68. Path of the Wolf
Chapter 68
Path of the Wolf
20 th Day of the Blood Moon
The Eyrie, Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
The wolf god folded his legs beneath him and sat facing Calen and Ella, who turned away from the valley. Power seeped from every breath Fenryr took, every word he spoke. The very air around him seemed to shift and ripple at his movements. Calen had encountered many strange and powerful souls in the past two years, but this was different. This was a god. Calen could feel a pull in his mind every time Fenryr was near.
“My blood runs in your veins, young one.” Fenryr tilted his head to stare into Calen’s eyes. “You are cut from me, and we are intertwined.” The god pulled a long breath through his nostrils. “I can smell the uncertainty in you, hear the hesitation in the beating of your heart. You are fierce, but you are yet a pup.”
The soft, welcoming smile that spread across Fenryr’s lips exposed a sharp white fang that pinched into his bottom lip.
As Calen stared at the god, other shapes formed in the night: Angan prowling. Four of them; two in the forms of giant wolves, the others in their more human shape, gangly limbs flowing smoothly as they moved. He recognised one immediately: Aneera.
Fenryr looked over his shoulder as Aneera imitated his seated position a few feet to his right.
“You did not think I would let you wander this place unguarded, did you? Calen, Aneera and Nuada will be your sworn protectors. Diango and Luteir will be Ella’s. They will go wherever you go, they will watch and listen where your eyes and ears cannot. They will protect you with their lives.”
“Why?” Calen leaned a little closer. “What are we to you? Therin has told me of what my father was, why you call him the Chainbreaker. But you have repaid your debt. You brought Ella back. You have other druids. Why are they not guarded as we are?”
Calen had learned to be wary of those who offered much and asked for little. Everybody wanted something. Some were just better at hiding it than others.
Fenryr stared a long while, then exhaled and shifted in place. “There is not one answer to that question, but many. The first is something you have always known. In the core of my blood, in the beating heart of what Clan Fenryr is, loyalty is all. To a wolf, there is nothing more sacred than the pack. Your father pulled me from chains, and when his entire world was threatened, still he refused to hand me over to those who would do me harm. He did not simply rescue me that day, but all the Angan carved from my flesh. And he did so with nothing to gain – without a notion of his blood. I swore to him I would protect you, that I would answer his call and that of his descendants whenever I was needed. I will not break that vow. And yet, that is only a small part of what you are.”
The god reached out both his hands, extending one to Calen and one to Ella. “Take my hand, the both of you. The histories of our people stretch back for thousands of years, since long before we set foot in these lands. There is so much to tell, and the night is only so long. This is a thing that is easier shown than told. It is time you know the blood of your ancestors.”
Both Calen and Ella exchanged a glance, and Faenir lifted his head from where it lay on his paws, his stare fixed on the wolf god.
Calen reached out to grab Ella’s hand. “Together and only together.”
Ella interlocked her fingers with his, and his sister gave him a sharp nod. They both lifted their free hands and grabbed Fenryr’s open palms.
Just as had happened every other time Calen had experienced a vision of the past, the world around him turned and changed, shifting into smoke and streaks of colour.
Fenryr’s voice boomed in the sky. “Thousands of years ago, our people called Terroncia home.”
The shifting colours and smoke settled, and Calen stood atop an enormous cliff, thousands of feet high, jagged and carved from red rock. Ella stood only a few feet away, Fenryr between them.
A landscape of lush green spread out below, the sun blazing in the sky. Rivers carved winding paths through the trees, waterfalls crashing from great heights.
“The gods you know, the Enkara, were the ones who forged this world, brought it into existence, gave it life and purpose. This is what you know.”
Calen nodded, staring at the sky in wonder as a flock of birds the size of horses whipped past his head, the air cool on his skin, his hair tussling in the wind.
He let out a long, mournful sigh. “It is a lie deepened by the passing of time. The Enkara did not create the world – we do not know who did – and the Enkara were not always as they are now. They were the mortal plane’s first inhabitants – the precursors to all life. They did not create the world, but they shaped everything in it with a primordial magic long since lost, and there are far more than those you know. Hundreds. They ascended from this plane before time itself came into existence. Some continued to meddle in the pit from which they crawled, others never looked back. The gods you know, and the gods you don’t.”
