Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles (6 page)

“A retreat sounds nice,” he said, smiling a little.

“I think so, too,” she said, reaching up to smooth his hair. “Now then, I’m going to go confer with Tyrnen. He’ll be pleased to hear that you’re coming along, and then we’ll—”

Aidan’s breath caught. “What?”

“I’m sure Tyrnen won’t mind that you’re coming along. You two are so close, it will give him someone to talk to while your father and I—”

Renewed anger pumped through him. “Tyrnen didn’t invite me?”

“Not in so many words, dear, but he won’t mind if—”

“I’m not going.”

Annalyn sighed. “Of course you’re going.”

“No. If Tyrnen doesn’t want me to come along, then I don’t want to spoil his fun.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you understand, Mother? I’ve failed him. That’s why he didn’t invite me to go in the first place.”

“You’re talking nonsense, dear.”

“His revered pupil, failing to become the sword-bearer.” Then, so quickly he didn’t have even a second to clamp his mouth shut: “Kahltan take me, I wish I wasn’t a Gairden.”

She stiffened. The true name of the Lord of Midnight was not spoken lightly, especially not in Sunfall. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. And I am not going.”

Annalyn’s face turned red. “You are behaving like a spoiled child.”

“Are you disappointed yet, Mother?”

“I am beginning to be.”

There was a long silence.

“You will stay behind, then,” his mother said at last, her tone soft. “I will make certain that your father asks Brendon to see to things until our return.”

“You don’t trust me to see to things while you’re away?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Fine. I’ve been proven unworthy to do so, anyway.”

“Goodbye, Aidan.”

He remained quiet until he heard the door close behind her. Then he strode from the sword chamber, marched down the corridor to his bedchamber, threw open the door, and smashed his fist against the top of his dresser, sending his candle into spasms that spit wax on the polished surface. Groaning, Aidan cradled his hand. As he held his fist, candlelight glinted from his Cinder Band. The plum amethyst winked at him. He tore the Band from his finger and hurled it across the room. The ring clanged against something near the door then clicked along the floor. Frowning, Aidan picked up the candle and went to investigate.

Hanging from the wardrobe was a suit of light armor. Alabaster steel gauntlets matched beautiful hauberk. He ran his hand along the left breast, letting his fingers trail along a small, steel patch he knew would be set there. The letters “EC” had been engraved. Edmund Calderon, who had been a Darinian blacksmith’s apprentice before enlisting in Torel’s Ward and rising to the rank of general, had crafted the armor himself. This must be what his father had whispered to him about before the ceremony had begun.

A small piece of parchment was tucked into the opening of the right gauntlet. Aidan withdrew it and held the candlelight up close.
To my son on his most special of days. I am proud of you.

Earlier that very day, the words would have filled him with pride. Now they only made him feel worse. He held the parchment to the candle’s flame and dropped it, smoking, to the floor. It curled inward as the flame fed, reducing it to blackened scraps.

Aidan replaced the candle on the dresser and collapsed on his bed. Anger, confusion, and rejection raged through him, sprouting tears in his eyes. He refused to wipe them away. After a time his eyes began to feel heavy, each blink becoming a struggle.

—It was not your time, Aidan Gairden,
a grandmotherly voice whispered in his mind.

“Hmm?” he mumbled, his breathing already beginning to even.

—Sleep now. Your time will come.

Chapter 5

Nichel’s Gift

J
ONATHAN
H
ILLSTREAM
,
T
OUCHED AND
adviser to Romen of the Wolf, smiled as his charge appeared in the doorway. “It is good to see you out of bed at last, wolf daughter.” His smile wavered. “You look... much better.”

Nichel shuffled into the council room of Janleah Keep. One hand ran through her head of dark, wavy hair damp with sweat. The other was splayed across her belly, and her eyes shied away from the Mother’s light blazing through the windows.

“How are you feeling?” Jonathan asked, concern creasing his handsome face.

Nichel opened her mouth, snapped it shut, swallowed. “Better,” she managed.

“Your attendants will be pleased to hear that,” Jonathan said lightly, offering an arm. “They’ve only recently declared it safe to change their clothing.”

