A bearded man adorned in ceremonial mail only slightly less silvery than his hair stood between the thrones, one hand gripping the hilt of the sword at his waist. Aidan knelt and waited until he felt the man’s gauntleted hand touch his shoulder. Then he rose slowly, digging through his memory to remember just how the customs of
the great day
dictated he greet his father.
Edmund Calderon was known by many names. King. General of Torel’s Ward. Many, mostly the Wardsmen and the clansmen of Darinia, referred to him as Edmund the Valorous. Twenty-three years ago, Edmund had been a lieutenant in the Ward when a wave of barbarians from across the Great Sea had stormed through the Ihlkin Mountains and cut down General Lotren Kietel in a surprise attack. Edmund had rallied the beleaguered Wardsmen and pushed the invaders back in a series of clashes through the mountain range’s peaks and valleys to sweep them from the cliffs and back into the sea. After the war, Charles Gairden, Aidan’s grandfather and then Crown of the North, had bestowed the title Valorous on the Ward’s new general. In repayment for his aid and bravery, the best smiths in Darinia fashioned him the sword he wore at his waist. Valor was etched into the flat of the blade.
Before Aidan could speak, the king swept him into a warm embrace. The cloud of worry hanging over Aidan’s head vanished in a puff. Torel’s people could keep Edmund the Valorous. Aidan had Edmund the Father.
“Happy sixteenth birthday,” Edmund said, speaking over cheers of “Valorous!” and “Long live the Ward!”
“I am so proud of the man you are, and the man I know you will become,” the king continued.
“Thank you, Father,” Aidan said.
Edmund held his son out to arm’s length and gave him an amused look. “I trust you left the capering snowmen outside, Prince of Mischief?”
Aidan grinned. Edmund had given him the title when he had caught the eight-year-old prince and his newest playmate, Daniel Shirey, whose family had just moved to Torel from the east, sneaking down to Helda’s kitchens in the dead of night in search of sweets. Aidan probably would have pulled off the late-night raid if he hadn’t managed to stumble into every suit of armor lining the wide and otherwise empty corridors. Prince of Mischief didn’t hold the same weight as Edmund the Valorous, but Aidan did his best to live up to the title. Secretly, he vowed it would be one of many.
His stomach gave a lurch as his father came to stand by his side, giving Aidan a view of the throne. He turned away.
“I left a little something for you in your bedchamber,” Edmund said, draping an arm across his shoulder and leaning in close to whisper as the assemblage resettled themselves.
Aidan’s eyes brightened. “What is it?”
Now it was Edmund’s turn to look mischievous. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
Aidan’s mind, enflamed by curiosity, turned over at least a dozen possibilities as Tyrnen approached the thrones. The old man did not fold himself over, but simply inclined his head to Edmund, who returned the gesture.
“For the past thirteen years,” the old man said, his voice magically amplified to reach the far corners of the room, “it has been my privilege to instruct Prince Aidan Gairden in the development of his gift.” He paused. “A privilege most of the time, and a trial at others.”
Waves of soft laughter swept through the room.
“The opportunity to step aside from the onerous responsibilities involved in leadership and personally instruct a Touched is a privilege for any Eternal Flame,” Tyrnen continued, his voice serious. “But the opportunity to instruct a Gairden, a duty never before shared by any outside the royal bloodline, is a true honor.” Tyrnen raised his hand dramatically then plunged it into a pocket, withdrawing—nothing. Frowning, he fished through a dozen pockets in his blue
tarp
until he at last revealed a gold ring set with a plum-colored stone. The sight of it made Aidan’s mouth go dry.
“I am delighted to say that today is the culmination of my efforts,” Tyrnen continued, holding the ring high for all to see. An identical ring adorned his right forefinger. Lowering his arm, Tyrnen held the ring out to Aidan.
“As the bearer of the Lady of Dawn’s Eternal Flame,” he continued, “I hereby grant Aidan Gairden his Cinder Band, an honor earned, not given.”
Extending his quivering right hand, Aidan allowed Tyrnen to slip the Cinder Band on to his right forefinger. Aidan eyed it, stunned. Most Touched did not ascend to Cinder rank until the age of thirty, sometimes even older. Tyrnen had always told him he was the most gifted Touched he had ever taught, evidenced by the first sip of light Aidan had taken at the age of three. But to receive such an honor at sixteen...
The longer he gazed at his Cinder Band, the more his chest swelled with pride and emotion.
Aidan Gairden, Cinder
, he thought in wonderment. He looked up at his master and tried to speak, but could only nod.
“Congratulations,” Tyrnen said, his voice thick with emotion. Then he folded his arms behind him and peered at Aidan over his spectacles. “Have you selected a creed?”
“Soldier,” Aidan replied automatically. After earning a Cinder Band, many Touched went on to pursue healing, architecture, engineering. Some joined the crew of a Leastonian ship to navigate the seas by following the stars. Others entered the Temple of Dawn to spread the Lady’s light across Crotaria. As a Gairden, Aidan’s creed, like everything else in his life, was predetermined. If that meant sacrificing himself for the good of Torel or all of Crotaria, so be it. From this day forward, he was a tool, an instrument of the Lady, not a man. Not a person.
“So you have decided, Aidan Gairden,” the old man said formally.
No,
I
most certainly didn’t
, Aidan thought.
Tyrnen inclined his head to the king and prince again and glided to one side of the thrones.
The next phase of the
great-wonderful-splendid day
brightened Aidan’s mood considerably. Visitors lined up along the carpet and approached the throne one by one, each bearing a gift. He accepted medallions, jewels, colorful clothing that would have made him feel right at home aboard a Leastonian ship. Then the merchants’ guild, the governing body of the eastern realm, presented him
with
a ship—or rather, the deed to a ship.
Aidan assumed no other gift would trump a ship, but Torelian inventors from the Lion’s Den university proved him wrong. The inventors, a cadre of older Touched with singed beards, hands, and clothing, knelt and presented Aidan with a necklace fashioned from a clear, glass-like material. One clear cylinder as long as his forefinger dangled from the loop.
“We call it a lamp, Your Highness,” one of the inventors said from bended knee. “We just finished it yesterday.”
Aidan frowned. “It holds fire?” he asked.
“After a fashion, Your Highness,” one of the inventors said, rising. He swallowed as Tyrnen came around the thrones to stand behind Aidan, eyes alight with curiosity. “Think of it as a water skin for the Lady’s light, Your Highness,” the inventor continued, voice quivering with excitement. “The lamp collects light simply by exposing it to a light source. It holds the light for up to a full day and can be used when needed, even after the Lady has given way to the Lord of Midnight.” He shuddered, a reaction echoed by many throughout the room.
“This is amazing,” Aidan said, fastening it around his neck. “Thank you!”
“Does a lamp have to take the form of a necklace?” Tyrnen asked, lifting one of the jewels from Aidan’s neck and turning it over in his hand.
“Not at all, Eternal Flame,” the inventor said, hands clasped. “We wanted something practical for His Highness, but we are working to construct lamps in other forms.”
“We should talk more of this,” Tyrnen murmured.
“At your convenience, Eternal Flame,” the inventor said breathlessly as he and the others bobbed their heads.
The line of gift-givers continued. Aidan’s stack of trinkets, treasures, books—he shot Tyrnen a meaningful glare each time he received one of those, making sure to page through each one with a show of great interest—and medallions grew taller. He found his thoughts drifting to the Sallnerian girl—woman, he corrected— he’d seen in the courtyard. He had gazed at her for what felt like minutes, drinking in her fair skin, her long legs, and her eyes, which had been the color of... He frowned, annoyed. Her features had already begun to fade. He didn’t know her, didn’t even know her name, but he knew she was bold. A Sallnerian had to be to enter Torel, let alone Leaston or Darinia, so casually. Seeing him must have been important indeed. Maybe he could—
“... all the way from the Plains of Dust to bring word of your betrothed,” his father was saying. Aidan blinked at him, then followed Edmund’s gaze to see a Wardsmen step out from his place in line and bang his spear against the floor.
“Romen of the Wolf, War Chief of Darinia.”
He stepped back to admit a mountain of a man, tall even for a Darinian. Romen’s fur vest displayed his muscular chest tanned from life spent roaming Darinia’s mountains and deserts. Tattoos snaked up his arms and spread over his chest. Some, like the wolf running up his left arm, symbolic of his clan, were easily understood. Others, like the elaborate string of orbs, triangles, and a series of dashes and swirls that coiled around his right bicep, symbolized significant events in the wearer’s life, but Aidan could not interpret them. As a clan chief and the war chief of the west, Romen was especially decorated.
