28. The Path We Have Chosen
Chapter 28
The Path We Have Chosen
12 th Day of the Blood Moon
Berona – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Rist collapsed, his lungs heaving, sweat pumping from every inch of skin on his body. He knelt on all fours, his palms flat against the stone.
His stomach lurched and his mouth salivated. Don’t throw up. He swallowed hard, holding his breath and tensing. Don’t. Throw. Up.
“Better.” All Rist could see were Garramon’s feet, bare except for a pair of sandals. The man placed a wooden plate before Rist, laden with slabs of fresh cooked beef dripping in gravy and a pile of buttered mashed potatoes bigger than a horse’s turd.
Rist dry heaved, pushing the vomit down.
“If you puke on the food, you’re still eating it.”
That was it. That was what broke him. Rist lurched to his side and retched, the familiar metallic taste sliding up his throat. His puke was orange, made so by the carrots he’d forced down only hours before. Chunks of chewed meat decorated the spew, lying amongst other – completely unidentifiable – remnants of partially digested vegetables.
Above him, Garramon sighed. “Whatever you puke up, we’ll have to replace.”
“I know.” Rist wiped the vomit from the corner of his mouth, then reached his hand up.
Garramon hauled Rist to his feet.
“You’re going to have to learn to keep it down.”
Rist nodded, leaning his head back, cold sweat dripping down his torso. “Water?”
“Can you keep it down?”
“Water, please.”
Garramon handed Rist a waterskin, which he drained in its entirety, savouring the cold as it flowed down his throat. A few seconds later, he immediately regretted that decision as he spewed up a flow of clear liquid.
“Eat,” Garramon said, shaking his head. “And then we will channel.”
Rist dropped to the floor and folded his legs, staring at the slabs of beef as though they were poison.
“You agreed to this, Rist. I warned you.”
“This isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“Your mind is strong. Your grasp of the Spark already far exceeds that of any with your summers. But mind and body work in tandem, and your body, quite simply, is not up to the task. If you push yourself past your limits now, you will die. And I for one would prefer that not happen.”
“That would be my preference also.” Rist swallowed hard, then let out a heavy sigh as he bit into a slab of beef. He was absolutely sure it would have been one of the best tasting pieces of meat he’d ever eaten if his mouth hadn’t already been coated with the acrid taste of vomit.
“You will only get one chance at the testing. You need to be ready before that day comes.”
Rist knew what that meant. It had already been made clear to him. Those who failed the test had a high likelihood of dying. The more powerful a mage became, the greater the risks. The larger the flame, the bigger the fire. Young, untested mages were more likely to burn the Spark from their veins, but more powerful ones risked far more than that. “If you and Fane are the last two Arcarians, why not simply admit me?”
“Because an Arcarian by name is nothing at all. That name means something, Rist. For Fane to even consider you is an honour itself.”
“You still haven’t told me what the testing entails.” Rist choked down another piece of meat, raising a closed fist to his mouth as he forced the beef down. “And you’re not going to, are you?”
Garramon shook his head. “Finish that, and come with me. There’s something I want to show you before we spar.”
“Before we spar?” Rist’s pulse quickened at the thought of standing up, never mind sparring. “Can I not just… read and sleep? I would love to read and sleep.”
Garramon clasped his hands behind his back, filling his lungs with winter air as he gazed out at Berona. The sun was nearing the end of its cycle, hanging above the mountains to the west, but it was not alone. The Blood Moon was carved into the sky just above it. He could feel the moon’s pull, feel the power that seeped from its light. A part of him was furious that he and the First Army hadn’t marched east with the others. With the Blood Moon at their backs and Efialtír’s Chosen at their side, now was the time to strike with their full might. Not for another four hundred years would they have this strength. But Fane had chosen patience.
Whatever the reason, Garramon knew there was logic behind it. Fane never did anything without a reason. He was meticulous, precise, and always weaving plans within plans. Garramon had learned to simply trust his old friend. Fane had never let him down, not truly. But that didn’t mean he liked being in the dark.
The sound of huffing and puffing echoed from the arch behind him.
“You made it.”
“Why…” Rist paused, sucking in air. A series of clinks signified Rist dropping the sacks of iron rings to the floor. “Why did you make me climb more stairs?”
“To push past your limits, you must first reach them.”
