11. Mare
Mare
Winter’s Tide spanned two weeks, beginning the day the twin moons started waning, and ending when they settled into their new crescent shapes. Shapes they’d hold until summer arrived and they grew to full orbs again.
Tomorrow, Winter’s Tide would be officially over.
We were supposed to be packing tonight, preparing for Aenir's convoy to head home on the morrow. Last year, too many lords had drunk themselves into a stupor. We'd finally departed Kentoro a full day late.
Life had seemed so simple, then. All the Aenir lords thought the delay was humorous, to the ire of our hosts.
I sat in the corner, wringing my hands together, wishing I were anywhere else. Every lord in the Aenir convoy was gathered around the center of the room, arguing. The discussion had dragged on long into the night.
I'd long stopped trying to listen. Cloaks and tunics in every shade whirled together in a blur, their voices unintelligible to my clouded mind.
Once, the governance of our country had been divided between Tirnanog and the capital of Casaloch. The lords in the king's cabinet had been charged with overseeing important affairs: banks, armies, farms, art. Tirnanog's lords had instead watched over the land, each managing a swath of territory.
After my city's fall, the lords of Aenir had gained new power, taking over the fallen's charges. Women had been booted from their seats in accordance with Forlaith law, their scepters given to their husbands or sons.
Between the panicked chatter, the lords had made one thing clear: the Solhearts of Forlaith would not allow a woman to inherit a Paragon's blade. And so neither would they.
I supposed I didn't blame them. Paragons were warriors. Knights. Leaders. They could fell entire units of men on their lonesome and kill monsters with ease.
Why should anyone trust me to do the same?
Someone dropped into the chair beside me. Startled, I sat upright. Heavy-lidded eyes regarded me, set on a narrow face of light brown skin.
It was only Liam. His wounded arm lay stiff across his lap, tightly bound in layers of bandages.
"How's the arm?" I asked.
"Hurts like sin," he answered, eyes scanning the cluster of nobles. "Have they decided upon anything yet?"
"They can't decide on frivolous matters. Why would they be able to decide on this?"
Liam raised an eyebrow. "Really? I would have thought their answer was obvious."
"Well." I slumped down. "On one thing, at least."
"You're slouching, sister."
I shot him a sour glare and straightened my back. Though my life had given me little reason for it, I did like to maintain my dignity.
Liam gave a half-hearted smile. "Better." Sighing, he pulled his dark hair loose from its bond, letting it tumble around his shoulders. "Can you renounce the sword?"
"What, tell it to pick someone else?"
"Yes. Surely a Paragon can refuse the call."
Gnawing on my lip, I gazed past the cluster of nobles in green cloaks. The black blade lay in the center of the table, quiet and dull.
Did I want to refuse its call?
When Killian had invoked the right of Cierthine, I'd felt a wave of power, seen the blade pulse with magic.
A Paragon had the authority to demand another expedition into Tirnanog. They might even have the strength to withstand the storms that had shielded it all these long years.
And . . . there was a certain allure to the idea. To the fame and glory Paragons garnered.
Liam leaned forward, catching my eye. "You don't want to refuse it, do you?"
"No, I—"
"If there's anything you want," Liam said. "It's to be important."
I wanted to protest the claim. It painted me in a vain, shallow light.
But it was true.
"Which begs the question." Liam's eyes flicked to the sword. "Why did it choose someone like you?"
I swallowed hard. Why had Cierthine called me? When the storm had raged above Kentoro, I'd felt a swell in my breast, a swell that had quieted when I held the blade. Pain had torn through me the moment Laiserian had taken it away.
Like a piece of my soul had been ripped out.
But I was nobody, despite my insistence otherwise. Despite my desire to be more. And no matter how I tried to scrub the memory of Galasvar from my mind, it would not leave.
There, in the darkness and death, that dragon of shadow had nuzzled and accepted me. Spared me. All the city had perished, torn apart and gnawed to their bones, yet I had lived.
"Thank you, brother," I said, a little sharper than intended. I flew from my seat, hands curling into fists. A hush fell over the nobles, and all eyes regarded me.
King Ailithir leaned on the table, peering at me with pale-green eyes smudged with shadows. "No," he snapped. "That's out of the question."
