The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (5 page)

If the name meant nothing to Luc, it did to his father. His face instantly went white. He started to stand. Veins along his jaw rippled. Gripping the edge of the table, the man had to make a conscious effort to keep from exploding. Or seizing his cloak and going after the Furies’ agent straightway.

“Your father’s onetime ally, Luc,” Ariel explained, “and his chief aid. He led the rebellion that eventually resulted in the division of Ardil and the Great Flight, as they called it. They were bound for Almara, refusing to aid us during the Stand at Imdre.”

“And nearly breaking us,” Imrail said coldly.

Glancing between them, Luc had reason enough to feel their intensity. Of all the things that were miring, the split was by far the most haunting for his father. Now they knew who this Ansifer was, or had been. He was not certain the Fallen had enough of a soul left to call his own—punishment enough, perhaps, for sedition of this kind.

Carefully Ivon collected himself. Not looking at anyone in particular, he sipped his tea. “I understand your scouts confirmed a part of his forces broke south with the Sword.”

Imrail answered. “Yes, my Lord. We assume they have the Sword.”

“I see.” Too casual. “Then, Captain, if I understand you correctly, am I right in assuming Sevion has the Sword of Ardil? The sword of my people?”

Imrail saw the man’s blood lust rekindling. The discovery was alarming—more than that, crushing, something his father would never forgive. Or forget. Attempting to shift the conversation, Luc shuffled around the table. He made the movement appear casual. “Ansifer now, Father.” He began to dig through the pantry. Of course the cupboards were bare. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to eat,” he said.

“I could use a bite myself,” the Lord Viamar said idly. “Where are my maids, girl? Have them send for Ellie. I’m starved.”

Ariel froze. Glancing at Ivon, she appeared to grow faint. Her husband forgot his wrath a moment. Perhaps it was the one thing that could shake it. “Father,” Ariel said softly, “Ellie died. You have no maids. Not since . . .”

“. . . your mother died,” the Lord Viamar finished. “Aye girl. But I thought we could all use a quip at my expense.” The old man was more bone and sinew now, but he was still cagy. He ran a hand through his beard and shot the other out at the Warden, gripping him by the arm. “There will be time enough to settle the score with that one. And it may be you will not be the one to do it. I think, perhaps, that you would be wiser to put the entire business behind you and turn to spending some time with your son. I understand he and Imrail are bound for Ancaida. I must consider whether I can allow it. You must consider whether we can afford not to allow it. I need you.”

Ariel covered her face. “I won’t forget this,” she warned.

“Yes, you will,” the king said firmly. “Now, on to more important matters. What are we going to eat?”

A week passed. The delay was unavoidable. No one held any grand delusions a few days would make up for eight years or mend the open scars and wounds made more visceral by the passage of time, but the days brought a warmth to the Warden’s features Ariel Viamar had nearly forgotten and a quiet serenity to his mother’s that would have to serve for all time. Luc could hardly deny them that. For him the days were more revealing than those spent under the pall of the Third Plane. He became the Warden and White Rose’s son and understood the test would not be to displace the boy from Peyennar, but embrace him. He understood pain. He understood anger. He understood loss.

He also understood love.

That
was the knowledge that would aid him.
That
was the driving focus that would differentiate him from the growing consciousness within. And from the creatures bent on pursuing him.

It soon became evident an immediate move south without first understanding the entirety of what they were facing would have been disastrous. Oh, he had an innate understanding of the forces moving through the world now, but he did not know the world the way men like Imrail and Ivon Ellandor did, did not perceive it as they did. The last clash between the Earthbound and the Nations had been a simple prelude to this. His father was convinced. After the assault on the Shoulder, the Legion of the Earthbound had revealed the power it now commanded, and its urgency. Ivon and Ariel warned him the Nations—outside of Val Mora—would never understand their true peril. Something had to be done to convince each realm to commit to their cause and deploy their armies in time to face it.

Each day not long after sunup his father sat him down to deliver the training and instruction he had promised. Those morning sessions were grueling, Ivon relentless. Today his father wore a tan shirt and gray trousers. Plain on first glance, the apparel revealed a muscular frame. Ivon went through the fundamentals of the Tides first. “Raw, untapped power,” the man lectured. “Limitless. There are—were—libraries in Ardil devoted to four distinct schools or areas of focus. Adepts refer to them as the Tides of Alteration, Balance, Disintegration, and Mending. The final discipline is known only to a few; little has intentionally been recorded for good reason. They are the forbidden arts. I cannot, will not, discuss them. Those with the ability inborn must progress through specific stages, learn what schools they have an affinity to.”  He paused. “We are fewer now,” he whispered. Ivon’s heavy frame became ridged and for a few moments he appeared to exist in another time, in the heights of the Silver City. After some time the man brushed the memory aside and fixed his imposing eyes on Luc. “It takes months of mental discipline and training just to gain an awareness of the Tides. You have tread dangerous ground, lad.”

