24. Hidden Meanings
10 th Day of the Blood Moon
The Eyrie, Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen twisted at the hips, swinging his blade in a wide arc and dropping into Waiting Dark. He moved upwards into Howling Wolf, sweat slicking his palms.
“Good.” Gaeleron stood before him, his right hand gripping his left wrist behind his back. Over the months since returning to Aravell, the elf had regained some of the strength he’d lost and was slowly starting to look like the warrior he had once been. His cheeks were no longer gaunt and hollow, his eyes no longer sunken. A layer of muscle now sat between the skin and bones he had been left with after his torture. He still carried his walking stick with him, but he rarely had need of it. “Mind your footwork. You’re overextending, and your base is too narrow.”
Gaeleron pushed Calen’s shoulder, and Calen stumbled to the right but stabilised himself quickly. He nodded, then pulled his lead foot back and stood wider.
“Your elbow is out too wide,” Gaeleron continued, pressing his finger against the flat of Calen’s blade and pushing. “You must be stronger. Continue.”
Calen did as instructed, moving from form to form, emptying his mind of all else, which, after the meeting in Mythníril, was something he sorely needed.
To his left Vaeril and Atara matched his every movement, not so much as a bead of sweat on their skin. They flowed through the sword forms as though practicing a dance, fluid and smooth. If there was any soul that did not need instruction in the way of the blade, it was Atara Anthalin, and yet she listened to every word that left Gaeleron’s lips.
“The valathír is a movement that focuses on power and decisiveness. It centres on swift and efficient strikes, overwhelming an opponent. But it will put you in positions of vulnerability. True masters of this movement have learned to limit those vulnerabilities, learned to twist them into temptations for their opponents. Lure your attacker into striking at a weakness, then pivot and take their head from their shoulders.”
“It looks exhausting,” Dann called out from where he sat by the stream, slathering a piece of crusty bread with fresh butter and blueberry jam.
Lyrei threw Dann a glare from where she stood behind him, one hand on Drunir’s flank, her cheek resting against his side as she brushed his coat. She’d not said much since the Eleswea un’il Valana, but somehow she seemed… lighter.
Valdrin sat cross-legged on a rock to Dann’s left. An inkwell balanced on the elf’s knee while he watched Calen practice and scribbled notes in a leatherbound journal. They had passed the young smith on their way from Mythníril to Alura, and when he’d learned Calen was about to practice sword forms with Gaeleron, Valdrin had sprinted off mumbling incoherently. Not long after, he’d come scrambling into the Eyrie, dripping sweat and covered in soot and grease, then perched himself on the rock.
Calen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Valdrin talking to himself as he wrote, blissfully uncaring about anything else around him. The elf reminded him of Rist.
“Focus.” Gaeleron cracked Calen in the side of the knee with his walking stick.
Calen’s leg gave way, his knee dropping into the soft grass. For a moment, his anger bubbled, and he could feel Valerys watching from where he lay on the other side of the Eyrie with Sardakes and Varthear. But then he looked up to see Gaeleron standing over him with an implacable look in his eyes, his expression cold and harsh, and the anger faded.
Calen nodded, rising. “La?l sanyin, Sainor.”
I am sorry, teacher. The word ‘Sainor’ was one Vaeril had taught him. Loosely translated it meant ‘teacher’, but the elf had explained that it was only ever used by a person who held their mentor in such high esteem as to think their honour unquestionable. It was a title Gaeleron fully deserved.
Calen still remembered the first words the elf had said to him after they’d broken him free from Berona.
“I didn’t break…”
Gaeleron stared back a moment at Calen, then inclined his head. “Back to the valathír.”
By the time Tarmon and Erik approached from the archway through to Alura, even Vaeril was sweating – if only a drop.
Erik held a finger to his lips as he stalked around to the right, slipping past Lyrei and Drunir and approaching Dann from behind. He moved with exaggerated strides, the burbling of the stream drowning out his steps.
“Why thank you,” he said as he swooped down over Dann and snatched a freshly slathered chunk of bread from Dann’s hand.
“I swear to the gods.” Dann leapt to his feet, but as he did Erik shoved the entire chunk of bread into his mouth and extended his leg behind him.
Dann being Dann was too focused on the bread to see Erik’s foot and sent himself tumbling.