“That’s poetic…” Rist’s stumbling footsteps sounded across the balcony upon which Garramon stood, and the young man stopped beside him and doubled over, heaving. Hundreds of thin scars decorated his back – Brother Pirnil’s work. “But I don’t like poetry. It takes too long to get to the point.”
Garramon laughed. “Did you keep your food down?”
“Hmmm.” Rist stood slowly, stretching out his back. “But I can’t promise anything for the way back down.”
The young man was a different creature entirely from the one Garramon had met that first day in Al’Nasla. He had been a wisp of a boy, barely capable of holding a sword, never mind wielding one.
The biggest change however was not in his appearance, but in the way he held his chin higher, in the confidence with which he spoke, and in the way he was no longer over-awed by every little thing like a sheltered farm boy. His ascension to full Brother may have been accelerated by necessity and circumstance, but it had also been earned. And yet, Garramon feared what might happen if Rist took the test of the Arcarians. He was strong, but was he strong enough? Garramon would have rather waited, but Fane was insistent.
“I could have taken you to the top,” Garramon said, resting his hand on the crenellation that topped the balcony’s low wall.
“Please, gods no.” Rist pulled a long breath, stretching his hands behind his head.
From the balcony where they stood, they could see the entire western section of the city sprawling outwards, the Lodhar Mountains in the distance, Lake Berona on their left glittering a blend of orange and red.
“You asked me a question when we entered the city almost a week past.”
Rist straightened, but he didn’t say anything.
“What happened all those years ago? Why did I make the choice I made? It’s a fair question. One most people would have the respect not to ask.”
“Fear can often be mistaken for respect.” The words left Rist’s lips so plainly it caused the corners of Garramon’s mouth to curl. The man’s candour was a refreshing thing.
“True enough.” Garramon leaned forwards, looking out at the light glinting off the rooves of the buildings below. “When I first pledged my life to The Order, I was younger than you were. Ten summers had passed me by when my mother and father sent me to be tested in the elven city of Baraduílin. I cried, a lot. I’d never been away from home. My parents loved me, of that I never doubted, but I was the second son. Tharahír was to inherit my father’s farm, and I had four brothers and three sisters. The Order paid good gold for any initiates who were accepted. The harvest had been bad for three years, and we had many mouths to feed. They tested me first for the Calling. I’d always dreamt of becoming a Draleid, of a dragon egg hatching, of soaring through the skies. As you can see, that didn’t happen. But I could touch the Spark. I was to be a mage of The Order. There were few greater honours in all Epheria. And so The Order became my life.”
Garramon pulled away from the wall and folded his arms, gazing out at the horizon. It had been some time since he’d talked about those years.
“For over a century, everything was as I had imagined. We stopped a Karvosi invasion on the Andean coast – now Arkalen – two from the Ardanians, fought a bloody war along the Lightning Coast with three Urak clans… Gods, there was so much more. But I felt like we were doing good. I felt like a hero in a bard’s tale. After sixty years, I was inducted into the Arcarians. I met Fulya, had a son – a beautiful boy, so full of life, so kind.”
“What changed?” Rist’s stare was as intense as ever, his attention unwavering.
“Everything.” Garramon let out a long sigh. “As you’ve already pointed out, the world is not black and white, no matter how much we will it to be. All we can ever do is what we believe to be right. There wasn’t one event or one moment in time. As it often is, the change was slow and subtle, like a disease or a rot spreading from the heart, creeping through The Order’s lifeblood. We began to be involved in wars we had no place in. Brutal, bloody, and savage. And unlike the past, there wasn’t always a clear reason why – at least not to me. You see, Rist, our purpose wasn’t to become embroiled in every conflict that plagued the continent. Our purpose was to protect those who were caught in the middle, to stand against any one power seizing control of another, to push back any armies that threatened our shores. The warriors of The Order were warriors of the people. We belonged to all Epherians. Somewhere along the way, that was lost.”
“And so you burned it to the ground? Turned on the people you called friends?”
Garramon snapped his head around, his jaw clenching, fingers twitching on the stone. “Watch your tongue.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Without context, no.” Sometimes Garramon forgot how plain the young man was, how simply he thought of the world. Rist was one of the most intelligent souls he had ever met, but he had a habit of thinking only in straight lines. A strength at times, but a weakness at others. “Context is what grants comprehension of any fact, Rist. If a tree is tall, what makes it tall?”