A wiry man with thinning hair spoke next. "It's the only way. Paragon weapons do not choose a new master until the previous one has died."
I stared at him blankly, digesting his words and their meaning.
"Whoa." Liam shot from his chair and pushed me behind him. "Executing a Paragon because you don't like them has to be seven shades of illegal."
"Silence, half-breed," a plumper man with red cheeks snapped. "Nobody asked for your opinion."
"I did," the king snapped back. "Or he would not be here." Shoving off the table, he gently motioned for Liam to step aside. "You don't remember your mother, do you, Mare?"
"N-no," I stuttered.
"Of course not." The king shook his head. "Tirnanog clung to our traditions until the last. She served in a unit of myrmidons, as did her forebears."
Was that the reason I retained such pride for a city I'd never known? My mother and her people had fought to maintain independence from the Solhearts' ever-expanding Empire of Forlaith.
Had the storm not swept them away, what would have become of my home, of its lords? Would they have capitulated, or burned?
"Lady Rohan had more talent with a blade than I ever did." The king smiled. "Maybe you will, too."
An eruption of protests sounded behind King Ailithir. One voice rose above the others.
He was one of Father's friends—Lord Fitheal, master of the banks and now one of our southern cities.
The tallest man in the room, he slammed a fist on the table and bellowed over the din.
"We've wasted enough time arguing about what hangs between our Paragon's legs, when we've far more pressing issues to discuss. "
Lord Fitheal's deep green eyes landed on me with an expression of pity. I quickly looked down.
Though Prince Laiserian had been quiet thus far, he finally rose and spoke. "Yes." He smoothed back his steel hair. "Focus on the impending doom, please. I'll remove Lady Rohan so you can stop fretting about her, for a moment."
The prince grabbed my arm and steered me out into the hall. Liam slipped out behind us and let the meeting room's door fall closed.
Before I could speak, a shadow detached itself from the corner and fell into step on my other side.
"Are they trying to kill her?" It asked.
"Saints, Ferris," Laiserian cursed. "Announce yourself first."
I breathed out when I took in the kid's features. He looked just like his father and brother, albeit with far longer, curlier hair. Freckles pooled in his dimples when he grinned at his brother.
"Sorry," he said, insincerely. "Do you have a plan?"
"Yes." Laiserian turned his gaze onto me. "Even if Father convinces the other lords you deserve a chance, the world at large will not accept this. Forlaith will not accept this."
He stopped in a dark parlor room, lit only by a single candle. Snow fell gently outside, from calm, black skies. No echo remained of the storm that had raged mere hours ago.
Ferris perched on an armrest and fussed with a wound on his neck. A shallow cut—had he clashed with the assassins?
More likely, he'd gotten hurt in a bar fight.
"Forlaith will never anoint a woman," Ferris said. "I can't say what they would do, though."
"I can." Laiserian dropped my arm and stood before the dark mantle, hands clasped behind his back. "They would assassinate you and paint it as an unfortunate tragedy."
Liam snorted. He leaned on the doorframe, keeping a distance from the princes. "Would they really be that obvious about it?"
"Yes." Ferris folded his arms. "Hell, they'd toss her from the walls into a bustling crowd to send a warning."
I stood there, silent and blank. News that everyone in the Empire would seek my head should've shaken me.
But after the death I'd witnessed in Galasvar . . .
Maybe the shock had yet to wear off.
Summoning false courage, I smiled. "Paragons are supposed to be the best, right? I suppose I'll just have to learn how to thwart these assassins."
"Skill with a blade won't save you from poison slipped in your drink," Laiserian warned.
"And you have no formal training. You'll be an easy target.
" He glanced around and lowered his voice.
"If we wish to keep you safe, you'll need a guardian.
Someone who can do more than merely fight off foes who come at you with knives. "
"You mean someone with influence?" I guessed. "Someone to deter them from trying?"
Liam spoke the thought I'd kept to myself. "Who would be willing to do that? Anyone with influence in Forlaith will be, well . . . a Solheart noble."
"One will protect you," Laiserian said. "Paragon Tiernan will."
Ferris sat up. "Reese?"
