54. Purpose
Chapter 54
Purpose
18 th Day of the Blood Moon
Cuinviel, formerly Catagan – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Vyrmír alighted in the centre of a massive yard at the city’s western edge, Baerys and Nymaxes beside him. It was here that Warmarshal Luilin trained the Onarakina in warcraft and other matters.
At the sight of the three dragons, every soul in the yard ceased whatever they were doing and stared in awe. The Onarakina in particular watched slack-jawed and wide eyed, pressing their hands to their hearts in reverence.
As Salara slid from Vyrmír’s back and landed with the aid of thin threads of Air, Luilin and Captain Undrír approached while the other elves tried and failed to persuade the Onarakina to return to their previous tasks. Instruments were scattered about the yard among sheafs of paper, inkwells, paint palettes, hammers, chisels, and all manner of things.
Luilin was attempting to teach them of the valúr.
“Draleid.” Both Luilin and Undrír bowed – the latter more deeply than the former.
“How are they?” Salara asked, Taran and Indivar moving to stand on either side of her.
“A difficult question to answer, I’m afraid. It is like trying to rebuild a house while it is still burning. They drill well with swords and spears in their hands.” Luilin folded his arms and released a long sigh. “The training focuses them, gives them an outlet, something tangible to hold on to. Though it will take years to bring them to any kind of true skill. For now, what they lack in technique they make up for in rage and savagery – as you saw.”
“We are not teaching them to be warriors,” Salara said, barely more than a whisper. She watched as an elf who looked little more than a child dragged a brush with bristles coated in blue paint over a canvas stretched across the stone and weighted with rocks. “We are teaching them to be Evalien. Something the humans took from them.”
“Of that I am aware, Draleid.”
Salara and Luilin were not friends. Nor were they enemies. Salara had not been the easiest to get along with in the centuries within Lynalion. The Warmarshal had been born after the Cuendyar and had seen no more than two hundred summers. In that time Salara had been cold and distant, caring little for the nurturing of new friendships. “And what part do I play in this, Warmarshal? The queen says you asked for me.”
“I did. Though weaponscraft focuses them, their learnings do the opposite. What does an elf who has spent their life in the darkness of a mine care for the history of a people they never knew? They push against the concept of a valúr, impatient to move forwards. After the taking of this city, they have a taste for battle, a taste for the blood of their former captors. Everything else is an obstacle. I believe, as I expressed at the time, we blooded them too early. They were not ready.”
“Perhaps.” Salara clasped her hands behind her back and watched a group of the Onarakina who still stared at Vyrmír, Baerys, and Nymaxes, awestruck. “Or perhaps the path they have been set upon without their own choosing is a complex and painful one, and our task is to guide them along it no matter the difficulty. If I had been born into slavery and then denied my right to fight against those who put me in it, I don’t think I would have taken too kindly to that.”
“We are already bending our ways by teaching them the art of war alongside the valúr instead of after.” A flare of anger simmered in Luilin’s voice. “They must come to heel.”
“To heel, Warmarshal?” Salara asked disappointedly.
Luilin opened his mouth, nothing but a short grunt escaping his lips as he pondered whether Salara’s words were a dent in his honour. Whether they saw eye-to-eye or not, she was a Draleid and her words carried weight, and she knew that. “Yes,” he stammered. “To heel, Draleid. Like we all once did.”
“Would you train a dragon the same way you’d train a wolf?”
“I’d rather not train either, if I’m being honest.”
Salara frowned. “My point, Warmarshal, is that our ways apply to those who have been raised our way. These elves have been slaves since the day they took their first breaths. The Lorians beat and bent them into submission like raw iron. Doing so again will not yield the results you wish. You must give them a reason, give them a purpose. The hammer will not work here. You must instead be the guiding hand.”
The Warmarshal turned to the side and opened his body to Salara, gesturing towards the Onarakina. “We do not always agree, Draleid. But I am always willing to be wrong if I can learn how to be right. Either way, the Onarakina look to you like they might look to a herald of the gods. They heed your words where they do not heed mine. That is why I asked for you. Pride exists to be swallowed.”
Salara inclined her head graciously. She decided in that moment that a friendship with Luilin might be worth nurturing. She looked out over the yard. Most of the Onarakina still stood, staring at her and the others, backs rigid. But some had returned to their various valúrs, frustration evident in the language of their bodies. That same young elf had covered her painting in furious red strokes and snapped her brush in two, which was a slightly easier form of frustration to identify.
