17. The Spark is Lit, the Fire Burns
Chapter 17
The Spark is Lit, the Fire Burns
7 th Day of the Blood Moon
Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Aeson stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the bronze doors that guarded the central chamber of Mythníril behind him. He stared upwards at the white-stone branches and leaves that twisted and weaved across the chamber’s sweeping ceiling, dropping into the tree-like stone columns that framed the chamber’s many arched windows. A forest canopy frozen in time.
“I can see why this new queen is divisive,” Dann whispered to Calen, the both of them standing on Aeson’s left.
Calen stood with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the stone map carved into the enormous table before them. Erik, Therin, and the others were at his side, fraying patience visible on all their faces – except for Vaeril. That elf rarely let his emotions slip.
“Quiet,” Therin snapped in a hushed voice.
“What? If I was this late, you’d hang me by my ankles.”
Aeson truly wished he had Dann’s ability to laugh in these situations, but there was too much at stake. Too many pieces moving at the same time, too many lives hanging in the balance. This moment was the culmination of centuries of patience and sacrifice. The decisions made in this chamber would shape the world moving forwards.
And yet, they’d been waiting for at least an hour, Queen Uthrían and King Galdra unwilling to allow them to proceed until this new queen of Vaelen arrived: Tessara. Aeson had heard her name mentioned more than once in his brief time in Aravell. He had not known Silmiryn particularly well and this niece of his even less so. But from what he’d heard, she’d made almost as many enemies as he had. Which perhaps meant she was doing something right.
“This is becoming ridiculous.” Chora wheeled herself forwards from where she had waited on the right of the table. Both Thacia and Harken frowned but made no move to stop her.
King Galdra, who had been staring out one of the arches at the valleys beyond, turned to show Chora a raised eyebrow. “We will wait for Queen Tessara, just as we would wait for you, Chora Sarn. Patience is a virtue.”
Seemingly sensing Chora’s frustration, Harken rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder, but Chora swatted it away. “Don’t speak to me like a child, Galdra. I remember when you still sucked at your mother’s tit. Do not think yourself my elder. I have lost more patience than you have ever known.”
For as long as Aeson had lived, he had known the elven rulers to be masters at games and wordplay. Even before The Fall, there was always something churning in the background, always a game, or a test, or a scheme. Which was why Aeson was surprised at the outward look of shock on Galdra’s face.
Chora smiled, revelling in the reaction she had goaded from the king. The woman’s fire had returned ever since the battle for the city.
“You are speaking to a king,” Thuriv?r, one of the Lunithíran Ephorí, snapped. The elf’s crimson and gold robes trailed along the floor as he rounded the table and moved between Chora and Galdra. He stood tall and broad, looming over Chora in her wheelchair, his black hair pulled back with a golden circlet.
Chora met Thurivír’s gaze without flinching. “I have spoken to many kings, young Ephorí. I have outlived them all.”
“Was that a threat?” Thuriv?r gave Chora an amused smile, regaining his lost composure in an instant. It was his eyes that betrayed him; they spoke of fury and wrath.
“I don’t make threats.”
The enormous bronze doors creaked open, and the new queen, Tessara Vaelen Alumír strode in, black and silver robes flowing elegantly behind her. The elf moved with an almost arrogant grace, her two Ephorí, Dumelian and Ithilin, following in her wake.
Dumelian, as he always did, marched with his chin in the air, silver jewellery adorning his fingers and neck, the beginnings of a grin on his lips. No doubt he had been relishing this entrance for the better part of the last hour.
In contrast, Ithilin had a scowl like a stormhead, her gaze trailing the ground. The older elf had always had little time for the games the others played and, as Aeson knew well, had a particular proclivity for punctuality.
“This is going to be interesting,” Tarmon Hoard whispered, leaning closer to Erik.
Tessara glided across the floor, taking up a position on the opposite side of the table beside Galdra and Uthrían. She inclined her head towards both, bowing at the waist as she greeted the matriarch of the Dvalin Angan, Varthon, who stood to the left of the stone table.
