Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles (8 page)

“Assist me with what?” the king snapped, and Aidan’s mouth clamped shut. “Crying into your pillow for weeks on end will have sapped all your strength, I expect. Your behavior brings shames to your family. Aidan Gairden, Prince of Tears. That is what we should call you.”

Aidan licked his lips and dropped his gaze.

“Look at me, boy.”

Aidan complied. The crowd was silent.

“You can speak, can’t you?” Edmund asked.

“Yes.”

“Then answer my question. Assist me with what?”

“I wish to continue as your apprentice, so that I may learn to command the Ward.”

Edmund studied him. “Good. I will soon have need of you,” he said. He brushed past Aidan and strode into Sunfall, not looking back. Two Wardsmen stepped out of formation and flanked him.

Aidan watched him go.
This isn’t supposed to happen. It’s not supposed to be like this.

“Tyrnen has already returned to his tower,” Annalyn said softly from beside him.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he blurted out.

Annalyn was silent. Her eyes were flat, as his father’s had been.

“I just wasn’t ready,” he continued. “But I will be. I just need help.”

“How am I supposed to believe a word you say,” she said at last, her voice calm, “when instead of taking charge while your father and I were away, you wallowed in pity like a child?”

She stepped toward him, her gaze making the night air seem as warm as a spring breeze.

“I am very disappointed in you, Aidan.”

She too brushed passed him, another pair of Wardsmen surrounding the Crown of the North.

The crowd slowly dispersed. Aidan felt his hope freezing over in the unforgiving winter cold.

He heard footsteps crunch into the snow behind him.

“Aidan—” Daniel said.

“Leave me,” he said without turning. Several moments passed before he heard Daniel turn and walk away.

Snow and ice dripped from Aidan’s boots in a watery trail as he strode into the throne room. A cluster of nobles buzzed around the thrones. Most were the richly dressed Hands of the Crown, emissaries hand-picked by the Crown of the North to govern faroff towns and cities that the Crown could not visit frequently. A tall, bald man in light armor stood between the thrones, arms crossed over his chest, watching each petitioner as if he expected them to draw steel at any moment. Brendon Greagor, Colonel of Torel’s Ward, spared him a quick glance, just long enough to take him in as a part of his assessment of the room.

“I wish to speak with my parents,” Aidan said over the drone of conversation. The Hands turned to him, silence settling over the room. “Alone.”

Edmund considered his son before nodding. “Leave us.”

The assemblage scattered. Brendon stepped down as the last bunch of nobles made their way out of the room. Annalyn reached out to touch his arm.

He turned. “Yes, Crown?”

She gestured toward her husband. Brendon knelt and Edmund cupped his hand and whispered into Brendon’s ear. The other man’s eyes widened for half an instant, which for Brendon indicated a revelation shocking enough to make a normal man faint. He nodded once before rising, bowed, and glided out of the room, offering a bow and the flicker of a smile to Aidan. The doors closed behind him.

Edmund sat with an arm propped on his armrest and his chin in his palm. Annalyn tapped a nail against her crossed legs, her lips pursed.

“I want to apologize,” Aidan said. “I have replayed the events of my birthday over and over in my mind. You both know I didn’t want any part of what the Rite of Heritage entailed, but you also know—you
should
know—that I was ready to take the sword and do what needed to be done. But it rejected me.

“I failed you, and I failed our people as well. I don’t know how to fix that, but I will do whatever I must to try. I want to continue my training under Tyrnen. He graduated me to Cinder, but I know he has more to teach. I want to continue learning everything I can from you, Father, and from you as well, Mother, so that when all this is finally settled and I take the sword, I will be the best ruler I can be.”

Falling to one knee, Aidan continued. “Tell me what I must do, and I will do it.”

Then he waited. The silence seemed crushing, but he had said all he could say.

He heard his mother’s riding dress rustle and his father’s armor clank. To his surprise and immense relief, his mother extended a small hand. He took it.

“We’re so proud of you, Aidan,” Annalyn said, holding him by the arms. She was smiling. They both were. But their smiles did not touch their cold eyes. “I am sorry to have been so harsh. I’ve been scared, too.”

