50. Death of What Was
Chapter 50
Death of What Was
18 th Day of the Blood Moon
Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Ella walked without saying a word, the wolf prowling in the back of her mind. When they reached Alura, she dismissed Sennik and the Angan and was almost across the basin when Gaeleron called to her.
The elf wore a smooth suit of steel armour, decorated with gold leaves along the edges of the breastplate, the emblem of a white dragon on the front. Both his pauldrons were wrought from white steel, and tassets composed of small white scales protected his groin and hips. Ella’s dad would have marvelled at the craftsmanship.
“I would walk with you, if you’ll have me?” The elf gave Ella an overly formal bow, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Ella would have preferred to walk alone, particularly to where she was going, but there was something about Gaeleron that put her at ease. The elf had been there from the moment she’d woken. He was forthright, and Ella knew she could trust him. She could… smell the loyalty in his blood.
“I’m assuming you didn’t seek me out just for the pleasure of my company?”
“I would do as well seeking out a rose bush if that were the case.”
Ella burst out laughing as she ran her hand across the side of her head, feeling the long-healed scars left by the Urak. The elf had a dry sense of humour that she appreciated.
Gaeleron returned her smile and continued. “I sought you out because both Queen Uthrían and King Galdra sent emissaries directly to me, enquiring as to your availability. It appears they have sent multiple already who were refused at your door.”
“Where I come from, that would be understood as a lack of desire to speak.”
“Unfortunately, they are quite insistent.”
“I’m sure they are.”
Ella lifted her gaze as they walked along the path that connected Alura to the Eyrie. When she had first arrived in Aravell, before the battle, the path had simply been a long section of white stone with two sheer walls of rock on either side. But after she’d woken, she’d found Craftsmages working on the rock walls for hours at a time. She’d not seen the fruits of their labour until that moment.
Enormous statues of dragons now lined the walls on either side of the path. Where the statues that fronted the archway into the Tahír un Ilyien? were noble and stoic, these were fierce and proud. Each dragon was unique in its appearance, but they all stood facing forwards, roaring, forelimbs pressed into the ground, the frills on their backs raised. As she walked, Ella realised she recognised some of them, knew their hearts, their souls.
One was larger than all the others, her shoulders broad, the horns around her jaw long and slender. Though all the statues were a pale grey, Ella could see Ithrax’s green scales in her mind, hear her mighty roar. How she knew the dragon’s name Ella had no idea, just as she had no idea how she knew Ithrax had once been bound to an elf by the name of Athír, and how, when Ithrax was barely a few years old, they once rode the length and breadth of all Epheria. She knew it as though the memories were a piece of her.
The statue opposite Ithrax was of Onymia. Her scales had truly been as pale and grey as the rock, her horns black as night, her eyes the blue of a distant sky. Onymia had been eight hundred years old when the lightning tore open her chest in the valleys of Aravell and ripped her from the world.
Thurial and Aradanil stood next to their kin, fierce and defiant. In her mind, Ella painted the soft pink of Thurial’s scales and the vibrant red of his wings. She shuddered as she remembered his head being ripped free, images flashing in her mind. Aradanil had been mighty and majestic, scales the colour of marigold, eyes green as emeralds. His belly had been sliced open in the sky.
Ella shuddered with each and every one she passed, these dragons who had allowed her to share their hearts, to share their bodies. She remembered that moment viscerally. The moment where those noble creatures had agreed to make one last stand, one last sacrifice, a sacrifice she would carry with her forever.
She passed more statues of dragons she did not know, dragons, she thought, who had made similar sacrifices.
As she stepped past the statues, wingbeats sounded overhead, and she looked up to see Varthear alight on the grass before Ella, spreading her ruby wings, the blended light of the sun and the moon shimmering through. The dragon dipped her head, eyes of liquid fire fixing on Ella.
Varthear was like something pulled from one of the oil paintings she’d seen in Berona. Scales of sapphire and horns of onyx. Not even the thick scars that ran along Varthear’s scales diminished her beauty.
Beside her, Gaeleron bowed his head and pressed an armoured fist to his breastplate while Faenir stood tall on Ella’s right. The wolfpine didn’t growl and his hackles stayed low, but neither did he back down.
