Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) Read Free

course it will fall to you to send for your
brother.”  He glanced up evenly.  “I’ve decided his name will be Brada.”
    “Brada,” the young nobleman repeated carefully.  “I see.”
    “Yes, yes,” the duke continued, patting the arm of the
chair. “Write something appropriately sentimental to your dear brother—it is
widely known that you were close as children—and be seen to send it off with
Nestor at the funeral.  He will know what to do.  Nestor has been through the
Succession many, many times.  Should you have any worries or questions, you
have but to ask him.”
    “Brada, did you say?”  His cocked brow bordered on derision.
    Vilmar shifted in his seat and dropped his hand to his lap
in exasperation. “I realize it sounds almost womanish, Brada, but Brado or
Bradon, Bradicon...”  He shook his head.  “In any case, I wanted the
association with B’radik for obvious reasons.  We need every advantage just
now.”  When he saw Daerwin’s frown, he shook his finger at him.  “Peace, boy, I
nearly charged your mother to name you thus!”
    Daerwin rose from his knees and absently seated himself in
the chair beside the duke, ignoring the duke’s veiled smile.  “But is this
wise, Father?  Half of Kadak’s forces already occupy Brannford and Pyran, and
the rest are wearing away Tremondy’s forces in the north.  Mine as well, ere
long.”  It had to be said, though he dreaded to think where the information
might lead the duke’s thoughts.  “Father, the Resistance will surely fall
without your leadership.  Perhaps if this were to wait.”
    “My leadership!”  The sudden exclamation started a coughing
fit that lasted a while, long enough that one of the duke’s Keepers melted from
the wall in alarm.  “Back!  I yet live.  Back, I say!”  Vilmar Damerien looked
up at his son, whose face had gone quite pale.  “Leadership?  Boy, look at me! 
I can barely walk to the privy without help.”  That started another coughing
fit.  “Fie!  Behold, Vilmar Damerien in his wretchedness!  Bah.  I am hardly
the leader worth dying for these days!  Besides, they will have all of my
leadership, as you so flatteringly put it, but with Brada’s strength and youth
to inspire them.”
    He was right, though Daerwin hated to admit it.  More and
more of the Resistance fighters were too young to remember.  To them, the
lifting of the Durlindale Siege was lost in history as surely as the
Bremo-Hadrian Wars or the Liberation itself, and Vilmar Damerien was just a
feeble old man who commanded from his bed.  If Kadak’s demon armies were to get
past Brannagh to Damerien, these young fighters could not imagine Duke Vilmar
holding the castle, and their morale was not what it should be, what it had to
be, to resist the Usurper’s overwhelming forces.  A younger, more powerful
duke, especially one newly ascended, would rekindle their ardor.
    As if he followed Daerwin’s train of thought, the duke
nodded and wheezed softly.  “Oh, they will love Brada— have no doubt of that. 
Handsome, powerful, heroic…he will be everything they need him to be.  Above
all else, Brada should be able to stand against Kadak, should the Resistance
fall.  So I pray, at any rate.  Then, if necessary, we can begin to rebuild
what was lost.”
    In spite of the worry in Vilmar’s words, Daerwin’s heart
jumped with hope. Surely this was his father’s intention, then, that between
the remaining lords of Syon, they would find a way to defeat Kadak, finally,
utterly, and barring that, for Brada to face Kadak himself.  Hence the
Succession now.  Yes, with a newly ascended duke, they could win this war
themselves, and if so…
    “But enough of this.”  Vilmar sighed heavily and stared
through the walls for a time before he spoke again.  “The succession will take
care of itself.  It always does.  You know why I summoned you.”
    The sheriff only stared into his father’s eyes, the vast
reservoirs