“Are you not a god?” Calen asked.
“The word god has different meanings to different people. To you, I am a god. To the Enkara, I am but a child. My people call ourselves the Danuan. But you would call us Lesser Gods, gods of flesh and bone, gods who have never ascended.”
The world around Calen collapsed inwards and he was pulled forwards by a force unseen, wind crashing against him as though he were caught in the heart of a hurricane.
Beside him, Ella cried out, her eyes wide and golden. He grabbed her hand, holding on for dear life as they hurtled through the darkness. A second later, hard rock formed beneath their feet. The sky above shattered repeatedly, broken by lightning in shades of purple and blue.
“Fifty Enkara claimed Terroncia as their own. Carved its rivers and sculpted its mountains.”
Thunderous cracks ripped through the air, and the ground shook. Deep fissures tore the rock apart as mountains rose and basins fell. Trees sprang from the earth, and water filled hollows the size of Camylin. Everywhere Calen looked, the world shifted and changed. Flowers in all the colours of a rainbow ripped across an entire field while chunks of clay pulled free of the earth and rose, drifting like clouds, trails of water misting from their edges.
“They gave it life, filled it. Amongst their creations were a race of people both savage and brilliant, beautiful and monstrous, capable of the greatest love and the darkest horrors. The Cealtaí – ‘humans’ in what is now the Common Tongue.”
The world shifted, and brushstrokes of blue, green, and brown swirled around Calen. And when it all settled, he stood in a city the likes of which put even Aravell to shame. Buildings and towers hewn from cream stone rose for hundreds of feet all around. Rooves of domed sapphire glinted in the sun, shimmering with accents of silver and gold. Calen turned about in awe, his eyes following the rise of a statue that dwarfed even the towers. It looked human, its hand outstretched, an orb of pure light in its palm.
Sounds burst into existence, and the streets were thronged with people in robes of snow white, gold jewellery hanging from their necks and snaking around their arms.
“For thousands of years, there was peace of a sort as the Enkara walked the mortal plane. And then came the Fracturing. The Great War. The Enkara battled amongst each other, and the continent bled.”
The world shook beneath Calen’s feet, and screams filled the air. The towers and structures of the otherworldly city burst into flames, cracking and collapsing. The ground itself opened and fire spewed forth, burning flesh and bone alike. In the midst of the chaos, the beautiful robes of the people in the streets dissipated into clouds of smoke and reformed into glistening plates of armour, swords and spears of fire-red steel in their fists. They ripped each other to pieces in that beautiful armour with those beautiful weapons.
“It is not known why the war occurred – at least not to anyone but the Enkara themselves – but Terroncia didn’t suffer alone. All across the known world, the Enkara waged war and the mortal plane itself cracked open. There were once fourteen continents. Seven were swallowed whole, completely obliterated as the gods turned this plane into their battlefield. And at some point in the wanton destruction, a peace was brokered. A peace that saved the very existence of life itself. The Enkara – those who survived – left the mortal plane and ascended to what we call the Arathír, the Godsrealm. Horrified by the cost of their war, they vowed to never again set foot in the mortal plane, to never again allow their creations to pay in blood for the Enkara’s own hubris. That was when the fourteen surviving Enkara of Terroncia forged us, the Danuan. We were created to act in their place, to guide and shepherd the Cealtaí. We carved the Angan from our own flesh, to be our eyes and ears, extensions of ourselves. And each of us gifted a chosen number of the Cealtaí with our blood, to be our voices in the world, our heralds – the Tuatha. Our strength weakened, diluted by the Gifts we granted the Tuatha, but few became many and the sacrifice was necessary. In the four thousand years that followed, Terroncia faced periods of brutal war and glorious peace as many of the Danuan and our clans proved we were no better than what came before. But at least our powers were not capable of breaking the mortal realm itself.”
Thousands of years flitted before Calen’s eyes. Houses became villages, became towns, became cities, and were then burned to the ground, the cycle beginning anew. Armies crashed together, feeding the earth their blood, forests sprouting where the corpses were given to the soil. Mountains spewed molten fire, the earth cracked open like a brittle egg, and waves the size of a dragon’s wings crashed against the coast.