King Galdra returned Tessara’s gesture, his features carved into a dark stare.
Uthrían ignored her completely, which showed a very different side to their relationship than the one on display at the Eleswea un'il Valana. They were behind closed doors now, and the queen of Ardur?n clearly had patience that was wearing thin.
Observing the reactions to the new queen, Aeson had the feeling Tessara played a different type of game than the others. Whereas her predecessor, Silmiryn, had been subtle and cautious in his manoeuvrings, often sycophantic to those that might aid him, Tessara seemed as though she might be far more blunt an instrument. Aeson was yet to decide whether that was a good thing, but time would tell.
The new queen of Vaelen moved closer to the table, clasping her hands before her and staring down over the stonework map of Epheria, pretending to be blissfully unaware of the many frowns and scowls that filled the room around her.
One look at Chora told Aeson that the woman wanted to tear a hole through Tessara there and then.
“Apologies for my lateness,” Tessara said finally, her voice lacking even a drop of sincerity. She lifted her gaze, casting it about the room, her stare resting on Calen for a moment before moving to Chora and Thuriv?r, who were still only a few paces from each other. “I hope we’re all getting along?”
“Are they always this dramatic?” Dann whispered. “I think I’ll come to these more often.”
“If you don’t shut up, Dann, I’m going to skin you alive,” Therin whispered back.
Aeson turned to glare at Dann, only to see Tarmon clip him on the back of the head.
“I’m going to piss in your boots,” Dann whispered before shuffling forwards just enough so that Tarmon couldn’t reach him without making it obvious.
“Well,” Chora said, holding her stare on Thurivír long enough for even the elf to seem uncomfortable. “Now that we are all here, I believe it is time we set out the path forward.”
“Please,” Uthrían said, breaking her self-imposed silence.
Aeson looked to Chora and the others, who nodded for him to proceed. He was about to take a step forward when he turned to Calen and met the young man’s gaze.
Calen had emerged from the Burnt Lands an entirely different person from the boy Aeson had found in the western villages almost two years prior. He was harder, colder, and more sure of his own strength. But he’d also still shown the marks of captivity and torture, the weariness of travel and war. His eyes and cheeks had been sunken, his skin dry and cracked, and his frame had a frailty to it.
The man who stared back at Aeson now held that same sense of iron, even more so. He walked with his shoulders back, chin proud, gaze up. But his body had healed. The months of training and hearty meals had filled out his shoulders and hardened his muscles. He still looked tired, but not weary.
As Calen looked at Aeson, the purple hue of his eyes shifting with the light, he inclined his head, gesturing for Aeson to lead the talks, the petulance of youth gone. It was at that moment that Aeson was absolutely sure of one thing: the boy had become a man, and the man had become a warrior.
“The time for waiting is over,” Aeson said as those gathered moved closer to the table. “The Blood Moon may taint the sky, but the empire is exposed. It is a wounded animal, attacked from all sides. The imperial mages are stronger under the moon’s light, but so too are the Uraks.”
Aeson leaned over the table.
“Urak hordes sweep across Illyanara, from the western villages to Falstide and Baylomon. They have laid waste to Stonehelm and Cardend in Arkalen, currently besiege Camylin, and have ravaged the villages near the base of the Marin Mountains. But crucially, their warpath in the South pales in comparison to the sheer destruction they wreak in the North. Between them and the elves of Lynalion, the bulk of the Lorian forces are hemmed in on the northern half of the continent. Which means now is the time to finally cut the cancer of the Lorian Empire from Southern Epheria.”
“Hear, hear.” Tarmon said, folding his arms and nodding as he moved his gaze across the table with pursed lips. There was a cold fervour in the man’s eyes. The empire had destroyed his home, and Tarmon had been powerless to stop it. Aeson knew that feeling well.