Salara looked back at Vyrmír and pressed their minds together. The dragon responded by unleashing a visceral roar that drowned all other sounds and echoed off the high walls that surrounded the yard.
Every elf in the yard ceased what they were doing and looked to the great golden dragon, his crimson frills shaking as he roared.
When silence finally settled, Salara stepped forwards into the crowd of elves and spoke as loud and as clear as she could, her voice carrying through the yard. “You are, each and every one of you, at a juncture in this life. A point where you must make a choice. Face the darkness and the injustice that was done to you, bind it to your will and overcome it… or let it swallow you whole. Let the humans win.”
An elf, almost a head taller than Salara but reed-thin, stepped forwards and bowed, his fingers white as snow as he clenched his hand into a fist at his chest. “Draleid…” He licked his lips, his voice trembling a little. “Respectfully… I… You don’t know what they did to us… It is not as easy… You don’t know.” He shook his head fervently, and others around him agreed, whispers of ‘no’ and ‘they don’t know’ spreading through the crowd.
The elf looked over both shoulders, flustered still, but heartened by the number of voices that joined his. “We are grateful for everything you have done for us. So grateful that I could not find the words to thank you if I lived a hundred lifetimes. My children…” He gestured towards four smaller elves behind him, none looking as though they’d seen more than fifteen summers. “They will not know the darkness like I did. They will live a full life. A free life. And that is because of you.”
“That is because of Queen Vandrien and because of all the evalien of Numillíon, not just myself and my kin. We are one people. All of us.”
The elf bowed his head, smiling softly, his confidence growing. “And we will forever be in your debt. But how can you ask us to care about these pointless tasks when those who are responsible for our torment await us? Teach me how to use a spear like you do. Teach me to move like a warrior, teach me to defend my people so that we may never be placed in chains again. Do not ask me to care about these songmakers.”
The elf gestured to a harp and a flute that lay on the ground, and it settled in Salara’s mind that the elf had never seen an instrument before.
“My father died in those mines. He was born there, and he died there. He saw thousands upon thousands of candles. He was broken from the moment I met him. I will not spend another moment of my life unable to protect my family as he was.”
A brief silence passed where all eyes seemed to be focused on Salara and the tall elf before her.
Salara looked into his eyes. “What was done to you can never be undone. But you will not gain vengeance at the tip of a sword, nor your freedom. Surely, that is part of it. We will burn the Lorian Empire to the ground. But you will never truly be free until you allow yourself to be. Even now, you allow your every thought to be consumed by them. Every dream, every nightmare, every waking moment belongs to them. Your mind and your heart are theirs. They hold you in chains still.”
A murmur spread through the crowd, a few angered shouts.
“Whether you want to kill them or serve them, you are still allowing them to rule your thoughts. Is not your every decision predicated on how you might claim vengeance? I want you to fight. It would bring me great honour to stand by your side in the battles to come. But more than that, I want you to live. I want you to spit in the faces of those who would have kept you in chains until Heraya embraced you. And you do that by becoming what they tried to keep from you. You do that by becoming Evalien. Our ancient elders devised the valúr as a way to teach our young the beauty and value of this life, before we teach them how to wield a weapon. To teach creation before destruction so that we know the cost of the latter. A common flaw is to think a valúr is nothing more than an obstacle, nothing more than a task to be completed. But the true value of a valúr is not in the learning, but in the finding of passion. In the finding of something that sets your heart alight so that you may understand the joy this life can bring.”
Salara turned as she spoke, staring out at the hundreds of Onarakina, who had all drawn closer. The silence was so complete she could have heard a pin drop.
“I remember where I was the moment I felt my heart ignite. I was but a child, many years ago, struggling – as you all struggle – to find my valúr. I heard an elf with the voice of a god sing ‘The Lament of Gods and Ashes’. Her name was Líra Alunea.”
As Salara shifted in place, she spotted Ervian, Cara, and Vandrien all watching from a low balcony that overlooked the yard. The druid, Boud, stood at their side. “It is a song written during the Age of War, and it found new meaning after the Cuendyar. It speaks of loss, and death, and darkness. But also of hope, and heart, and finding strength within ourselves and in those around us.”