Erik swallowed the last of the bread and licked the blueberry jam from around his mouth. “Have a nice trip?”
Dann glared at Erik. “When I’m done with you, Virandr, your own father won’t recognise you from a potato.”
“I’m… I’m not really sure what that means,” Erik said with a shrug. He raised his hands, clenching them into fists in a mock fighting stance. “But come on, Pimm. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Dann charged and threw his shoulder into Erik’s chest, sending them both tumbling.
Tarmon slowed as he approached Calen, both eyebrows raised at the sight of Erik and Dann wrestling in the grass.
After a few moments, even Valdrin lifted his gaze from his journal. He looked from the pair to Calen, then to Tarmon. “Should we?—”
“No,” Tarmon said, raising a hand and cutting Valdrin short. “If we play this right, we might get a bit of silence.” He looked to Calen. “Do you remember silence? It’s such a sweet sound.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Calen noticed Lyrei smiling at Dann and Erik. He’d not seen her smile since Alea’s death. Though in truth, he’d not seen much happiness at all since that night.
“We have to allow ourselves the small things,” Calen whispered to himself.
“That we do.” Tarmon rested his hand on Calen’s shoulder, smiling softly.
A thump of wings echoed through the Eyrie, and all of them looked up to see Valerys soaring though the air, white scales glistening in the perpetual crimson twilight. The ground shook as the dragon alighted beside Erik and Dann, towering over them. He stretched his neck down and shoved the wrestling pair with his snout, knocking them free and dropping them onto their arses.
“Calen…” Dann stretched his neck back, swallowing. “Tell him I’m not food.”
Erik burst out laughing as he pulled himself to his feet. “Valerys is only a pup,” he said, brushing his hand across Valerys’s snout, the dragon giving a soft rumble as he leaned into Erik’s hand.
Dann shifted backwards on his elbows, then patted himself down as he stood. “What pup do you know that’s the size of a house, has teeth larger than my hopes and dreams, and survives exclusively on a diet of raw meat?”
Valerys spread his wings and pulled his lips back, exposing rows of alabaster teeth.
“Don’t listen to him,” Erik said mockingly as he scratched at one of Valerys’s scales. Again, Valerys pressed his snout into Erik’s palm, almost knocking him backwards. The dragon’s head alone was larger than Erik’s entire body.
Dann glared at Erik before walking back towards Lyrei and Drunir. “Only a fucking pup…” he muttered. “A pup with shits the size of your head... and it’s not a small head.”
“Children.” Tarmon shook his head, letting out an exasperated sigh. He turned to Calen. “How are you getting on?”
Calen sheathed his sword and wiped the cold sweat from his brow. “Fine. Just needed to clear my head.” He reached up and pressed his fingers into his forehead. “I just hate the idea of sitting here while I send others to fight for my home.”
“I understand. But Aeson is right. Having you here when Aryana Torval and the others arrive is important. They need to see you, need to know you are not just a tale whispered into the wind. Their numbers could be the difference down the road.” Tarmon squeezed Calen’s shoulder. “There are fourteen thousand souls marching to Salme, Calen. You can’t do everything yourself. You just can’t.”
“I know. Doesn’t make it any easier though.”
“No.”
It was only then, at the sight of the forced smile on Tarmon’s face, that Calen realised Tarmon had been in much the same situation after the Wind Runner crash in the evacuation of Belduar. He’d sworn to protect his home – to protect Daymon. And instead, he’d been following Calen across the continent. “Tarmon, I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s all right. I know. That’s all life is, Calen – decisions and consequences. I made my decisions. And as much pain as they might have brought me, I’d make them again.” He looked off into the valley beyond the edge of the Eyrie, then back to Calen. “On that note. Those souls start their march to Salme tomorrow. I’ve arranged for some casks of wine and enough food to fill their bellies twice over. Your brother and Lyrin are there, and Aeson and Therin are going through the supply inventory now. The elven smiths are doing their last check of the new armour. In fact,” he said, looking to Valdrin, who scribbled away in his journal like an elf possessed, “he’s meant to be leading the checks.”
Calen only laughed as Tarmon shook his head. Valdrin was well known for his wandering mind, but his brilliance superseded any shortcomings in that area.