“What, then, is your proposal, Rakina?” Galdra clasped his hands behind his back, looking down over the map with a raised chin, his silver-white hair resting on his shoulder, straight as needles. Aeson could tell by Galdra’s tone that the elf wasn’t going to be as cooperative as he had promised at the Eleswea un’il Valana. He’d expected no less.
“We have finally received word from Alina Ateres in Valtara. The Valtaran rebellion has pushed High Lord Loren and the imperial loyalists back to Achyron’s Keep and are holding position. Loren’s forces number over fifty thousand to Alina’s thirty, and they boast a contingent of imperial mages. Loren holds back because unless they are resupplied, the Valtarans can only keep their position until the next moon. An imperial force blockades the Hot Gates, and, from our reports, the armies garrisoned near Argona, along with the remnants of those who attacked Aravell, are moving to quell the rebellion. The Valtarans will soon be vastly outnumbered. They can win this war, but they will need our help.”
“It is unfortunate then that there is nothing that can be done,” Galdra said with an upturn of his lip. “We cannot simply empty Aravell of its warriors. Not with the Uraks pushing inwards from the Lodhar Mountains. We must deal with the threat to our home first. And even if that were not the case, we would never reach Valtara in time to be of aid. The distance is too great with the lands in between swarmed by Uraks.”
“Hmm.” Galdra had said precisely what Aeson had expected him to. Uthrían and Tessara, however, remained silent, watching. “What was it you said at the Eleswea un'il Valana, Galdra?” Aeson rolled back his shoulders and added as much pomposity to his voice as he could muster. “‘This is the day the elves of Lunithír, of Vaelen, and of Ardur?n stopped hiding. This is the day we joined the fight.’ Powerful words.”
“Do not goad me, Aeson. This war will be won by making choices with our heads, not our hearts. We simply cannot mobilise enough warriors and cross the continent in that time. You know this to be true. We will arrive too late, Valtara will be ashes, and Aravell will be defenceless.”
“I do. Which is why I propose that Calen flies me to the Stormwood by dragonback.”
“What?” The look on Calen’s face matched the surprise in his voice.
“We have allies gathered there. An Arcarian by the name of Verma Tallisair, along with some four thousand seasoned warriors led by a contingent of former Arkalen Stormguard. It would take weeks to travel by horseback. But Valerys can make that journey in days.”
“And how do you then propose to get these four thousand from Arkalen to Valtara before the next moon?” Uthrían’s tone was curt, but Aeson could tell by the look in her eyes that she was intrigued.
“I have not spent these past centuries idle, as you well know. And the time has finally come for all the threads to be pulled. When Valerys hatched, I sent letters across Epheria and beyond, preparing for today. One of those letters was opened by Kayala Latrak, fourth in line to the Royal House of Latrak in Narvona. It was her vessel that carried me to Valacia and brought back Valerys’s egg.” Aeson gave Calen a soft smile, seeing the understanding in the young man’s eyes. “It was also her vessel that was set afire off Epheria’s western coast by the imperial navy. As we speak, she sails two hundred ships across the Narvonan sea, manned by some twenty thousand strong. Several of those ships are already docked near Land’s End to carry me and our forces in Arkalen along the coast to Valtara. With some luck, and Neron’s blessing, we can avoid any Lorian ships and arrive well before the next moon.”
“Your plan, Aeson, if I understand correctly, is to bring a foreign army to these shores?” Galdra raised an eyebrow, his arms still clasped behind his back. “And what will they want in return, I wonder?”
“Do you have a better plan, Your Highness? I’m all ears. Please, do tell.” Aeson knew it was a dangerous game, trading words with Galdra. The elf had a long memory and an easily slighted honour. But Aeson’s sufferance had worn out long ago. “Unless you suggest it is simply better to watch the Valtarans burn? And once their nation is in ruins, the Lorians will gather. The Varsundi will fall in line, as they always do, and Carvahon will be the empire’s next target. Our allies will crumble one by one, and we will be left alone, weakened and ripe for the slaughter.”
Aeson took Galdra’s silence as acquiescence.