“Its height.”
“No. If a tree stands twenty feet, it is simply that. It is neither tall nor small. Tall is a relative term. One thing can only be tall in context. A twenty-foot tree is tall amongst a forest of trees no taller than ten feet. But if it sits amidst a thicket of hundred-foot titans, it is not simply small, it is tiny. Right and wrong, good and evil, these things are relative also.”
“It is always right to save a life,” Rist countered, his expression unshifting.
“Even if that life goes on to take another? Or ten? Or a hundred? Or a thousand? What if that life rode a two-hundred foot-dragon and was willing to burn an entire city alive to fill a coin chest?”
Rist pondered that a while, giving that same blank stare he always had when he was thinking.
“Over time, more gold flowed into The Order’s coffers than I’d ever seen in my life. People I’d known for a hundred years began to wear the finest silks and gorge on the most decadent of feasts. They built homes that were better called palaces. They stopped caring about the people they were meant to protect, looked down on them. It all became about power and who wielded it.”
Rist opened his mouth to speak but visibly stopped himself, waiting for Garramon to continue. The man never made the same mistake twice.
“Alone, these are not things that justify a rebellion. But everything requires context. The gold, the opulence, the greed, it twisted them. It changed why they fought. Everything was steered by trying to retain what they had. Wars were fought for gold and favour. Souls burned in the North because a king in the South willed it. We became nothing more than enforcers and cutthroats, just in finer silks. And those who weren’t dreamt of wearing the crowns themselves. In ten years, more Epherians died by The Order’s hand than in the previous two hundred. There was always a reason, always a story woven by the most silver of tongues. You see, Rist, the desire for more is as human a thing as any. But when a person wields the power of the Spark, or that of a dragon, they must be held to a higher standard. When a person possesses the power to snuff out hundreds of lives in a heartbeat… that changes everything. I could tell you stories of the tens of thousands of bodies I watched twitch and crackle in the fires that razed the city of Unmire because their king refused to pay a debt. Or I could tell you of the cries for help ignored because a member of the ‘esteemed council’ held a grudge against another man who had been chosen by a woman he desired. Or of the executions that took place again, and again, and again for those who crossed the wrong people. But if I did, we would be here all night and all day. The simple fact is, we became tyrants, our presence actively darkening this world. The people we were meant to protect were the ones who suffered the weight of our failure.”
Garramon looked to Rist, seeing the young man deep in thought. It was then he realised the simplest way to convey information to Rist was in terms of something he understood. “You’ve read the memoirs of Edmire Burkiln. I’ve seen you with it.”
“I have.”
“All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”
“Those are not actually his words.” Rist pursed his lips. “They are those of Jon Stilvar Milner, a philosopher from the old kingdom of Endiral, though Burkiln adopted them as his own. ‘Let not any soul stay their conscience by the delusion that they do no harm if they take no part. The darkness of this world needs nothing more to triumph than good souls looking on and doing nothing.’”
“Well,” Garramon said with laugh. “The point remains the same. When Fane came to me, he gave me a choice – stand by and watch while The Order I gave my life to slowly rotted and turned against everything we stood for, or fight. I chose to fight. I chose to not allow darkness to triumph by my apathy.”
“And now?”
“I would do it all again.” Garramon nodded slowly as he spoke. Not a word of a lie left his lips. He would do it all again. “You weren’t alive in the days before the fall of The Order, or ‘the Liberation’ – what a fucking stupid name. What we did wasn’t a liberation. It was a war. I am not naive enough to think any different. We waged a war, and we won, and Epheria is better for it.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. In your lifetime, how many wars have you seen? How much family have you lost by the blade? Have you wanted for food? Yes, there are taxes, just as there were before. There are rebellions, just as there were before. But the peace this continent has known in the last three hundred years is unprecedented. Rebellions like the one burning in the South prey on short memories and fickle hearts.”
“What about the Valtarans? Or the Kolmiri dwarves? Or any of the other rebellions the empire has crushed?”
“Your reading is even more extensive than I’d thought. But do you think The Order would have dealt with them any differently? Alvira would have argued, like she always did. She was good, but she was weak. All the council had to do was prey on her honour and her code, and they could twist her any way they wanted. She didn’t understand their manipulations.” Garramon sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He could feel the anger rising within him, feel it burning his cheeks and clenching his fists. It wasn’t an anger at Rist but at the memories of the past, of the decisions he had been forced to make. “You remind me a lot of my son, Malyn. Never stop questioning things, Rist. Never stop questioning me, or Fane, or Primarch Touran, or anyone.”