Tarmon looked back to Calen. “Erik and I thought you’d like to join the soldiers for a drink before they go. I know it might not seem like much to you, but it would make all the difference to them. You’re the reason they’re here. They didn’t come here because of Aeson’s words or promises, they came because of you. And they’re marching to war in your name.”
Those last words were like a gut punch. It didn’t seem real. How had it come to this? How had it come to people marching to war in Calen’s name? The last thing he ever wanted was war. But the reality was that it didn’t matter how or why. War was here. That was an inescapable fact.
“It would be my honour.”
Arden lowered the wooden cask to the stone, the wine sloshing as he laid it down beside one of Calen’s captains – Ingvat.
The woman nodded her thanks, instructing three men to shimmy the cask over closer to a cluster of others. Her head barely reached the crest on the breastplate of Arden’s Sentinel armour, but she had an air of authority around her not dissimilar to his mother. Even Erdhardt Hammersmith had listened when Freis Bryer had talked, whether he wanted to or not.
The thought caused Arden to reach down to his hip where the scarf Calen had given him was tied between his belt loops. He recalled the armour from around his hand, feeling it roll back over his skin as his fingers brushed the soft silk.
Arden drew a long breath through his nose, then looked about.
Rows and rows of wagons lined the courtyard’s edges, stocked to the brim with salted meats, hard cheeses, bread, fruit, and everything else a marching army required. It was there that Aeson, Therin, Harken, and another of Calen’s captains – Narthil – double and triple checked the supplies. This, Arden decided, was a key difference between a battle and a war.
There was an inherent chaos to a battle, a madness within which all reason became lost. Battles were won and lost on the stroke of a sword.
War was the exact opposite. It was meticulous and slow and purposeful. Wars were won and lost on empty stomachs, exhaustion, thirst. And somehow that difference set a much sharper fear in his belly.
“Well.” Lyrin’s voice cracked through Arden’s thoughts, and the man appeared at his side with a cask of wine over his shoulder. “How do you think Achyron feels about our Sentinel armour being used to move wine? You reckon the big guy has a sense of humour?”
“Shut up, Lyrin.” Arden wiped the sweat from his brow.
“I’ve barely seen you in days, and this is how you talk to me?” Arden didn’t answer, but Lyrin carried on. “The way I see it, if pain is the path to strength, then a morning after drinking your bodyweight in wine should make us strong as an ox.”
“I should have appreciated the silence more.” Arden held a straight face as long as he could before allowing a laugh to break through.
“You’re an arsehole, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
Lyrin frowned. “He’ll be fine, Arden. He’ll be resting nice and snug within the city walls. We can’t lie around and watch over him like a babe. Not now. There are not enough of us.”
Arden didn’t have to ask to know Lyrin was talking about Calen. Was he that easy to read?
Shouts rang out across the courtyard, followed by deep, thumping wingbeats. The enormous figure of Valerys rose over the canopy of the trees that encircled the yard. The dragon soared upwards, blotting out the Blood Moon, then swerved back around, casting a shadow large enough to cover twenty wagons.
“Speaking of your brother.” Lyrin gave a downturn of his lip, looking up and following Valerys’s flight.
The dragon’s white scales glinted pink as he twisted in the air and caught the moonlight. In a way, it was beautiful, but at the same time, the sight reminded him that the world outside these walls was on fire.
Images flashed in his mind of the battle at Ilnaen, of Efialtír’s Chosen cutting through his brothers and sisters, Fane’s black-fire níthral plunging into Illarin’s chest.
The thought caused his jaw to clench, his breath catching.
Again, memories flooded his mind, this time of the battle at Elmnest. Screams and wails filled his ears. Bodies lay everywhere, limbs scattered like snapped twigs after a storm. He remembered carrying Sylven through the fighting, Ruon, Lyrin, Varlin, and Ildris holding back the Bloodspawn while the city burned.
He heard the screams on the nights he tried to sleep. That battle had been different to all the others. Those screams had been different. They weren’t screams born from the thick of the fighting. They were screams that echoed through the valley as the Bloodspawn fell back to the city and slaughtered thousands. They were the screams of the people Arden couldn’t save. The people he had failed.
“Arden?” Lyrin stepped in front of Arden, staring into his eyes. “You all right? Let’s go get your brother a drink before he gets trampled.”
