the distance. Glorious. Beyond compare.

Broken.

“I will not beg.”

Luc thought he heard himself growl. He was Luc, wasn’t he? “No?” he snarled. “You
will
beg, Rusgar. Not to me. To the One. Beg or see your soul shattered to mend the breaking.”

An intake, then—

A sudden knock sounded at the door. Luc turned sharply, clutching his face. That fast and the fold or tear faded, the afterimage of effervescent light sending him lurching.

Hireland poked his head inside “Sorry to disturb you, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he apologized, eyes lowered. “General Imrail would like a word.”

Luc froze. “Trouble?”

“It seems so, my Lord.”

Springing forward, he seized his sword. A wonder the man made no comment on seeing him sprawled out on the hardwood floor. Seizing a hand cloth, he wiped his face. Hireland looked around uncomfortably. Here was another link to Peyennar. Landon Graves and Mearl would likely find him a capable adjutant.
Others held the post before.
Someone else’s thought.

 The halls, despite being somewhat bare, reminded him more of an inn than a military post. It was a bit too clean, floorboards a chestnut color, some sections carpeted, rooms a bit too fine for his comfort with wardrobes, twin nightstands, and sitting areas. Not that he minded much. He just found it a little too refined compared to the rustic Shoulder in the faraway north. He and Hireland entered just as a scout concluded his report.