I knew that name. Everyone did. Paragon Tiernan was from Lavaire, a Fireborn and the wielder of the holy rapier. Rumors said he'd never lost a fight—that he was inhuman in battle.
"What gives him such authority?" I asked.
"Because the seat of the Emperor remains empty," Laiserian said. "Because with only a widow who's yet to be re-wed, the most powerful man in the empire is the Paragons’ leader."
Laiserian painted a compelling picture. But it was hard to imagine any man with such status vouching for a woman.
One with no military training, at that.
"And," Laiserian continued. "There's an old tradition in the Paragon order. Should a weapon choose an inexperienced fighter, an established Paragon will take them on as an apprentice."
"And you trust Paragon Tiernan?" I asked.
"Yes," Laiserian said.
Nodding, I backed up. Suddenly, the floor felt dangerously unstable and on the verge of rising up to meet me.
"Let me just . . . " I ran a hand across my brow. “Think about this for a moment."
If anyone called out to me, I didn't hear them. Rubbing my temples, I walked back into the dark, quiet hall.
Training under a Paragon, to become one . . . Throwing myself into battles for the rest of my days, always under scrutiny for being a woman in a position she did not deserve.
Maybe the assassins would never stop trying to take my head.
The faint thrum I'd felt, the lure of glory and respect, faded into the taste of ash. I wasn't a warrior. Mere days ago, I'd been on the brink of donning a noble's crown.
That was the life I wanted. After twenty-five years of staring into the distance, wondering who I was supposed to be and why it'd been stripped of me, I'd finally gotten somewhere.
But that was gone now, too. Either I took the sword, or I died.
Raising my head, I stared down the hall at the sealed door, listening to the murmur of arguing voices.
I'd lied to them about what happened at Galasvar. 'Killian lost his life escorting us to safety.' No mention of the monsters’ odd behavior had crossed my lips. Should anyone learn the truth . . .
I sincerely doubted even Laiserian would want to keep me alive.
No one had ever rejected a Paragon weapon's call. But neither had they ever chosen a woman. Maybe I could be the first at both.
Let someone capable take Cierthine. We needed a warrior right now. And I could return to the shadows and take my dark secret with me.
Gathering my resolve, I marched back to the meeting room and threw open the door.
The lords ceased their shouting and turned toward me. Lifting my chin, I swept my gaze over the group. "You're right. A woman shouldn't wield Cierthine. I've come to renounce it."
The king opened his mouth to protest, but Fitheal interrupted. "Good. That should have been the first thing we tried."
Setting my jaw, I approached the black blade lying across the table and grasped its handle. The dull blade lit up with an array of violet light, thrumming with electric power. Its hilt illuminated as the amethyst jewel at its center flared to life.
"I'm not meant for this," I whispered, wondering if the blade was listening. "You chose wrong. Leave me behind. Choose another—someone who can protect Aenir."
The blade hummed with greater intensity, and the hilt shook in my grip. Then, it fell silent and still. Dull.
I felt something, like a great whoosh of air had left my lungs. Releasing the handle, I stepped back.
"Did it work?" Fitheal asked.
"I don't know," King Ailithir said. "No one has ever rejected the calling before. But, it certainly seemed like it worked."
"Good," I said. Nodding, I spun on my heel, eager to escape the sea of eyes.
It wasn't relief that lit my breast. Dragging weight pulled on my heart, and blood pounded in my ears.
Everything had happened so fast. Before I'd truly realized what had been thrust upon me, I'd given it up. There had been a glimmer of a chance to become something special, to live a life beyond the halls of my father's abode.
To do something that might've made my mother proud.
And now it was gone.
Scraping rock and steel caught my ear as I grabbed the doorknob to escape the room. Releasing it, I turned to see the black blade Cierthine burning with a thousand runes, each colored a brilliant violet.
Wind burst through the room, sweeping around the sword and lifting it, as though an invisible hand grasped the hilt. It blinked, disappearing into a streak of lightning before impaling itself at my feet, cracking the tiled floors.
I gaped at Cierthine, who had refused to heed my orders to choose another.
It had now firmly, decidedly, chosen me.
"Well," I breathed. "Shit."