“What happened to him, your son?”
“He died a long time ago.” Garramon didn’t have the heart to discuss what had happened to Malyn, how his son had betrayed them, how he’d watched Malyn kneel at the headsman’s block, and how Garramon had put him there by letting Solman Tuk wrap his venomous hands around Malyn’s mind. Garramon had died a little that day. “Come, it is time to spar before the sun sets completely. And I’d advise you to put on a shirt.”
Rist let out a long puff of air, running his hand down his sweat-soaked chest. “It’s a lot colder up here than it is down there. My nipples could cut glass.”
“Some things, Rist, are better left unsaid.”
Later that night, Rist trudged through Berona’s streets, the lanterns fading, the pink shimmer of the moonlight cascading across the stone. Each step felt like it would be his last, hips groaning, feet stinging, legs aching. Bruises had formed within bruises, deep black atop blue and yellow.
He was one swift strike of a staff away from breaking, and yet, he had never felt stronger – or fuller. Just the thought caused his stomach to rumble, and he rested a palm across it, puffing out his cheeks. Garramon had him eating like a horse, or probably more aptly a bear. He had learned three days ago that a human can sweat simply from consuming too much meat at one time. It was an entirely useless piece of information, but it was something Rist had never known before. It was also something that burned him with guilt. There were people outside the walls surviving off rations, and there he was eating enough for three.
The city was strangely quiet at night. Aside from the occasional drunk and more than a few shady figures here and there, the only people Rist passed were guard patrols. A dour atmosphere had settled over the place. Berona would see bloodshed. Between the Uraks and the elves, something was coming. It was not a matter of if but when. And to make everything worse the Lorian rebels were not only attacking and looting along all roads in and out of the city, they were actively raiding within its walls as well. That was why the Fourth and First armies had remained and been given barracks within the city limits.
With his slow, plodding footsteps for company, Rist made his way through the city and towards the barracks assigned to the First Army, praying to Varyn his legs wouldn’t give way. Unlike at Al’Nalsa, where the barracks were situated in camps outside the city, a number of barracks had been purpose-built within Berona’s walls as the city itself lay at the outer reaches of Loria and far closer to Urak territory.
Each was a small fort of its own, walled even within the city limits, with towers at all four corners and battlements manned night and day. Similar layouts had been applied to the eastern cities along the Lightning Coast. Not that it had mattered when the elves had rained dragonfire upon them.
Rist nodded to the guards at the barracks gate, then stepped through and into the courtyard lined by stables ahead and baths to his right. The barracks consisted of twelve enormous halls, a stable, baths, its own storehouse and granary, latrines, several cookhouses, and a headquarters. Ten of the twelve halls were two storeys high and capable of housing up to five hundred soldiers bunked in tiers of three. The two remaining halls were broken into individual chambers for the one hundred and thirty mages of the First Army. Taya Tambrel and her generals took residence in the headquarters at the northern end, along with the Blackwatch.
As Rist stumbled through the barracks, his legs sensing he was close to bed, three mages of the First Army rounded the corner of the baths with towels around their waists and steam wafting off their bodies.
“Brother Havel.” One of the mages inclined his head.
“Exarch Gurney.” Rist reciprocated the gesture, greeting the other two mages in kind before they continued on to their chambers in the other hall.
Rist stood a little taller, rolling his shoulders back. It still felt strange to have the others, even the Exarchs, treat him as one of their own, treat him as a Brother. It felt stranger still to find pride in that recognition considering none of the High Mages had bothered to even glance in his direction previously. But his steps were lighter the rest of the way to his chambers in the far hall.
He twisted the handle and pushed open the door with his shoulder, grunting as he did. The room was small and sparse, just how he preferred it.
He pulled on thin threads of fire and lit the wicks of the candles on the desk and on the shelf above the straw-stuffed mattress set against the far wall. Books were piled high on the desk, some he’d brought with him into the Burnt Lands, others he’d sequestered from the Circle’s library. Druids, a Magic Lost sat on top of A History of Magii – the book he’d acquired in the Milltown markets almost two years ago – and beneath A Study of Control and The Spark: A Study of Infinite Possibilities .
