Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles (5 page)

Cynthia hitched her cloak tighter and resisted the urge to flick Narra’s reins. The Leastonians had a saying:
the Lord of Midnight keeps secrets
. A realm filled with traders and seafarers knew all about secrets, but only the Lady of Dawn could reveal those hidden under shadow.

She shook her head, naming herself a fool. Her husband was near, and so she was safe. She guided Narra closer to his mount, and he gave her another smile, this one free of worry.

Snow returned a few hours later. It fell in a thick curtain, forming a hazy screen in the night. Romen slowed the horses to a walk. The wind picked up, throwing icy darts that stung their faces. The clansmen pulled thicker furs from their packs. Narra whickered, head bent against the wind and snow while Cynthia dug in her pack and withdrew a heavier cloak. She almost lost it; the wind snatched at it and howled when she successfully shrugged inside of it. The howls grew louder, drowning out the sound of Narra’s hooves crunching through snow.

Cynthia bowed her head, tried to take a breath, gasped when the wind stole it from her. She lifted her cloak over her face, breathing deeply, whispering to herself that the storm would soon pass. And if it didn’t, there were high walls all across Torel. Romen would call for them to take shelter. He would build a fire to throw back the shadows and hold her close until the snow died down. Or until the Lady awakened. That sounded even better.

She reached for him, wanting him to take her hand. When she didn’t feel his calloused fingers lace through hers, she looked over at him.

He was gone.

Cynthia looked up, back, all around. They were all gone, her husband and the clansmen, swallowed up by the shadows. Panic welled up in her.

“Romen?” she called, but the night swallowed that up, too.

Panting, eyes darting around, she pulled Narra to a stop and twisted around in her saddle. What was she to do? Should she keep moving? Should she stay here? She couldn’t stay still. The cold bit through her fur, piercing her like a careless inksmith’s needle.

She choked back a sob—then gasped. Forms appeared out of the night, tall and powerfully built. The clansmen. They must be.
Had
to be.

Relief made her sag in her saddle. What a sight she must be to her husband, who faced wild boar and invaders along the spiny ridge of the Ihlkin range without fear. She was unworthy of him— but she didn’t care. She was just glad he was back.

As the forms moved in closer, a thought struck her. Where were their horses? Romen would put himself in mortal danger before he let anything happen to Wolf Runner. Then the forms came close enough for her to make them out through the snow, and terror cold as ice enveloped her like the sea crashing over a fishing boat.

They were Wardsmen, or had been once, all snow-white armor that jingled with every step. The men—the things—stalking toward her did not have eyes but empty sockets where eyes had once been. Their heads were skulls, spotted with clumps of hair and rotten skin, teeth clicking and clacking with harsh, guttural laughter.

Cynthia screamed as they descended on her, and then the shadows swallowed her, too.

Chapter 4

Lost

T
HE BUZZ OF CONVERSATION
, the
thunk
of goblets smacking tabletops, and the clatter of forks scraping against plates faded as Aidan strode deeper into Sunfall. The scent of Helda’s feast—roast duck, hams, chicken, buttered rolls, pies, and every last vegetable from Torel’s and Leaston’s crops from the fall—dogged him, triggering rumbles from deep in his belly. He ignored it, just as everyone had chosen to ignore him.

The only Gairden in our long and storied bloodline to be turned away by Heritage, yet we mustn’t miss dinner.

His path wound through great halls and narrow passages decorated with expensive rugs and tiled floor carved by Darinia’s finest builders until at last he rounded a corner and paused. Night gave the windows dark, blank faces. Bracketed torches hung between each one like sentries, crackling and filling the corridor with warmth and light. The row of torches to his right was broken by a large gap of bare wall.
Heritage
was carved there in broad, ornate letters. Raising his hand to the “H”, Aidan caressed it. As he went along from letter to letter, a thin line ran down the center of the stone like a tear leaving a trail. He looped his finger through the final “e” and the stone split in half. The slabs rumbled to either side as he stormed through, then boomed closed after he passed.

Only in Sunfall did a traitorous sword warrant as fine a bedroom as the crown prince’s quarters. The sword chamber was wide and circular. Stained-glass windows adorned the walls, each raised a bit higher than the last and spiraling upward. Colors pulsed behind each pane, illuminating the faces of every Crown of the North since Ambrose Gairden and throwing colored squares along the walls and floors. His mother’s window gazed down from on high. Above and to one side of her window was a blank space.

