57. Patience
Chapter 57
Patience
19 th Day of the Blood Moon
Berona – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Fane stood on the balcony of the chambers he had taken as his study in the High Tower of Berona. He leaned forwards, looking over the city, his arms resting on the low stone parapet.
The dark skies had cleared, the rain following Garramon and the First Army northeast towards the mountains. And with the stormhead gone, the Blood Moon’s light washed down over the white city, painting the buildings pink, just as it had in Ilnaen all those years ago.
The sections of the wall destroyed during the attack were still under repair, with many of Berona’s Craftsmages sent to Elkenrim and Greenhills, along with Al’Nasla, to strengthen the cities’ defences.
Slowly, everything was falling into place. He’d had centuries to prepare for these moments, and he had done so meticulously. There were always variables that could not be accounted for – the new Draleid, Eltoar’s fluctuating conscience, the elven onslaught – but Fane relished creating opportunity from the unexpected and deciphering the hearts and minds of others. And if those hearts and minds continued to behave the way he expected them to, the Heart of Blood would soon be his.
He took no joy in twisting the knife in Eltoar’s heart or keeping Garramon in the dark, but he would do what needed to be done. All great things required sacrifice. That was something Fane believed utterly. Everything he had done, all the choices he had made and all the losses he had accepted, had been for a reason, for a cause. And he would not falter now, not so close to the end.
The proverb ‘patience is a virtue’ was oft spouted sarcastically and in a mocking tone. Fane had found that those who spoke the proverb were frequently the same people who lacked the necessary patience when it mattered. The world was a spider’s web, millions of threads interwoven, everything connected. A man who knew which thread to pull – and possessed the patience to know when to pull it – was a man who could achieve anything. The threads had been pulled, the pieces placed, and now all he needed to do was wait. But patience and waiting were two separate things. He had the former but was never good at the latter.
Drawing a deep breath of the winter air, Fane stepped back inside his chambers, moving to the two black leatherbound books that rested on the desk he’d had brought to the room.
Kiralla Holflower’s research – with invaluable input from Brother Pirnil. The Scholar had proved himself a surprisingly valuable asset, picking up where Kiralla had left off with voracious rapacity. He had a keen mind and an unquestionable devotion to Efialtír – which had only strengthened since the Chosen had crossed. Even then, with the sun long set, the man worked tirelessly on the new tasks he had been given.
Brother Pirnil had a twisted and black heart. Fane had seen that from the moment he’d met the man. But at the very least, Pirnil was obsessed with the consumption of knowledge, and as long as that obsession remained focused on blood runes, Fane could look past the other details.
As Fane touched the black leather that covered Holflower and Pirnil’s research, a knock sounded at the door, followed by the creaking of wood at Fane’s admittance.
“Emperor.” Brother Drakus Pirnil bowed deeply. His eyes were sunken and ringed purple, his clothes stained and creased. Obsession had indeed been the correct word. Fane knew that feeling all too well. There were many times in his youth when he’d gone for days on little or no sleep, neither bathing nor changing for fear of losing even a moment. Though as Fane felt the sweet taste of Essence radiating from the man, it was clear this was not simple exhaustion. Pirnil had been consuming Essence at far too high a rate. Subtle veins of red snaked through the whites of his eyes, and his skin had grown ghostly pale. Fane needed to ensure that Pirnil finished his work before he succumbed.
“Brother Pirnil, I was only just thinking of you.” Fane tapped his index finger against the black leather book. “What do you need?”
“I’ve done it, Your Majesty.” The man swallowed, his head twitching slightly, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand rubbing back and forth over each other.
“I’m going to need you to elaborate, Brother Pirnil, and perhaps take a second to slow your mind.”
The Lector’s hands shook as he held them in the air. He spoke so quickly Fane could hardly understand him. “The runes, the runes of the Bloodmarked. I understand them. They are not just carved, there is more to it. I was right, you see. A blade is not used. No. Not a blade. Also, intent. You need intent. Runes require a purpose. A purpose, yes. They are pieces of your soul.”
“Brother Pirnil.” Fane raised his voice, firm and deep.
The man snapped his gaze back to Fane, eyebrows twitching and lips curling. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I’ve not slept. Barely eaten, if I’m honest. But I was right. The runes are carved with Essence itself. Essence worked directly into the flesh, infused within the wounds. It’s wondrous. A tether to the force of life joined with the flesh of the living. It’s no wonder the Bloodmarked can bear such power – with the correct runesets, of course. What you asked. We can do it now. I’m sure of it. Absolutely sure. We need to bind the Essence to the Spark. Give the runes purpose. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m happy you’re sure, Brother Pirnil. But given the state some of the previous rune recipients have been left in, I do feel it prudent that your theory be tested prior to application. We will only have one chance at this, and I would prefer the candidate not end up like the others.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. I will… I will need more. We’ve run out of the current stock.”
The word ‘stock’ didn’t sit right with Fane. He understood the need for sacrifice, the need to look past the flawed perception of morality that was so commonplace. He understood that more than any living soul. But life was still a precious thing. At the core of it all, that was what mattered. He could allow a hundred to die to save a million or a million to die to save everything. But that didn’t mean those sacrificed should not be remembered with respect and dignity. It was a precarious balance, life and death. And at the end of everything, at the breaking of time and the sundering of worlds, perhaps Fane would look back on his life and find himself the truest of all monsters. Perhaps everything he had done and everything he would do was wrong. And perhaps he would shroud the world in darkness instead of bathing it in light. But he knew that the world would burn if he did nothing, and so even the slightest chance that his actions would save it was all he required. He would be the monster. He would make that sacrifice. And he didn’t care how his name was remembered so long as he knew within his heart that he had done all he could.
