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

of dread he had just blocked safely away washing over him again.
    No.
    Not this.
    They would not need it now. They had just been talking about
the Succession, about Brada, about ending the war themselves.  Themselves!  If
they could do that, if they could defeat Kadak themselves, then he could not be
the Beast, and this could not be the Great War.  This could not be the time of
the prophecy, regardless of all the omens and portents, regardless of what the
priests said.  He shut his eyes in desperate prayer.  Please, by the gods, let
them be wrong.  Let them all be wrong.
    “Daerwin?”
    In a single motion, the sheriff stood and whirled away,
tearing himself free of his father’s gaze.  He would not have this conversation
again. 
    “Glynnis is well.  She sends her love.”  His voice was all
of breath, but he could not help himself.  “Roquandor starts at the academy
this year.  Such pride!  You should see him strutting about at Brannagh,
ordering the servants about.”  He laughed nervously, desperately.  “And Renda,
dear little Renda...”
    “Daerwin.”
    His smile failed him, and his voice broke.  “She will be
seven in less than a tenday...”
    “My son,” said the duke gently, “you’ve known since
Roquandor was born that this day would come.  No son has ever been born to the
House of Brannagh, nor likely will be again.”  As he spoke, he hunched his
blankets up about his shoulders and from beneath the folds, produced a small,
beautifully carved wooden sword.
    Daerwin only stared at the toy weapon.
    “Regardless of how you or I feel, the child must become a
Knight of Brannagh and deliver this land from war, or all is lost.”  Vilmar
stood then and extended the sword toward Daerwin hilt first.  “Renda of
Brannagh will fulfill the prophecy, Daerwin.”  The duke’s voice dropped.  “She
must.  For the sake of Syon and all the world, she must.”  He wheezed softly. 
“For my sake...”
    “For your sake.”  Daerwin drew a deep breath, biting back
his bitterness. 
    “Yes,” he answered simply.  “For the duke, for Syon and for
B’radik.  Is that not the oath you swore as a Knight of Brannagh?”
    “It is not an oath she has sworn!”
    “She will.”
    “She’s but a seven years child!”
    “Which is why you must train her now.”
    “And if I refuse?”
    The duke shook his head.  “My son, you cannot simply ignore
what is and hope it passes you by.  The prophecy will not wait for your
pleasure, and it will not be bargained with.  It will visit itself upon her
whether she is ready for it or not.  Knowing this, it falls to you to prepare
her for what will come.”
    Daerwin sighed.  “I will make of my daughter a Knight of
Brannagh.”  He shut his eyes in dread.  “I will train her to be a weapon for
you, a warrior for Syon.  She will end this war, as your prophecy says she
must. That much will safeguard your land and your throne.”  He turned to his
father with pleading eyes.  “Can that be the end of it?”  His voice cracked
with the deep terror in his heart.  “Please, I beg of you.  Let that be the end
of it.”
    The duke’s eyes blinked in surprise and sorrow.  “But
Daerwin, you know better than that…”
     
     

One
    Castle Brannagh
First day of Gathering, in the year of Syon, 3862
    R enda
of Brannagh stood at the library window and gazed out over the quiet fields and
orchards of her father’s lands, stretching from the dry moat beyond the great
stone curtain wall as far as the horizon.  No armies gathered there, though of
habit she still looked for the telltale smoke of their fires rising above the
hills and the dust of their movement.  No threat called for her attention, and
still she stayed, still she watched.  Still she hoped.
    At daybreak, the Sheriff of Brannagh, her father, had stood
with his knights and their farmers to crush the first grains under his boot
heel and sprinkle the ceremonial milk and blood over the fields in the