Salara closed her eyes and thought back to that night in the city of Mynivír, in the great auditorium where the legendary Craftsmage Líra Alunea had sung the song that had changed Salara’s life. Her mother had taken her while her father had been serving as an emissary to Caelduin. It had been a long, trying day, and her mother had bribed Salara with promises of sweet cakes and pastries. Simpler times.
“Hearing that song, hearing Líra sing it as though she were bleeding her heart into every word… it changed me. And as I look back on my life, I realise it played a large part in forging me into the elf I am today. And that is why I ask that you pursue your valúr with the same vigour and relentless determination that you do weaponscraft. Because it is our culture, our history, our language – and our pride in all three – that make us Evalien. Whether your valúr is song, or storytelling, or crafting, or sculpture, or anything in the world, wear it with the same pride you would a gilded suit of armour.” Salara slammed her fist against her breastplate. “Because you are Evalien. You are proud. You are strong. And no matter what they try to take from you, you are no longer alone. Your valúr is yours. Your passion is yours. And you are home. I denír vi?l ar altinua!” she roared, a burning passion rising within her, the flames ignited by Vyrmír, who lent his voice to hers, Baerys and Nymaxes joining. “Du é evalien!”
Feet stamped, and beside her Undrír and Taran began to clap their hands to their chests.
“In this life and always. You are elves!”
A low hum, rising and falling to the melody of ‘The Lament of Gods and Ashes’, touched her ears, and she glanced over to see Taran humming the tune.
“When the Lorians face you on the field of battle, let them face Evalien who would die for what they are. Let them know that, after all this time, they still could not strip your heart from you, that you found your people!”
The long, sweet strokes of a violin sounded, followed by the delicate plucking of a harp. Two of the elves charged with instructing the Onarakina had taken up the instruments and accompanied Taran’s humming.
Salara looked back at the elf who had spoken. “A valúr is yours. It is part of who you are and where you are from. It is your blood, and your bones, and your soul.”
She turned to where Warmarshal Luilin stood with Captain Undrír. She clasped Luilin’s shoulder and met his gaze. “These elves were stripped of everything that made them elves. They were collared and chained and forced to work until their bodies gave way.” She turned back to the crowd of Onarakina, who were now clapping their hands to their chests along with the beat of an elf who had taken up a drum. The smile that stretched Salara’s lips was a precious sliver of joy in a dark world. “They have never heard the sound of instruments. Never seen a summer’s twilight or a winter’s dawn. They do not need to be brought to heel. What they need is someone to give them back their pride. To give them purpose… Give them that, Warmarshal, and you will have them forever.”
Salara walked back through the crowd to Vyrmír. The dragon bowed his head to her, gold and crimson scales gleaming, a soft purr in his throat. Pride and honour and defiance flooded from his mind to hers. The Onarakina represented everything they were fighting for. And Salara and Vyrmír would protect them with their lives.
As she climbed onto the dragon’s back, Taran’s voice rose above the hum, singing the words of ‘The Lament of Gods and Ashes’ clear and true. She patted Vyrmír’s scales and urged him upwards, adding her voice as the dragon ascended.
“In ashes of a burning world, I kneel before you now
My voice is torn, my body broke, the flames are growing higher.
My tears could never quench the fire, my cries are never heard.
Do you listen anymore? Have you ever done?”
Having left Vyrmír to rest in the eyrie he had claimed for himself in the cave of a nearby hill, Salara sat alone at a long table in one of the many halls of Cuinviel’s newly-erected keep. Moments alone were rare and precious. And the silence was even more so.
Before her was a cup, a bottle of deep-red wine, and a plate piled high with roast pheasant, slices of duck breast, half the flesh from a leg of lamb, carrots, tubers, glazed onions, and a plethora of other multi-coloured vegetables that made the plate look like a painting. All of that, along with a basket of bread fit for three people and a pitcher of lamb gravy that would act as a pond for every morsel of food to pass her lips. Food in Lynalion had never been scarce, but neither had it been as opulent or as varied.
In a war such as the one being waged, Salara never knew which day might be her last, and so she felt not a drop of guilt as she devoured the contents of the laden plate.
She was washing down a mouthful when footsteps sounded through the doorway that led to the hall. She motioned to wave away the porter before realising it was not a porter that approached.
