Chapter Thirty-Five: Sword and Tree

“Although each of the Three Kings had roots stemming back to Aedrasil herself—no, even further than that—there could only be one victor.

“When the dust settled and their rondo came to an end, House Uldan emerged as the new ruling family of Faengard. Fallen rivals were bound by the laws of ancient magic and made to swear allegiance to the High King. Thus, the Kingsblades were formed.”

—Ylva Norn, A History of Faengard: The Third Age

Ein found himself being escorted through Uldan Keep for the second time that night, flanked by a Kingsblade on either side. Aeos walked two steps in front, following his father’s trailing cape. The Prince gave no hint as to what was running through his mind, but Ein had a feeling he wasn’t pleased.

They left the castle and crossed the courtyard under the moonlit sky. All was quiet save the metallic sound of armour and the crunch of boots across the pavement. Ein had long since given up trying to make sense of the situation—too much had happened since he’d fallen from the walls and everything had gone wrong.

At least Father is still alive, he thought. For now.

Whether or not Alend would continue to live would depend on him.

Aedon took them through a small garden, passing a water fountain and a statue of a broad-chested King. On the other side was an open doorway at the top of three steps, leading to a brightly lit room with rows and rows of pews on either side. At the end of the aisle was a stone altar.

Aeos and Aedon bowed upon entering the chapel, as did the two Kingsblades. Ein felt obliged to do the same. Behind the altar was a large effigy of a woman, head lowered and eyes closed in prayer, hands clasped to her breast. She had a wreath of roses around her forehead and wildflowers growing by her feet with their faces upturned. He recognized her as Mother Anturia, goddess of nature and the earth, the eldest of the Pantheon.

They came to a halt before the altar. A single beam of moonlight shone from a hole in the ceiling, lighting the slab of stone bright silver. The two Kingsblades released Ein and shoved him forward.

“Take off your outermost layer,” Aedon instructed.

Ein saw no point in resisting, so he obeyed. Although his stomach twisted with fear, another part of him burned with curiosity. He was about to join the Kingsblades, the most elite faction in the whole of Faengard, a band of figures who belonged in songs and legends—figures who were heroes to the common man.

As he finished removing his vest, seven Songweavers entered the room, dressed in loose-flowing robes of black and gold. Tired and grumpy looks adorned their faces, though they didn’t dare voice complaint.

They approached the altar with practiced movements, lighting scented candles that smelled like lilacs, cleaning a silver knife, washing Aeos’s hand with a basin of water. One of them looked at Ein and asked: “isIs he the one?”

Aedon nodded.

“Lie down on the altar,” the Songweaver directed.

Ein hesitated, eyeing the Kingsblades. Then, he lay across the cold stone and stared into the crescent moon above. Metal rustled and then he was chained to the altar, each of his limbs bound in heavy iron manacles. His heart began to race, panic threading through his veins.

“Are you sure about this?” he heard Aeos say. The Prince had rolled up his sleeve, exposing a pale forearm. “I’m don’t think this is entirely necessary.”

“It is for your own safety,” Aedon replied. “Your mother would not have me send you off without some form of protection. The fact of the matter also remains that he is a Thoren, and all Thorens must be subservient to the Uldans.”

“You’re obsessed with that House,” Aeos scowled. “I don’t understand it. They’re barely a threat as things stand. The boy isn’t even a true Thoren.”

“We have nothing but the Deserter’s word for it,” Aedon replied. “Better to be safe than sorry. Besides, in the event that the Celesite bomb fails and we have need of Mother Aedrasil, granting him the power of a Kingsblade will ensure the highest chance of success in rescuing the Lachess heir.”

“And are you going to force her into submission as well, once this is all over and done with?”

“That shall remain to be seen.”

Aeos shook his head in disgust. One of the Songweavers took his hand and ran the knife across his palm, drawing a thin stream of blood. Once she was done, another bound the Prince’s hand with a strip of linen.

The tip of the knife was held above Ein’s forehead, looming blood-red like an evil omen. It occurred to him that if they wanted to, they could bring the knife down right now and slit his throat, and he wouldn’t be able to stop them. He swallowed his fear.

It’s too late to do anything now, he thought.

The blood dripped onto his forehead, warm and wet, and the knife was taken away. The Songweaver extended a finger and traced a shape onto his forehead, smearing the Prince’s blood into his skin. She then stepped away and joined the other Songweavers in a circle.

“You will now recite the Vow,” said Aedon, clearing his throat. “Repeat after me.”

He began to speak, reading from a pocket-sized book. The Kingsblades watched quietly, visors lowered, like golden statues guarding a sacred temple. Ein repeated the oath with a dry voice, sweat beading across his forehead. He felt nauseous.