Clearly the man knew more about what Luc had done than either of them had shared.

He began with exercises that saw Luc seated on the floor of his room with his legs crossed. Sensing the Tides. Luc had a limited understanding from Sathon, more from the remote parts of his unconscious. His father had him sit and breathe and feel the limitless substance at the heart of the Making. Only feel. Luc would have preferred the open air, but Ivon insisted this would bring him center and balance. He called it achieving a harmony with the oneness, a unity or symmetry with the Tides.

“You’ve been doing this since you were a boy,” Ivon continued. “We were always a little uncomfortable you did it so effortlessly. Now we know why, though I did suspect. There was something else, though. It is separate and distinct from what we do, this affinity to the elements you possess. No doubt it fascinated your uncle. And then there is the matter of the Sypher. It seems you have many gifts, lad.” Ivon shook his head slightly as if he still had difficulty believing it, but he did not press Luc for an answer. Luc did not think he could answer. “In any case,” his father went on, “the greatest among us took decades to achieve such balance and precision. When a pupil attains the harmony with the Tides, what he does with it forms the structures of the Circles. Your uncle was a unique one. He had the balance, but not the ability to read the fiber in others. His strengths took on other forms and he became an adept of the Second Circle. You, I suspect, can not only trace the Tides, read the currents, but direct them. I will teach you the basic Manipulations. Enough to keep you from doing yourself harm.

“First you must see. Open your eyes.” Unannounced a mist appeared to settle in the air. Not a mist. Beads or droplets of some . . . substance. The Tides, he realized. It was astonishing to see the elemental substance suspended in midair in his own room. A pelting rain suddenly halted. Covered in sweat, he stared. He lost the awareness immediately. No man could hold such power. Gripping his knees, he inhaled. To see the fabric of the Making with the eye. Some part of him perceived the beauty in it, not just in what he saw, but in the intricate tapestry that interconnected all of existence. His father began with a basic Manipulation. Perhaps the most basic of them all. Under his command a swirl formed, twisting into a sudden current. It ignited then. Pure unadulterated flame. Flame that poised itself in midair.

It was the Mark of Chaos.

Luc felt lines of sweat run down his face. “You didn’t need to do that.” It came out in a pained whisper.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did.” His father’s voice was tight with meaning. “Our enemies will not wait while you decide when—if—you will embrace your nature. They will use the indecision against you. Others began this fight, but you must finish it. Not for the Warden—he is dead. For the unborn who deserve an existence free of the Earthbound.” He waited until he was certain Luc had marked him. Exhaling, he went on. “You must not attempt this until you achieve the balance. A pupil in training must be highly controlled. Make sure you begin each day seeking the center I discussed. When you are ready, we will be able to explore the extent of your abilities.” His tone underscored the weight of the warning.

After their morning exercises, Luc attended his mother. Ivon had commissioned the help of some of the men to refit the aging cottage. With the sound of their hammers ringing outside, the Lady Viamar impressed upon him the duty he had to her and the people of Penthar. He was surprised by her intensity. He told her he was born not to rule but to redeem, to make amends and right the mistakes he had made, mistakes that burdened and crippled the soul. She refused to listen and insisted the lines of both Ardil and House Viamar depended on him and that he would have to one day turn to Alingdor and assume a role that made his mouth dry and his palms slick. That time was coming, she said. Soon.

With Ivon occasionally weighing in, she explored the people, policies, and politics of the Nations. She had visited them all, including the Free City Emry—even the disposed people of Bevronail. He gained a great deal of insight from her. Trian sat through those sessions. He did not tell his mother that, while he listened attentively, he grew cold inside whenever he fully took in her features. Her doting gray eyes, for one. He did not want to lose her a second time.

During the years they had been absent his parents had constantly, tirelessly, been on the move. The Andus conflict had occurred around the time of their departure; events were made more perilous with Val Mora pinned down by the Earthbound. Andus had declared himself a decedent of Darillien Valince, the only man to govern the Nations under one banner. That had been in the remote past. When Andus made simultaneous moves into Tolmar and Gintara there had been only one answer. Luc discovered both Ivon and Ariel had not only been there, but had taken direct steps to stop him while still committing enormous Pentharan resources to Val Mora and extended campaigns with Ivon openly countering the Earthbound. Under the direction of Emry, the forces of the Guardians, Tolmar, and Penthar had united to grind Bevronail into dust.

All of that in and of itself had taken them two years. His mother continued to expand and explain. He thought she was frantic to do so, but she hardly needed absolution from him. After the Andus incident and Val Moran threat had been dealt with, the pair had moved on to the others Nations attempting to rekindle the support of their allies while in search of an item Ariel had pressed on Amreal to give to her son. She did not mention the “item.” Over the years they were harried and pursued and often uncovered, making it necessary to go into hiding. They spent a full winter in the Martyren wood with the tribal folk who had no true city or clear ruler. They were staunch Val Moran supporters given they too often had to deal with the Earthbound. Rumors of another Legion city in the remote region of the world known as Laringail made him tense. He never would have believed they had covered so much ground. More than one stop in Ardil, all but deserted. Something about his father’s stance suggested the Lords of the Scales were not quite as defeated as most were led to believe.