“Did you discover anything?” he asked tentatively. “About my Rite of Heritage, I mean?”

She shook her head, frustration bordering on anger twisting her beautiful features. “But we will solve this. I promise.”

Edmund put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to have you back, son.”

“Thank you, Father,” Aidan said. “I only want to live up to what you said to me on my birthday, before...”
Before I let you both down.

Edmund frowned, obviously confused. Aidan felt a pang of hurt. Obviously Edmund’s words about his son growing into a young man he could be proud of meant more to Aidan than they had to his father. Edmund nodded slowly. “Oh. Yes. I remember now. My apologies, Aidan. It was a long journey.”

“Of course,” Aidan said in a chipper voice.

Edmund put a hand on his shoulder. “What happened that day is in the past, son. We’re moving forward. Speaking of which, I’ve got a very important meeting with Brendon at the Lady’s first light. Care to join me?”

“I do,” Aidan said, and he meant it.

Edmund watched him, and suddenly his eyes did not seem tired at all. “You meant what you said, of course. That you would do anything to fix this... situation.”

A twinge of shame wormed back in. “I meant it,” Aidan said.

“Then that’s all we need to say on the subject.” He paused.

“We love you, son.”

Annalyn stretched to the tune of a deep yawn. “My, it was a long journey, wasn’t it. Shall we turn in, dear?”

Edmund yawned even wider. “That sounds wonderful. Not many hours left before...” He glanced at Aidan. “Well. We’ll discuss it in the morning. Goodnight, son.”

Curious but plenty tired himself, Aidan bowed and made his way out of the throne room. His hands clenched and unclenched as he practically skipped to his chambers. They were just tired. Of course they were.

Everything is going to be fine. I knew it would be. I may not want the sword, but if it means proving myself to them, I’ll do it.

He slowed when he neared the sword chamber. Something tickled the back of his mind. The sword had spoken to him in the dream, and that wasn’t so odd. He’d sprouted wings and flown to Darinia and back in dreams. In the world of dreams, swords could talk and men could fly. No, it wasn’t that the sword had spoken, precisely. It was...

His eyes grew round as the answer came charging up on him. He remembered Annalyn kneeling to him on his birthday, extending the sword while half of Crotaria leaned in so close he had almost felt their breath on his neck. A voice had whispered in his ear. He had thought it was his mother, but it had sounded older. Firm, but still older.

Heritage spoke in that same voice in my dream
, he thought
.
Was that it? Had the sword spoken to him on the day it had set him up for failure? He raised a hand to the “H” on the door, but let it drop.
What am I going to do? Interrogate a sword?

Aidan stifled a yawn with his fist. It didn’t matter. He would tell his parents about his theory. Maybe it would help them figure out why Heritage had rejected him. Everything would work out.

—Destiny still waits to call your name, Aidan Gairden.

He snapped his jaw shut. There it was again—old but firm.

Grandmotherly. Aidan ran his finger over the
Heritage
inscription and shoved through the sliding stone doors. There was the sword, blade twirling, Eye flickering without a care.

“You mentioned my destiny the night of my ceremony, and yet this destiny you speak of obviously has little to do with you,” he said, standing before Heritage with clenched fists. “So what is it, then? Share my fate with me if you know so much about it.”

Heritage spun lazily, remaining silent. Then it went still. The Eye flashed, a red wink.

—Leave this place
, the voice said.
Wait around the corner.

“Why should I—”

—Go. Quickly.

Aidan bit back a retort and hurried out into the hall. He slipped into his bedroom and left the door ajar, peering out. Several moments passed. His mother appeared and halted before the chamber. He watched her trace the inscription. The doors opened, she stepped through, the doors closed. Almost immediately she emerged, Heritage in hand, and vanished the way she had come.

Aidan rose slowly from his hiding spot.
Was that all it wanted me to see?
he thought.
My mother is the sword-bearer. She comes and goes from the sword chamber at all hours of the day. What significance could that possibly—

—Great significance. The signs of deception are obvious, yet you allow self-pity to blind you.