Aidan mounted the handful of stairs that ringed a dais in the center of the room. Heritage hung suspended, point down, rotating slowly, its tip dangling just above the blue carpeting that unfurled over the stairs. Dust motes sprinkled down, and the sword coaxed them into its lazy waltz. Aidan glared at the Eye of Heritage. When he’d entered, the ruby had sat dark. Now it flared red, boiling like a storm over a far horizon.

They were watching him now, he knew. All of them. Within the Eye was Sanctuary, a spirit realm where Gairden souls rested for eternity after their bodies expired. From within Sanctuary, the Gairdens of the past guided sword-bearers in a multitude of ways— ways he would have come to understand upon becoming swordbearer.

The Eye flashed again, continuing to watch him. Just as they had watched earlier when the sword had rejected him. Just as the entire northern kingdom had watched. Propped against the wall behind the sword was a pane of stained-glass depicting Aidan at his Prince-of-Mischief best: wide grin, raised brow, bright eyes. With a wordless cry he shot forward and drove his fist through the window. It shattered gloriously as a spider web of blood broke out across the back of his hand.

Quick footsteps outside the chamber slowed, then paused. A hand slapped the stone in a knock. Breathing through clenched teeth and gripping his bloody hand, Aidan went to the entrance and touched it. The stone slid open to reveal Edmund the Valorous. The king entered and swept his gaze over the room, taking in Aidan’s hand, the shards of glass. His face became expressionless as the doors slid closed.

“If smashing windows makes you feel better, by all means, bloody your other hand,” Edmund said, waving to the glass visages of Ambrose and Anastasia Gairden.

Ignoring his father, Aidan focused on the blood running down his hand. The crisscrossing cuts weren’t deep, but would continue to ooze without healing. Aidan looked around. The Lady, whose bountiful light was like a bottomless well of the clearest water, had set over the horizon hours ago. Man-made heat would do, but the sword chamber contained not even a single candle flame to kindle from. Then he remembered the lamp fastened around his neck. It was half empty and glowed with a soft light.

He kindled just a fraction of the light, wanting to leave a little in case he decided to break something else, and prayed for healing as heat trickled through him. Small pieces of glass popped out of his flesh and clinked to the floor. The abrasions sewed themselves shut, leaving only drying trails of blood as evidence of his temper.

“You see, Father?” he said, flexing his hand. “I still have my uses.” He began to pace before the sword. “I might be the only Gairden ever rejected by Heritage, but I can still heal cuts and scrapes. Do you think it’s too late to change my creed? I should become a healer. Helda could sure use me in the kitchens. Her cooks are always suffering minor burns and cuts.”

“We will get to the bottom of this, son,” Edmund said. Aidan continued pacing. Edmund caught his arm. “What happened earlier is not important. You—”

“Not important?” Aidan echoed. “I was humiliated in front of all Crotaria!”

“That is easily—”

“And Romen!” Aidan scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’m supposed to marry his daughter. He thought he was getting a king for a son-in-law.”

“The clans are our friends, Aidan. They will not think less of—”

“Mother,” Aidan whispered. He stared through his father with large, unseeing eyes. “Dawn’s ghost, what she must think of me.”

“She’s on her way. We have something we must discuss with you.”

“Trying to decide what to do with your failure of a son?”

Edmund grabbed Aidan’s shoulders and shook him.

“Enough!”

Aidan gaped.

“You’re huffing about like a child sent to bed without dinner. You’re sixteen, now. A grown man, if not a sword-bearer. This behavior is unacceptable.”

The prince swallowed. His father was right. “What would you have me do?”

“You don’t know why Heritage rebuffed you,” Edmund said, his tone lighter. “Nor does your mother, but she’s working to find out. This is not the end. There might be a way to try again.”

“Try again? I didn’t want to do any of this in the first place.”

“But you did. You tried, and if possible, you will try again.”

“Will I?”

“Yes. You will. You will accompany me at the Lady’s first light during my inspection of the barracks, just as we planned. You will oversee drills and patrol changes, just as we planned. What you will
not
do is admit defeat. You can’t simply give up when you fall off the horse, son. You’ve got to get back on and try again.”

Annoyance and rebellion boiled up in Aidan. Already they were making plans for him, once again without his consent.

“What if I no longer wish to learn military tactics?” he asked. “If I no longer wish for you to teach me, or to learn statecraft from Mother. What then?”

“What else would you do?”

Aidan folded his arms. He knew his anger wasn’t rational or fair, but he couldn’t help it. “Maybe I’ll travel to Ironsail and pick up my ship. Ride the open waters, see the world, probably become a pirate. Do whatever
I
want for a change.” Edmund faced his son in silence.

The chamber door slid open and Annalyn stepped through. “What have we here?” she asked, one hand on the doorway.

“Our sixteen-year-old son,” Edmund said, “is in the throes of a tantrum.” He spun on his heel and marched from the room. Annalyn stared after him for a long time. Finally she swept toward Aidan.

“Why are you in here?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to see anyone.”

“Everyone knows where you are, Aidan. Your cursing rang through the halls like bells during Dawn worship.”

He felt his face warm. “Hope you ate your fill.”

“I see you’ve smashed a window. That’s very productive. Do you care to explain yourself?”

“No.”

“Very well. But you will explain what happened between you and your father.”

“Father was trying to convince me that everything will be just fine.”

“Do you disagree?”

“The sword told me what I knew all along. I’m not worthy of it.”

“I don’t think that is the message Heritage was trying to send, Aidan.”

“Then why was I rejected?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

He shrugged. “I should be grateful. It saved me quite a bit of inconvenience.”

“Oh, stop with the theatrics, Aidan. This is a bit much, even for you.”

Shame cut through his anger. “I’m sorry for disappointing you,” he said, looking down at the floor.

She walked toward him, wrapping him in a hug. “You have never disappointed me, nor could you ever.” The tightness in his body loosened as he sagged against her.

“This is a setback, dear, nothing more,” she went on. “We will find out why this has happened, and we will fix it.”

“Why do I even
want
to fix it?” he muttered.

Pulling back, she gave him an inquisitive look.

“I did everything I was supposed to. I didn’t want the responsibility, but I was prepared to accept it. For you, for our people, for Father, for Tyrnen.” He spread his hands. “And yet after all that, after everything I was prepared to sacrifice,
it
rejected
me.
”

“I don’t understand it either, dear. But we will solve this problem.”

“We?”

She nodded. “The two of us, along with your father and Tyrnen.”

“What do you have in mind?” he asked.

“Tyrnen has invited us to come away with him for a little while. He has volunteered his office at the Lion’s Den, where we can research our little problem and perhaps even solve it, all out of the public eye.”

Aidan bit his lip. The Lion’s Den was the most prestigious school for Touched in all of Crotaria, and the headquarters of the Eternal Flame. The customary headquarters. Tyrnen visited the Lion’s Den often but made his home in a tower on the Sunfall grounds in order to remain close to his pupil—a pupil who had not delivered on the potential the leader of all Touched had seen in him. Aidan had not spoken to Tyrnen since before the ceremony.
The first Touched outside of Gairden blood to help train a Gairden blessed with
Ordine’cin
, and I failed him.

“What about Grandfather Charles?” he asked. “Or one of our other ancestors? Surely they have some insight.”

Annalyn hesitated, glancing behind him at Heritage. The Eye continued to flicker.

“They don’t understand it either, I’m afraid.”

Aidan felt his chest grow cold.

Annalyn stepped forward to cup his face in her hands. “Come away with us. It will give us some distance. More importantly, it will give our family some time together, and time to figure this out.”

“But, who will stay behind to—”

“Your father stomped off to speak with the colonel to see to things here while we’re gone, I’m sure.”

Aidan nodded, warming to the idea of a retreat. He didn’t
want
to take up Heritage, but it was what he had been born to do. He hadn’t planned for failure. Misery, yes. But not failure. He felt like a Leastonian merchant at sea without a compass. And the weeks leading up to
the great day
had been stressful, filled with constant reminders of the heavy responsibility he would wear at his hip. Some time away would give him time to clear his head, and maybe, just maybe, come to terms with what fate had in store for him.