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

are not the only one.
    “As for openly announcing who you are . . . Well, that is done. It cannot be undone now.” Imrail finished it bluntly.
    Luc flushed. This was one thing he did not want to discuss or go into great detail. Tonight they had exposed him to the world. Too soon, he knew. “I thought we were going after them straightway, Imrail,” he said instead. “That sword is important. Events in the south are important. I can feel it in me. I can see it. If we wait, there’s no telling what he’ll do with it. Besides, I never agreed on Alingdor. Tell me you don’t think they already hold Ancaida and perhaps I’ll reconsider.” Ansifer. He would pay. “Tell me you think the delay, any delay, will not cost us.”
    Imrail was stroking his square jaw. “We have already been delayed. Even if we could save another week, I would still advise caution. With Vandil gone—”
    “My uncle said you would be the Steward of Alingdor, Imrail,” Luc pressed. He suspected the man thought he had forgotten. With Lenora’s predictions that Imrail might die to the oppressive haunts they had faced in the Mirror Plane, maybe the man himself had forgotten. Luc only hoped Imrail had side-stepped that fate. Now there was no one he trusted more. Unlike the others, Imrail treated him no differently than he had on their journey to rescue the king. Luc needed that now, but knew Alingdor needed the man far more.
    “As I was saying,” Imrail went on, ignoring the observation, “with Vandil gone someone has to take thought to our southern border. That is why I am going with you, not that I would leave either one of you to the Furies.” He said it frankly, but there was a hint of fondness in his rough tone. “But we are going to Alingdor, and I am coming with you when the time comes for you to head south. Whatever your uncle saw, things have changed—or his vision is one that will not take place for years yet. Regardless, my place is with you. Your mother and father agree. The Lord Viamar agrees. The White Rose rules the nation in your name. After a few days in Alingdor, you and I will be bound south—well, we will first have to deal with the Ancaidans perched on our doorstep. But we will ignite the nation with word of the Lord Siren’s return.” Luc flinched at the declaration. “Say your goodbyes quickly,” Imrail continued. “We will need to reassemble the Companions and pave the way for the leaders of Penthar to follow. Some of them are hesitant given what they have seen and heard.”
    “I am coming too, Imrail,” Trian said firmly.
    The rugged-faced man nodded. “Good. Avela will be pleased. I’ll have your belongings taken. We’ll scout the pass and camp at the base of the hills. We should be within sight of the Landing within four days. You have two hours.”
    Imrail nodded at them and strode out. He paused at the door and seemed to hesitate, but read something in Luc’s eyes that made him clamp his mouth shut. Instead he left without bowing or speaking. Luc could do without the bowing, especially from him.
    “We will need to say goodbye, Luc,” Trian said, seeming to read his thoughts. “It would not do just leaving.”
    “I suppose not,” he agreed. He owed Peyennar that much. Taking a few steps to retrieve the Lord Viamar’s sword, he clenched his right hand around the hilt a moment before sheathing it. He suspected he was getting better with the blade, but still had far to go. The sword had never been his way, but he did understand what Imrail was getting at. Obligations he expected. He did not resent them or the expectations. He was just troubled he might not live up to them. The thought of a second strike against the mountain retreat made him taste bile. This delay might well prove even more costly. A week to center himself; a week for the forces of the night to plan their next move. He wondered if the enemy suspected what their response would be. Likely not. Imrail himself did not. Even Luc shied away