85. Loss
Chapter 85
Loss
22 nd Day of the Blood Moon
Firnin Mountains – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Rist walked through the ashes of the camp, bones and snapped wood crunching beneath his boots. Neera walked with him while many soldiers scoured the remnants around him.
The dragons had made sure to burn everything. Calen had made sure to burn everything.
In his mind he could still see that massive dragon crashing to the ground, crushing Taya Tambrel and so many others beneath it. Even in death the creatures were weapons of utter destruction.
He knew everything was gone. His books, his notes, everything except what he’d left in Berona. There was nothing that could have survived this. But still, he needed to see for himself. He knew where he’d pitched his tent. Precisely three hundred and forty-seven paces from the tree near the centre of the camp that was now nothing but a brittle husk.
“Rist,” Neera said softly, taking his hand in hers. “You don’t need to.”
“I do.” He squeezed her hand, running his thumb along hers. She’d removed her breastplate and wore only a loose linen tunic. He thanked Varyn no lasting damage had been done. Neera had been through enough.
When he found the remains of his tent, he drew a sharp breath, then swallowed hard.
“I can go.” Neera cupped his cheek. “I’ll go.”
He shook his head, then gently pulled her hand away. He could see the spare breastplate Garramon had given him jutting from the pile of ash and charred bits.
He stepped past to the other side where he had placed the stake in the ground, where he had tethered Trusil. He stood there for a few moments, staring down at the horse’s blackened bones and burnt flesh, the acrid smell still clinging to the air.
Rist moved to stand at the horse’s head, the right side of which was barely recognisable. The left side, which had been pressed to the ground, still held some of his colouring. The blackened wooden handle of one of the long list of brushes Rist had acquired for keeping Trusil’s coat clean and smooth stuck out from beneath the horse’s neck. A dandy brush by the look of it.
He’d spent far too many hours reading about the proper care and tools needed to keep a horse healthy and happy. No, not far too many, he decided. Just enough.
“You were a good horse,” Rist whispered, kneeling in the ashes.
“He was,” Neera said from the other side of Trusil’s remains. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You took really good care of him, Rist.”
“I did.” Rist felt a tear of his own slowly run along the inside of his nose and drip onto Trusil’s charred muzzle. He’d not lost many people in his life. He’d been lucky in that. Tommin, Anila… He’d barely known his grandparents. They’d died young. Seeing Trusil like that, helpless and alone, probably scared for his life… There was something different in that. “I wonder if he thought I left him,” Rist whispered. He lifted his gaze to see Neera staring behind him, the sound of crunching ashes reaching his ears moments later.
A cold hand rested on the back of his neck.
“You had a bond with this creature?” The voice was harsh and layered, and Rist knew it immediately. He looked over his shoulder to see one of the Chosen standing there in a red shirt, black trousers tucked into muddied boots. He recognised the face of a young man, not much older than he, blue spiral tattoos snaking over his arms and winding up from his collar. This one called itself Azrim. It had barely left Rist’s side during the battle.
“I did.”
“Curious.” Azrim dropped to his haunches beside Rist and stared down at Trusil’s charred body for a moment before leaning forwards to touch the ashes.
Rist grabbed the Chosen’s arm, his grip like iron. “Don’t.”
Azrim turned his head slowly, his deep black eyes staring into Rist’s. “No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because that is not what you do to the dead.”
“And what do you do to the dead, Rist Havel?”
“You respect them.”
“How should I respect him?” Azrim looked down at the blackened bones of Trusil’s ribs.
“Start with his name. He was called Trusil.”
“Trusil…” Azrim spoke the name as though tasting it, staring at the ashes. “A name holds power.”
“He liked carrots and apples,” Rist said. “And he had a tendency to chew on fences if left next to them for too long. Only fences, never posts or trees.”
“And he always licked my face,” Neera added, wiping a tear from her eye.
Azrim just stared at Rist, tilting his head to the side, those black eyes betraying no emotion. “You will find Trusil again, Rist Havel. Efialtír treats life equally. This is only the mortal shell he was granted.” Azrim raised a hand over Trusil’s ashes, and threads of Air, Earth, Fire, and Spirit wove around his fingers. The threads of Air lifted some of Trusil’s ashes into a vortex below Azrim’s palm, swirling.
The threads of Fire, Earth, and Spirit wound about the thread of Air and all four pushed together. The vortex of ash collapsed in on itself, compressing into a tiny shape no bigger than the tip of Rist’s pinky finger.
A low thrum sounded in Rist’s head as the Spark pulsed from Azrim, and the small shape glowed white hot, the heat causing Rist to lean away.
