Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles (16 page)

Stopping, Aidan shouted at Daniel to halt, but the wind smothered him, stealing words and breath. He turned his head and gasped in air, wishing he had a smidgen of light to draw so he could wrap his friend and himself in heat bubbles. He looked this way and that in search of shelter, but the snow hid everything beyond arm’s length. For all he knew he was standing right in front of a copse of trees or a village.

He started forward again, calling to Daniel that he hadn’t seen anything yet. He waited for a reply, but none came. Peering about frantically, Aidan felt his chest grow even colder. Daniel was nowhere in sight.

“Daniel? Daniel!”

The wind’s shrill cry drowned out each call. He turned this way and that, but everywhere he looked revealed only blinding, numbing whiteness. Perhaps Daniel was looking for him. He stopped, pivoting about so he would be sure to see Daniel when he came into view. If he came into view.

I’m never going to find him. We’ll both die out here, and it’s my fault.

—Look behind you.

Whipping around, Aidan saw nothing but a swirling, stinging wall of white.

“Where?”

—Walk forward.

When Aidan hesitated, Heritage hummed at his waist.

—The Eye of Heritage can see clearly, even in this storm. Do not fear, Aidan.

Raising an arm to shield his face, he trekked forward.

—Turn left.

He changed directions at once. As he walked forward, he made out a dim shape in the distance. At first, he thought it might be nothing more than a tree, but as he moved closer he realized the unlikely odds of a tree being able to call his name.

Daniel spotted him and ran forward. The friends grasped arms and loosed triumphant and grateful shouts that were instantly spirited away.

Daniel jutted his finger at a point in the distance and beckoned for Aidan to follow. They broke into a slow, trudging run, practically hopping through knee-high snow. Daniel stumbled and fell, stamping the snowy ground with a man-shaped imprint. Aidan hauled him up and they continued forward.

A cave slowly materialized in the distance. Its maw was short but wide. They had to crawl through the opening. The walls fell back and the ceiling rose gradually as the passage sloped downward. They emerged in a grotto as dark as a starless sky. Aidan was aware of Daniel’s presence only by the scuffs of his boots against stones.

Heritage rattled at his side. Looking down, he was delighted to see a red glow from the eye that peeled back the darkness. Raising the sword above his head, he saw walls slick with ice and a rough, uneven floor. A strange design, like a V set inside another V, was scratched into the wall near the opening they had crawled through. Aidan gave it a glance then ignored it, diverting his attention to a more interesting and crucial discovery. A few paces ahead lay a pile of sticks. A tinderbox rested nearby.

Daniel scooped up the box and fumbled at it. Cold made his fingers shaky and stiff. Aidan crouched beside him and held the sword out like a torch. Daniel turned to the fire and struck flint to steel over and over. Cursing, he tossed them aside and hugged his arms over his body.

“Won’t light,” he chattered.

Aidan nodded, wondering why his own teeth weren’t chattering.

“Can you make fire?” Daniel asked.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m so tired.”

“Try?” Daniel pleaded.

With a slow, heavy nod, Aidan understood why he didn’t feel the cold as keenly as before. Exhaustion was settling over him like a blanket, warm and inviting. He shook his head roughly. If he fell asleep now, they would both freeze to death.

“I need light,” he said. He raised the lamp from his neck but the vial was still empty. “There’s no light,” he said, panic creeping in.

“It’s all right,” Daniel said, trying to smile. He picked up the flint and steel with trembling hands, struck them together feebly, cursed, and tossed them aside before picking up two twigs.

“A spark? Can you work with a spark?” Daniel asked.

“That should be plenty,” Aidan said.

Pressing his lips together in concentration, Daniel ground the sticks together. The minutes stretched on like hours without so much as a hint of smoke.

Aidan closed his eyes.
We’re going to die in here. Kahltan take me, I shouldn’t have let Daniel come along.

—If you need fire, Aidan, all you need to do is ask.

Aidan blinked dumbly at the sword.
You can do that?

—Not me. Not exactly. Others. Have Daniel replace the twigs, then raise the sword and make your request.

Aidan relayed the sword’s request. Lifting Heritage, Aidan thought,
Fire. Um... please.