Arden nodded. Sweat dampened his palms, his breath came short, and the slightest of trembles had set into his hands. He looked up to see Valerys had alighted near the centre of the courtyard and those gathered had quickly swarmed in around him.
Calen took a long draught of wine from his cup, then breathed in the cold night air. Men, women, and elves alike – thousands of them – huddled around fires all across the courtyard, the discordance of songs, shouts, and chatter carrying through the open air.
Not far from him, over to the left, two elves sang and played lutes for some three hundred onlookers who clapped and cheered, wine sloshing in cups.
In the distance, by the supply wagons, a number of Dvalin Angan had gathered close to a group of rebels Calen had recently learned had travelled all the way from Varsund. One of the men was a bard. Calen could see his arms flailing dramatically as he wove some tale of time past. In the absence of horses in Aravell – with the exception of Drunir – the Dvalin had offered themselves to pull the wagons to Salme.
Calen had hoped to hear from the dwarves of Lodhar, but no news had left the mountains in weeks. From what he knew, the civil war that had ended in the deaths of both Pulroan and Hoffnar would take quite a while to resolve. If for no other reason than their prowess in battle, Calen hoped they would come to a resolution sooner rather than later.
“It’s a special thing,” Tarmon said, following Calen’s gaze across the yard.
“What is?”
“Being here.” Tarmon took a sip of wine. “The only elf I’d ever met before you came to Belduar was Therin. Now here we are about to march to war, standing shoulder to shoulder with them. You know what’s even stranger?”
Calen raised a curious eyebrow.
“Marching to war alongside Lorians.” Tarmon gestured towards where Ingvat, Surin, Kiko, and Loura sat with the rebels who had crossed the Burnt Lands. “They’re good people.”
“They are,” Calen agreed. “We’re lucky they’re here.”
“I wonder what Falmin would say?” Erik appeared to Calen’s right, a cup of wine in each hand.
The mention of the navigator’s name pulled at Calen’s heart. Loss was a cruel kind of pain. He’d not thought of Falmin since the battle for Aravell. But all of a sudden there was an ache in his chest.
“Fuckers,” Tarmon said, putting on his best impression of Falmin. “Wouldn’t trust ’em as far as I’d throw ’em. What? They’ve got whiskey? Maybe they ain’t that bad.”
“That was one of the worst Falmin impressions I’ve ever heard.” Erik stared at Tarmon in disbelief, a broad smile on his face. He rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck. “I reckon at night we steal their shoes and wear ’em the next day. See how long it takes ’em to notice.” Erik shrugged. “That or he’d knife them while they slept. He was a bit unpredictable like that.”
“I think it’d take him a while, but he’d be sitting there with them. Telling jokes that might start fights, and drinking more than any man should,” Calen said. “He had a way of seeing the good in people.”
“That he did,” Tarmon said, tipping his cup off Calen’s and Erik’s.
“There are a lot of people who should be here but aren’t.” Erik let out a soft sigh, taking a drink from each cup. “Korik and Lopir. Those two dwarves were solid… Alea.”
“They’re here.” Tarmon folded his arms, pressing a closed fist over his heart. “Carry them with you. They’ll make you fight harder.”
“I see why you write poetry,” Erik whispered, just loud enough for both Tarmon and Calen to hear.
“Fuck off,” Tarmon said with a laugh.
All three of them tipped their cups together at that, and a silent moment passed between them.
“Speaking of Alea,” Erik said, looking about. “Where are Dann and Lyrei?”
“I’m not sure.” Calen looked to where the pair had been sitting near Valerys on the other side of the nearest fire. Haem, Lyrin, Gaeleron, Vaeril, Aeson, Chora and the others sat about, drinking and talking – but no Dann and Lyrei. Even Valdrin was there, still scribbling away in his journal. When the young elf had first arrived in the courtyard, he’d spent the better part of an hour chastising two of the Vaelen smiths for not properly polishing a batch of the new armour. Then he’d just sat and scribbled.
“What do you reckon?” Erik asked Calen, an expectant look on his face.
“What do I reckon about what?”
“Lyrei and Dann? I bet the two of them snuck off and?—”
“What about us?” Dann’s voice sounded from behind Calen, and Erik looked as though his soul had left his body.
