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

from what he was considering now.
    * * * * *
    After saddling Lightfoot, he and Trian circled the remote village. As goodbyes went, he knew these would prove among the most difficult he would ever have to make. They paused first for one final look at the impenetrable Shoulder of Peyennar, ancient sanctuary of the Builders. Some of his earliest memories were centered on the hold. In more than one way, it defined the Oathbound and the people of Peyennar—their staunch defiance of the bitter northern elements and the unseen enemy taking shape in the east. Now he was leaving, more than likely never to return. The thought allayed some of the urgency to make for the south and the heart of the Ancaidan realm where, somewhere in his soul, if he truly possessed one, he knew the hand of fate was leading him.
    Despite the hour, he guided the bay through familiar paths easily, pausing at Ingram’s yard and Master Varel’s humble homestead. Both men had plenty of advice. He only partially listened, until they gave him leave to speak. He thanked them, or tried to. Between the bowing and the gruff handshakes he was hardly able to get a word in. Master Varel’s wife smiled between them fondly and winked towards Trian. Ingram was harder to take leave of. The man had practically hauled Luc through the wild all those years back. The former king’s captain was getting on in years, but appeared content. He hinted Peyennar still had a purpose. Varel, the Brendars, Barsos, and even the Acriels had kin in Penthar. Some were sending word. Some were intent on making the mountain village a thriving community. None of it made sense, but some hint of foresight seemed to capture Trian.
    “I have no doubt Peyennar still has a role to play,” Trian told the man. “Yours will be perhaps the most pivotal. Wait for the day. I believe the Lord Siren will return.” She paused, studying the man with a faint smile, perhaps even a grin. “You will know peace, my Lord Ingram, and more joy than you yet foresee. Fare you well.”
    After stops at the Acriels, the Barsos, and then the Renfather’s, they approached the two hours Imrail had appointed. Returning to the green, they made for the Brendar inn. For the first time in memory a guard had been posted. This one was considerable. Allowing two men in silver and black to push back the double doors, he entered, savoring the contrast in the mountain air and the familiar surroundings at the town heart with the aromas wafting in from the kitchens. He had never seen the inn busier. Nobles of the realm had left the safety of the Shoulder for the evening meal, it seemed. He expected they would be leaving in a day or so with his mother and father. Members of Imrail’s inner council were present, too. He nodded towards Rew, who would be joining them and apparently had come by to say his farewells as well. On entry, a half hundred men came to attention. No, more. Far more.
    The remainder of the allotted time passed swiftly. He saw the faces of those he had grown up with but felt a keen sense of disconnect. He was leaving, best to remember that. Taking it all in, he steeled himself. He clasped hands with men he barely felt he knew now. Reeva Tanalo knelt. Master Jessip, still with his arm in a sling and the other wrapped tightly around Gianna Altree, bowed. Altree’s left arm ended in a stump. He swallowed at the sight. Eva Brendar pressed them to eat what proved a savory meal. Surprisingly, her hazel eyes were as fond as ever. Unable to fend her off, he acceded and took a seat at a table four men hastily abandoned. Somehow he endured the bitter partings. The fare was as fine as he remembered. When Imrail and his mother and father arrived, he stood and made his way to the inn’s double doors. He felt more than a little unsteady.
    Taking a last look, he gripped his sword and the Mark on the hilt. His sign. His infamy. No escaping it now.
    He waited until they were standing on the green. Trian read something in his