The Swan Throne

The southern mouth of the pass was narrower and steeper than its northern end, and the highway broke into a series of switchbacks as it began its slow decent. Wisps of low-lying cloud swept by overhead in the cool mountain air, filtering the sunlight into a rippling golden haze. Jach rode ahead to inspect the riders of the column’s vanguard, and Constan found himself surrounded by a thick knot of Chosen. The veiled knights in sable armor were legendary throughout Thandar, and Constan still felt a boyish sense of awe whenever he was near them. The Chosen were selected from among the finest soldiers of the Phoenix Legion, and they served as the tireless and devoted bodyguard of the rulers of the Swan Throne. Numbering only one hundred, they were an exclusive and accomplished brotherhood that was no stranger to honor and glory. Many times throughout the Empire’s long history they had proven their worth, and a long list of Akaëdîn rulers owed their lives to a Chosen’s heroism. Nodding to the commander who rode up beside him, Constan wondered if his life would be added to the list in the uncertain days and months sure to come.

Calëanh, Constan’s powerful black stallion, entered the first switchback with a steady, measured tread, and the High King chuckled quietly as he remembered Jach’s comments. The stallion was built and trained for war, not a farm, but he had the calm, friendly demeanor of a plow horse, and Constan had loved him from the start.

'That is two of us, boy,' he thought, bending forward and stroking the stallion’s muscled neck. 'Two farm boys pretending to be someone else. Two farm boys finally on their way home.'

Home. Constan’s mind drifted, and he found himself recalling several times before when he had returned home after a long absence. He would always remember each time he first laid eyes on his loved ones; his wife, his parents, his friends. Once again their threads had come together in the Pattern, if only for a little while, and he cherished each moment. There was his triumphant return from his Spirit Test, when he had entered the Academy at Nanbardon with the pelt of the mountain cat. There was his return from his Duty, when he had dropped to one knee and asked the love of his life to marry him amidst the golden splendor of an autumn sunset. There was his return from far away across the sea, where he had spent over two years working for peace and friendship between different peoples. He would always remember the looks on his parent’s faces as he came out of that final doorway, a mixture of pride, joy, and tearful relief. Their little boy had come home at last…

Constan’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Blinking his eyes, he looked slowly around him. The steady clip of horseshoes and the clink of metal filled the quiet mountain air. Calëanh had just rounded another switchback, and the Chosen remained drawn up in their tight formation, their attention given to the rocky slopes and clumps of stunted evergreens lining the highway. Jach could be glimpsed ahead, riding among a group of officers, his cape spread out behind him as Ranger trotted along. Everything was as it was before. Nothing had changed, yet somehow Constan felt as if he had strayed once again. That was the only way he could describe it. With that last thought he had strayed into memories that were not his own.

It had been this way since he had had the dream. The old man he had seen had passed away in his own life, in another life, stepping confidently into the waiting warmth of the light. Immediately following that powerful and inexplicable moment, Constan had awoken in his bed in the House of Kings, the early morning light filling the bedchamber. At first he had told himself it was only a dream, but he knew it had been more than that, even if he could not describe it. The memories had started, then. Disjointed and random, they came unbidden and unlooked-for into his mind, confusing him, filling him with questions. Memories that were not his own, but couldn’t belong to anyone else. It was as if he had crossed a strange threshold from which there was no return. He knew he could never look at his life the same way again.

Pushing the complicated thoughts to the back of his mind, Constan looked up and studied the sweeping vista that had appeared before them after Calëanh rounded the last switchback. The southern foothills of the Marsûlanh tumbled down from the heights, the first traces of autumn only slightly sprinkling the vast, rolling green expanse. Thin, glistening ribbons of blue marked the rivers of the cantrevs of Rhôvanian and Nanbardon, winding through early harvest fields shining gold and brown in the sunlight. Wood smoke rose lazily from the chimneys of towns and villages, and bells chimed out the hours from their belfries, keeping time to the rhythm of the day as the sun moved across the sky. The Empire, the home of the Akaëdîn, spread out before him far beyond the distant horizon, a nation of leadership, pride, and tradition. It was his nation, the home of his people. The land of his forefathers. The realm of the Swan Throne.