All at once the strangest sensation settled over him. A breeze caressed his hand, but it was not soft. It was rough, like a hand calloused from hard labor. The scent of sawdust, fresh earth, and pine tickled his nose. A streak of flame as thin as a rod burst from the Eye of Heritage, striking the wood and setting it aflame. Daniel shouted and leaped away but recovered quickly, whooping with joy and scooting close to warm his hands over the roaring bonfire.

As quickly as it had occurred, the sensation faded. The Eye went dark. The scent of the outdoors, like a dish made of nature’s finest ingredients, faded away, surrendering to the cave’s natural aroma of earth and ice.

—Better?
the sword asked.

Aidan didn’t say anything. The smell of dirt and sawdust, the touch of a rough hand guiding his... It was as if his Grandfather Charles had settled behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other lifting his tired arm to help and support. History painted Charles a stern king, but a fair one, and beloved by his people. Aidan couldn’t attest to any of that. Charles had passed Heritage to Annalyn long before Aidan was born. He had only known his grandfather as a happy man quick to booming laughter and an avid outdoorsman. Charles had often smuggled Aidan away from lessons—and, later on, Daniel with him—for a day spent tromping through woods, splashing through streams, casting fishing lines, and carving toys and trinkets in his woodshop.

Once, Charles had packed a rucksack and taken Aidan on an extended camping trip. For three nights, they had camped out under Kahltan’s cold, pale gaze. Aidan had not been afraid. Not
very
afraid, anyway. Every night, Charles had made a fire and kept his grandson up telling stories: stories of Ambrose and his skill and bravery in battle against Dimitri Thalamahn; tales of Marvin, Ambrose’s grandson and a wild and scatterbrained inventor who had once blown a hole the size of an apple cart in one of Sunfall’s walls after an experiment involving barrels of Darinian ale and lots of fire; and plenty of stories that were not about anyone real at all. Those had been Aidan’s favorites. He had often wondered what it would have been like to sit in on a story told by both Tyrnen and his grandfather.

Charles had passed away when Aidan was twelve. Tyrnen, as much a part of Aidan’s life as his grandfather, had helped fill that void, but only to a small degree. Despite his gruff demeanor during studies, Tyrnen loved a good bout of fun as much as Charles. But he did not appreciate the smell of a crisp winter morning the way most people appreciated the aroma of a fine meal, nor could he carve toy wagons for Aidan, Daniel, and himself to race up and down Sunfall’s long corridors, laughing while attendants scurried out of their way. He loved Tyrnen, but Tyrnen was not his grandfather.

Aidan came to the fire, sitting opposite Daniel. He felt warm again, and that was wonderful. But he also felt deeply sad. For the briefest of instants, he had been back home—not the home he had known these past terrible weeks. The Sunfall from before everything in his life had gone horribly wrong. The Sunfall where he had felt safe, wanted, and loved.

“How did you do that?” Daniel said. “I thought you were spent.”

Aidan only shrugged.

“Well, I guess we don’t have to figure it out this instant, do we?” Daniel said as he flexed his fingers in front of the flames.

“I guess not,” Aidan said, though he couldn’t help looking at the sword. The Eye’s red glow had vanished, dwarfed by the bonfire.

How
did
I do that?
Aidan thought to the weapon.

—
You
didn’t.

Care to explain that?

—Certainly. But not now. You’d better warm yourself and get some sleep. We’ll talk later.

The blade went silent. Peeling off his gloves, Aidan flexed his hands near the flames. Beside him, Daniel blinked heavily, teetering on his knees.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Aidan suggested.

Daniel’s eyes shot open before slowly closing again. “I’m not that tired.”

Aidan’s brow rose. “So you weren’t about to pitch forward into the fire? I didn’t make it to roast you for dinner.”

Yawning, Daniel nodded and stretched out beside the fire, first wrapping himself in his cloak then tossing the soaked garment aside with a curse. Aidan drew light, whispered a prayer, and wrapped a heat bubble around his friend. Daniel stirred and sighed.

“So that’s what that feels like,” Daniel said dreamily.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Best spell in the world,” Daniel mumbled. A few moments later, he began to snore.