“Kayala has many reasons to despise the empire. She yearns to see it crumble. I have known her family for many generations. If she wants lands to settle when this is all done, so be it. We will carve her a piece of the North for the blood she has given. Most importantly, she has honour. I trust her.”
“You trusted Eltoar Daethana once.” Venom laced Galdra’s words, but his expression softened, his gaze dropping. “So did I.”
“Why not have Calen fly you to Valtara itself?” Tarmon Hoard asked, allowing Galdra’s comment to fade before it could be answered. He tilted his head as he surveyed the map, opening his right palm. “Send a message through the Angan. Have the ships leave Arkalen immediately. It would cut days of travel.”
“Because if Calen goes to Valtara, he will be dragged into the battles there, and he is needed elsewhere. Valtara is just one piece of an infinitely larger puzzle. We have not heard from Castor Kai since the razing of Argona. He was due here days ago. In his stead, Aryana Torval is already en route. As is Tukul Unger of the Red Suns, who commands just short of seven thousand near the Baylomon Mountains. And even more besides that pair. All the faction leaders across Illyanara will be here in a matter of days. Calen must be here when they arrive. They must see him, see that he is flesh and blood, see that Valerys is not some whispered tale but a dragon of legend. Illyanara is the largest province in the South; we need its strength behind us. And if we do not bind these factions now, they will scatter to the wind and rip each other to pieces for control of the province.”
“And then what? What do I say when Aryana Torval and these other leaders arrive? You built this rebellion, not me.” There was no anger in Calen’s voice, which was a welcome change, but Aeson sensed he wasn’t far from it. “I don’t know these people. I don’t know what they want.” He pressed his tongue against his teeth, hesitating. “I need you here.”
“I may have built this rebellion, but you set it alight.” Aeson turned to face him. “Your legend is building, and there are many who would attach themselves to it. Therin will stay here with you, as will Chora. You will be well counselled.”
Calen shook his head, his right hand clenching into a fist around his sword pommel. “Valerys and I shouldn’t be sitting around drinking wine and talking while others fight our battles.”
“This is not about your pride, Calen, nor your courage, which none who have seen it can doubt. This is about wisdom. The wisdom to know when to charge and when to hold. If Castor Kai is dead, then his banners will flock to either Torval or Unger. We need them at our back if we are to succeed, and you are our greatest hope at that.” Aeson let out a sigh. “With those forces behind you, we can push into Drifaien and give Alleron Helmund the edge he needs to replace his father. We can convince High Lord Talian Kalas to declare Carvahon under our banner. And we can push the Uraks back from the western villages. There will be many battles ahead, don’t worry.”
Calen’s jaw twitched at those last words.
“I have not heard word from my contact in Argona since the city’s destruction. But the Angan that Baldon – may his soul rest – sent to Salme has reached out. Dahlen reports that Salme’s defences are holding, but they won’t for long. The Uraks attack in greater numbers with each passing night. He requests immediate aid.”
“Then we go.” Calen didn’t hesitate for even a heartbeat. “We have almost five thousand who follow my banner…” Calen stared off into the distance for a second, hesitating at his own words, then pushed on. “I’ll fly with Valerys. We’ll break the siege and drive the Uraks back into Lodhar.”
“I need you to fly me to Arkalen, and five thousand will not be enough to route the Uraks. We need to have patience. Trust Dahlen. Once you persuade Aryana and Tukul to join our cause, we can march west.”
“It is my home, Aeson.” Calen’s eyes shimmered with a purple light, wisps of pale mist drifting outwards. “I cannot leave it to die. I will not.”
“And it is my son.” Aeson stared back at Calen. He had known this would be the most difficult part. He looked to Asius, who stood a few feet from the table with his hands clasped behind his back, observing quietly. The Jotnar stood head and shoulders above all others bar Thacia, his bluish skin tinted a shade of purple by the Blood Moon’s light spraying in from the arched windows. “Asius?”
The Jotnar raised an eyebrow.
“What word from Larion? Are your people gathered? Could they give aid?”