Fenryr turned in place, watching the centuries streak past. Where Calen’s visions had been chaos, Fenryr’s command of the path was complete and utter. Where the world had moved around Calen, Fenryr walked through it , controlling every shift and every passing second. Where Calen was the leaf, Fenryr was the wind.
“That was,” Fenryr said, a deep and pure sorrow in his eyes, “until one of our own found a way through the veil between worlds in search of an advantage in the wars and unleashed the horrors of the void into the heart of Terroncia.”
Calen squeezed Ella’s hand harder as the skies darkened and bled, lightning crashing down and carving strips from the earth. A dark tear ripped through the fabric of the world and terrifying creatures poured forth. Great, winged monstrosities tore armies limb from limb, horns twisting from their skulls, bones protruding through their chests, claws larger than even those of the Bloodmarked. Demons with the faces of men tore out throats and drank blood while creatures whose flesh seemed nothing but burning rock and molten fire razed cities to the ground. And along with all the death and destruction, Calen watched as men and women collapsed, their skin bubbling and melting. Others grew blisters of vibrant green that burst and spewed, the liquid within burning flesh and melting bone. One man collapsed before him, clawing at his own flesh, nails carving furrows of blood while slender worm-like creatures wriggled beneath his skin. The sight twisted Calen’s stomach in knots.
Fenryr knelt beside the man, his hand hovering just above the writhing flesh. “The demons that surged through the tear between worlds swarmed over the continent like flood waters unleashed, and like hounds at their heels, so too came plagues and diseases that ripped through our flock in a way that steel and claw never could. The war waged for almost two hundred years, our arrogance leading us to believe we could triumph, until eventually that same arrogance was drowned in the blood of those we had sought to protect. That was when the exodus began and we fled to Epherian shores, leaving Terroncia to sink into the oceans.”
Calen’s vision blurred and turned to nothing but smears of muddled colour, and when everything reshaped, he stared out at a vast ocean of white sails that stretched to the horizon in all directions.
“Some of my brothers and sisters crossed the oceans for Narvona, Ardan, Karvos, Valacia, Tathos… but the vast majority settled in Epheria. That choice, perhaps, was our greatest folly. For from that moment onwards, we have not known a day of peace. We warred amongst each other for land and power and safety. Tore each other to pieces. And then the Urak wars broke out. And the elven wars. Endless war. And in those wars, we faced creatures as powerful as the demons that laid waste to our home, creatures large as the ships that bore us across the oceans, armoured from snout to tail, with breath that could melt steel.”
“Dragons.” As Calen spoke, more centuries flitted past his eyes, the world shifting and changing, armies clashing, skies of dragons setting entire battlefields alight.
Fenryr nodded. “We more than stood our ground in those wars,” he said, pride in his voice. “Our people were mighty. Our Stormcallers struck the dragons from the sky with lightning. Our Blooddancers battled them through the eyes of wyverns and gryphons. My kin and I fought tooth and claw alongside our children. But those wars were bloody and brutal. There were no victors. Enough bodies were set into the earth in those years to build mountains, enough funeral pyres to light the sky. In the end, it wasn’t the wars that killed us. It was greed and arrogance. Even our Pathfinders could not foresee our own downfall, so sure were they that those paths would not be walked. We tore ourselves apart, piece by piece.”
The lights of the world flickered a hundred colours, then dimmed to black. Fenryr stood before Ella and Calen with his gaze fixed on the black ground. “As the centuries passed, many of our people lost who they were. In their search for power, they betrayed their own. Many of the Cealtaí turned on the Tuatha. Either from jealousy or from sheer greed, or a thousand other reasons. Even the Tuatha turned on each other, the wars between clans taking on new forms. My brothers and sisters were hunted, enslaved, murdered. Even gods can die. Eventually, hundreds of Danuan were dwindled to the five that survive to this day – Kaygan, Bjorna, Vethnir, Dvalin, and the one who stands before you.”
Fenryr lifted his head, his golden eyes seeming to stare straight into Calen’s soul.