“Dinner did not agree with me, it seems,” Nichel said.

“Dinner, wolf daughter?” Jonathan guided her to her mother’s seat, a chair carved from stone that jutted out of the far wall.

“Yes,” Nichel said as she sank into the cushioned seat. Her mother had never quite adapted to the idea of sitting on solid rock. Nichel, too, preferred a bit of padding to support her curved frame, though she never used it when her father was around. His throne jutted from the wall next to her mother’s seat, and was even craggier.

“I thought the meat tasted a bit off, but no matter,” she said. “I assume my parents left for Torel last night as planned. I’ll be ready to set off after them shortly.”

“Your parents have been away for a fortnight, wolf daughter.”

Nichel blinked. “A fortnight? No, that’s not possible. We were going to leave for Sunfall to attend my wedding, and Aidan’s Rite of Heritage.”

“Aidan Gairden’s Rite of Heritage took place days ago, actually.”

“Days?” Nichel repeated weakly.

“That’s correct. You’ve been bedridden since just before their departure. I imagine your parents will bring word of how the new Crown of the North has handled his responsibilities thus far.”

Nichel’s mouth worked silently. “How is it that I slept for so long?”

“You were delirious most of the time, barely able to keep anything down.” He paused. “You do not remember any of this?”

She shook her head slowly. “Could it have been the food I ate the night we were supposed to depart?”

“That is my guess, yes.”

“Did either of my parents fall ill?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Nichel nodded absently. “They left as planned?”

“Yes, though I do not expect them to return for several days. I expect the weather in the north has made travel difficult.”

Nichel ran a finger along the designs carved into the arms of the throne. “And they didn’t... that is, did they come to see me?”

“Of course, wolf daughter,” Jonathan said, patting her hand. “They refused to leave your bedside that entire first night.”

Nichel bowed her head to hide the tears welling in her eyes. Her father would frown at the display, but her father wasn’t here, was he? “What made them decide to go to Torel without me?”

“It was only food poisoning. I assured them you were in no real danger, and you never were, I promise you—just as I promised them.”

“But, wouldn’t they have wanted to—”

“—see Aidan Gairden take up the sword? Of course, and so they did. It was only after I worked on you that the war chief consented to leave your side for a short time. I had a bit of healing instruction when I studied at the Lion’s Den, though it wasn’t my primary area of expertise.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t fret too much. A spring wedding would be much more beautiful than one where icicles were used as a substitute for a chandelier.”

Nichel managed a smile. Aidan. Her betrothed. It had been too long since she’d last seen him.
He’s probably as handsome as he ever was—even more so.
Nichel had gone to great lengths to select just the right shade of blue for her gown, giggling over fabrics with her mother, who knew all the best colors and materials for every season. It had been fun to indulge in the Leastonian half of her blood, and to listen to her mother cooing over how much Aidan would fancy her in this or that color.
Aidan.
He was the Crown of the North, now. In just a few months, she would be his queen.

“If you feel up to it, wolf daughter, I have reports to convey,” Jonathan said.

“Very well,” Nichel said, and her roiling stomach permitted a sigh to escape her lips.

Jonathan’s voice faded to a dull buzz as Nichel sank into her mother’s chair. Making sure to keep her gaze fixed on Jonathan, and to nod at all the right parts, she swept her eyes around the cavernous, brightly lit hall. Janleah Keep had been built eight hundred years ago and named in honor of her ancestor, Janleah of the Wolf. The Serpent King and his undead army had razed Leaston first before marching into the west and overwhelming several clans with their superior numbers and dark magic. Janleah had gathered the surviving clans and united them under his banner, making him the first war chief. He had gone on to forge an alliance with Torel, and it had taken their combined might to drive the Serpent King back into the south. Back into the kingdom that had become his grave.

After the war, the clans disbanded, but they paid respect to Janleah for the courage he had displayed in battle and the wisdom he had shown in bringing them together by building a fortress worthy of the war chief, a title they would honor only in times of greatest need. The builders had cut and smoothed sandstone and marble using the Mother’s light, and raised Janleah’s Keep beside the largest oasis in the west.