Asius returned Aeson’s stare for a moment, then unclasped his hands and moved closer to the table, Dann and Tarmon stepping aside to give him space. “For the first time in centuries, the Jotnar are one. Those Larion has gathered march for Aravell as we speak. The last message I received, they had left their encampment where the Aonan Wood meets the mountains. When they pass the Arythn Plain, Larion will send another hawk. I can have a letter left by the waypoint in the Marin Mountains, but until then, I will not be able to contact them.”
Aeson nodded sombrely.
“Do you see? Patience is our friend, Aeson.” The smug upturn of Galdra’s bottom lip caused Aeson to physically bite his own tongue. “We must wait and be careful. In war, losses are inevitable. Haste born from fear or desire will lead to nothing but greater death.”
Aeson clenched his jaw, and he thought he could hear an echo of Lyara’s roar in the back of his mind, setting his hairs on end.
If I left every decision to you – you self-righteous piece of shit – we would sit and wait until every shred of this continent bar the Aravell was aflame before we left this place. They were the words Aeson wanted to say. But instead, he let out a breath and gave the elf a half-smile. “Hesitation born from fear or desire walks the same path, Your Majesty. But at least with haste we make our own choices instead of having choices made for us.”
“Take another five thousand from Vaelen and march on the western villages.” Queen Tessara stood straight, one hand resting over the other at her waist, her face expressionless. “I can have them outfitted and ready by first breath of morning.”
Both Uthrían and Galdra stared at the new queen but said nothing.
Tessara raised an eyebrow at the silence that followed. She looked to Calen. “I do not know you, Draleid. And I dare say you do not know me. So let us learn each other quickly and have our words match our secret hearts. You protected my home, and you were willing to give your life for my people. And so I will do the same in return, with hope that this is but the beginning of such exchanges. Vaelen commands some nine thousand warriors. I will leave four here in defence of Aravell, and I will personally march with the other five. Add your forces to mine and place them under the command of your most trusted. We will defend your home while you do what must be done. On my honour.”
Slowly, the purple light ebbed from Calen’s eyes. He nodded slowly. “Du haryn myia vrai, Inarí. La’v?rakanra glinmahíl denír.”
Thank you, Queen. I will not forget this.
Tessara inclined her head. “Vrail mír n?ir denír er beskír.”
Thank me when this is all over.
“I will add another two thousand.” Queen Uthrían drew a sharp breath, her gaze locking with Calen’s. “I cannot spare any more, not with Aravell still under threat. We cannot put out fires in the homes of others while leaving our own to burn. But we can help.”
Calen dipped his head in thanks.
Aeson held back the smirk that attempted to find its way to his lips as he looked at Galdra.
The king glared at both Uthrían and Tessara. They had forced his hand. “I, too, can offer two thousand, but no more.”
“It is settled then,” Aeson said, leaning on the table, his palms laid flat. “Calen will fly me to the Stormwood, where I will sail to aid the Valtaran rebellion. Tessara will march to Salme with nine thousand Triarchy warriors and five thousand sworn to the rebellion while Calen and Valerys will return here and secure the fealty of Aryana Torval, Tukul Unger, and as many of the smaller factions as possible.” He looked to Calen. “Once that has been secured, you can fly to join the army before they reach Salme. And we can commit forces to Drifaien and Arkalen. Carvahon will fall under our banners with little encouragement. Then we can turn our eyes to Varsund. With the gold from Aonar and the imperial garrison already stationed there, Varsund will require the most blood.”
“What of the North?” Asius asked.
Aeson knew precisely what Asius’s true question was: what of Coren Valmar? What of the woman apprenticed by Kollna, daughter of Luan – his mother?
“Our forces in the North are hemmed in on all sides. For the moment, many of them remain relatively safe in the outpost in the Firnin Mountains, but we don’t know how long that will last. I’ve asked Coren and Farwen to travel here on Draleid business. To save time, they will cross the Svidar’Cia. It may take some time as the imperial forces are at heightened alert, but the Fenryr Angan are aiding in the coordination.”