“I show you all this, Calen and Ella Bryer, because in my heart there is nothing more important than the preservation of who and what you are. You are the children of my blood, the Tuatha. And our history, our saga tale, our lessons, our missteps and wrong turns cannot be forgotten. And there are too few of my Tuatha left – too few of any Tuatha. So upon your shoulders, and the shoulders of all those who bear my blood, is the weight of remembering, the weight of knowing, and the weight of ensuring that past mistakes are not repeated. The question you asked was what you are to me. Why you are guarded when the other Tuatha are not. There are three reasons. The first is my vow to your father.” Fenryr pressed his palm to his forehead. “May his soul find its way in the blood of time. The second is a deeper thing. I told you that your mother was Gifted, as you are,” he said, looking to Calen. “You are Pathfinders. You see the paths once walked, and she saw those not yet taken.”
“And she fed us poison to keep our Gifts from manifesting.” That wound was still fresh. Even after Ella had said it aloud, he still couldn’t quite take it in. Their mam had lied to them for so long – just as their dad had. None of it made any sense. And yet… Calen wasn’t angry. He wanted to be furious, to be consumed by rage. But all he felt was loss. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that there was a reason for everything, that his parents had done what they had thought was right. Because that’s what they had always done. That was who they were. Even with the lies, he trusted them entirely.
“You are here, you are safe, and you draw breath.” Fenryr clasped his hands together and gave Calen a sympathetic smile. “That was all your mother ever cared for.” He stopped for a moment, then let out a long sigh. “I want you to understand your blood. To understand why you are the way you are. You feel it, don’t you? Not just now, but always, you feel the wolf inside you. A willingness to die for those around you, a devotion beyond all measure to the ones you love. A deep fury in your heart, a savage rage that burns for your enemies. That is Fenryr blood. My blood. The Tuatha of the clans are broken into septs – families. Your mother is a descendant of the Great Sept of Eridain, an old and proud sept of my blood. Since before we set foot in Epheria, Sept Eridain were the greatest of my children. Generations upon generations of kings and queens. Our most powerful Pathfinders, Stormcallers, and Heartseekers. But the name Bryer holds its own legend.”
“Bryer?”
“But our dad wasn’t a druid.” Ella looked from Calen to Fenryr. “He’s wasn’t – was he?”
“No.” Fenryr stood in the darkness, his golden eyes gleaming. “But the blood of the wolf ran in his veins. Though he did not know it, your father was of the Tuatha blood. But he was what our people call a Truan lan Volas. Without Light – Lightless.” A touch of sadness crept into Fenryr’s voice. “It is a name given to those born without Gifts, those who are not true Tuatha. There have always been Volas in the druidic peoples. In the early days, one in every ten was born without a Gift. Their blood was still my blood, they still bore the hearts of wolves, the loyalty, the strength, the rage, but the Gifts had not reached them. As our people were hunted and our bloodlines grew weaker, the number of Volas increased. And now, new Gifted pups are rare as red moons. When our people first made landfall in Epheria, my clan was not counted amongst the Great Clans. We had lost many in the wars against the demons and in the unceasing battles within our own. By the time we reached Epherian shores, we numbered no more than a few hundred Tuatha, a similar number Angan, and two thousand Cealtaí who followed me. But within that, Sept Bryer played a major part in bringing about a new dawn for Clan Fenryr.” Fenryr’s fangs bit into his bottom lip as he smiled. “Sept Bryer is a sept famed for their Blooddancers. Bold and proud, an old sept who bled for their clan. A sept that rose to become the greatest of my champions. In the centuries and millennia that followed, I thought Sept Bryer dead and lost. They were of that ilk – the kind to die rather than yield. The name carried on, but the blood withered, blending with that of the Cealtaí. And as Ages came and went and my Tuatha and Angan were hunted, many of the Great Septs were lost. It wasn’t until Baldon Stormseeker found your father and I felt the wolf in his blood that I knew the sept of Bryer still lived. That he and your mother had found each other in this dark world is something beautiful beyond measure. To see the two bloodlines meet… It brought warmth to my long-cold heart. You are not simply Tuatha, or druids, or whatever name you choose. Your blood is that of the wolf, it is the blood of my greatest champions, my wisest kings, and my most powerful Tuatha.”
As Fenryr’s words echoed in the darkness, the world shifted, and Calen found himself once more sitting in Alura’s Eyrie, his right hand clasped in Ella’s, his left hand gripping Fenryr’s.
His hands trembled as he pulled them back. He should have had a thousand questions in his mind, yearned for a thousand answers. But instead, he was consumed by a hollow feeling and emptiness where something should have been. Tears welled in his eyes but didn’t fall.
Ella’s hand rested on his knee. “I know.”
Calen clenched his jaw at his sister’s words, clutching her hand. So many things his parents hadn’t told him, so many lies kept. He wanted to be angry, to feel that rage he knew so well. But the only images in his head were of his dad’s lifeless body and the flames that had taken his mam from him. If they had only told him, maybe everything would have been different. He could have helped. He could have been stronger.
Ella squeezed his hand, and a high-pitched whine rang out from the plateau above, Valerys’s mind wrapping around his. The dragon’s warmth filled the cracks in Calen’s heart but didn’t mend them.
“Why?” Ella asked, her hand still squeezing Calen’s, Faenir whining beside her. “All of this, why did they keep it from us?”
“To keep you safe. From the moment your mother was born, she was forced to hide and run. Clan Vethnir, loyal to Fane and his empire, hunted us to the edge of extinction, while Bjorna’s Angan slaughtered any they could find. Both of my brothers command Tuatha and Angan in far greater numbers than I. One by one, your mother watched her brothers and sisters torn from this world, watched her own mother’s throat ripped out by a Vethnir hunter. When she had seen only sixteen summers, her father died protecting her. Freis fled to western Illyanara, where she found your father. Years later, your father found me, and I, in turn, found Freis. I told Vars of his heritage, but he cared little for it. Your mother was with child, and both of them wanted that child to never live the lives they knew. She had chosen to dull her Gifts and to ward against yours to keep the hunters from her door. She chose to protect her pack, and I honoured that. And your father chose to do the same. I left Faenir as a guardian to watch over them, blessed with my blood.”
Calen shook his head, his throat tightening.
Valerys cracked his wings and lifted himself into the air, then soared down to the central plateau upon which Calen and the others sat. The dragon alighted behind Fenryr, the ground shaking beneath his weight. He craned his neck down and pressed his snout into the side of Calen’s head.
Calen brushed his hand along Valerys’s jaw and pushed his forehead into the hard, warm scales.
“What is the third reason?” Ella asked, lifting her hand from Calen’s knee and leaning forwards. “You said there were three. What is the third?”
Calen stared at his sister. Where tears had formed in his eyes, hers were hard and cold, her blue irises now a glittering gold, her nails turned to dark claws, fangs pressing into her lips.
Fenryr drew a long breath and let out a heavy sigh. “Enough lies have been whispered in your ears and enough promises to fill an ocean, I’d wager. So I will speak plain. The third reason is a selfish one – I need you. Our clan is at the brink of death. Our people as a whole are not far away.” Fenryr tilted his head back and looked up at the dragon looming over him. “Astride Valerys, Calen is the most powerful weapon we have. One of your blood has never been bound to a dragon. Pathfinders do not have keepers as Blooddancers do. In this, Calen and Valerys are unique and their bond has created something singular. I want for Calen’s power – and yours, Ella.”
“Mine?”
“Your father’s bloodline is that of my greatest warriors. And you are the last of that line, a Blooddancer of Sept Bryer. You are far from seeing even your thirtieth summer and yet what you did – shifting with the souls of dragons – has never been done. Not once. That alone shows me the power you hold.” Fenryr laughed, a deep choking laugh as he muttered to himself, “Of course, the blood of Darand and Alannah’s line would emerge precisely when it was needed.”
“I fragmented.” Ella shook her head, and Calen could see her twisting her tongue in her mouth as their mother had taught them to do when biting back anger. “If not for Tamzin, my soul would be drifting through Níthianelle until the breaking of time. What about that speaks of power to you?”
“You’re alive, young one.” The laughter had gone from Fenryr’s voice, the mention of the name Tamzin seeming to sour his mood. Calen recognised the name. It was the druid he had met at the edge of the Burnt Lands alongside Rokka, the one who had told him Ella had awoken. “Our Blooddancers attempted to shift with dragons from the emergence of the very first wars after we made landfall. Tuatha who had fought a hundred battles, who had waged war against the voidspawn. Tuatha who had shed more blood than you have seen water. If we had been able to do so, those wars would have been shorter than a breath. I felt their minds shatter and burn. Felt their souls bleed. Dragons are beasts unlike any other. The fact that your mind still holds itself together says more than a thousand words ever could. And so I say again, my motives are not entirely pure. I came here to guide you back to the mortal plane, but I stay because I wish to use your strength to forge a second dawn for the children of my blood, to forge a new world.”
“There is already a war raging,” Calen said.
“I am aware.” The god turned his eyes on Calen, and a shiver ran through him, the very blood in his veins growing cold. “They are the same war. If Efialtír crosses into this world, we will all pay the price. The Enkara left the mortal plane for a reason. All I ask is that I and Clan Fenryr be welcomed to stand at your side and, when the blood has been spilled, the fires have died, and the living crawl from the ashes of what is left, that our people have a place in the new world.”
Calen held Fenryr’s gaze, something deep within him refusing to look away. This was a god that sat before him. Not Aeson or Chora or the Triarchy. A god. Of all those who had sought to use him and twist him, Fenryr was the one who truly had the power to do so, and he had chosen not to.
As though reading Calen’s mind, the god spoke again. “I would fight at your side, not on your back with chains in my hands. I have felt the pull of chains around my neck. It was your father who freed me from them. And it is not something I would inflict on another.”
“What of the other gods?” Calen glanced at Ella, who was staring back at him, Faenir now sitting upright at her side. “You spoke of Bjorna, and Kaygan, and Vethnir, and Dvalin. Where are they in all of this?”
“Dvalin resides within this very woodland. Though I am not surprised she has yet to reveal herself. She has always been a cautious one. Though, I do not believe it will be long before she shows herself. As for the others…” Fenryr flicked his tongue off the tip of his right fang. “Bjorna wants for nothing but blood – my blood and that of the others. He does not care for the wars of this land. He is fighting the same war he has been fighting since Terroncia. He would be the last of us. We will find no friend there. Kaygan I’m sure we will be seeing shortly. That kat is many steps ahead of us all. The moment you think you know his will is two moments after the knife is buried in your gut. He will require caution. As for Vethnir…” The name turned to a growl on Fenryr’s lips, and he spat on the stone. All about the plateau, the other Angan snarled.
“Bjorna wants us dead. But he and his clan fight like warriors. They fight for their own will. That I respect. Vethnir betrayed us all. He was the first of the Danuan to hunt his own kind and sell his captives to the Cealtaí, the elves, the Jotnar. Even now, he has been aligned with Fane Mortem since The Order fell, buying his safety with the heads of his kin. I would rip out his throat and feel his blood run down my chin.”
“I would do the same.” The voice echoed in the vast open space of the Eyrie. Faenir snapped upright, the Angan following suit as Valerys spun, frills vibrating, wings spreading wide.
Calen and Ella were both on their feet in a heartbeat, Ella’s claws extended, the Spark flowing in Calen’s veins. Only Fenryr moved slowly, letting out a sigh as he pulled himself upright.
Two women and a man stood at the edge of the Eyrie, along with that same kat-like creature Calen had seen on the edge of the Burnt Lands, scales of black glass glimmering on its body. Calen recognised each of them.
“Tamzin…” Ella took a step forwards, her stare softening as she looked to the short, dark-haired woman.
Tamzin smiled softly and bowed her head. “It is good to see you well.”
Fenryr stepped past Ella as Aneera and the other Angan drew closer. For a moment Calen thought the Eyrie might run red with blood, but instead, Fenryr gave the slightest of bows towards Tamzin and pressed his palm to his forehead. “I am told it is by your grace that my child has returned to this plane. You have my thanks and my boon. If you find yourself in need, ask what you will of me. If it is within reason, I will fulfil it.”
Tamzin mimicked the gesture, bowing far deeper. “You honour me, Danuan. I would not have seen her taken by the Vethnir or slain by the Bjorna. She is my kin. Your thanks is more than I require.”
