Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles (35 page)

The harbinger turned back to Tyrnen. It was clear to Aidan— and everyone else, judging by the uneasy muttering that had broken out—that the king and general of the north was waiting for the Eternal Flame to tell him what to do next. The old man gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes seeming to hover on Aidan’s chest. Reaching below Aidan’s collar, the harbinger grabbed the chain that held his lamp and tore, shattering the chain and raining links to the street. It pocketed the lamp then climbed back onto its mount.

“A lesson,” it said, its voice ringing through the assemblage, “to any who would speak out against the war or my wife.” It looked down into Aidan’s eyes as it continued. “You have committed treason for the last time, boy. Aidan Gairden’s trial shall be carried out when the Lady takes her leave this evening, in the west courtyard of Sunfall. Let it be known that the punishment for those found guilty of treason is death.”

“Your Majesty,” the Wardsman holding Aidan said. He straightened as the harbinger’s gaze fell upon him. “That man,” he gestured with his head to the terrified apple merchant who was attempting to melt into the crowd, “also spoke out against the war with Darinia.”

“Did he?” the harbinger said coolly.

The Wardsman bobbed his head.

“Arrest him,” the harbinger said. A Wardsman detached himself from the throng and tied the vendor’s arms behind his back. The vendor gibbered, his face ashen and covered in sweat.

The harbinger turned and signaled. After a few moments, Brendon Greagor emerged and steered his horse to a stop beside his commander. “Continue the march to Sharem,” the creature commanded. “The Eternal Flame and I will join you after matters here have been settled.”

Brendon nodded, casting a quick glance at Aidan. A fleeting look of regret flashed across the man’s face. Then it was gone. He returned to the head of the column, barking orders as he went.

“You!” the harbinger bellowed at a Wardsman standing near the mouth of an alleyway. The man stiffened and bowed low, fastening his gaze to the ground.

“Your Majesty?” he asked.

The harbinger pointed at Heritage. “Pick up the sword.” The man did as commanded.

“My son stole that blade from his mother. I am certain she will be most pleased to see it returned. You, and you, and you,” the harbinger continued, thrusting his finger at three other Wardsmen. “Go with him. Do not stop until the sword reaches the throne room.”

The Wardsman holding Heritage nodded, head still bowed, and fell in with the three other men heading toward Sunfall. The harbinger turned back to Aidan and the vendor. A humorless smile split his face.

“Take them to the depths.”

As the troop holding Heritage disappeared around a bend, Aidan watched his last hope vanish with them.

Chapter 33

Choices

T
HE DEPTHS WERE LESS
a dungeon and more a pit, a hole in the ground dug six hundred years ago while construction of a proper prison in Calewind was finished. No Crown of the North had used it since then. Aidan, it appeared, warranted special treatment. Torches hanging high above the cells that ran along either wall lit a dim, flickering path down the center of the aisle. Water dripped from the mossy ceiling into puddles. The stench of mold permeated the air, seeping into the stained walls and broken, uneven floor. Mold, and worse. Bodies. Waste. Death.

The Wardsman fumbled with a large set of iron keys and finally threw open a cell door. The rusted bars squeaked open.

“Get in,” the Wardsman said, shoving the apple vendor inside. He slammed the door and pulled Aidan further down the passage. When he stopped, Aidan peered into the cell across from the one his captor was unlocking. Aidan barely recognized the man huddled in one corner.

“Cotak?” Aidan breathed. The clan chief who had been captured on the day his parents—on the day the
harbingers
— declared war looked as wasted as the ruins Aidan had passed on his trek through Sallner. Cotak’s eyes were glassy and vacant, like a vagrant’s. His skin drooped from his bones like loose clothing. Flies buzzed over the waste heaped around Cotak. Others swarmed over still forms shoved into the corners of adjacent cells. The clansmen that had accompanied Cotak.

“In you go,” the Wardsman said cheerfully, steering Aidan to the cell across from the clan chief’s. Aidan entered wordlessly, turning when he reached the far wall to slide to the ground with a soft thud. The Wardsman slammed the door closed and strode from the room. The single door in and out of the depths boomed shut, leaving Aidan with the crackling torches and the steady drip of water plopping into puddles for company.