Boud held an empty cup in one hand and an enamelled plate as full as Salara’s in the other. Six guards followed the druid into the hall, two holding position at the doors, the other four framing her as she walked.
“Mind if I sit?” The woman had already set her plate down before asking the question, but Salara nodded. She was not destined for silence or a moment alone, it seemed.
Boud gestured to the bottle of wine, and Salara grunted in response.
“My thanks.” She filled her cup to the point of spilling, then set the bottle back in its place.
The sounds of eating and drinking echoed in the empty hall, not a single other soul bar the guards in a place fit for hundreds. It would have been such a glorious silence.
“That was a rousing speech you gave in the yard.” Boud stripped the meat from a small chicken leg, the skin crackling as she tore with her teeth. She washed it down with a mouthful of wine. “I watched from your queen’s side on the balcony. Very impressive.”
“Hmm.” Salara glanced up at the woman while sipping at her own cup.
“Truly. I was stirred.” Boud gave the falsest of smiles. Vandrien didn’t allow the druid to roam the city at will but gave her certain freedoms within the keep. She wanted to keep Boud close. Though, in all the time since they’d captured her, Boud had never tried to escape. And for some reason, that didn’t sit well with Salara.
“I did have one problem, though. If you’re taking critique.”
Salara raised an eyebrow at that as she crunched on a particularly robust tuber.
“Well,” Boud continued when Salara didn’t respond, “it was a touch hypocritical, don’t you think?”
Salara swallowed, setting her hands down against the wooden table. “Careful, druid.”
That same false smile. Boud dropped her head and continued eating, then drained the remnants of her wine.
“Go on then.” Salara couldn’t help herself. Boud had been with them quite a while, ever since they’d found her wandering the depths of Lynalion. She had always been far too arrogant for a prisoner and had done little to shield her wit. And when she chose to speak, there was always a point to it. Salara had learned to listen.
Boud reached across the table, grabbed the bottle, and poured herself more wine. She didn’t ask this time. “Well,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, “you spoke of chains and collars and of what the Lorians took from these former slaves – the Onarakina you call them, no?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You revile the Lorians for what they did to those elves, and rightly so, slavery, binding living souls in iron, is not a pleasant thing. And yet… I am a little perplexed by your revulsion.”
Boud fingered the rune-marked collar around her neck. “Apparently, it’s only a dark and horrible deed when someone else does it. Seeing as my collar doesn’t affect you so.”
“Yours is necessary.”
This time the smile was genuine, breaking into a stifled laugh. “You really believe that, don’t you? The arrogance.”
“Watch your tongue. I won’t warn you again.”
“Or what, you’ll take it from me? What then? Do you think I will do what you ask after you’ve taken my tongue?”
“There’s plenty left to take after that.”
“Have you ever stopped and listened to the words that leave your lips, Salara Ithan? You talk to those elves as though what was done to them is the darkest of all horrors. You tell them how they will have their vengeance, tell them how things will be made right. All the while, you keep a collar around my neck and threaten to cut out my tongue and more pieces of me besides.”
“You do not look like a slave,” Salara said, tilting her head towards the plate of food before Boud and the full cup of wine in her hand. “And you do not act like a slave.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Boud drank deeply from her cup. She shook her head and continued eating without speaking another word.
Salara stared at her, clenching one hand into a fist beneath the table, unable to look away as the woman devoured her food.
Once the plate was emptied, Boud picked it up in two hands and licked it clean, fully aware that Salara was staring at her. When she was done, she placed the plate down carefully and let out a long, satisfied sigh, leaning back on the bench, her two hands bracing against the wood. After a moment, she rose from her seat, then leaned across the table and stared into Salara’s eyes. “I’m not sure whether it’s arrogance or wilful ignorance, but it is for a certainty interesting that you do not see how you are no different from the empire you wish to destroy. An endless cycle.”
Salara jolted upright, pushing the bench back, Vyrmír’s rage stirring within her. She did not temper it. She leaned forwards so her face was only inches from Boud’s. “I would kill you right here and leave your blood to drain into the stone.”
“And what would your queen say about that? About you killing her prized little pet?”
“You think yourself more than you are. You are a boon, not a necessity. We will win this war with or without you. You would do well to remember that.”
The false smile crept onto Boud’s lips once more. “I guess we will see.”