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

was thunderstruck that they would do this without his consent. He wanted to cover his face. He soon realized there would be no hiding here today, though. Guided steadily by Imrail, he was propelled to stand alongside his mother. Then, one by one, the assembled came to pay their respects to the White Rose. And the Lord Siren. In one stroke they had bared his maimed soul. Siren. Sirien in the earliest ages of the world. If the nobles felt fear at the mention of the Unmaker, at least the name was one they knew, even if only from legend. A chance mention in the Annals most thought a myth. He doubted the Nations were even aware of it. But word of what had taken place here today would spread. The wise and learned would undoubtedly expose his crimes. He was still only vaguely aware of the far removed past and had to search the locked parts of his mind when he wanted more, something he had made a conscious effort not to do. He thought it had something to do with the bouts of lightheadedness.
    Eventually the hall disassembled. He had to endure Master Varel and Ingram on their knees before him. The Acriels, too. His patience was at an end and he felt cold and disjointed. “Why?” he demanded. He glanced at his mother. “That name is cursed.” Trian was beside him and forestalled him with an arm looped through his tightly. He would have jerked it away but for the presence that stilled his worries whenever she was near. Besides that her dress was just too distracting.
    Viamar answered first. “The nation believes I am dead,” Eldin said. “I served my time.  No need to undo what need not be mended.”
    “That does not answer the question,” Trian said. “We had decided not to speak of this.”
    Ariel looked at her without expression. “It is done and cannot be undone,” she said. She met the icy look he shot her with a sigh.
    “You are both dragging your heels,” Ivon growled. “You want to wait, but the wolves have been loosed and the Nations are ripe for the plucking. If not now, when?” The Warden gave him a piercing look. Direct and deliberate. “Would you wait for Naeleis to assume the throne of Val Mora? Imagine the carnage he would bring. Her people forced into slavery by the Earthbound. Martyre would fold and quickly follow. The Furies have existed as spirits of malice gnawing on their hatred in the dark places of the world. Why do they rise now? Because the being that spawned in the War of the Furies has or will take physical form. Do we have the time to wait? A generation has passed since the Stand at Imdre. We have had our reprieve. Now is the time.
    “I know your mind, Son. You fear the world will denounce you. But consider what it will mean to the Nations to know the two of you are among us. Shall we wait indeed? Then why come at all?” His gaze took in Trian. “What do you say, Mistress Emening? I know your soul, girl. You are the Dreamweaver. Will you wait as well only to redeem a world beyond saving? What do you say, Elloyn of the Highlands? When my soul comes to you will you reject me for forcing you to choose?”
    Trian appeared to stiffen at each word. In the cold hall she was like a white flame, the image marred only by a hint of sudden fatigue. She masked it, though, and still managed to stand with her back straight. “The Warden is astute. The time has long since passed, I suppose. It might have been kind to consider our wishes, but I understand your haste.” She looked at Luc. The pairing of colors on the dress really suited her, but he was still too incensed to dismiss what had been done here. “I think I would like to leave now, Luc,” Trian said. “We will be up and on the move at first light, I understand.”
    “We will see you off,” Ariel said.
    “That pleases me, my Lady,” Trian murmured. “Truly. If you will excuse us.”
    Luc had to lengthen his strides to match her paces. Difficult to describe the range of emotions he felt. Something in the awareness the two of them shared