Aidan’s eyes had slowly widened during the sword’s response. Had the sword read his mind? He swallowed; then, hesitantly:
What do you mean?
he thought, projecting his words at the sword.

—Have you asked yourself why your mother would leave me behind when I’ve always been at her side?
it responded.

Aidan almost yelped with surprise. The sword had heard his thought as clearly as if he had shouted, and had responded! Then he focused on its question. “Of course she took...”

But she hadn’t. Heritage had been in the chamber, and he did not recall seeing the sword at his mother’s side upon her return. Had she returned it to the chamber between returning to the palace and meeting with the Hands? Probably not, he decided. Not much time had passed between their confrontation in the courtyard and their meeting at the throne.

He shook his head.
It was a short retreat. Why would she have taken you? She wasn’t going into battle.

—A retreat intended to help her son plan his future. A future you seem content to have others decide for you.

What’s your point?

—My point, Aidan Gairden, is this. Through Heritage, a sword-bearer can communicate with generations of Gairdens. Suppose one of them holds the information necessary to deciphering the mystery behind your rejection. Why would your mother leave such a valuable tool behind?

Aidan ran his hand through his hair. “I’m too tired to continue this discussion. If you won’t just
tell
me—”

—Soon, Aidan Gairden. All too soon.

Chapter 8

Voices

A
IDAN RAPPED THE BRONZE KNOCKER
against the door. Several moments later, the door swung inward. His master stood in the doorway, hair and robes disheveled, bushy eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Aidan? I’m surprised to see you here so late.”

“I figured I’d come say hello, since it didn’t seem you’d be stopping by anytime soon.” He dropped into a soft armchair in front of the hearth. Heat flooded from the logs roasting in the hearth, blanketing the tower room and mixing with the musty aroma of books and yellowed parchment. More books covered Tyrnen’s desk in stacks that rose up like shoddily-built turrets. Aidan was convinced that simply sticking one’s head through the door and breathing the scent of all the musty scrolls, books, and strange artifacts Tyrnen had accumulated over the years could make one grow smarter. Sadly, his parents and mentor disagreed.

He had spent months of his life in this room, reading ancient texts, reciting spells, dates, names, figures. At the end of lessons— and in the middle of them, when he managed to divert the old man’s train of thought—Aidan would perch on the edge of this very chair, mugs of tea or hot cocoa—a sweet delicacy his parents always purchased from Leastonian traders who passed through—growing cold as he listened to Tyrnen spin tales of brave heroes, terrible monsters, and princesses in need of rescue and a good cuddle.

When Tyrnen told his stories, his tower seemed to lift off and soar into the sky. Now Aidan sat quietly, watching the flames. His eyelids drooped. Each time he forced them back up, finally straightening to resist the chair’s tempting cushiness. He was so tired he felt sick, but he would not fall asleep. Not even here, a place where he always felt safe, more so than even the sword chamber where only Gairdens could enter.

He had gone back to bed after talking with Heritage, unanswered questions tumbling around his head. The nightmares had returned the moment he drifted off, pouncing like a beast rewarded for stalking wary prey that had finally lowered its head to drink. He had seen his parents again, their bodies deformed and rotten as they screamed at him, telling him they knew he would fail them again. Heritage took its turn, rambling about destiny, lies, and deception. None of the dreams had felt as dire, as
real
as the first, but they were horrifying all the same.

Aidan caught the scent of warm milk and creamy cocoa. Tyrnen lowered himself into a chair beside Aidan, placing two steaming cups of cocoa on the table between them. Mumbling thanks, Aidan took one and sipped at it. The warm sweetness melted through the chill of his nightmares. None had felt quite so real as the first, but they had still left him afraid to close his eyes.

“Where is your ring?” the old man asked, gesturing at Aidan’s bare right hand.

Aidan shrugged. “Wherever it landed after I threw it.”

“You threw your Cinder Band?”

“I haven’t felt like recognizing my few accomplishments as of late.”

“You
must
wear it always, Aidan.”

Setting his cocoa on the table, Aidan propped his feet on a cushioned stool. “You’re not disappointed in me, are you?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent.