The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 by Matt Thomas

eyes, infinite pools of memory and wisdom well beyond her years, made him suddenly wary. “We are not ready for this, Luc.”
    “Perhaps not,” he whispered. Hard to distance himself from the image of the woman or resist the temptation to breathe in her scent. He did not say the day they came for her would be the day existence itself would end. The knowing smile that touched her lips told him she already knew, though. She read him that easily. He wondered if she always had.
    With most of their preparations complete, he hefted his blanket roll and trudged back to his room. Moving towards the wardrobe, he dug his right hand deep into the middle drawer and pulled out a silver rod with a sphere clasped on end that appeared to encase the flowing winds. The instant his hand touched it images flashed, burned. He quickly set it in the middle of his blanket roll. He was going to have to find somewhere safer. Returning to the outer room a little unsteadily, he unsheathed the king’s sword, refusing to believe the jewel on the hilt pulsed in time to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Standing, he breathed deep. Let go, he told himself.
    He left it standing point down in the corner.
     “What are you doing?” a voice said sharply. Glancing up, he only then realized Captain Imrail—General Imrail now, he reminded himself—had made his way in.
    Luc kept his voice steady. “It’s not my sword, Imrail.”
    Imrail scowled. “It’s the sword of your house, boy,” the man said bluntly. “Did you stuff your ears with wool? The Lord Viamar and your mother are laying the foundation for you to rule the nation outright. They sacrificed more than you know tonight. That sword is yours now. You don’t mean to deny them by refusing their emblems, do you?”
    Luc bared his teeth. “You heard what they said. I have no . . .” He left it hanging.
    The man regarded him a moment with a look almost as intense as his own. “We’re leaving, Anaris. You and me. Now.”
    “Now?” he began to protest. “But it’s—”
    “We need to move,” Imrail cut in. “Now. In secret. The Warden is all but certain the enemy has eyes and ears in Peyennar, wights perhaps, or worse. Events are beginning to outpace us. I doubt the Earthbound have been idle; if they are going to strike, it will be here. Best to be far away before they regroup and think taking Peyennar worth a second attempt even with the Warden here. The Lord Viamar insists he attempt the trek to Alingdor and make his declarations public. You are to stand with him. And you will carry his sword.”
    “Enough Imrail,” Trian said. She crossed her arms. “He never chose this. If the king is going into retirement, I doubt it will be easy for the people—for the nation—to move on even if it is his daughter who succeeds him. The Lord Viamar has been a symbol of stability across the west, more so here, to his grandson who planned to serve in the First City itself under the banner of the Sparrow, to the Companions Viamar placed here. I doubt the transition will be a smooth or easy one for any of you—especially you. Give it time. Besides which, you cannot begin to comprehend what they did tonight. To openly announce that name . . . There will be consequences.”
    Imrail folded his arms, studying the Val Moran as if the words hit the mark a little too closely even for his own comfort. The newly raised general exhaled slightly before responding. Perhaps he had been reluctant to go along with the Lord Viamar’s plan after all. “It’s the way of the world, girl,” he said finally. “We live, we breathe, and then are gone. In Penthar we do not begrudge our kin the gifts we leave them.” Imrail turned, keenly regarding Luc. “The Lord Viamar is counting on you, boy. We are all counting on you. What you did here, what you managed . . . Don’t make us regret it now by sulking in silence. If you feel guilty attempting to step out from under his shadow while he enters his twilight years, well, you