Excerpt from Succession

Stepping forward, Omelek gazed into Meredoch’s eyes. “You did not hear me. Your fight is not with men, but monsters. They will not make this fight fair or easy or obvious. You will see things that are not what they are in truth. If you are not careful, the deceit will claim you.”
    The old man withdrew, seized by a hacking cough fit. They were becoming more frequent in recent weeks. Regaining his composure, Omelek looked Meredoch up and down once more. Lips pursed, he murmured, “I have seen enough. You’re quite imposing, young MacCowell. But you lack something. Before you can be entrusted the blessing and burden of becoming Defender of the Realm, you must complete one task: Make peace with Ordumair.”
    Meredoch gaped. The elder may well have asked him to lift the sun higher or blot out the moon. His eyes darted to the other elders for support and found them looking just as shocked.
    “Make peace with them? Has no one told you what happened there when I was a boy?” He knew the elder was well aware. How could the man dare ask him to go back? They might well kill him. No outsider had entered Ordumair since his family’s exile.
    Worse, part of him spoiled for the fight. His outburst of slinging the signet ring just days before was still a tender wound, fresh in his mind. Seeing the Ords, whose actions made the worst of him, couldn’t be good for anyone.
    “I have heard much. But we both know you have the one thing that will bring the peace you both need.”
    Peace? He considered the word, imagined its sensation, a lightness so sweetly tempting. He must have been longing for it, unawares, for some years. But what did he have?
    Silently, Meredoch mouthed, “The Signet of Thanes!”
    Sir Omelek’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Then, he turned and walked away.
    “Sir, is there no other way?” Meredoch called after him.
    Pausing, Omelek replied without looking back, “No. You must face this darkness before you can bear the Northlands’ light.” Then he strode away again.
    Meredoch considered following but decided against it. The Knight Errant had seemed sure. If Meredoch was going to redeem his family name and find peace, first, he had to get home right away.

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Excerpt from The Gathering Dark

He made his way over to a grouping of swords. None of them looked particularly magnificent or capable of the wonders ascribed to a Spiritsword. Several had some inscriptions on their blades.
    Gnawing on his lip for a moment, Anargen spared one more glance to ensure he was alone and then grabbed a sword and jerked it from its pine rack before he could talk himself out of it. A silly thing to do. The blade got stuck halfway out because of the poor angle. Anargen spent the next several seconds tugging at the blade as he was overcome with anxiety and frustration.
    When he realized it would do no good, he took a deep breath and freed it from the groove it was cutting into the rack’s wood and slid it out the rest of the way.  Holding it up, he stared intently.
    Nothing happened.
    He got into a guard stance, mimicking what he had observed of other Knights. Muscles tensed, he stood as rigid and still as possible, holding the pose till he felt the gentle burn of his muscles tiring.
    Nothing happened.
    He swung the sword around.
    There was a slight rush of air and nothing more.
    Sighing, Anargen went through an entire series of slashes, guards, and stabs. Battling invisible opponents, he parried and countered, sortied and delivered finishing blows. One imaginary foe after another fell to the sword.
    At length, he was breathing heavily and had only three swords left to choose from. Even as he put back his most recent choice, he noticed it. One sword, slightly longer, double-edged and gleaming with an argent nobility. Well-polished, it was adorned in so many characters of small and precise script, Anargen could scarcely read them. A padded leather hilt showed little use and in the cross-guard and pommel were carvings of a lion, or was it a radiant lamb?
    In an instant, his heart knew what his mind was more slowly coming to accept. This was a Spiritsword. The one he had been looking for all this time. He drew near slowly, in fear. Not fear as of a snake that could strike an incautious palm, but a reverent fear.
    Swallowing and gnawing on his lip, he reached out with ginger fingers to brush the hilt of the Spiritsword. For a split second Anargen thought he could feel heat rising off the blade and hear a crackle.
    “Are you sure you’re ready to handle such a sword?” someone enquired from behind.