He glanced at the wardrobe by the end of the bed that held his armour, clothes, and gear. He truly didn’t have the energy to remove his clothes, fold them, and set them back in the wardrobe. All he wanted to do was sleep. But that wasn’t how his mind worked. This room was his space. If it was cluttered, so too was he. The last time he’d tried to leave clothes lying on the floor, he’d lain awake for hours until finally forcing himself to rise and put everything back in its proper place.
As he stared at the wardrobe, unmoving, his shoulders slumped, a moment of genius struck him. If he didn’t remove his clothes, then he didn’t have to fold them or put them away.
And with that thought, the aches and pains dulled and Rist flopped onto the bed like a dead fish and let sleep take him.
Rist awoke to someone tugging gently at his boot. He didn’t have the energy to roll onto his back, so he just grunted.
Another heave and his boot popped off.
“Really?” Even had he not recognised her voice, the sheer exasperation would have told him it was Neera pulling his boots from his feet.
“What?” Rist lay face down on the mattress, his eyes closed.
“Well, you’re fully clothed for starters, and you left the candles burning. You could have set the whole place on fire.”
“Is it on fire?”
“No—”
“Well, then let me sleep.”
“Stop being a puckered arsehole.” The mattress shifted as Neera sat down. She pulled his other boot off and removed his socks. “I need to remember this night. I don’t like feet. They’re like… hands on the end of your legs. And yet here I am holding your sweaty sock.”
Something soft and a little damp landed on the back of Rist’s head. The smell told him it was his sock.
“Come on, you lug, roll over, and we’ll get these trousers off. You can’t sleep like this.”
“I beg to differ,” Rist answered, his voice muffled by the mattress.
“Roll over, you goat.” Hands wrapped around his waist, fingers tucked into his belt, and then Neera hauled him onto his back. She started laughing as she undid his belt and stripped him down. “You’re honestly such a pain.”
The mattress shifted again, and Rist opened his eyes to see Neera standing with his trousers in her hand. She folded them once, then twice, and started to place them into the wardrobe until she caught his eye. “What is it?”
He wanted to tell her she’d folded them wrong and that they needed to be hung, but he could hear Dann in the back of his mind. “Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Thank you,” he said instead.
“Hmm.”
Neera finished putting away Rist’s clothes, then removed her armour, blew out the candles, and climbed into the bed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she traced her finger along the welts on his right shoulder.
“I’ve been better. How was your watch?”
“Quiet and boring. Just what I’d hoped for.” She turned Rist over so he faced the other wall, then wrapped her arms around him. She traced her hand down the black and yellow skin of his arm. “He’s going to kill you if he keeps this up.”
“One less thing for you to worry about.”
Neera slapped Rist’s bruise just hard enough to elicit a sharp ‘tssk’.
“You shut that stupid mouth of yours.” She slid her arm under his, pressing her palm against his chest. A moment of silence passed. “Don’t say things like that.”
Rist rested his hand over Neera’s, slipping his fingers into the gaps between hers. “Sorry.”
She let out a sigh, nuzzling into the crook in his neck. “It’s fine… It’s just this place. Everyone’s on edge. Uraks attacked one of the scouting parties this evening, just before sunset. Ripped them all to pieces. Then rebels set fire to one of the granaries in the garrison barracks. Do they not understand the city watch will just rebuild it and replenish it from the city’s stores? They’re setting fire to food while we’re anticipating a siege. What do they think will happen if the Uraks or the elves breach the walls? Who do they think will suffer the most?”
Rist did all he could not to let out a sigh. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he could hear the worry in Neera’s voice. “They’re not thinking. They’re just fighting.”
He could tell by how Neera tensed that was the wrong thing to say.
“Fighting us . Two women died in that granary fire. Two women who would have stood on those walls and protected this city. Two women who weren’t expecting to be burned alive by their own people. And you’re saying that’s all right?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Rist drew a calming breath, exhaling through his nostrils.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that it’s not always so simple.”
“It’s as simple as you make it.” Neera pulled her arms free from around Rist and turned the other way, placing her back against his.
“Wait… What just happened?” Rist twisted in the bed, the back of Neera’s head visible in the dim moonlight that drifted through the window. “How… Ah, fuck it.”
He turned back around, shuffled his pillow, and closed his eyes. He was too tired for this.