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

villagers to attend the audience, too. He thought Rew was somewhere in the back, Master Renfather as well.
    Luc met their assessing eyes without blinking; sound advice from his mother. He and Trian came to a halt between the two. Imrail had nearly stuffed Luc into the light armor. With the sword of House Viamar hanging at his side, he caught more than one lord or lady give him a second glance or mouth a whisper to someone standing near. Trian stood in a sapphire blue and white beaded gown—blue at the bodice until cinched at the waist, and white below, sometimes appearing silver. It flowed to the heels of her open-toed shoes. She was equally a mystery to them. On first seeing her he had nearly tripped over his tongue. Those in attendance wondered at the woman in blue and white whose presence seemed a match for the daughter of the king. Luc still had difficulty taking his eyes off her. Something in him always seemed to awaken whenever she was near, but now. . . .
     “These are the words of House Viamar,” the king began after a lengthy silence. He was leaner now, a shadow of the man Luc remembered. But his voice was still commanding. “The Nation of Penthar rides against the Furies. We will not wait for them to declare war. War will exist between us until the Earthbound and their masters are no more. There will be losses. Of that I am certain. But we will not submit to the forces of the Legion.”
    Silence. It was the silence of fear and the dread of their certain doom.
    “The Sparrow will cede its will to that of the White Rose, my daughter, Ariel Viamar, who will rule in the name of the next Lord of Penthar. This is her wish. It is granted. She will hold all oaths until such time as she decrees. You are here to witness the transfer of power and the will of the Sparrow. Has it been witnessed?”
    “Witnessed, Sire,” Imrail snapped crisply from the rear of the hall.
    “Thank you, General,” the king said. “And this is your will, Daughter?” Eldin asked softly.
    Ariel Viamar raised her head. Still appearing a young woman only a half-decade his senior, she held every eye. “Yes,” she announced clearly. “It is my wish that while we are at war the Nations will be led by our example and willingness to yield all authority to my son and heir.” Luc stiffened. He would have stepped forward were it not for his father’s hand and a sharp elbow in the ribs from Trian. “The last decedents of Ardil have witnessed that Peyennar was founded after the Stand at Imdre. Founded to raise my son and heir, my Lord. The son of the Warden and of House Viamar. We hid him here to bring us hope, hope that his hand might shelter us, lead us, through the storm.”
    Eldin Viamar nodded, unable to mask the pride he felt for his daughter. “I will witness it. This is your son, Daughter. What is his name? He has been known by more than one, I understand.”
    Luc felt dizzy. Too fast. This was happening too fast. Ariel’s voice stayed calm and sure. “He is the Lord Siren. He needs no other name. But he will bear the names of both the House Viamar and Ellandor. This is our will.”
    “So be it,” the king said gravely. “We will make preparations to formally declare it, but from this moment forward the assembled will kneel before the Mistress of Penthar and the Lord of the Winds. Kneel!” he commanded.
    Luc held in a groan when, to the very last man and women assembled in the hall, all knelt. He locked his arms behind his back to keep from raising them in fury. The Lord of the Winds. After a few moments his mother moved forward to take her place at the head of the hall. Even the Lord Viamar knelt. “This audience is ended,” she said. A whisper that carried far. “Go in peace and without fear. We will not fail you.”
    The hall, silent before, broke into a tumult. Men and women scrambled to their feet. Luc moved to one of the far walls and pressed a trembling hand against it. It was going to take time for the place to clear. He