Varthear blew a warm breath over Ella, and the smell of ash and the sweet scent of fresh blood filled her nostrils.
Just as she had done every time she had entered the Eyrie since waking, Ella placed her hand on the scales of Varthear’s snout.
The dragon pushed her snout forwards and pressed it into Ella’s palm, a deep rumble resonating in her throat.
“It’s good to see you, too.” Ella ran her fingers along a fused ridge where a talon had torn the dragon’s lip open. “You look stronger each day.”
A deep rumble resonated from across the Eyrie, and a black mound in the corner of Ella’s vision rose, pale blue wings shaking as though trying to loose a settled layer of snow. Sardakes was an altogether different beast than Varthear. Where Varthear was lean and sleek, Sardakes was dense and powerful, his horns thick, his shoulders almost a third again wider and more muscled than the other dragon’s.
The obsidian dragon nuzzled his snout into the base of Varthear’s jaw, a purr in his throat. There was something pure in watching creatures capable of such destruction show such deep affection.
Sardakes twisted his neck to look towards Ella and blew a warm breath over her before leaning down and nudging Faenir’s side with his snout. The wolfpine bowed, paws spreading, his tail whipping back and forth.
As Faenir played with a creature that could eat him for supper, Ella turned to Gaeleron, who was busy staring in awe and reverence at the two dragons.
“Why do Queen Uthrían and King Galdra wish to speak to me?”
“To thank you for what you did during the battle.”
“Why do Queen Uthrían and King Galdra wish to speak to me?” Ella repeated.
Gaeleron frowned. “Likely to influence you before Calen returns. The Triarchy have been in a constant, silent war since long before I was born. Not a war of blood and steel, but of words and power. You are the Draleid’s blood.”
Ella nodded. The candour was refreshing. “I will see them on one condition.”
Gaeleron raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to take me in there.” Ella gestured towards the enormous passageway in the rock on the western edge of the Eyrie. “They’ve refused me three times.”
“I know why you wish to go in.”
“It is your choice. Either you bring me inside and I will take an audience with both king and queen, or you don’t and I won’t.” Ella didn’t like playing these games, especially not with Gaeleron, but she would play them if she needed to.
Gaeleron shook his head. “I will do as you ask, but I will go in with you. That is not negotiable.”
Ella pursed her lips and agreed. She followed Gaeleron across the platform. Across the way, near the stream that tumbled off the edge, three of the Drac?rdare – the Dragonkeepers – cleaned the remnants of what looked to have been the dragons’ most recent meal. They scrubbed blood from the rocks and picked strips of skin and fur from the grass. And as Varthear lifted into the air and alighted in the stream, water spraying, all three of the elves knelt and pressed four fingers to their foreheads.
“Their lives have been dedicated to the dragons since before they had seen their twentieth summer,” Gaeleron said. “Andinarí, the elf on the far right, has now seen one hundred and twenty-one summers pass him by. And in all that time both Varthear and Sardakes had been listless and unmoving. Seeing the dragons like this is akin to Varyn himself extending his hand into the world.”
Ella watched Varthear dip her head into the stream as the elf Gaeleron had pointed to scrubbed at one of her teeth. “Do you spend a lot of time here?”
Gaeleron shook his head. “I’d never been here before Calen brought me. Very few of my people ever have. No. Andinarí is my uncle.”
Four guards stood by the enormous opening in the rock, all bearing Calen’s sigil. But one thing Ella had learned since finding her way back was that Calen’s sigil didn’t always mean Calen was the one giving the orders.
“Narvír.” One of the elves stepped forwards and bowed his head to Gaeleron. The guard glanced at Ella and Faenir, his gaze lingering on the massive wolfpine.
“This is Ella Bryer.” Gaeleron inclined his head towards Ella. “She is the Draleid’s kin. I am to escort her within the walls of the holding quarters to conduct an interrogation of the traitor Farda Kyrana. By order of the Draleid himself.”
The guard licked his lips, glancing back at the others. “Nobody is to pass, Narvír. Not until the Draleid returns, by order of Chora Sarn. The prisoners may venture into the Eyrie, but they are to be sheltered within the rock – for their own protection.”
“Is it Chora Sarn’s sigil you wear on your chest or Calen Bryer’s?”
“I…”
“It is a simple question.”