Fenryr inclined his head.
Rokka pressed his hand to his forehead and moved closer, only flinching when Valerys lowered his head and pulled his lips back in a snarl. The old man looked up at the dragon, a smile cracking his hesitant expression. “Don’t.”
Valerys leaned closer, the rumble in his throat rising. But after a moment, he pulled back, the rumble never truly dissipating.
“My most sincere thanks.” Rokka bowed deeply to the dragon, deep enough for it to seem almost theatrical. He looked to Calen and smiled. “Being burned alive is not as fun as it sounds.” He turned his attention to Fenryr. “It is good to see you, brother.”
“Is it? I see you still hide behind smoke and dead faces.”
The pair exchanged greetings, but all the while, the words that had left Rokka’s lips spun in Calen’s mind. He took a step forwards, eyes narrowing on Rokka. “Brother?”
Fenryr let out a long sigh, pursing his lips. “You have encountered him then? Which name did he give you? Which guise did he wear?”
“Rokka… He said his name was Rokka.”
The wolf god shook his head, laughing almost in disbelief. “You stand before Kaygan the kat. The god of many faces. The prowler of the paths unwalked. The Trickster and collector of strays. Show yourself, brother. I’m weary of all this.”
Rokka opened his arms wide as though caught in an act, and as he did his face shifted. The man’s skin tightened, the deep wrinkles vanishing, the grey in his hair turning to deep brown. He stood a little straighter and held his head a little higher. The only thing that didn’t change were his eyes. They retained that same vibrancy, that same ever-changing blue-grey. “You do me a great honour bestowing upon me all these titles, brother. Truly, I am nothing more than what I am. And what I am is here to broker an alliance.”
“A proposition you’ve made before – many times.”
“Ah yes, but there are only five of us now. Bjorna has lost his mind, Vethnir has the moral fortitude of a flea-riddled weasel, and Dvalin would happily play this game of hide and seek until time itself breaks. You would seem like the logical choice.”
“You’re a god…” The words left Calen’s lips of their own volition.
“I am,” Kaygan replied, giving Calen a toothy grin before turning back to Fenryr. “We are opposites, you and I, but we need each other.”
“Do we now?” Fenryr growled.
“I’ve seen this conversation a thousand times, brother. And you know we do. I have a Starchaser and a Stormcaller, and I can see the paths not yet walked. You can see the paths that have already come, you have more Angan than I, you have a dragon, and?—”
“ He does not have a dragon.” Calen pushed all his doubts and questions to the dark corners of his mind. No more strings. No more chains. He pulled the Spark through him as he marched towards Kaygan. The druids, Tamzin and Una, moved to block Calen’s path but drew up short as Valerys loomed over him, teeth bared and eyes misting purple light. The dragon let out a roar, his head shifting from Tamzin to Una, spittle wetting their faces.
Calen stared at them both until they glanced back at Kaygan, who gestured for them to step aside.
“Neither I nor Valerys belong to anyone.” Calen stood so his face was barely a few inches from Kaygan’s, Valerys’s warm breath rolling over the back of his head and rustling the god’s no longer grey hair.
Kaygan curled his lips downward as though impressed by something. “Hmm.” He looked Calen over. “This is not the path I thought we were walking. It will do though.”
The way the god looked at Calen, the way he spoke as though Calen weren’t even there, called forth a fury within both himself and Valerys. A fury that burned cold and slow. “If you talk of your ‘paths’ once more, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to you, god or no.”
Tamzin stepped forwards, her eyes shifting to bright blue with kat-like black slits for pupils. The druid’s fingernails extended and sliced through the tips of her fingers, curling into massive claws. “Try it.”
The kat-like monstrosity beside her let out a deep growl, baring its fangs and arching its back.
Ella was between Calen and Tamzin in a heartbeat, Faenir at her side. The wolfpine stood level with the kat, hackles raised. Ella shook her head at Tamzin. “Not a step closer.”
Valerys lowered his head over both Calen and Ella, the pressure building within him, the fire calling.