“I do solemnly swear before all those gathered here…”

“...that I will faithfully serve the royal family, House Uldan…”

“...to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend…”

The words lost all meaning as he said them, goosebumps breaking out across his skin. At some point the circle of Songweavers started to sing, a low, eerie hum that sent chills up his spine. The thick smell of lilacs invaded his nostrils.

“...from this day forth, my blade and soul shall belong to the Sovereign. I swear it in the name of Wyd and the Pantheon, and should I break this Vow, may my life be forfeit and my blood be forever stained…”

“...join my new brothers and sisters, for honour runs thicker than blood…”

“We live and die as one. We are the blades of the King.”

The singing reached a crescendo. Ein’s eyes rolled back into his head as a sense of vertigo overtook him. He was falling, the world spinning around him, the hooded Songweavers continuing their frenzied chant...

And then his mind left his body, and he was no longer there.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at an unfamiliar scene. There was the High King, younger and slimmer with only one chin, the beautiful Queen by his side. A little girl stood between them, golden hair as bright as her smile, a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose—the Princess Celianna.

There was another person with them, an adolescent boy with the same radiant hair, though he had on his face a perpetual smirk. He said something to the King and the Queen, and they both laughed. Illia reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair.

The image clouded over and reassembled, and this time he was in the dining hall sitting by himself. On the other side of the room, next to the crackling fireplace was another table laden with tankards of beer and platters of food. Lords and ladies and other nobles of the court crowded around it, laughing and drinking as they shared the day’s news. The fair-haired boy was there once again, except he was no longer a boy but a young man. The ladies gazed starry-eyed at him as he boasted his feats, speaking with grand gestures and a confident smile.

The Princess looked over to Ein and came to sit down beside him. He found himself turning away, staring down at the pale yellow liquid in his mug. The sweeping warmth of the fire seemed to stop just short of his table.

The scenes continue to flow seamlessly into each other, like an endless wave rippling across a pond. He saw the fair-haired boy excel in swordplay and academics, never far away from the King and the Queen. They were always smiling. Aedon was a younger, better man around the boy, and the Queen was positively radiant. The boy’s life was built upon stroke after stroke of good fortune.

With each of these scenes there was a contrasting one, a memory of grey where other children gave Ein fearful looks, whispering venomous words behind his back. There were scenes where Aedon and Illia neglected him, even admonished him for reasons unknown. Ein found himself alone more often than not, with only books and the Princess for company. Sometimes he screamed in frustration and beat at the walls, though it was only ever in the privacy of his own chambers.

The stream of memories stopped and coalesced into one final apparition. It was of a funeral, with mourning women and stone-faced men, eyes downcast. Illia was bent over the coffin, weeping, while Aedon stood behind her. Everywhere Ein looked, people looked back with scorn, not even trying to hide their disgust. He heard snippets of conversation here and there. He was the new crown Prince, the new heir to the throne. The demonspawn, the one who no one understood, the dark horse of the family.

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The sky grew grey, and the fires bent beneath pelting rain. As Ein walked away with the Princess in tow, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the fast-forming puddles. A pale-faced boy stared back at him, his eyes an unsettling shade of violet, his hair a bone white. Neither feature belonged to the King or the Queen. He truly was a demon, a mistake of the midwives at birth. It was no small wonder he was despised.

The pond rippled, and Ein opened his eyes. He lay sprawled upon a bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Beside him was a window glazed orange with the rising sun.

He sat up, expecting pain to lance through his limbs, but oddly enough it didn’t. In fact, he felt refreshed. There was a vibrant hum in his veins, a pulsing as if his entire body had a heartbeat. He pulled his right hand out from beneath the sheets and flexed it.

“Stand.”

The word shattered all other thought in his mind, and before he knew it he was standing barefoot beside the window, shivering under his thin robe. Outside, the red-gold trees of Aldoran sparked to life as the light of morning touched them.

“I guess it worked,” said Aeos. “Congratulations on surviving the ritual, Ein. You’re a Kingsblade now.” The Prince sat beside a small table, a dusty old tome in his hands. He’d switched out his tunic for a chainmail shirt, and with the short-spear on the ground beside him, looked ready to ride out to war.

“A Kingsblade…” memories of the trial flashed through his mind. “Evaine! And Rhinne and Garax… where are they?”

“The two thieves are with the Druid, making arrangements for us to go to Darmouth,” Aeos replied. “As for the girl, I have no idea. She’ll turn up at the barracks soon enough, if she values her life.” He stood up and tossed a heavy bundle at Ein’s feet. “These are yours now. Once you’ve sorted through them, we’ll leave. The sooner we get this over and done with, the better.”