“Calen Bryer’s.”
“Good. And so I command you to step aside, lest your honour be called into question.”
The guard straightened at that, his eyes widening. “That won’t be necessary, Narvír.”
“Your honour will be noted. Du haryn myia vrai.” Gaeleron inclined his head towards the passage, gesturing for Ella to follow him.
“Din vrai é atuya sin’vala. Aiar gryr haydria til myia elwyn.”
“What did he say?” Ella whispered, following Gaeleron past the other guards, who watched closely.
“I thanked him, and he appreciated the thanks. I do not like lying, Ella Bryer.”
“And yet you did it anyway.”
Gaeleron only grunted. He led Ella through a long stone corridor illuminated by thick beeswax candles in sconces. She would have known that faint, sweet scent anywhere. To travellers passing through The Glade, Lasch Havel’s beeswax candles smelled of nothing, which in and of itself was a special thing when set next to tallow candles. But Ella had lived around those candles all her life, and they had been her light on many a dark night.
Gaeleron stopped at the end of the corridor, where it intersected another that moved in both directions in a circular pattern, arched windows looking into an enormous courtyard.
A dragon lay curled in the central yard, the light of the sun and the moon spilling in through the open roof and glinting off its scales. The only word Ella could use to describe the creature was ‘beautiful’. Its body was a work of art, like a living flower, scales of purple and white that reminded her of the Gloxinia flowers that grew along the road from The Glade to Milltown.
An elf with pale skin and dark hair leaned against the dragon’s hind leg, unconscious, her chest rising and falling slowly.
Memories of the battle flickered on her mind.
“Why are they kept here?” Ella whispered. “They saved Calen, risked their lives. I saw them.”
“She is of the Dragonguard.” Gaeleron tilted his head to the right, watching the sleeping woman. “Tivar Savinír. She was once of my people, the elves of Lunithír. But she and Avandeer betrayed The Order.”
“And then she came back.”
“If only the world were that simple.”
“If only.” Ella allowed her gaze to linger on Tivar and Avandeer for a moment longer. Whatever they were, she had them to thank for Calen still drawing breath. “Where is he?”
Gaeleron’s expression grew grim, and he gestured for Ella to follow.
“Ella Bryer. Something told me we would cross paths again.”
Ella spun on her heels at the sound of Ilyain’s voice. The elf stood beneath the arch of a passageway in the rock, his usually shaved scalp now showing short black stubble. Even staring into those milky eyes, Ella had always found it hard to think Ilyain was blind. Nothing ever got past him.
Ella darted across the corridor and, much to Ilyain’s surprise, wrapped her arms around him.
The elf simply rested a hand on Ella’s back, gentle and reassuring. “It is pleasing to see you well. I had heard what happened and feared for the worst.”
Ella pulled away, scrunching her fingers against her palms. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what came over me.”
“Do not apologise, Ella. The simple comfort of a warm embrace is not something I have come by often these past centuries. And depending on the outcome of this place, it may be the last time.”
Ella hugged Ilyain again, receiving a startled ‘oomph’ for her troubles. “It won’t be.”
She had grown fond of the elf over their journey from the North to Aravell. It had been Ilyain’s openness to discuss his Ayar Elwyn’s life that had saved Ella’s, his teachings of Níthianelle and of everything Andras had told him of the druids that had kept her grounded when she would have panicked. Ilyain may not have known it, but he had saved her life.
“You are here for Farda.”
It wasn’t a question.
“You will find him in his quarters.”
Ella nodded and turned to leave. Just the mention of Farda’s name had conjured a rage within her, the wolf snapping and snarling in her blood.
“You wish him dead.” Another non-question.
“Should I not?” Ella snapped, rounding on Ilyain. She hadn’t wanted to unleash her anger on him, but it was uncasked now, and it would burn whichever way it desired. The wolf was part of her, and she it. “Should I forgive him? Should I stroke his fragile ego, mend his broken heart? Should I wash my mam’s blood from his hands?”
Faenir snarled at Ella’s side, a deep growl in his throat.
“No. But I suggest you talk to him. And maybe don’t kill him quite yet, even if he asks you to.”
Ella could smell the sorrow in Ilyain’s smile.