Aidan squeezed his eyes shut. Every Wardsman up above knew of his capture by now. Even if he made it out of the depths, there was no way he could possibly get to the throne room. He leaned his head back against the wall.
I’ve failed them. I’ve failed them all.

“You’re a hero, you know.”

Aidan raised his head. The voice came from the merchant’s cell down the passage.

“A lot of us common folk support what you did, leaving Torel in protest,” the merchant went on. “Wish I’d had the courage to do the same.”

Aidan smiled sadly. “It didn’t do me any good.”

The merchant snorted. “People remember how a man died. You stood against this war, said out loud what everyone else is thinking.”

“You stood against it, too. I heard what you said.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why not? You just said you respected me for—”

“Who’s going to care for my family? I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Aidan sat forward, hugging his knees to his chest. “Neither of us should have to die for this.”

“True enough.” The merchant fell silent.

Aidan’s head thudded back against the wall.
I’m sorry, Grandfather.

—You can’t give up yet,
Charles replied.
We can’t see what’s happening; the Wardsman draped something over the Eye. It’s up to you. You must keep trying to—

The entrance door banged open. Footsteps entered and stopped in front of Cotak’s cell.

“Out you go, wildlander.”

Cotak did not put up a struggle. He let the Wardsman haul him to his feet and drag him down the passage to the merchant’s cell.

“Not too late to give me that apple,” the Wardsman said. The merchant did not reply.

Keys jangled and the cell door creaked open. After a few moments, three pairs of footsteps made their way to the exit. Aidan heard the Wardsman mumble something. A moment later, the door closed, but lighter footfalls made their way slowly back to Aidan’s cell. A small flame hovering above an old, wizened palm floated into view. Tyrnen stopped in front of Aidan’s cell and folded his arms behind his back. The flame continued to dance in the air, sending shadows flitting along the walls.

The Eternal Flame chuckled as he shook his head. “I spend over a month looking for you, chasing you, and what do you do? You just... come back home. Your mother and I thought you were smarter than that, boy.”

“That
thing
is not my mother.”

“Maybe not. But as far as everyone else is concerned, that thing
is
your mother, and that is enough.” Tyrnen pursed his lips. “It didn’t have to be like this, you know. You could have followed orders, did as you were told. But you decided you knew better.” His eyes trembled inside their sockets. “You could have had it all, Aidan! But you chose to go against me.”

“I chose to take control.”

“And look at what that brought you.” Tyrnen’s beard rustled as he shook his head. “We could have ruled Crotaria together.”

“I don’t want to rule Crotaria.”

“And what is it you do want, now that you’re a big boy who can think for himself?”

“I want my kingdom back—the kingdom you stole from me. More than anything, I’d fancy your head on the tip of my sword.” Tyrnen’s jaw quivered. “And what sword would that be, boy? Heritage? I think not. My faith in you was misplaced, it would seem. That blade is of no more use to you than it is to me, or anyone else on Crotaria. I waited so long for you to become the swordbearer, convinced myself that—”

“I
am
the sword-bearer, Tyrnen.”

“Oh?” the old man said, sounding amused. “Says who, boy? You?”

“The Prophet,” Aidan replied.

Tyrnen’s eyes narrowed.

“The Prophet,” Aidan said again, pronouncing each syllable clearly as if the old man were deaf. “I am your opposite, Mathias. I am the Champion of Peace.”

Tyrnen drew back with a hiss. “That can’t be.”

“Why do you think I took Heritage with me?”

“You’re lying!”

“Bring me my sword,” Aidan said flatly, “and I’ll prove it to you.”

Tyrnen’s lips worked soundlessly for a moment. Abruptly his eyes glazed over. Then he reached into his robe and withdrew Terror’s Hand. Aidan stared at the scepter, transfixed. Everything in his periphery disappeared. His grandfather’s voice, asking him why he’d suddenly gone silent, disappeared like water swirling down a drain.

“Touch it, boy,” Tyrnen said softly. Hesitantly, Aidan extended his hand. The scepter shook in Tyrnen’s grasp. “Touch it, and—”

He cut off with a grunt as Aidan’s hand suddenly snatched his robes and pulled him forward, slamming his face into the bars. With a strangled curse, Tyrnen clawed at Aidan’s grip, digging long, yellow nails into his flesh. Aidan flung him away and Tyrnen stumbled back, smoothing his robes.

