Read Online The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 by Matt Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matt Thomas
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“What did you mean with that bit about my name?”
Gaelin Denail gave him an odd look. “You didn’t tell him, did you Acriel.” He was not asking. “It seems young Master Acriel is having a hard time accepting his fate, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor. You see, I am from the Free City of Emry.”
Luc let out a whistle of surprise. So that was why. . . . “You have a seat on the Assembly?” he asked.
“Yes.” One of the Guardians then, in some parts known as the Sentinels. He suddenly wondered if some of the Oathbound had ties to Emry. Well, if he thought he had lived to see and survive almost everything the world had left to show him, he was wrong. Utterly and completely. “You will get to know us one day,” Gaelin added.
“How so?”
The Guardian took a sip of the brandy before crossing his left arm behind his back. He did not smile. Luc did not think this man was one to smile often. He had the burden of his oaths to protect the Nations, and the authority to move openly and take independent action. Authority and great power. And a secret charge, Amreal had said. “We have been waiting for you,” the man said quietly as if choosing his words carefully. “I think it will be a welcome day when the Guardians learn of your . . . ancestry. I have known for some time, but have been cautioned by the Warden. He convinced me to keep your secrets close. He can be quite persuasive. There were times when it was difficult. Now it is apparent he foresaw this day. You see, our people are well aware of the Mark. It is the reason for our existence.” He scanned Luc’s face and shifted abruptly as if sensing his mood. “I should take my leave now, my Lord. I wish you well.”
Luc sighed. A few hours and he could almost forget. Now the changes were coming to the forefront again. “Thank you,” he said softly. He did not know what else to say.
The days continued to speed by. Most evenings, between spending time at the Brendar inn or accompanying Trian to see the Barsos, Acriels, or stealing a moment just for the two of them, they sat in on briefings the Lords Viamar and Ellandor received. Sometimes Rew and the Lord Denail were there. Imrail, it seemed, had been elevated in rank and was their lead in all matters. The rugged-faced man did not look pleased, but did his duty. Mearl and a small contingent of aides from the Sons of Thunder sat in. They began to make plans. They changed their plans. No one seemed decided on whether Luc would accompany his folks to Alingdor or head south immediately. Still they planned. They poured over maps, Ancaidan maps more than most. They picked the route south. Ivon drilled Imrail on what he knew of the Unseated. The Fallen. Outside of Sevion and Rusgar, he did not know all who had become infected by the Furies servants, but he suspected. Clearly the discussion was meant for Luc as well.
On the eve of their departure, their destination still undecided, the king finally called for his council. They assembled on one of the upper levels of the Shoulder. The Lord Viamar sat in an armchair at the end of a narrow hall. The surfaces of the walls and floor were smoother than marble and of a making now forgotten. During Luc’s tenure with the Oathbound the area had been restricted. Now the polished stonework and vaulted ceiling caught the lamplight, giving the hall an ominous feel. The king sat with his back straight arrayed in flowing robes, silver and black. His advisers, nobles who had arrived under heavy guard, lined either side of the hall. No doubt some were at first daunted by the Shoulder and the existence of Peyennar. Now with the arrival of the Lord Ellandor and the Lady Viamar a little of that apprehension returned. Awe at the powerful strides of the Warden even without the mantle of his office and the timeless face of the White Rose. Wonder at the two figures the pair flanked. Behind them Imrail and at least a half hundred men added to the intrigue. The king had permitted some of the
Gaelin Denail gave him an odd look. “You didn’t tell him, did you Acriel.” He was not asking. “It seems young Master Acriel is having a hard time accepting his fate, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor. You see, I am from the Free City of Emry.”
Luc let out a whistle of surprise. So that was why. . . . “You have a seat on the Assembly?” he asked.
“Yes.” One of the Guardians then, in some parts known as the Sentinels. He suddenly wondered if some of the Oathbound had ties to Emry. Well, if he thought he had lived to see and survive almost everything the world had left to show him, he was wrong. Utterly and completely. “You will get to know us one day,” Gaelin added.
“How so?”
The Guardian took a sip of the brandy before crossing his left arm behind his back. He did not smile. Luc did not think this man was one to smile often. He had the burden of his oaths to protect the Nations, and the authority to move openly and take independent action. Authority and great power. And a secret charge, Amreal had said. “We have been waiting for you,” the man said quietly as if choosing his words carefully. “I think it will be a welcome day when the Guardians learn of your . . . ancestry. I have known for some time, but have been cautioned by the Warden. He convinced me to keep your secrets close. He can be quite persuasive. There were times when it was difficult. Now it is apparent he foresaw this day. You see, our people are well aware of the Mark. It is the reason for our existence.” He scanned Luc’s face and shifted abruptly as if sensing his mood. “I should take my leave now, my Lord. I wish you well.”
Luc sighed. A few hours and he could almost forget. Now the changes were coming to the forefront again. “Thank you,” he said softly. He did not know what else to say.
The days continued to speed by. Most evenings, between spending time at the Brendar inn or accompanying Trian to see the Barsos, Acriels, or stealing a moment just for the two of them, they sat in on briefings the Lords Viamar and Ellandor received. Sometimes Rew and the Lord Denail were there. Imrail, it seemed, had been elevated in rank and was their lead in all matters. The rugged-faced man did not look pleased, but did his duty. Mearl and a small contingent of aides from the Sons of Thunder sat in. They began to make plans. They changed their plans. No one seemed decided on whether Luc would accompany his folks to Alingdor or head south immediately. Still they planned. They poured over maps, Ancaidan maps more than most. They picked the route south. Ivon drilled Imrail on what he knew of the Unseated. The Fallen. Outside of Sevion and Rusgar, he did not know all who had become infected by the Furies servants, but he suspected. Clearly the discussion was meant for Luc as well.
On the eve of their departure, their destination still undecided, the king finally called for his council. They assembled on one of the upper levels of the Shoulder. The Lord Viamar sat in an armchair at the end of a narrow hall. The surfaces of the walls and floor were smoother than marble and of a making now forgotten. During Luc’s tenure with the Oathbound the area had been restricted. Now the polished stonework and vaulted ceiling caught the lamplight, giving the hall an ominous feel. The king sat with his back straight arrayed in flowing robes, silver and black. His advisers, nobles who had arrived under heavy guard, lined either side of the hall. No doubt some were at first daunted by the Shoulder and the existence of Peyennar. Now with the arrival of the Lord Ellandor and the Lady Viamar a little of that apprehension returned. Awe at the powerful strides of the Warden even without the mantle of his office and the timeless face of the White Rose. Wonder at the two figures the pair flanked. Behind them Imrail and at least a half hundred men added to the intrigue. The king had permitted some of the
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