She glared at him, finding herself increasingly frustrated at the realisation that the elf couldn’t see her face. She turned and stormed off down the corridor.
“Which room?” Ella pushed at each door as she walked, finding them locked. She twisted to face Gaeleron, who followed her with Faenir at his side. She roared, “Which room?”
Gaeleron looked at the floor for a moment, then lifted his gaze, lips pursed, and inclined his head towards another corridor. Ella turned the corner and found two elves in steel plate stood on either side of an iron-banded door.
She stopped at the door, her blood pounding in her veins, the wolf baring its teeth. She was equal parts rage and fear. One she understood, the other she didn’t.
“Stay out here,” she said to Gaeleron through gritted teeth. “Faenir. Come.”
The guards attempted to stop her, but she snarled, her fangs long and sharp, then slammed her palm against the door, which swung inwards and crashed against the wall. The warm glow of those same beeswax candles illuminated the room.
A wooden bed sat in the far right corner, a small desk and chair on the left, an arched window at the back.
Farda sat on the ground with his back to the far wall, his knees pulled up, his arms hooked around them. He looked at the ground, unflinching at the slamming door.
Ella stared down at the man, her hands shaking at her side, the wolf within her yearning for blood. Her teeth lengthened into fangs and pricked at her lips, the nails on her hands darkening and forming into claws.
She’d never felt a rage like this. So all-consuming, so raw in its power. She could smell the sweetness of his blood, hear the slow beating of his heart.
All she wanted to do was walk across the stone and drive her claws into Farda’s belly, rip him open, and leave him there to die in his innards. But she fought that desire, fought that lust for death. She had made that promise to herself long ago, before the battle at the Three Sisters.
I am in control.
The wolf howled back in answer, and Fenryr’s words echoed in her head. “ You conquer the wolf by becoming it. ”
The words set a growl in Ella’s throat. She was the wolf. She was of the blood of Fenryr. The voice that left her lips was cold and calm. “Has your courage deserted you? Will you not look at me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Look at me!”
Farda lifted his head. Four pale scars ran from the man’s ear across his cheek and jaw. His skin and hair were clean and washed, and he looked far better than he should have.
“The wounds healed well.” Ella squeezed the fingers of her right hand into a fist, her claws pricking at her palm, blood trickling. She held the wolf at bay, feeling it loom over her like a spectre.
“I’d have left them to rot and fester, but they insisted.” He traced his fingertips along the scars, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s good to see you well. Truly.”
Ella ignored him and walked further into the room and over towards the desk. A journal, a glass inkwell, and a pen sat beside a half-burnt candle. She peeled open the journal to find empty pages. As she did, Faenir padded over to Farda and pulled his lips back in a snarl, hackles raised. “And they insisted you bathe as well? You’re very well looked after for a traitor, a coward, and a liar.”
“That was Hala who insisted. Said I smelled like ‘twice-excreted shit’, if I remember correctly. Can’t argue with her.”
Ella tapped her claw against the journal, then grabbed the inkwell and smashed it against the opposite wall. Faenir snapped and growled, his body rigid. The fury came in waves, ebbs and flows, the wolf breaking through, then Ella, then the wolf.
“I trusted you,” Ella whispered, her voice trembling. “Everything in me told me not to. But I did.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me… All that time, you looked me in the eyes and you lied to me. And I let you worm your way into my head. What was it you said? ‘When you’re near, I don’t feel so fucking broken’? Well, you are fucking broken! You’re a monster. There is something evil in your heart, something dark and empty.”
The wolf broke free from Ella’s hold, but the anger that burned through her was a cold one. A sharp, icy, calm fury. She settled her breathing, then lowered to one knee before Farda.
The man stared into Faenir’s eyes, unblinking.
“Don’t look at him.” Ella leaned closer. “Look at me.”
Farda stared at Faenir a second longer, then turned his gaze to Ella, and she felt those deep green eyes pierce her soul.
“You killed my mam.”
“I did. And for the little it’s worth, I am sorry.”
