“And Arvel’s Enduring Flame?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the magic of all four warrior families.”
“What is it like?”
He sighed. “The Enduring Flame shines like a curtain of golden light. It’s showy. When Arvel stands in the middle of it, he looks like a saint, one of the Aspects’ reincarnations. His skin and hair glow, and his eyes light up. When the flame is burning, he is untouchable. He can expand it to cover himself and his allies. If you’re in his inner circle, you are invulnerable. The competition to be one of Arvel’s chosen is cutthroat.”
That’s why they called Arvel the Golden Knight. It had to be beautiful.
“Everard’s Fatefire is terrifying,” Reynald continued. “It coats his sword, blazing with green and black. When he strikes, the Fatefire flies off the blade and burns everything in its path. It can cut through a man in armor and the horse he’s on from a hundred paces away. Every strike leaves a line of green flames in its wake, and he can keep it blazing for a single breath or a quarter of an hour. When Everard is on the field, the air reeks of smoldering flesh and the battlefield burns with scars of fire. The screams of the dying assail your ears. The black smoke that rises from the bodies stings your eyes and scrapes your throat.”
I mentally scratched Fatefire off my “To See While in Rellas” list.
“The Rageglow is bright red, like arterial blood,” Reynald said. “It sheathes Wynand Bors and his Conquerors in glowing armor. They grow stronger, faster, and impervious to pain. Their weapons cut through solid steel like butter. The magic severs their grip on reality, and as they lose themselves, they scream. It’s a sight you never forget. If only the Rageglow gave Wynand some wisdom, he would be sitting on the throne in the Eagle Roost.”
On second thought, I didn’t need to see the Rageglow either.
“The Exultant Call of the Savarics has no color,” Reynald said. “You don’t see it, you feel it. It reaches into you and envelops your heart. You feel stronger, faster, more powerful, and you know you’re not alone. Your friends are standing with you, and no enemy is great enough to bring you down. Your courage grows like a tree within you, unbreakable, and you run into battle. And even as you die, you still feel victorious.”
Wow.
“It’s that power that has kept the Savarics on their throne for three centuries,” Reynald said. “One cannot discount it.”
He fell silent. I was sitting on a wall in a magical city, and a hot, deadly swordsman had brought me tea and pastries and was entertaining me with his war stories. Dreams fanfics were made of.
So why couldn’t I relax?
I needed the Magnars to come back in one piece. That would take a huge load of anxiety off my shoulders. I checked the streets. Still empty.
“Do you know what they call Wynand Bors behind his back?” Reynald asked.
I blinked at him. “So it’s true?”
He smiled.
“They really call him the ‘Lord of Assholes’?”
“Never to his face,” he said.
I laughed softly. “What did he do to earn that title?”
The books never explained it.
“It was his uncle, actually. He was the Lord Commander of the Conquerors before Wynand.”
“One-Armed Verold?”
“That’s the one. Losing the arm in battle didn’t slow him down any. About twenty years ago, each of the three knight orders had ceremonial guard duty for one day and night during the Midsummer Aspects festival. On the first day, the Defenders stood guard, and the Conquerors behaved themselves. On the second day, the Conquerors were on duty, so again everything went well. On the third day it was the Redeemers’ turn to guard, and the Conquerors went wild. They got drunk, they chased the festival cows, they picked fights . . . One of them climbed the statue of the Nurturer and attempted toconquerher.”
I laughed.
Reynald’s eyes sparked with humor. “Neither the king nor the clerics found it funny. So Wynand’s uncle is on one knee in the throne room, while Sauven is raging and throwing things at him from his desk. This went on for some time. Finally, Sauven shakes the long scroll with all the charges on it at Wynand’s uncle and yells, ‘These are not the actions of knights! These are the actions of deranged assholes! And what are you? Who do you think you are?!’ And Wynand’s uncle says, ‘I am the Lord of Assholes, Your Majesty.’”
I laughed so hard I snorted.
“So Wynand inherited the title,” Reynald said.
“But is he worthy of it?”