After a moment, Azrim reached down and wrapped the floating ball of ash in his palm, the heat still bristling at Rist’s skin. He squeezed his hand into a fist, and when he opened it, a small black diamond sat in the Chosen’s palm.
Without a word, Azrim extended his hand and offered the diamond to Rist.
Rist took it into his hand and stared at the gleaming glass-like stone. He had seen a diamond once before, when a merchant’s wife had passed through Milltown on the way to Skyfell. That one had been entirely transparent and reflected light in a multitude of colours. It had been fascinating.
The one Rist held in his palm was different. It was completely opaque and almost seemed to absorb the light instead of reflecting it.
Rist closed his fingers around the black diamond. “Thank you.”
Azrim stood, continuing to stare down at the ashes.
“Rist.” Rist turned at the sound of Garramon’s voice. The Healers that had survived the dragonfire had seen to the burns on the man’s face, but – despite many protestations – Garramon had insisted they leave the scars.
In general, Rist agreed with Garramon’s belief that scars were reminders of the pain a person endured, that they should be left to never forget the darkness that had been overcome. But in this case, Rist most certainly would have let the Healers do their work. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that it had been Calen who had caused that pain.
Despite calling his name, it wasn’t Rist that Garramon was looking at. He stared directly at Azrim, his body tense, his hand resting on his sword pommel.
“The Saviour’s light upon you, Brother Garramon.” Azrim smiled from ear to ear in a way that sent a chill down Rist’s spine, then strode away.
Garramon stared after him for a few moments. “Did you find him?”
Rist nodded, looking down at Trusil’s remains. He held out the black diamond in his palm.
Garramon smiled, nodding softly. “Come,” he said, gesturing to Neera as well. “We can’t fall behind the main body. Without the wagons, the march will be faster, but food will be more scarce. They’re not going to hold anything for us, not after a battle like that.”
“How’s Magnus?” Rist asked, slipping the black diamond into his pocket and keeping his hand there.
“Better, but still weak.” A silence held for a few moments as they walked, the main body of the army – or at least, what was left of it – marching ahead. “Was that what you saw in your Trial of Will?”
Rist squeezed the diamond. “Is the trial a vision of the future?”
“I already told you, Rist. I don’t know.”
“No, you told me that some believe it is a warning from Efialtír of what will happen if we fail.”
Garramon only grunted.
“Is that what you believe?”
“It is.” Garramon stared off into the distance, his jaw clenching.
“What did you see in the well?”
Garramon drew a long breath and let it out in a sigh. “I saw my son. I saw Malyn. I killed him.”
Before Rist could ask another question, Neera shuffled into the space on his left and gently squeezed his hand.
As they reached the tail of the army, Garramon dug his hand into his coat pocket and produced three carrots, each bearing scars and wounds of their own. “Most of the food got burned,” he said with a weak smile, handing a carrot each to Rist and Neera. “These were the best I could get.”
Rist opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find words.
“To Trusil,” Garramon said, tapping the chopped end of his carrot against Rist’s and then Neera’s. He gave a soft mock neigh, which made Neera laugh, then he bit the end off and crunched.
Rist mimicked the gesture. “To Trusil.”
Calen stood within the hollow section of the canopy of thick fog that spread for miles around, Boud’s construct that obscured the land. The druid and her god had been true to their word and covered the others as they granted safe passage to the rebels who had escaped Tarhelm through the sally port – no more than a few hundred.
Kaygan, Fenryr, Ella, and the others all stood in a circle at the centre of the hollow, discussing the path forward, but their voices were nothing more than a dull throb in the back of his mind. The only sound that was clear was the thumping of his heart, and in his head all he saw was Rist walking away. None of it made any sense. No matter what way he looked at it.
He closed his eyes for a second and drew a long breath, steadying himself. When he opened them, Kaygan was looking directly at him.
“Una must rest,” the god said, tilting his head sideways as he stared into Calen’s eyes. He glanced at Una, who sat on the ground with her back against a tree, eyes closed. “The portals take their toll. We must return to Aravell now, lest she collapse here.”
Fenryr eyed him askance, lip curling. “Your Starchaser’s blood must be thin, brother. I have seen others carry half a thousand souls a dozen times.”
“Well,” Kaygan said with a mock bow, “the blood of the wolf is clearly much stronger than that of the kat, my dear brother. Perhaps your Starchaser should risk their life to carry more warriors to fight in a battle for a city that means nothing – oh apologies, none of yours yet live. Strange, that.”