“I didn’t ask you to speak.” Ella grabbed Farda by the throat, slamming his head against the wall, her fingers tightening. He didn’t fight her or push her away or beg her to stop. She clenched her jaw as she squeezed tighter. “You burned her alive. Burned the flesh from her bones. Did you feel anything as she screamed? Can that black heart feel at all? She was the kindest woman I ever knew. Everything she did, she did for others. She was a healer, did you know that? Of course you fucking didn’t. When I was little, she would put me on her back and carry me everywhere, show me everything she did, and talk to me like I was a woman grown. When I was sick, she would sit by my bedside with cups of tea and bowls of soup and stew, holding a damp cloth to my head. She was the greatest mother anyone ever had.” Ella loosened her grip on Farda’s throat, not much, but just enough to allow him to breathe. She lowered her voice to a whisper, Faenir’s growl matching it. “And you took her from me.”
The wolf within her begged for Farda’s blood, begged to feel his still-beating heart in its jaws.
Ella growled and released Farda’s throat, turning away and rising. “Is there anything else? Any other lies you’ve held? Any other people you’ve slaughtered?”
“I sent the men.”
“You what?” Ella turned back and looked to Farda, who stared into her eyes. For the first time since she’d entered the room, Ella smelled fear wafting from the man.
“I sent the men who found you on the merchant’s road to Gisa. I didn’t just cross your path in the city. I sent soldiers to track you down.”
“You…” Ella’s heart skipped a beat, and her lungs struggled to drag in air. “You sent…” Her mind replayed the memories of that day. The memories of Rhett holding his hands to his belly. The feeling of Rhett’s thumb brushing her cheek. The blood. Her own screams resounded in her mind. “You killed him, too?”
Ella didn’t roar or howl. She didn’t cry, didn’t tremble or shake. She just stood there. The calm that swept over her was something numb and devoid of all feeling. “You took everything from me…” It was a simple statement of fact. “You… took everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Do you think that word holds any meaning on your lips? Your ‘sorry’ is worth less than a dead man’s promise. You are darkness. You are every evil deed done in this world. And you want me to forgive you? To grant you redemption?”
“I seek no such thing,” Farda said plainly. He rose slowly, Faenir snarling in his face. “Some are beyond redemption, and I count myself in that number. You’re right. I am darkness. I am a monster, and I know what I’ve become. I ask you no forgiveness, for I am not, nor will I ever be, deserving of it. I just wish you to know that I regret what I did.”
Faenir shifted so he stood at Ella’s side, teeth bared, saliva dripping.
“What would your precious Shinyara think of you now, Farda? What would she think of the man who slaughters innocent women, the man who has spent hundreds of years butchering and murdering in the name of a monster?” Ella’s hands shook at her side, claws extended. “If I have my say, you will die slowly over many years, cold and alone. You will pray to your god for death, but it will not come. There is no pain that could be enough, no agony fitting. And so I would do the only thing I know could harm you. I would keep you from death, keep you from the only thing you love in this world. Just as you have taken so much of what I love from me.”
Farda swallowed, and Ella thought she saw pain in his eyes.
Good. He deserves pain .
Ella walked from the room without saying another word. She stormed past Gaeleron, back along the corridor, and out into the Eyrie, through the passageway adorned with dragon statues, along the paths of Alura, and made her way up to the high plateau upon which eight houses of white bone stood.
Several Fenryr Angan prowled the plateau, along with men and women bearing Calen’s sigil, standing guard with sharp steel in their hands.
The Angan all bowed to Ella and Faenir as they walked, and she inclined her head in return but didn’t speak.
When she finally reached the white home backed against the cliff wall, the one in which she slept each night – the one that would never be home – and opened the door, a plethora of scents and sounds washed over her.
Fresh baked bread, seared venison, roasted potatoes and rosemary, garlic, tomatoes, onions. She could smell each aroma, each piece of a whole, the wolf picking between them. And amidst it all, the fresh and sharp scent of lavender brought itself to the fore. Pots clanged, and something boiled, popping and bubbling. The roar of the hearth fire soothed her, the warmth brushing her skin.
“Are you just going to stand there, my dear?” Elia popped up from behind the central counter, a massive pot in one hand. She removed the pot’s lid, and the pungent earthy aroma of freshly diced Arlen Root pierced the other scents. Even after what Fenryr had said, Elia had continued to bring Ella Arlen Root tea every morning, noon, and night, no matter how many times she refused. Ella had given up trying to explain to the woman after her sixth attempt. Something within Elia was broken. Whatever had been done to her in the dungeons below Berona was beyond comprehension. Lasch was better. He seemed weaker than before, smaller somehow, but his mind was still there, and he still had the same heart.