“Easy – Tamzin, Kerith.” Kaygan pressed a clawed hand against Tamzin’s chest and gently pushed her back, the armoured kat, Kerith, moving in step with her. “That is not a path we wish to…” He glanced to Calen and stifled a laugh. “Apologies, old habits.” Kaygan drew a long breath in and studied Calen. “I have seen many of your ilk across the millennia. They all have one thing in common.”
“And what is that?”
“They are dead, and I am not.”
“That can be changed.”
A low shriek reverberated in Valerys’s throat, and the dragon lifted his neck and opened his jaws. The heat of the fire within Valerys warmed the back of Calen’s head.
“It would take more than dragonfire to kill a god, Wolfchild.”
Calen leaned forwards, staring into Kaygan’s eyes, his voice level and calm. “Then why do you look so scared?”
Wing beats echoed through the Eyrie, and both Varthear and Avandeer soared overhead, alighting behind the god. The vermillion frills on Varthear’s neck stood on end, while smoke drifted from Avandeer’s nostrils.
Una made to step closer to Kaygan, but Varthear snapped at her, a hiss forming in the great dragon’s throat.
Vibrations swept through the Eyrie as Sardakes descended on foot from the same plateau, his sapphire eyes standing stark against his black scales in the darkness.
“So it is this path then,” the god said before turning down his bottom lip. He looked to Calen and inclined his head. “You are full of surprises, Calen Bryer. I am yet to decide whether that is to your benefit.”
“I don’t have time for you or your riddles.” Calen sucked in his cheeks and calmed himself with a breath. Though not a shred of that calm touched Valerys. Kaygan’s words had only stoked the fire within the dragon, and he wished to test the claim that dragonfire couldn’t kill a god. Valerys had his doubts.
Kaygan only smiled back. “Oh, you’ll make the time, I’m sure.” Those blue-grey kat eyes searched Calen’s, Kaygan’s smile growing wider. “When you need us, we’ll be in the empty barracks in the city. Not the one by the fruit tree – that one needed a clean – the third on the right. For now, if you’ll excuse us, we are late to meet a friend. You won’t need us for a day or so. But you will need us.”
With that, Kaygan signalled to his two druids, turned, and left, strolling right between Sardakes, Avandeer, and Varthear without a glance at any of them.
“He has been precisely that infuriating for thousands of years.” Fenryr moved to stand beside Calen, his gaze fixed on the passage that led back to Alura.
“How did they get in here? The gates are guarded every hour of every day. The Dracur?n patrol Alura ceaselessly.”
“One of the Tuatha with him is a Starchaser. A druid of the aether. Their Gift allows them to open gateways between one place and another so long as they have set eyes on their destination.”
“She’s been here before?” Calen’s chest tightened. How deeply were these druids of Kaygan embedded within Aravell? And what friend were they meeting? The uncertainty unsettled him.
“Perhaps,” Fenryr said. “Or Kaygan guided her. He was here the day I guided Ella back to the mortal plane.”
The wolf god clasped both Ella’s and Calen’s shoulders. “You are your father’s and mother’s children both. I see their fire in you, their passion. Let Kaygan drift to the back of your mind. His plans will unfurl as they were meant to. I have spent millennia learning as such. You have enough to think on. More Angan will arrive by the day. But I have kept many dispersed through the continent. Clan Fenryr will be counted in the battles to come.”
Fenryr and the Angan started to leave, but the god turned back. He stood there for a moment before approaching Calen once more, golden eyes locking with his. “There is nothing in this world heavier than the weight of a crown. Those not fit to wear one break from the strain of their own failures. And those who are must struggle not beneath the weight of the metal from which it was forged, but that of all the souls who hang in the balance of every decision made. Whether born from honour or desperation, that weight leads kings and queens to make dark choices. When the empire killed The Order, it also killed the weight of a hundred crowns. But as the empire dies, hands will come from the shadows, clawing at the crowns of dead kings and queens. Be careful, young one, even of those who call themselves ‘friend’. The only way to truly test that word is to put yourself between a person and the thing they desire most in the world. Your neck will ache from the weight of it.”
“I have no crown,” Calen answered. “Nor do I want one.”
“We seldom get what we want.” Fenryr gave Calen a weak smile, then turned and left.