62. Past and Present
Chapter 62
Past and Present
20 th Day of the Blood Moon
Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Ella clasped her hands behind her back while Faenir sat alert at her side, ears pricked. She stood on one of the many plateaus of white stone that overlooked the city of Aravell. Now that she actually had the time to stop and look, the place was like something out of a dream, and even then she didn’t think her dreams had the ability to conjure something of such beauty. Endless valleys and streams and waterfalls, all blending seamlessly with the city that looked as though it had been grown rather than built. The dense forest of the Darkwood bore down on the city’s limits on all sides, looming like a spectre, the shadow that surrounded the light.
Staring out over the tranquillity, it was difficult to imagine that the world outside this place was at war. But it was. She had seen it with her own eyes. She had seen the battle at the Three Sisters, seen the elves in their golden armour, seen the Uraks tear Farrenmill apart. She had seen more death since leaving The Glade than she’d ever thought possible. And now, resting in the sky, the moon was as red and ominous as it had been the night of the battle for Aravell.
The Blood Moon. The thing the bards had told wicked tales of for as long as she could remember. Perhaps the tale of this Age would be told a thousand years in the future. She wondered what they would call it.
To Ella’s left, Chora Sarn tapped on the wheel of her chair. The woman let out a long, frustrated sigh.
Ella glanced towards Chora out of the corner of her eye but said nothing. They had already exchanged more than a few sharp words over the past few days as the leaders of the varying factions throughout Illyanara had started to arrive at Aravell. Queen Uthrían and King Galdra had asked Ella to join the welcoming party in Calen’s stead. At first she had been unsure what reason they had for such a request. The obvious answer was that she was his kin, or perhaps they thought her strong or capable or even just necessary.
But upon the arrival of the first faction leader, it had become clear that they had done so in an attempt to weaken Chora’s position. As a Rakina, she clearly saw herself as Calen’s natural second in this situation, something that Ella’s presence alone refuted. Ella had no taste for being used, but if she could help Calen, she would.
“Chora.” Therin looked out over the city as he spoke, not turning to look at the woman, who continued to tap on the wheel.
“What?”
Therin frowned.
“Calen should be here.” Chora bit at her cheek, continuing to tap away at her wheel.
“We must deal with the situation as it is. He will be here when he is here,” Therin said. Ella looked past Chora to the elf. Therin Eiltris, the legendary bard. It felt as though barely a few months had passed since she’d last heard him weave a story in The Gilded Dragon. The story of The Order and The Fall, and of Fane Mortem. It was the strangest thing to find the elf here, of all places, entangled in everything that was happening. None of it made sense, and she’d not had a chance to ask him.
“He should never have left in the first place.”
“What’s done is done, Chora.”
“And what if his broken corpse lies in Ilnaen as we speak? What if his blood runs into the same sands that drank that of my brothers and sisters? What then, Therin?”
“Quiet, the both of you,” Ella snapped. Faenir turned his head, a low rumble in his throat. He pressed himself to Ella’s side.
Chora turned her chair to face Ella. “I’ve had headaches that have lasted longer than you’ve been alive. You may be Calen’s sister, but that means little here. Watch your tongue.”
Ella pressed her tongue into the back of her bottom teeth. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I cannot express how little I care for what you think. I don’t know you. But you speak of my brother like he is your property. As though his death is the end of your plans and that is all it is. So for what little I know, I like you even less. But more importantly, they are listening. So be quiet.”
Ella flickered her gaze towards the three elven Ephorí who also occupied the platform, along with the other three Rakina who had accompanied Chora. Ella had learned quite quickly that she would do well to mind her words in Aravell. And after meeting with Queen Uthrían and King Galdra, it was clear that beneath all the fine words and pleasantries, they would do anything to get what they wanted.
Chora followed Ella’s stare, then gave a soft nod. The muscles in her jaw twitched, and she looked out over the edge of the plateau for a moment. “I do not think of him as my property,” Chora whispered so that only Ella could hear. “I care for him, believe it or not. I don’t want to see him added to the bodies at Ilnaen. But he also has a responsibility that comes with the power he possesses.”
“Hmmm.” There was something in Chora’s voice that told Ella the woman wasn’t lying, but Ella wasn’t in the mood to admit that.
“You remind me of your mother.” Therin had walked around and now stood at Ella’s right shoulder.
“What did you know of my mother?”
“That will require a little more time than we have here. We can talk on it tonight. There is a lot you don’t know.”
“So everyone keeps telling me, but then they rarely tell me the things I don’t know.”
Therin chuckled, stroking at his chin. “You have that same fire in you.”
“What do we know of this Aryana Torval?” Chora interrupted, eying Ella askance as she spoke. Ella got the feeling the woman wasn’t used to being on the other end of a chastisement.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Therin answered. “From the reports she’s fierce, forthright, and brazen. She leads from the front, and she’s already won her fair share of victories. Against Lorians, Uraks, and other factions. She and Castor Kai together command as many swords as the other factions combined, followed by Tukul Unger. And there is no love lost between them.”
The High Lord of Illyanara had arrived the night before last, along with an escort of some fifty riders. From what Ella had gathered, the man had been presumed dead following the razing of Argona. His irritation at travelling so far only to find Calen absent had been clear, which had set Chora off on her tirade.
Footsteps slapped against stone, and Ella peered over the plateau’s parapet to see a young man in a dark purple tunic with the sigil of the white dragon stitched into the left breast come bounding up the path. He stopped at the entrance to the plateau, exchanging words with the Highguard stationed there, then sprinted through to face Ella and the others.
The young man dragged in long breaths, sweat glistening on his brow. He looked from Chora to Therin and then to Ella, clearly unsure who to address.
“Out with it then.” Chora rolled her hand in the air, gesturing for the young man to speak.
“Commander Gaeleron approaches with Aryana Torval and her retinue, my lords.” The young man couldn’t have seen any more than fifteen summers, his face bright and innocent, his eyes panicked. When Ella was fifteen, she’d spent her time helping her mother pick berries and herbs and whatever else was needed. She’d drunk mead in The Gilded Dragon and danced until the moon and the sun traded places. She’d been happy, and life had been simple. She pitied him.
“Very good.” Chora smiled and nodded, her earlier irritation seeming to vanish in an instant. “You did well, Joen. Please wait over there in case you are needed. There’ll be extra sweetcakes waiting for you at supper.”
“Yes… Rakina.” Joen nodded, his mind still clearly mulling over as to whether he had used the correct honorific or not. The word ‘Rakina’ only ever reminded Ella of Farda… of how he had described what it was to lose his dragon, Shinyara. “Everything lost meaning after Shinyara died… and with her she took my pain, my love, and my happiness…”
She hated how those words pulled at her heart. He had no right to her sadness, no right to her pity.
Not long after, a procession marched up the long path around the plateau, banners raised and flapping. Ten warriors in bright steel plate with Calen’s sigil on their chests and purple cloaks on their backs marched at the front and fanned out to the left and right.
Those were followed by twice that number of Aravell Highguard with long glaives in their fists, armoured in silver plate with green cloaks emblazoned with three white trees.
Next came Gaeleron and the city’s steward, Halmír.
A woman walked at their side, five men behind her in dark leathers with what looked to be some kind of four-legged eagle painted in white and red across their chests. Was that what a gryphon looked like? Ella had never seen one of the creatures, but she’d heard a few stories.
The woman, who Ella assumed was Aryana Torval, was far younger than Ella had anticipated. Perhaps a similar age to Ella herself. Two long scars ran horizontally across her neck – claw marks by the looks of them – and her nose was just as broken as Ella’s.
Halmír stepped forwards and delivered the same over the top introduction he had given upon the arrival of each faction leader, but one that paled in comparison to what she knew the Ephorí would give once Aryana was introduced to Uthrían and Galdra.
“May I also introduce you to Chora Sarn, representative of the Rakina present here in Aravell. Ella Bryer, kin of the Draleid, Calen Bryer, and his representative in his stead.”
Halmír once again refrained from even mentioning Therin’s existence. There was a noticeable coldness between Therin and essentially every other elf in the city with few exceptions. She supposed she would add the ‘why’ of that to the list of questions she would ask him that night.
When Halmír was finished spewing excessive pleasantries, one of the men bearing the white gryphon emblem began to introduce Aryana, but the woman raised a hand and took a step towards Therin.
“And who, may I ask, are you?” Her voice was soft as silk. “It seems you are the only one here without a name, and so I will make an exchange. Mine for yours.”
Therin smiled at that. “A fine deal. I am Therin Eiltris, bard.”
“Bard? You must be the most skilled bard in all Epheria to be standing here.” Aryana laughed, shaking her head. In those brief seconds, Aryana Torval had impressed Ella to no end. The woman had an aura about her, and she seemed entirely unfazed by her surroundings. Likely she’d grown up much as Ella had, and now she stood in the city of Aravell, surrounded by elves and warriors quite literally plucked from legend, and she spoke to them as though they all stood in the common room of The Gilded Dragon.
“I know some stories,” Therin said, placing one arm across his stomach and bowing.
“I’m sure you do. Well, Therin Eiltris, bard, my name is Aryana Torval.” She looked over to Halmír and the Ephorí. “I am the daughter of a dead man and a fearless woman. My people trust me to lead, and so I do. I am here because I was invited by Aeson Virandr to discuss terms on how we might work together to rid the South of the Lorians once and for all. I was also told that the Draleid we have all heard so many tales of flies in support of Aeson’s rebellion. And yet, now that I am here, I see neither of their faces. Or do they hide amongst you?” She raised an eyebrow at Therin. “Another pair with no names?”
Ara, the Ephorí of Lunithír, stepped forwards, her crimson and gold robes flowing elegantly after her. The elf was possibly the most beautiful living creature Ella had ever laid eyes on. “Aeson Virandr has sailed for Valtara to aid the rebellion there. Calen Bryer’s return is expected shortly. But now, we would escort you to meet with King Galdra, the Golden Stag, ruler of the elven kingdom of Lunithír. Even now our forces march alongside those of the Draleid to aid the villages of western Illyanara. A new dawn emerges, Aryana Torval, and we would like to witness it side by side.”
The Ephorí of Ardur?n threw a sideways glance at Ara, barely a flash of an instant, before also stepping forwards and spinning tails of gold and silver about Queen Uthrían. These were their usual theatrics, the only variance being which one spoke first.
On all other occasions, Ithilin, the Ephorí for Vaelen, had stayed reasonably quiet. With Queen Tessara marching with Calen’s army, Ithilin’s ability to boast and brag was severely diminished – or so Ella had thought. But this day, Ithilin followed the other Ephorí. The elder Ephorí stood in silence for a moment before inclining her head to Aryana. “In the time before the Blodvar ended, my kind had a saying. ‘I’ldryr viel asatar. I sanv?r viel baralun.’”
“In fire we are forged. In blood we are tempered.”
Ella wasn’t the only one surprised when Aryana translated the words. Therin gave an impressed downturn of his lips, his eyes widening, while Chora laughed.
Both Ara and the Ardur?n Ephorí, Liritháin, gave only blank stares, but Ithilin smiled. “You speak the Old Tongue?”
Aryana shook her head. “Fragments. Passed down from my father’s father and so on. That’s a saying my family has lived by. You never know who you are until you’ve been tested and you’ve come out the other side.”
“And who are you, Aryana Torval?” Ithilin stared into the woman’s eyes, suddenly seeming younger and taller.
“Someone who is done with living under the boot of another. Someone who is done hiding.”
“We have much in common then. My queen, Tessara Vaelen Alumír, will not be in the hall to welcome you. For she too is tired of hiding, and as we speak, she marches with the Draleid’s commanders along with five thousand of Vaelen’s finest warriors. There is a human saying my mother passed down to me. We have a similar saying in the Old Tongue that doesn’t quite capture the simplicity as well as yours. ‘Actions speak louder than words.’”
The glance that Ithilin threw in the direction of the other two Ephorí was a subtle one, but one that Ella didn’t miss.
The plateau emptied, and the procession marched towards the enormous white structure know as Mythníril. Ella had been inside its walls many times over the past few days, and yet she still could not comprehend how such a place had ever been built. As they walked, the Ephorí took their turns regaling Aryana with tales of their history and that of the various buildings that jutted up across the city.
At one point, as Ara and Liritháin argued over something for which Ella had absolutely no concern whatsoever, she turned to find Aryana Torval walking beside her, gaze fixed on Faenir.
“Kin of the Draleid.” She puffed out her bottom lip then lifted her gaze. “Surely you are more than that?”