Calen snapped his head around and stared at the man who had once called himself Rokka. “That ‘city that means nothing’ is my home.”
“But it is not my home.” Kaygan took a step closer, fangs showing as he smiled. It still felt strange to Calen to think this was the same old man he had met in the hut near the Burnt Lands. “You must understand this, Calen Bryer. I walk the path that leads me to the future I need, and no other. If you did not need me – need Tamzin, and Boud, and Una – then you would not care if I lived or lay dead with my blood feeding the earth. You care little for the things that matter to me. Why should I care for the things that matter to you? I will not risk killing one of my own when it is completely avoidable. We will return to Aravell now. And we will take back those who travelled with us, and no more. Once we do, the fog will dissipate. If the rebels leave now, they will reach the Burnt Lands unscathed – more or less.”
Kaygan leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. “All actions have consequences, little Draleid. And it would be wise to think carefully before you believe yourself quick enough to play the great game of games. I’ve played a lot longer than you, and there are more players than you think.”
Kaygan turned and left, Boud following him, the pair kneeling beside Una.
“My brother may call himself a kat, but he is a spider,” Fenryr whispered to Calen. “It is always best to assume there is a deeper reason behind everything he does, lest you will be caught in his web.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Calen said, watching Kaygan talk to the druids. He looked to Ella. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
“About flying with you to Salme? I’m not sure Faenir would take too kindly to that,” she said, scratching the massive wolfpine’s cheek as he let out a low grumble.
“I’m sure Valerys could carry him in his talon.”
Faenir snorted, glaring at Calen.
Calen only laughed, a laugh that died quickly. Rist consumed his thoughts.
“It’s better I return to Aravell. Tanner and Yana will want to know what happened and that Farwen is gone. And Lasch and Elia need to be told that Rist is alive.” Ella’s eyes glossed over for a second, the molten gold fading to the blue she had been born with, then back again. She let out a soft sigh and nodded at Kaygan. “Besides, I don’t trust that kat in the slightest. It’s best someone watches over him.”
Calen nodded but said nothing. Part of him wanted to be the one who told Lasch and Elia, but another part of him was thankful it would be Ella.
“I would have been honoured to fly with you,” Coren said. “But my duty now is to see the survivors safe to Aravell.” She inclined her head towards the few hundred rebels who had escaped Tarhelm through the sally port. He spotted the young woman, Yandira, near the edge of the group. “It is a long journey across the wasteland, even with the madness gone. I would see them safely across.”
Coren moved so she stood just below Aldryn’s jaw, brushing dirt from a long horn that scraped the ground. “You and Valerys fought like true warriors. I could not tell you how many of our kin were torn from this world by Seleraine and Voranur. There will not be a tear shed for them. And keeping Aldryn hidden was a wise stratagem. I can see why Aeson speaks so highly of you.”
Something in Coren’s stance shifted, and she looked down at the ground before returning her stare to Calen. “Earlier, there was something you said.”
Calen nodded, knowing what was coming.
“You said that Tinua died fighting…”
“He did.”
“How could you know that?” Coren looked at Fenryr. “You also. You told me that my master thought of me the night she died. I need to know.”
Fenryr started to speak, but Calen cut across him. “I am a druid, like Ella, but we are different. I can see things, things that have already happened. I don’t choose them, or when they happen, or what I see… but when I went to Ilnaen, we found dragon eggs buried in a hidden room in a vault below the western hatchery tower.”
Coren’s eyes widened. “How could you know of that? That place was?—”
“I know that your master was Kollna, daughter of Luan, mother of Asius.” Calen looked over to where Asius sat on a low rock, the wound in his shoulder cleaned and partially healed with Therin’s aid. “I know that she called you Daughter of the Sea that night because that was where she found you – washed ashore after a shipwreck, no other survivors.”
The woman who had seemed hard as steel faltered, her lip trembling. “H-how… how could you…”
“Alvira trusted Kollna. She asked her to hide dragon eggs in a room in that vault, surrounded by Jotnar runes. We found them.”
“You found them?” Coren’s eyes lit up.
Calen nodded. “They are being tested for the Calling as we speak. I can’t see why they would be different to any other eggs in Epheria, but your master thought they were worth giving her life for.” Calen sucked in his cheeks, tapping his foot against the ground. “She wanted you to know that you were ready. I could feel it in her heart that she believed you would be strong enough to survive.”
Coren stared at Calen for a moment, but it wasn’t what he saw in her eyes that betrayed the grief within her, it was Aldryn. The massive dragon craned his head down and pressed his snout into Coren’s side. She snapped her eyes shut for just a second before opening them and grasping Calen’s forearm. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for saving our lives. Iralíse alaith, vésani. Aer varno.”