Fane plucked himself from his own thoughts, realising that he had become lost in their gravity. Brother Pirnil simply stood there, staring at him vacantly and scratching at a rash on his neck. The man would lose himself soon.
Fane let out a sigh. “There are rebels we captured after the attack. I will have them sent to you.”
Brother Pirnil bowed even deeper than before. “You have my endless thanks, Your Majesty.”
Fane inclined his head, thoughts wandering again to what Brother Pirnil’s discovery might bring. This had been the missing piece. The one obstacle standing in the way. If Pirnil’s theory could be proven and replicated, then the perfect path could be walked. Everything would be worth it.
“You are welcome, my Brother. Now, as much as I am eager to see your work continue, it would do neither of us any good if you were to die of hunger or deprivation of sleep. Go to the baths. Wash. Visit the kitchens and eat your bodyweight. Then sleep. In the morning, we will see if the power of the gods can truly be harnessed.”
With Brother Pirnil gone, Fane left the High Tower and walked through the streets of Berona, the pale pink light of the moon shimmering in puddles left from the rainfall.
He didn’t bother to wear a hood or cover his face. Most of Berona’s citizens had never laid eyes on him up close. And even the ones who had weren’t likely to recognise him as he wandered the city at night. Even in Al’Nasla, roaming the streets had been something he took great pleasure in. For hundreds of years, the people of Loria had been safe in these cities, safe from Uraks, and elves, and the ambitions of the over-entitled. That was a safety he had created, wrought with his own will. And there were days when he needed reminding of it – or nights. Nights like that night. Nights when doubts crept into the depths of his mind.
The streets were quieter since the attack, but many inns were still full, the sounds of song and dance drifting from within. He had half a mind to stop and join, to just sit in the corner of a dark tavern and drink ale while the bards sang and the people danced. It was something he’d missed in his younger days, his nose buried in books, his mind refusing to sit still. But for the same reason he had not partaken then, he walked on now: there were greater things on the horizon, and all great things required sacrifice. He repeated the mantra in his head.
He carried on, walking the streets until he came to a squat house with red shingles on the roof in the southern quadrant, framed on either side by tall white structures.
On first glance, the door to the house looked like any other, except for the small fact that it lacked a keyhole.
Fane pushed thin threads of Air into the door, working them just below the handle and sliding them through the locking mechanism built into the wood. He received a sharp click for his troubles, and the door swung out an inch or so. He stepped inside and reconnected the locking mechanism behind him.
The lock wouldn’t stop someone from breaking in if they truly wanted to, nor did Fane consider it ingenious. No, the reason for it was much more mundane: Fane always lost his keys, and he hated carrying things in his pockets. This solved both problems.
He moved through the dark house, not bothering to light any candles. With a flick of his wrist, threads of Air shifted the solid wood dining table a few feet backwards, legs scraping against the floor.
He produced a small green stone from his pocket – precisely the reason there hadn’t been room for a key. One thing in his pocket was bad enough.
Fane funnelled threads of each elemental strand into the keystone, admiring the filaments of light that came to life at their touch, swirling within the stone. The art of Jotnar runecraft and glamour construction was something that had fascinated Fane from a young age, something he had become obsessed with. And in his experience, when obsession was mixed with dedication and perseverance, the end result was often mastery. The Bloodmarked runes had been the missing piece he needed.
Before him, a section of the floor was now gone as though it had evaporated into thin air, and in its place was a staircase that sank into the ground. Fane created a baldír as he descended, the pale light guiding the way.
The stairwell led to a small antechamber Fane had carved with the Spark. The antechamber was grey and austere with only a single door. And just as the door at the front of the house held no keyhole, this was the same. It was black and wooden, and a blend of blue and red light creeped around its frame.
Fane opened the door with the Spark.
The room on the other side was four times larger but similarly sparse.
He laid Kiralla Holflower and Brother Pirnil’s research on the desk to the right, next to an array of Essence vessels that glowed a deep red. And then he turned to face the true reason he had created this chamber in the first place.
There, kneeling on the far side of the room, was one of the Chosen – a Vitharnmír – stripped bare, arms outstretched, rune-marked manacles closed around each wrist. Chains forged from repurposed Antherin steel connected the manacles to bolts of the same metal fused with the ground.
More runes were inscribed into the stone ground, marked into a circle that bound the Vitharnmír at its centre. The alternation of blood runes and Jotnar runes was one of Fane’s own discoveries, augmented by Brother Pirnil. It cut the connection between the Vitharnmír and Efialtír, severing their connection to both the Spark and Essence while also binding them in place. Even without the manacles, the creature would not have been able to cross the circle, but Fane was cautious by nature.
The creature knelt with its eyes closed, its chest rising and falling steadily.
“The arrogance of your kind knows no bounds.” The voice of the Vitharnmír layered over that of the man who had volunteered to be its host. Even for Fane, someone who had seen more than his fair share of the world’s horrors, that voice set his hairs on end. “What do you think will happen to you when our god discovers what you have done?”
Fane approached the kneeling Vitharnmír and sat on the ground before it, folding his legs beneath him and staring into its black eyes. “If I were you, I would be more concerned about my own fate.”