A tiny woman dressed in clothing dyed in blue and gold stepped out from the crowd and slipped her arm through the war chief’s. Every head on the floor craned up to take in Romen as he escorted his wife to the thrones. Her arms were adorned in gold and silver rings, and the bracelets looped over her slender arms chimed as she glided forward. A handful of clansmen fanned out behind them, each a head shorter than Romen and bearing a different tattoo: one wore a wolf identical to Romen’s, while different animals danced among the symbols that branded the other clansmen.
“Welcome back to Sunfall, Cynthia Alston,” Edmund said, kissing her hand.
“It has been too long, King Edmund,” she said, smiling.
Romen inclined his head to Edmund. Turning, he greeted Aidan in the custom of Darinians, placing a fist to his left breast. “Steel is stronger than flesh,” the big man said.
“Blood stronger than steel,” Aidan finished, mirroring the salute.
Romen nodded, pleased. “It is good to see you well, Aidan Gairden,” he said, speaking the words slowly as if they were a maze for his tongue to navigate.
“And you, war chief,” Aidan said. “Your common is excellent.”
“My wife is a fine teacher,” he said, glowing as he beheld his Leastonian beauty.
“My husband is a quick learner,” Cynthia said, and she smiled up at him.
“How fares Darinia?” Edmund asked.
“We are blessed with fast horses, good hunting, and the Lady’s warmth,” Romen said.
“And Nichel?” Edmund asked, looking at the clansfolk standing behind and around Romen and Cynthia. “My future daughter-in-law accompanied you today, yes?”
Every thought of the Sallnerian woman from earlier flew from Aidan’s head.
“She couldn’t be here today,” Cynthia said, then cast a worried look at her husband.
Romen also frowned. “Our daughter was not well enough to make the journey. I am afraid your wedding vows will have to wait, Aidan Gairden.”
“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Aidan asked, genuinely concerned. Nichel was only a year younger than he. They had played together during the infrequent visits his mother made to Darinia during Aidan’s boyhood. She might be another chain that shackled him to his throne, but she was his friend.
“Her illness came on suddenly,” Cynthia said. “She insisted we be here today without her. We will reschedule the wedding.”
Romen nodded. “You will see her when the snows melt, Aidan Gairden.”
“I look forward to it,” Aidan said, feeling relieved. Nichel would recover, and he had more time to adjust to the idea of starting a family of his own. He’d give back every one of his gifts in exchange for more time to adapt. Most of his gifts. A few.
After exchanging farewells and a promise to unite Aidan and Nichel at the first hint of spring, Romen and Cynthia rejoined the crowd. The clansmen melted into the crowd behind them. Several moments passed. Gradually, eyes swiveled toward the closed doors. As if on cue, they swung open to reveal a solitary figure standing in the center of the doorway, a sword sheathed at her side.
Everyone along the aisle fell to one knee as Annalyn Gairden, Crown of the North, sword-bearer, Guardian Light, flowed down the aisle to her family. The light filtering through the icy stainedglass windows played against the jewels weaved through her hair, which shined almost as brightly as the smile she fixed on her family as she glided toward them. Tyrnen nodded to Annalyn when she approached; she nodded back and fixed all her attention on her husband, who was rising from bended knee. Each swam through the other’s eyes, seeming to forget the hundreds of people watching. Edmund lowered his head and kissed his wife’s curly brown hair, streaked with blonde as if the Lady’s tears had ran down it. A few women cooed softly.
Aidan cleared his throat, and his mother turned her smile on him. When she opened her arms, Aidan stooped and embraced her. Leastonian perfumes made her hair smell like fresh peaches. He breathed deep.
“Dancing snowmen, I understand?” Annalyn murmured in Aidan’s ear.
He tensed, then loosened as he felt her shaking with laughter.
“They were quite talented,” he said. “I’m sorry you missed them.”
She laughed softly. “I do hope you can bring them back for an encore.”
“They met a terrible fate, but their kin would love to perform for you, I’m sure.”
She squeezed him and turned to face the assemblage. “Today, my heart bursts with love and pride. You have come here today, friends, countrymen, and honored guests, to witness my son’s Rite of Heritage, our family’s passage to adulthood. Before this hour has passed, you will see the new Crown of the North and swordbearer before you—and more, besides.”