Fly well, sister. Be safe.
“Ar du.” And you. Coren grasped Calen’s forearm. “We will see you in Aravell. And if you are not there, we will fly to Salme.”
Calen made his way over to where Therin stood beneath Varthear’s wing, threads of the Spark weaving into the dragon. Tivar stood beside him, both Avandeer and Valerys curled up at the dragon’s head, watching, while Asius sat on a low rock to Tivar’s right.
“Calen Bryer, son of Vars Bryer.” Asius grunted as he tried to rise, his usually stony face grimacing.
“Rest,” Calen said. Despite Asius sitting and Calen standing, Calen had to actually lift his hand to lay it on Asius’s shoulder. “The portal will be open soon, and the Healers will look after you.” Calen drew a short breath. “I am sorry for the loss of Thacia and Moras.”
“They are part of the earth once more.”
“As we were, so we will always be,” Calen said, remembering the phrase Asius had used when they had first met.
Asius gave him a soft smile. “They can rest now. It is a rest they deserve. And many draw breath because of it. Gods willing, Larion will be in Aravell when I return. And for the first time in centuries, hundreds of my people will be together. It is only a shame that Senas, Thacia, and Moras will not be among them.” Asius grimaced as he sat upright and stretched out his back. “When you return from Salme, I need you to promise me something, Calen Bryer, son of Vars Bryer, and Valerys, son of Valacia.”
“Name it, Asius. If it is within our power, we will see it done.”
“I need you to promise that my people will fight in the heart of the battles to come, that we will stand at the front of every line, and that we are beside you when we tear down Al’Nasla’s walls.”
Calen had never seen such fire in Asius’s eyes, never heard such emotion in his voice. Calen wrapped his fingers around the Jotnar’s pale blue forearm. “La’natal du myia vandíl.”
I give you my oath.
“Ar du, myialí,” Asius responded. And you mine.
Calen inclined his head to Asius, then looked over to where Therin and Tivar had been tending to Varthear. “How is she looking?”
“I’m not a strong enough Healer to see to these wounds on my own. Not properly,” Therin answered, looking back at Calen with a sympathetic smile. Therin had seen Rist. “But this should get her to Salme. Tessara brought Healers with her.” He looked over to Una, Kaygan, and Boud. “It would be simpler if we could bring a Healer here from Aravell.”
“That it would,” Calen responded. “For some reason, I don’t think Kaygan wants this to be simple.” Calen reached up and brushed his fingers along Varthear’s scarred snout as she leaned down to greet him. “Thank you. Without you, we would be dead.”
The dragon gave a low rumble, her nostrils flaring as she blew a warm breath over him. Flashes of memory passed through him, but they were not Varthear’s… They were Ella’s.
He saw himself through his sister’s eyes as he lay unconscious in the snow, Rhett kneeling beside him. Panic flooded her heart, followed by warmth as Rhett picked Calen’s body up from the snow.
The memory flashed forward to when they sat on the porch before The Proving, Calen sharpening his knife on the whetstone. He remembered that morning well.
“How sharp can a knife be?” Ella asked as she found Calen sitting on the porch. Calen remembered his sister speaking those words in a mocking tone, but as he looked through her eyes, all he felt was worry and fear.
Calen pulled his mind away and stared into the dragon’s red eyes. “How do you have those memories?”
“What’s wrong?” Tivar asked, turning her head to look into Calen’s eyes. She touched his cheek, cupped a hand to pull his eyes towards hers. Her touch was gentle and soft, her skin warm.
“I…” He looked into Tivar’s eyes, finding genuine concern there. He pulled his cheek away, glancing over at Ella. “I’m all right,” Calen answered, gathering his thoughts. “We need to be in the air.”
“Avandeer is ready,” Tivar responded, not looking away from his eyes.
Calen nodded slowly, reaching out to Valerys as both he and Avandeer rose from behind Varthear.
Therin turned and wiped the blood from his hands with a ragged old cloth. “Calen, if Valerys would have me, I would fly with you to Salme.”
“What about Faelen?”
“Faelen is safe, but Salme is not. And it means I could take further care of Varthear along the way. There are people I care about there. I spoke to Faelen of this possibility before I left.”
Calen looked up at Valerys, who shifted closer and lowered his head so the tip of his snout was barely half a foot from Therin’s face, lavender eyes looking down at the elf. A brief moment of quiet passed between them, and Valerys pushed his snout into Therin’s chest.
“We leave now,” Calen said.
I’m coming, Dann.