Pride filled her. She had been raised on the hot, dusty plains of Darinia, her dark hands calloused from wielding tools, hunting spears she’d sharpened herself, and from scaling her ancestral home. She was as hard as any Darinian, and she would bring that hardness and honor to her marriage. Her thoughts returned to her betrothed, and she blushed. She was also a girl—a woman at fifteen—and had as much right as any Torelian or Leastonian woman to fantasize about her wedding.

Her gown. That was the problem. She’d wanted blue, but blue just wasn’t appropriate for a spring wedding. She would ask Mother to make her a new one. Still, Aidan did love blue. His parents made him wear white, but she wondered if maybe—

“... should be in your chambers, wolf daughter.”

She raised her head. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I...” She blushed. “I’m still quite tired. I’m afraid I faded out.”

He gave her a warm, sympathetic smile. It occurred to her that, if not for her betrothal to Aidan, she would let Jonathan court her.

“Certainly,” he said. “Earlier this morning, a messenger arrived bearing a gift from your parents. No doubt they intended for it to reach you before they returned home.”

A thrill of excitement swept through her. “Where is it?”

“I requested it delivered to your chambers.”

Nichel squealed with glee. Jonathan raised an eyebrow, and Nichel composed herself.

“Thank you, Jonathan. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll make sure my father knows of your diligence.”

She crossed the room in what began as a youthful stride but ended in careful lurches, and almost reached the entryway before Jonathan cleared his throat.

“Was there something else?” Nichel asked.

“Much more, I’m afraid.”

Nichel sighed. “Follow me.”

They walked through passages that twisted and turned. Nichel nodded where appropriate as Jonathan rambled on and on. Through an open window, she caught the scent of roasted meshia. To her surprise, her stomach growled instead of cowered. The hide of the horned beast was thick—she had broken enough spear points to know—but became deliciously tender after hours cooking over an open flame. She slowed, tempted. More than tempted. She was contemplating crawling through the aperture and tearing the beast from the spit with her teeth. But, no. Gifts first, food second.

When she arrived at the closed door of her chambers, she gave Jonathan a flat look as he attempted to enter alongside her. He stepped back, raising a fist to his chest in salute as he moved to stand beside the door. Closing the door behind her, Nichel’s face broke into a grin. A large silver package sat waiting atop the tangled mess of sheets and blankets.

She moved as fast as she dared, not wanting to break the peace treaty her stomach had signed with movement of any kind. A tiny piece of parchment was attached to the lid. Nichel plucked it off and prepared to read it, but her eyes drifted back to the package as if caught on a fishing line. She let the note drop to the floor.

As had been her custom since she was old enough to understand what gift-wrapped boxes meant, she gave the present a delicate shake. The contents thudded against the side of the box, causing the princess to wobble as she steadied herself.
Nice and heavy!
She tore the paper off in a gleeful frenzy, threw away the lid, and screamed.

Inside the container, leaving gory trails where they had rolled around during their long journey, were the decapitated heads of Romen of the Wolf and Cynthia Alston.

On the floor, the crumpled parchment slowly unfurled like a blooming flower. In the center was a design—the letter ‘H’, the blade of Crotaria’s most well-known sword sheathed in the letter’s center bar. Below it, written in the blood:

Long Live the Crown of the North

Chapter 6

Bad Dreams

A
IDAN OPENED HIS EYES
with a start, deeply afraid and confused over why. Blinking, he looked around. Galleries cascaded upward around the walls. Torches flickered in between each gallery. The floor beneath him was cold, hard. Stone. Raising his head, he saw the Crown of the North and its companion throne across the room. They looked small from where he lay, like toy chairs meant for dolls.

I’m in the throne room.
Another thought:
Why?
The last thing he remembered was dozing off in bed after a long day riding the hills outside Calewind. Had he walked here in his sleep?

Shadows writhed along the walls. No light stretched beyond the flickering pools of orange cast by the torches. A chill hung in the air, as if the windows—all clamped shut—had been left open. Aidan shivered. He could sense... something, a vague presence that was not welcome. It smelled dirty and rotten.