“We can’t control what we are in the eyes of others,” Ella responded with a shrug. The truth was she didn’t have two fucks to rub together when it came to how the Ephorí described her.
“Too true. Your mother or your father?”
Ella raised a curious eyebrow.
“Who taught you that? I don’t doubt your wisdom, but that’s too profound a sentence to not have been passed down.”
“My mother. She wasn’t the kind to care what others thought.”
“A woman after my own heart. So, your brother rides a dragon? I’m assuming it’s not your son. Definitely not your father, given how young I’ve heard he is.”
“Brother.”
“Well, sister of the Draleid, I’m about to go into a room where people who think they’re better than me are going to tell me whatever they think I need to hear in the hopes that I will commit the lives of my people, and my own, to their cause. I am well aware that I mean very little to them outside of any military advantage I might grant them or as a trophy for their shelves, judging by how they argue now over the outcome of a battle that happened over five hundred years ago. So tell me, before anyone else does, what is your brother like, and why should I fight for him instead of securing my own lands and keeping to myself?”
Ella couldn’t help but choke back a laugh. Whoever had delivered the report on Aryana deserved a bag full of gold and a higher position. “Would you believe a word I said?”
“I’m not sure yet. It depends on what your eyes tell me.”
“Calen was a sweet boy growing up. A handful and a pain, but he was sweet. He always gave me the first bowl at supper, always teased me but at the same time would leave the last slice of bread in case I was hungry. He sang a lot when he thought nobody was listening. The last few years have bled the sweetness from him. He’s not that boy anymore. But I’m damn proud of the man he’s become. He’s not like these fools.” She inclined her head towards Liritháin and Ara, who still argued up ahead. “I could stand here and tell you a hundred different things, but the honest truth is I’d be lying. I’ve not seen much of Calen since I left our home, since the empire slaughtered our parents. But when Lorian armies marched on this city, Calen fought in the thick of it. And when the Dragonguard tried to burn this place to the ground, he and Valerys refused to let that happen. There were three of them. Each twice as large as Valerys.” Ella laughed, shaking her head at her brother’s stupidity. “The pair of them just flew straight at them. They didn’t care what happened to themselves as long as they could buy time for those of us fighting in the city. So I don’t know what that says, but one thing I can guarantee you is if you fight for Calen – and even if you don’t – he will die for you, because that’s just who he is.”
“Sounds like quite a man.”
“He is.” And I miss him. Ella clenched her jaw as the words echoed in her mind. Beside her, Faenir stopped. The wolfpine raised his head, ears and tail pricking. He heard something.
The crack of wings sounded in the sky, followed by a shrieking roar.
The procession stopped halfway across a white stone bridge, the many murmurs only half-swallowed by the waterfalls cascading over the edge of a cliff to the left. Aryana Torval’s men gasped, hands pointing towards the sky. For a second, Ella’s heart stopped beating as she waited for Valerys to drop through the clouds and sweep overhead.
But instead, Varthear emerged from the blanket of white above, brilliant blue scales gleaming. The mighty dragon wrapped her wings close and dropped like a stone, looking as though she might collide with the bridge, until she unfurled those massive red sails and tore forwards with impossible speed.
As the dragon whipped past overhead, many stumbled in the force of the gust that followed, two of Aryana’s men hitting the stone.
“Fuck me…” Aryana held an arm out to keep her balance, her gaze fixed on the sky, watching as Varthear twisted and turned, all beauty and grace. The earlier composure in the woman’s voice cracked. “That’s a dragon – a real dragon.”
“Did you think we were lying?”
“No, I…” Aryana stood to her full height, still staring after Varthear. “I just never really thought I’d see one.” The woman stepped past Ella. “There are two?”
“Two?” It took Ella a moment to process Aryana’s words, but then images of two dragons swirling in the sky pushed themselves in from Faenir’s mind. One blue, one white.
Gooseflesh swept over her skin. She spun and stared slack-jawed at the white dragon that had emerged from the clouds and now wound through the sky with Varthear. “Calen…”
“So, he has returned,” Aryana said, following Ella’s gaze.
Ella looked to Gaeleron, who had paused just behind her. “Take Aryana and her retinue to Mythníril.”
“Where are you going?”
Ella had broken into a sprint before the elf had even spoken the words.