“Those memories,” Ein blurted. “Were they...?”

Aeos stared at him for a time, violet eyes blazing. “Yes, they were mine. Now, pick up your things.”

The voice blared in his mind again and Ein bent down, taking the burlap sack into his hands. Aeos grimaced, bringing a hand to his head.

“Damnation,” he swore. “Giving Commands is harder than I thought. No wonder Father never does it.”

Ein opened the sack and took out a sheathed blade. Engraved into the pommel was the emblem of a crown and a sword—the mark of a Kingsblade.

“Deserter Alend’s sword,” Aeos said. “Formerly Kingsblade Edric’s sword, now the property of Kingsblade Ein. Take care of it; Rhinegold doesn’t come cheap.”

Ein drew the sword and gasped. He’d never seen Rhinegold up close before, and its beauty blew away his expectations. It was like holding a living flame, a mesmerizing sliver of red-gold that felt wonderfully light and balanced in his hand. He knew at once that this would be the best weapon he would ever use.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll use this against you?” he asked.

Aeos curled his lips. “Go on,” he said. “Try it.”

Ein stood up and walked towards the Prince, the sword by his side. The bastard had his usual scowl upon his face, a look that a housewife might give a filthy rat that had made its nest in her kitchen. It would be good to knock him about a bit, wipe that look of his face and teach him some respect. Just because he was older didn’t entitle him to treat people like rubbish.

But then again, he was the Prince. He’d sworn to protect him, and even if he’d been given a direct command, the Vow took precedence above all. Ein wasn’t one to go back on his word, and besides—he felt like it was worth a chance to try to get along with Aeos. After all, they were Bonded now, by some ritual whose origins were completely unknown to him.

When he was about an arm’s length away from the Prince, Ein made up his mind and sheathed his sword.

“I don’t want to,” he said.

“It’s not that you don’t want to. You physically can’t,” Aeos said. “The Vow stops all hostile intentions towards the Master in their tracks.” He gestured to the rest of the items in the sack. “Go on, take everything else. We don’t have all day.”

That remark struck a chord with Ein and he almost drew the sword again. He’s just trying to provoke you, he thought. Ignore him; you’re better than that. And that was the end of that.

He rummaged through the sack, digging under the fresh clothes and boots he’d been given. Alend’s Rhinegold ring—or was it Edric’s?—was also inside, as was a hefty pouch of coins, a set of furs and a leather breastplate. The last item was a Rhinegold pauldron with several leather straps and buckles dangling from it. Carved into the pauldron was an upright sword transposed upon an oak tree.

“That’s the sigil of your House,” Aeos explained. “It was originally meant for Deserter Alend to wear to his execution. My father doesn’t believe you’ll return alive, so you won’t be receiving any suits of Rhinegold armour. Boiled leather and that pauldron are the best you’ll get.”

Ein slipped on the clothes he’d been given, sliding the leather plate over his breast. He took the pauldron and fiddled with the straps, trying to pin it down across his left shoulder.

“Who was that?” he asked, remembering the visions he’d seen during the ritual.

“Who was who?”

“The fair haired boy. Was he your brother?”

Aeos’s expression darkened. “If you ask me that question again, I’ll make you fall on your sword. Now, come with me to the stables. Druid Talberon should be finished with our travel arrangements by now.”

“Wait,” said Ein. “Can I see Alend before we leave?”

Aeos turned around, already halfway to the door. “You don’t want to see him as he is. He didn’t take kindly to my father’s sentencing.”

“I don’t care. I want to say goodbye to him.”

Aeos paused for a moment.

“If you insist,” he said. “Follow me—but make it quick.” Without waiting for a response, he slung the spear over his shoulder and left.

Ein hurried after him. The pauldron felt cumbersome and heavy on his shoulder.

#

The castle’s inhabitants gave Ein curious looks as he and Aeos made their way down to the dungeons. The sun had only just risen, but he was sure the rumour mill was already turning. After all, a whole night had passed since he, Evaine, Rhinne and Garax had been caught. Combined with Alend’s capture the night before, it must have been an exciting time to be a resident of the keep.

Ein itched to see Garax and Rhinne again, and Talberon too. He needed to know what Rhinne had been doing and why Garax had joined her. He needed to know what had happened to Bran and more importantly, what he planned to do now that everyone from Felhaven had been swept away by the Winds of Fate.

But most importantly, he needed to see Alend. The entire reason he’d left the Sleeping Twins had been to bring his father back, and now he was going even further away, to Darmouth at the foot of the mountains. He thought back to his mother who would be waiting anxiously at home, and little Cinnamin who still believed that they were on a business trip. He wondered how the Great Winter was treating them.