The account had taken his mother three days to narrate with all of the interruptions, Imrail or some noble poking a head in needing a word with either his mother or father, the king falling ill, or one of the village natives come to pay their respects. By the time Ariel finished Luc would not have been surprised to hear the two had taken ship and visited Almara. One byproduct of living as nomads was that they were remarkably fit. They also knew more about the known world than the academics who taught in Gintaran or Tolmaran schools. Perhaps most important, the years in exile had forged an unbreakable bond between the two that would last beyond the grave. The thought brought him some comfort.

After the sessions with his mother he spent his afternoons with Swordmaster Waylor Ayden. They sparred armed and unarmed. He discovered the bushy-eyebrowed, bald-faced man was the headmaster of the practice grounds in Alingdor and oversaw the training and induction of new recruits. He was a strict task-master and did not coddle Luc or go easy on him simply because he was the son of the White Rose. He had Luc train against two men more often than not now. Luc winced at the bruises he bore but did not complain. He was still nowhere near as competent as the man would have liked. Rather than berate him, though, the man pushed him harder. It was all part of Vandil’s plan to make him a weapon to openly oppose the Furies. Ayden was scheduled to return to Alingdor soon. Luc was not sure if his folks would be accompanying him.

Around the early evening hour of the third day, with no sign or word from Rew, Luc put on an old gray coat and pair of rusty trousers. Working his way around back, he crossed to the slope-roofed barn, still in good repair despite the volatile mountain weather. On Luc’s arrival the bay pounced and gave a thunderous greeting. Luc winced when the barn shook. Taking his time saddling the bay, he set out for the Acriel homestead.

For the first time in days the sky was clear and piercing streams of sunlight settled on the green. The air was still cool, but not on the uncomfortable side. The horse was eager to run so he took paths that cut through the wood. Peyennar had its share of wonders, the open woodland just one of them. As he knifed through the trees, he soaked in the wind. He passed through the clearing where Jisel Altaer’s house stood and galloped on. He had a feeling the bay was showing off its paces. His strides were long and powerful but still light on its feet.

That was when the name came to him.

Delighted, he let the steed roll on unchecked. The bay would have stood out in Ingram’s yard with its height, glossy coat, and muscular build. Luc was more than just a little disappointed when he reached the fertile highlands home to the dense Acriel orchards. It was hard to picture a more perfect day. Peyennar had always seemed to exist in a perpetual state outside of time and memory. Memory flowed in the skies above, but the Peaks and mountain air gave the region a far-off, mystic feel. He was going to have to steel himself if he was going to leave it.

“Seems we had the same idea,” a voice said. Luc drew rein and glanced over his shoulder. A man was approaching on foot. He wore a forest green cloak and clothing cut in a formal fashion, coat long and trim and buttoned from below the throat all the way to the knees. There was something odd about his silvery hair and smooth features, but Luc couldn’t quite place it. He thought he had seen the man around the Shoulder, just before the Earthbound attack. Maybe a few times since then.

“Afternoon,” the man said as Luc came to a stop. The bow he gave Luc was considerable. “A good day for on outing, I think. These are lush fields. Quite breathtaking. I could do without the melting snow, though,” he added with a glance at his boots.

Curious, Luc dismounted. He extended a hand in greeting more out of courtesy than any desire to exchange pleasantries. Something about the man seemed a little too refined for his liking, though Amreal had always cautioned him about judgments made in haste. “Luc Anaris,” he introduced.

Shaking his hand, the man gave him a sidelong look. “Those days are gone, my Lord. I already know your name, but Viamar-Ellandor suits you best in these parts. I am known as Gaelin. Gaelin Denail.”

Luc raised an eyebrow but chose to let the observation pass. “Is this your first time in Peyennar?” he asked.

“No, though it’s been some years since my last visit.” The man tucked his thumbs into his belt. “In truth, I have been waiting for the right time to make your acquaintance. It seems Altris was with me today. I gather you are here to see the young Master Acriel. I would like a word with him as well. May I join you?”

“Sure.” He was not sure what else to say.

The Acriel house was one of the more elaborate in Peyennar. Allard Acriel was a gifted man of more than one trade. His home stood two stories high and had a wide porch at the entrance. Master Acriel did most of his brewing around back in an attached distillery, likely modest by Ancaidan standards. Tying off the reins to the front railing, he climbed the steps two at a time and knocked. Feeling the stranger’s eyes on him, he decided there was definitely something significant about the man, but could not place it. Maybe it was the voice, intellectual and knowing. There was a hint of Imrail in the man—the presence, at least. Luc could not decide. He had little knowledge of the great cities or their peoples, but this one definitely struck him as more than a touch urbane.