“Well, come in.” Elia beckoned her forwards. “And close the door behind you. You’re letting the heat out.”
Ella did as instructed, ushering Faenir past her. She stood in the middle of the room, just watching as Elia stirred a pot by the fire and wafted the steam towards her nose.
“I’ve given up on trying to master your mam’s braised lamb. The woman should have been sent to the Circle for practicing magic. I’ll never work out how she got that flavour. Don’t worry though, Gaeleron brought me enough venison this morning to feed a horse… or a wolfpine.” Elia flashed a smile at Faenir, who bounded over and nuzzled her shoulder.
Footsteps sounded, and Lasch descended the stairs. He pressed his fingers to his lips as he crept up behind Elia, who was lost in stirring the pot. Lasch wrapped his arms around his wife from behind and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Smells incredible.” He inhaled sharply through his nose, then looked to the pot of tea Elia had left on the counter and gave Ella a sympathetic smile. “How was your day, Ella?” Lasch tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Ella? What’s wrong?”
Ella hadn’t realised she was crying. It was only when Lasch spoke that she felt the tears rolling down her cheeks, softly dripping from her chin.
Lasch stepped around the counter and brought his embrace to her. And as soon as he did, the trickle of tears became a waterfall, her gut churning, chest heaving.
“I just miss them so much.” Everything came crashing down on her. Every drop of loss and loneliness and sorrow she had pushed down and sealed tight. “I miss them.”
“I know.” Lasch wrapped one hand around the back of Ella’s head, and she wept into his chest. “I know, sweet girl. I miss them too.”
Farda found himself standing at that ledge once more, the day slowly yielding to the night. He was barefoot, his toes curling over the edge, dirt and small rocks tumbling.
He drew slow breaths, tracing his finger over the scars on his face.
Ella’s voice sounded in his head. “You took everything from me…”
“We’re back here?”
Farda shook his head softly, turning to look at Tivar as she approached. Hala and Ilyain walked with her. “It has not been a good day.”
“Have you had any good days recently?” Hala asked.
“Define recently?”
“Within the last four hundred years.” Hala moved so she stood at his side, her white hair falling loose, a broken smile on her lips.
“Two or three.”
“More than I, so.” Tivar looked out at the valley beyond. “What did she say?”
“Truth.”
“Where is your head, brother?” Ilyain folded his arms and turned to look at Farda with those milky-white eyes.
“Firmly attached to my body.” Farda sighed when Ilyain continued to stare. “I’m all right.”
They stood there in silence for what must have been hours, teetering on the cliff’s edge, the wind nipping at them. There was a peace in it.
“Before I die, I want to be what I was before,” Farda said finally. “I want to be who I was.”
“I’m not sure you can be.” Tivar drew a sharp breath in, then exhaled. “I’m not sure any of us can. But being better than we are now is a good place to start.”
“They’re probably going to kill us anyway,” Hala said with a shrug. “I’d kill us.”
Ilyain frowned.
“I follow where you both go,” Hala said, sighing through her nostrils. “I trust Ilyain’s heart a lot more than I do my own.”
Farda nodded slowly. He touched at his pocket reflexively, feeling for the coin that should have sat there. He pulled his hand away as soon as he realised what he was doing. “Are you three going to watch over me forever?”
“Only until I think you won’t try to hurl yourself off the edge or drown yourself in a pool,” Tivar answered. She had never been one to shy away from things.
“I won’t.”
“What changed?”
Farda gave a half-smile, then looked down over the edge. “Little… but you were right.”
“And what was I right about?”
“A great many things,” Farda said, mustering as genuine a smile as he could for his old friend while Ella’s pain-filled eyes floated in his mind. “It is never too late to make the right choice,” he said, repeating Tivar’s words from the night she had pulled him from the rock pool. “The last few centuries of my life have been pointless. They have been dark and empty, and I let myself become the thing that I hated. I would prefer if my death meant something. If I could, in some small way, ease the suffering I’ve caused. Then, at least, I can find Shinyara again with a heart that holds a little light in it. I would like to be worthy of her again.”