“Surely not.” Uthrían narrowed her gaze. “That is suicide, Aeson. Calen and the others crossed, but to my knowledge they are the first in four hundred years. Their crossing does not increase the likelihood of success for others.”
“We’d heard rumours that after the Blood Moon rose, the madness in the Svidar’Cia faded. Reports of refugees forced into the wasteland by the Uraks. Most died from hunger, thirst… blood loss. But reports from our ears in Kingspass are that some made it through, their minds untouched by the madness.” Aeson gestured towards Calen’s brother, Arden, who stood at the back with his arms folded. “The Knights of Achyron confirmed this to be true.”
Arden stepped forwards, unfazed by the many eyes upon him. The mountain of a man inclined his head towards Aeson. “It is true. On the night the Blood Moon rose, Fane Mortem opened a rift in the veil. One of my brothers sacrificed himself to close it. Ever since, we have not felt the Taint in the Burnt Lands as we previously had. Efialtír’s hand no longer holds the waste in its grasp.”
“You can… feel it?” Galdra asked.
“Much like you can feel the moisture in the air on a humid day or the smoke at the back of your throat when something burns. It is like a sickly oil that stains everything it touches. To know it is part of the burden we carry, part of Achyron’s gift.”
“It does not sound like a gift.” A genuine twinge of sadness touched Galdra’s face, only for a fleeting moment. “Perhaps it is a mercy Achyron has never chosen one from our people.”
Arden glanced at Calen, then returned his gaze to Galdra. “I was given a second chance to protect the people I love. There is no burden I would not bear for such a gift.”
A sombre silence fell over the chamber until all that could be heard was the rushing wind through the arches and the drum of the rain that had begun to fall outside and onto the stone table through the oculus.
“Arden, Kallinvar requested an audience with regard to a matter of urgent need,” Aeson said. “Now that these matters are tended to, he may come.”
The knight bowed his head, then closed his eyes.
Barely a minute had passed before a green orb materialised behind Arden, its light battling the crimson glow of the Blood Moon and washing the stone in an odd, muted brown. Within seconds, the orb had spread to a disc over ten feet tall and wide. The centre of the disk rippled like water, its surface black as molten onyx.
A man in green and gold plate stepped through, followed by two knights.
Kallinvar rested his hand briefly on Arden’s shoulder as he passed and moved to the table’s rightmost edge, his helmet turning to liquid metal and receding into his collar as he did.
“Thank you for granting me an audience with this council,” Kallinvar said, bowing slightly towards the elven Triarchy and those gathered. “When I last stood here, I made a vow to fight at your side in the war to come. I intend to keep that vow. But now I am here to ask for your help.”
“Speak, Grandmaster Kallinvar.” Uthrían bowed her head. “If we can help, we will.”
The relationship between the elves and the knights had always been a strained one, and although likely unnoticed by many, Uthrían’s gesture was one Aeson was glad to see.
Kallinvar smiled, touching his open hand against his breastplate in acknowledgement. The man looked to Aeson before lifting his head and staring up at the oculus in the centre of the ceiling, the crimson light sparkling in the rain that fell through. He then proceeded to tell all those gathered about the battle that took place in Ilnaen the same night as the battle for Aravell – of Fane Mortem, of the Uraks, of Efialtír’s Chosen crossing into the world, and of the losses the knights suffered.
The silence that followed held the room in such firm a grasp it had an almost tangible presence. Even the new queen, Tessara, stared at Kallinvar, wide-eyed.
When nobody else spoke, Kallinvar continued, resting his gauntleted palms on the chamber’s stone table. “The Blood Moon is in its seventh day. It will not wane for some time, and while we wait, Efialtír’s hand grows ever stronger in this world.” He lowered his gaze, looking around the room before settling on Aeson. “You do not need to take my word for it. All you must do is look across the continent. The Bloodspawn pour from the mountains like a raging tide. Towns and cities across Epheria, north and south alike, lie empty, smoke and fire pluming from their bowels. And with Efialtír’s Chosen at their side, the empire’s armies are more powerful now than they’ve ever been. We cannot stop what is to come on our own.”