They descended a darkening hallway beneath the ground floor and came out in a small room watched by two guards playing cards. They straightened up as they saw the Prince, hurriedly burying their half-finished game beneath piles of papers and ledgers.

“You,” Aeos pointed.

“Y-yes, Sir!” the guard straightened up, eyes darting frantically around the room. They rested on Ein’s pauldron for a fraction of a second.

“Which cell is Alend Thoren in?”

The guard swallowed. “I-I’m sorry, sir, but I’m under direct orders from the King not to allow any visitors—”

“Is that so?” Aeos took a step forward. Even though they were the same height—in fact, the guard might have even been taller—the other man stepped back, shrinking in fear. “I wonder what he would say if I told him you two were shirking your duties.”

The two soldiers looked at each other.

“J-just a quick visit then, Your Highness. His cell is at the end of this corridor... but please don’t tell your father.”

Aeos nodded and waved at Ein. “Well? You heard him. Off you go.”

Ein fought down the urge snap a reply and strode down the corridor as quickly as he could. The cells were small and square and smelled of vomit and piss. There was a barred window in each one, allowing the occasional breath of fresh air through.

He stared at the inmates as he walked past. There were all manner of people behind the bars, from petty thieves and cutthroats to wealthy merchants and upper-class citizens. Some of them stared back, some of them ignored him, and some of them lay flat on their backs among buzzing flies, staring off into space.

As he neared the end of the walkway, Ein wondered if he really wanted to see his father again after all. Alend had been crushed, utterly defeated when they’d taken him away from the Halls of Judgement. It might have been better to just maintain that image of him than see how much further his spirit had been broken.

But Ein’s feet continued to take him forward, regardless of what his mind was thinking. He came to a halt at the last cell and then looked through the bars. There was no window in this one. It was pitch black.

Alend sat with his knees hugged to his chest in the corner, staring at the stone wall. His clothes were dirty and ragged. There was a bowl of gruel by the door, untouched.

He turned around at the sound of Ein’s footsteps.

“Ein?” he asked. His voice was ragged and thin, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. He had been crying.

“Father…”

Alend slowly crawled to his feet and wandered over to the bars. He looked like he’d lost several pounds of weight since they’d arrived at Aldoran, even though it had scarcely been two days. His muscles were flat and deflated, the luster gone from his hair, his skin a pasty yellow. He looked at Ein’s pauldron and the Rhinegold ring on his thumb.

“I survived,” Ein tried to reassure him. “I survived the Binding.”

“...nothing.” Alend fell to his knees. His eyes were empty and lifeless.

“Father, I—”

“It was all for nothing,” he said again, hands closing to fists. “We should have just stayed in Felhaven… in the Sleeping Twins, where they couldn’t find us…”

“It’ll be alright,” Ein said awkwardly, reaching out for his father. Alend’s shoulder felt small beneath his touch, even though he was still far taller and broader than Ein.

“It won’t,” Alend said. “It’s all over. You’ve taken the Vow—you’re Bonded to the Uldans for life now. They won’t ever let you leave, not after what they think I did.”

“I… I’ll make things work,” Ein said, trying to find the right words to say. “I’ll go to the Muzzle and come back. I’ll save Aedrasil and end the Great Winter, and then we can all go home again.”

“That won’t happen.” Alend sat down on the ground, staring into his lap. “Rhea and Cinnamin… oh gods… they’ll take Cinnamin…”

“I won’t let them. We’ll figure it out.” Ein brought a hand to the Thoren family crest on his shoulder. “I’m wearing your armour, Father. I’m wearing your sword and your ring. I’ll redeem you, and I’ll make sure you go free. If not… if not, then...”

“...I’d hoped he’d changed over these past sixteen years,” Alend said sadly. “At the very least, I hoped he would have mercy on you. You’re not even my son, and now your entire line is doomed. I should never have let you come.”

“No,” Ein said firmly. “I am your son. Until my real father reveals himself, I am Ein Thoren, son of Alend. I will return, and I will save you.” He clenched his fist. “I will find a way to keep Mother and Cinnamin safe. And I will not spend my life in servitude to the Uldans. I will walk free. I swear it on my name. I swear it under the all-seeing gaze of Wyd almighty. I swear it on wind.” He let his hand fall to his side.

Alend remained seated on the ground, head hung low. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “So sorry.” And he turned away as his shoulders began to shake.

Ein took one last look at the broken man that was his father and then left. The least he could do was allow Alend some privacy to weep.