“We could have had everything,” the Eternal Flame said. Aidan was surprised to see tears in the old man’s eyes. Terror’s Hand dangled in limp fingers. “But you fought me. You railed against what was best for you.”

“At least I fought,” Aidan wheezed, straightening painfully, one hand wrapped around his aching middle. “I saw your eyes, Tyrnen.” He gestured to the scepter. “You weren’t intending for me to touch that. It was
her
idea.”

Tyrnen looked at the scepter and blinked as if surprised he held it. It disappeared within his robe.

Aidan began to laugh softly.

Tyrnen’s visage darkened. “What is so amusing, boy?”

“You, Tyrnen. You condemn the choice I made that day at Sharem, and the choices I’ve made since then. But do you know something?
I
made
them. For better or worse, no matter the consequences, I made them. They were mine. When was the last time you made a choice? Eight hundred years ago, I suspect. It’s sad, really. I resisted, my mother resisted. Did you show that golden rod to Christine, too? I bet you did. You seem to be the only person in eight hundred years who was stupid enough to actually touch that thing.”

A growl rose from deep in Tyrnen’s throat. He took a step forward, then hesitated.

Aidan’s eyes widened. “You’re afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Afraid of you?” Tyrnen laughed, but the sound was hollow. “You don’t have that damned sword, and I’ve tied you. I could kill you right here.”

“So go ahead,” Aidan said. “There’s nothing stopping you. I don’t have my sword, and I can’t draw light.” He smiled. “Or are you going to give me another scary dream instead? How did you do that, anyway? Shift away, I mean. You know about the wards set to prevent anyone from shifting in or out of Sunfall. Luria must be powerful indeed. That’s good. At least selling your soul gained you something.”

Tyrnen bared his teeth in a smile. “The shadows hold many secrets. Not that your Lady would permit you to so much as glimpse them.”

Aidan blinked. Tyrnen laughed, obviously mistaking his former pupil’s dawning realization for confusion, but Aidan ignored him.
Of course
, Aidan thought
. He rode the shadows away, just like I rode them through the tunnels.
All at once, the power of dark magic awed and terrified him. The tunnels were only a formality, a way for thieves and spies to move around unseen. A man could, conceivably, step into one shadow and emerge from any other, like a doorway that opened anywhere.

“I gave you every opportunity,” Tyrnen said. Aidan saw triumph in the old man’s eyes. “But you’ve failed me time and time again. She—
I
have decided that there is no further use for you. You will be made an example of to all who would defy Lur—who would stand against this war. You will die today, boy.”

Tyrnen strode from the depths and slammed the door behind him. The flame he’d created winked out.

Aidan let out a breath, relieved that Tyrnen had finally left. An idea had come to him. He looked toward the darkest corner of his cell—and knew immediately that it wouldn’t work. The glow of torchlight from across the aisle lapped the bars of his cell like a low tide. It was faint, yet strong enough to push back the gloom and reveal a hint of grimy stone walls everywhere he looked. He intuited that he needed unfiltered darkness to ride the shadows far enough to escape, just as he needed a moderate source of light to shift a respectable distance. And wouldn’t he also need to select a pocket of shadows as his destination? He assumed that was so.

He straightened, resolved.
I tried,
he told himself. But he hadn’t. His mind recalled the prayer he had shared with Kahltan. The idea of wrapping his tongue around those words, of twisting the Language of Light into something terrible, sent a chill through him.

Shoving the thought away, Aidan went to the bars and peered out.

I need to get out of here.

—Yes
, Charles agreed.

“But how?” he said into the silence.

Suddenly a grinding sound came from his left. Aidan stood and peered between the bars to see two large stones parting. Daylight filtered through, lifting some of the gloom from the depths. A Wardsman crawled through, a lantern held in one hand, his face hidden by his helmet and the gloom. Aidan squinted, straining to make out the newcomer’s face as the moving chunks in the wall slid back into place.

“You’re the Wardsman from the street,” he said, surprised. “The one who retrieved my sword.”
For a moment, he looked almost exactly like...

The Wardsman removed his helmet before raising his head. Now Aidan could see his face clearly. Contempt bubbled inside him. It was the harbinger who wore his father’s life like a mask.