Calen turned to see Dann and Lyrei standing there with Lasch and Elia Havel, along with Tanner Fjorn.
Both Tanner and Dann held the long handles of a large hand-drawn cart filled with iron-banded wooden casks.
“Hmmm?” Dann looked at Erik with a grin that said he knew exactly what Erik had been suggesting. “Can’t find your words now?” His eyes narrowed. “Is that my wine?”
Erik looked down at the two cups in his hands and gave Dann a fake smile. “Maybe?”
“Maybe?”
“Well, it was your wine.”
“Give it to me.” Dann lifted one hand off the cart’s handle and tried to snatch the cup from Erik’s hands.
Erik pulled the cup into his chest. “Say please.”
“I’m going to knife you in your sleep.”
“He’s just like Falmin,” Erik said with a mocking shake of his head.
“Who’s Falmin?”
And just like that, Calen’s heart ached again. He’d never realised that Dann had never met Falmin. Their paths had simply never crossed. That was a strange thought.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dann said before anyone could answer his question. “I’m going to be nice. You can keep the wine.”
Erik gave Dann a sceptical look. “Did you piss in the wine?” He looked down into the cup. “I knew it tasted off.”
Dann turned to Lasch, who had simply stood there with an eager expression on his face. “I’ve just got something better.”
Calen stared past Lasch at the casks piled high in the cart. “Wait… It can’t be.”
“It is.” A satisfied grin spread across Dann’s face. “Lasch Havel’s mead. Real mead. Not that elvish shit.” He looked to Lyrei. “No offence.”
The elf just stared back at him, pressing her fingers into her forehead like an exasperated mother.
“You look tired.” Elia Havel stepped past Dann and cupped Calen’s face in her hands, her thumbs warm on his cheeks. “Have you been sleeping? Eating enough? When’s the last time you bathed?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Calen brushed Elia’s hands aside, careful not to be too rough. In truth, he liked that she coddled him; it meant she was regaining the pieces of who she was. He’d give just about anything to go back to the time where Elia’s overbearing exuberance had been his biggest concern.
“Help us unload the casks.” Dann climbed up onto the side of the cart and started shimmying one of the casks into place, Tarmon and Erik moving to lift it down.
“Where’s Yana?” Calen asked Tanner as he helped the man lift a cask of mead from the cart.
“She’s watching over Ella.” Tanner rested a hand on Calen’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. She told me to tell you to enjoy the mead. She’s got Faenir keeping her company. Honestly, I think she’s starting to prefer that wolfpine’s company to mine.”
When all the casks were unloaded, Dann and the others proceeded to roll them towards the fire where Aeson and Vaeril sat.
Before helping, Calen turned to Lasch. “How… When?”
“Over the last month or so,” Lasch said with a shrug. “I thought you and Dann needed a bit of home. Dann thought it would be a nice surprise. It’s not aged as long as I’d like, but I’m sure it will still taste good?—”
Lasch grunted as Calen pulled him into as tight an embrace as he thought the man could endure.
“Thank you,” Calen whispered.
Lasch pulled away and clasped the sides of Calen’s head. “We’re of The Glade, Calen. We stick together. Always. Now come on, before Dann drinks every drop. We know what he gets like after five, and from my reckoning he’s already had at least four.”
Laughter erupted from all around as Dann swung his arms, mead sloshing in his cup, the light from the fire dancing across his face. “I’ve never seen so many feathers in my life!” he roared, turning to face a group of elves and humans who sat behind him, all of them in hysterics. “It was mayhem. The chickens were jumping from the windows where the mesh had come loose, they leapt from the roof, squawking and flapping, and they ran about like… well, like headless chickens…” Dann stopped for a moment, scratching at his chin in exaggerated thought. “But with heads. There was shit everywhere . Now I don’t know how much you all know about chickens, but there isn’t a single creature that shits more than a chicken. So use that to paint the picture.”
Haem sat to Calen’s left beside Elia and Lasch, a mix of men and women from Carvahon, Arkalen, and Illyanara around him. His hand was pressed against his stomach, his smile pulled wide as though he had hooks in either side of his mouth. Haem hadn’t been there the time Faenir had stormed into Tharn Pimm’s chicken coop. He’d died the year before.