Aidan spread out and set Heritage to one side, just within reach. He tucked his head against an outstretched arm and studied the Eye, wondering. Then he drifted off, dreaming of lakes and fishing lines and toy wagons.

Chapter 15

The Siblings

T
YRNEN STASHED THE ARTIFACT
away and folded his hands on his desk. “Enter.”

The Sallnerian entered the tower first. Christine was even more beautiful than the day she had entered the Lion’s Den years before—medium height; slanted, hazel-colored eyes; a riding skirt and knee-high boots that showed off long, shapely legs. Her skin was fair, unlike like that of pure-blooded Sallnerians. Her schooling had been sporadic given the girl’s need for independence from her father, but Christine had far surpassed her fellow Touched—all but Aidan—and had earned the honor he was prepared to bestow. She carried herself with confidence, even in the presence of the Eternal Flame of Crotaria. He liked that. A bit of confidence was allowed, so long as it did not give way to arrogance.

Her brother, Garrett, followed, closing the door behind him. Tyrnen’s smile wavered. That one was not Touched by the Lady’s light, nor did he have his sister’s Sallnerian features. Those came from their mother’s side. This one resembled his father: tall, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and blue eyes that glittered as they roamed the tower room, soaking up the treasures Tyrnen had sprinkled around.

Christine came up to his desk and bowed. “It is an honor, Eternal Flame,” she said, tucking a lock of silky black hair behind her ear as she straightened. She looked at her brother and made a sound of annoyance. Garrett glided over and bowed even deeper than his sister had.

“An honor, Eternal Flame,” he said.

Standing, Tyrnen extended his hand to Christine. “You know why you are here,” he said as she kissed the Eternal Band.

“Because I have achieved Cinder rank,” she said.

“Correct. It is standard practice for the Eternal Flame to visit the university when a student graduates so he or she may receive the Band in person. But, in this case”—he reached into his robe, withdrew a Cinder Band, slipped it onto her right forefinger—“I felt an exception was in order.”

She withdrew her hand and bowed again. “Thank you, Eternal Flame.”

“The honor is mine. I assume you intend to choose the soldier creed?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know yet, actually.”

“Take some time to think about it,” he said, smiling warmly. Gesturing to the chairs near his fireplace, he moved out from behind his desk. “Sit, sit. We have much to discuss.” He lowered himself into a seat. “I trust your journey did not take too long.”

“A handful of shifts,” she replied, shrugging.

He blinked. “From Sharem?” he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. On Crotaria, there were Touched, and then there were Gairdens born with
Ordine’cin
. The difference between the two was like a candle next to a roaring inferno. Christine Lorden had held enormous potential since childhood. The fact that she was graduating before twenty years of age testified to her abilities. Even so, if Christine was telling the truth, Tyrnen had vastly underestimated her. Her untapped talent burned like a Gairden funeral pyre.

“Yes,” she replied.

“How do you feel?”

“A bit light-headed,” Christine admitted. “I have never felt the fever, though. I am careful.”

—Show her,
a voice purred in his thoughts.

Mistress?
he sent back, heart hammering.

—Show her
.
Now.

Jealousy swept through him, hot and rancid.
She is not that powerful, mistress. Surely—

Suddenly a wave of affection for his mistress washed over him. Desire to please and obey overrode all thought. Rising, he smiled at his guests.

“I find myself struck with a sudden urge for a drink,” he said. “Would either of you care for warm cider? I held a jug back from the last Leastonian import of the season.”

“Cider sounds excellent,” Garrett said. His sister nodded.

Moving to his desk, Tyrnen conjured a steaming pitcher and three wooden cups. With a wave of his hand he sent them drifting toward his guests. Garrett took the pitcher and poured the drinks, then released his grip on its handle. The pitcher floated in place, ready when needed. Waiting until his guests buried their faces in their cups, Tyrnen tapped on the surface of his desk three times. On the third tap, his hand sank through the desk. He withdrew a golden scepter decorated with gems.

Returning to his chair, he held the weapon out to Christine. When she looked at it, her eyes glazed over.

“What is—” the man started to ask. Tyrnen kindled—only a word of prayer to the Lady, but that one word tasted like ashes. The man’s chin drooped to his chest. He began to snore.