“What is it you need?”
All heads turned as Calen spoke, more than a few looks of scorn on the faces of the elven Ephorí. Draleid or no, he was young, and despite their bows and carefully chosen words, many of the elves still saw him as a child – a thing to be used.
Kallinvar sucked in his cheeks, then spoke. “For four hundred years, we have waited for the Blood Moon to rise again. And now that it is here, I can tell you that it is not our greatest threat. There is a war coming, a war like nothing you’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t know if you’ve looked, old friend,” Aeson said, gesturing to the map. “But war is already here.”
“Next to what comes, this is nothing. The Godwar looms.”
Aeson stared at Kallinvar open-mouthed. “This is everything,” he said, incredulous. “I care little for what the gods do to each other. Four hundred years I’ve waited to lift the empire’s iron boot and take back everything that was stolen. How can you say this is nothing? I was there in Ilnaen all those years ago. I watched your brothers and sisters die at Eltoar’s hands. I watched your knighthood crumble just as my order did. I watched Fane Mortem and his empire hunt the Jotnar into near extinction. What did the gods do then?”
Aeson’s right hand clenched into a fist, the muscles in his jaw tensing.
Kallinvar’s sombre expression didn’t change. He held his gaze on Aeson. “You misunderstand me, old friend. Winning this war does not matter if Efialtír crosses into this world. Everything you save will die anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Therin’s voice rang clear in the chamber as the elf took a step from beside Asius. It was the first time Therin had spoken a single word within the chamber’s walls.
“You have no voice here, Therin Eiltris.” King Galdra looked to Therin with fire in his eyes. “You saw to that many years ago. Know your place, Astyrlína.”
Therin bowed his head, nodding slightly, but Galdra did not stop.
“It is insolence enough that you dared return here.” The king’s eyes narrowed as he walked slowly around the table. “But for you to speak in these chambers… Your arrogance knows no bounds. We suffer your presence out of respect for the Draleid and Rakina, but make no mistake, your honour is forfeit. Your own daughter has shed your name, so deep is your betrayal. Speak again, and I will send you to Achyron’s halls.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Aeson saw purple light misting from Calen’s eyes. He placed his hand on Calen’s chest and shook his head. As he did, he laughed.
“What about this amuses you, Rakina?” Galdra’s anger still laced his voice.
“You, Galdra.” For so many centuries, Aeson had stood by and said nothing. The elven ways were the elven ways. So it had always been, so it always would be. But he’d had enough. “The traitor god is at our gates. Epheria burns. This city, burns!” he roared, a fury he had not felt in a very long time rising. “And still you cling to your grudge like a child.”
Thuriv?r stepped across Aeson. “How dare you speak to?—”
“Speak again, Thuriv?r—” Aeson lowered his voice, levelling his gaze at the Lunithíran Ephorí “—and I will bury you so deep your own mother would give up digging.”
Thur?vir’s hand hovered over his sword pommel, his usually calm demeanour shattered, the veins in his neck bulging. Aeson could feel the ripples of the Spark flowing from the elf.
“You all talk of honour—” Aeson cast his gaze across the Triarchy and the Ephorí, holding it a half-second longer on Thuriv?r and Galdra “—and yet you prance around this city as though the world outside is not in flames. You call Therin faithless, strip him of his honour, and treat him as though he is not worth the shit on your boot, when, in truth, he is your better in every way.”
“Careful, Aeson.” Galdra walked slowly around the table, all the rage gone from his eyes. He spoke with calm, but his voice was laced with violence. “You are drawing a line that cannot be undone. You are not a fool. Do not act one.”
Aeson moved square to Galdra. “You asked Therin to choose sides in a war between his people. A war he did not believe in. He chose exile instead of creating more division and for that you claim he is without honour. Yet while you hid in this woodland, pretending you were making a difference, Therin continued to fight. When his own people turned his back on him, he continued to fight. Líra built this city to keep you safe, and you cast her Ayar Elwyn from its walls and poisoned their daughter against him. The problem with honour, King Galdra, is that it lies in the eye of the beholder, and in my eyes, yours is lacking while Therin’s is unquestionable.” Aeson looked to Therin, who stood in shock, his mouth ajar. “All these years, I have stood by and said nothing, and for that I failed you. La?l sanyin, myia yíar. Uvrín mír.”
I am sorry, my friend. Forgive me.
“Du é uvrínil.”
You are forgiven.
A palpable sense of relief clung to Therin’s voice, the most fragile of smiles adorning his lips.
“As beautiful and moving as this all is,” Chora said, her arms folded as she sat in her chair. She gestured towards Kallinvar. “I believe it best we settle our grievances later.”
King Galdra looked to Chora and, after a moment of silence, inclined his head. “Well spoken, Rakina.” He turned his gaze to Aeson. “We will settle this another time. But we will settle it.”
The king moved back to the far side of the table and nodded to Kallinvar.
“The Blood Moon is only the beginning,” Kallinvar continued. “Efialtír seeks to cross the veil himself and take form in this world.”
“Is that even possible?” Aeson asked.
“There is a vessel known as the Heart of Blood that we believe, if used by The Traitor’s Chosen, possesses the ability to tear a rift in the veil large enough for such a thing.”
“And where is this ‘Heart of Blood’?” Uthrían clasped her right wrist with her left hand.
“We do not know. That is why we need your help. What we do know is that Fane does not hold it. If he did, we would not be having this conversation. The Watchers in our temple have been consulting the old texts and have surmised a number of locations where they believe the Heart may reside.”
Kallinvar walked around the stone table, tapping spots with his finger: Mar Dorul, Kolmir, Mount Helmund, Ilnaen, Wolfpine Ridge, the Marin Mountains.
“Those are not places you can simply walk into.” Harken Holdark folded his arms as he moved to the table's edge. “They are also not places easily searched.”
“They are mountain ranges and a wasteland,” Chora remarked. “It would not be searching for a needle in a haystack. It would be searching for a needle in a field of burning corn with wool over your eyes.”
“There is no choice.” Kallinvar leaned against the table. “We cannot allow Fane to find the Heart before we do. If he does, everything you know and love will perish. This war will mean nothing because there will be nobody left to fight it and nothing left to fight for.”
Queen Uthrían opened her hands wide. “What if the Blood Moon sets and nobody finds this Heart? We are better off fighting the war of steel and flesh and blood than chasing the ghost of something that might never be found. If we ignore the Lorians, they will kill us. If we leave this Heart of Blood, it may simply be lost forever and our task will be complete without a wasted second.”
“Kallinvar, we vowed to fight together. To stand by each other’s side in this war.” Aeson gestured towards the table. “But we cannot simply abandon everything to go searching for something that may not even exist. We don’t have the numbers. Not yet. There are contacts I have in Al’Nasla, Berona, and Catagan who are well placed. I will send word that they are to hunt down any traces of this ‘Heart of Blood’. If the empire finds it, we will know. And as soon as we know, we will rain down fire and fury. I promise you.”
“Empty promises and empty words.” Kallinvar let out a long sigh, then shook his head. “I should have known better."
“On my honour, I swear it.” Calen reached out and offered his hand to Kallinvar, and every elf in the room – particularly Therin – stared at him with open mouths. Were it anyone else, Aeson wouldn’t have thought much of it, but Calen knew what it was to swear on his honour in an elven realm. “My father always taught me that a man’s vow is a sacred thing and that I should not give it unless I intend to answer when called to fulfil it.”
Kallinvar grasped Calen’s forearm. “Your father was a wise man.”
“He casts a large shadow.” Calen gave a sharp nod. “If you find this thing you’re looking for, or if Fane does, call us and we will come.”
In the valley beyond a roar rose to rival thunder.