56. 2
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” She shook her head, just slightly, her lips curling at the corners of her mouth. She leaned up and kissed him, pressing her fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “That was… that was a very good explanation.”
“Are they tears or rain?” he asked, brushing droplets from just below her eyes.
“Tears, you idiot.”
“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“I’m not sad,” she said with a laugh. “Fuck, Rist.” She rested her hands on his cheeks once more. “You’re the furthest thing from a monster this world has ever had.”
Garramon watched Rist and Neera through the open flap in the command tent. He’d never have placed the two together, but she filled the cracks in him and he in her. The same was true of Garramon and Fulya all those years ago, until he drove her away, until he made a choice that defined him. A choice he regretted to that day.
“Brother Garramon.” Two voices in one spoke at the same time, layered atop one another. Azrim approached him, the leg of a rabbit in his right hand, little meat – or bone – left upon it.
“The Saviour’s light upon you, Azrim.”
“And upon you.” Azrim leaned to the left and looked out at Neera and Rist. “Strange, isn’t it, how this world of yours works? It was not long ago I brought him to your door.” The Chosen looked from Rist to Garramon. Azrim had always been different from the other heralds, always more intrigued by the mortal plane, always curious. “You’re attached to him.”
Garramon glanced at the Chosen, staring into his black, bottomless eyes, then back at Rist and Neera. “He will always be my apprentice.”
Azrim smiled – if it could be called a smile, his lips struggling to hold the gesture. “Your sentimentality is a curious thing also. I wish to know more of it.”
“Forgive me if this is too direct a question, but why have you come back?”
“I adore questions in all their forms, Brother Garramon. Answers do not exist without questions, and I so crave answers. And that is what leads me here. Yes, Efialtír commands it of me, but my curiosity about this world remains unsated. And now, I can explore it in a body more fit for its purpose, a body moulded for my soul.”
Azrim held out his arms, admiring the scarred rune markings and swirling blue tattoos that adorned his skin. The Chosen had not bothered to change his clothes for dry ones.
“Do not worry,” Azrim said, stripping the rabbit leg of the last of its flesh and tossing the remnants of the bone on the tent’s floor. “I will keep him safe as the harbinger requests.”
Azrim strolled from the tent and out into the rain, spreading his arms wide and tilting his head towards the sky. Rist and Neera were gone, back to their cots most likely.
Garramon watched as Azrim vanished into the night. What had the Chosen meant? Had Fane asked Azrim to watch over Rist? Why? Rist’s preparation for testing had been more than promising, but to have one of Efiatltír’s Chosen watching over him was a strange thing. His old friend had always worked within the confines of his own mind, but Garramon had noted it even more so of late.
Garramon had been surprised when Fane had chosen not to accompany the army himself. With ten thousand infantry, a full contingent of Battlemages, Taya Tambrel’s Blackwatch, Primarch Touran, ten of Efialtír’s Chosen, and the reinforcements from Elkenrim and Merchant’s Reach, it did not matter what awaited them in the rebel stronghold. But he’d seen the fury in his old friend’s eyes, the fervour of long past battles. Fane should have been there with them, but as always, Fane had plans within plans, layered and twisting. And Garramon was absolutely sure that Brother Pirnil played a central role in those plans. Fane had never had any particular liking for the man, but now Pirnil was never far from Fane’s side. When Garramon returned to the city, he would find the truth of it all. He’d spent too long trusting blindly and too long suffering for it.
With Azrim gone, Garramon joined the others by the fire. The conversation centred mostly around the remaining days of the march, provisions, fatigue, and the plan of action when the Firnin Mountains were reached. Garramon contributed little, instead sipping slowly on a cup of wine and watching Brother Tuk.
The man saw him watching, but Garramon didn’t look away. Solman had said something earlier that day, something that had lingered in his mind. “You have a knack for mentoring the young. Do you think this one will fare any better?”
There was something in the way he’d said it that pricked the hairs on Garramon’s neck. Something he couldn’t let go.
Once the conversation petered out and faded to frivolous matters, Garramon said his farewells, leaving Taya, Brother Halmak, and a number of generals about the fire, and stepped out into the rain, pulling up his hood.
The mud sucked at his boots, puddles forming in the hollows where too many footprints had overlapped. It had been quite some time since he’d seen rainfall of this magnitude, and of course it had come just when the army had set out from Berona.
He ambled through the deluge, passing dying campfires and soldiers running about holding sheets and cloaks above their heads. He knew where he was heading but was in no rush to get there. He had time.
As he walked, the sounds of slapping feet and sharp breaths touched his ears. It was not soldiers clambering about in the rain. The sounds were too controlled, too measured and repetitive. And within a few heartbeats, he knew precisely what it was he was hearing.
He let out a sigh, shaking his head as he walked towards the sounds. And sure enough, turning the corner around a tent that could not possibly have been pitched any worse, he saw Rist standing in the rain, his feet shoulder-width apart, set low in the first stance of form two, movement three.
The rain pummelled down on the young mage, bouncing off his cloak and the steel in his hands as he flowed through the movements, completely unaware of everything around him. Never in Garramon’s life, perhaps with Fane as the only exception, had he seen an individual with such unwavering dedication. When Rist committed himself to something, the young man became iron itself. And much like with Fane, Rist’s dedication was rewarded with a rate of improvement unreachable by the fickle of heart.
Garramon stood with his hands clasped behind his back and watched. Rist moved through all fourteen forms, again and again.
“I thought you went to find sleep.” Garramon stepped out into the open, raising an eyebrow at Rist.
The young man finished his movement, ending with his blade fully extended in a killing strike. The steel didn’t so much as quiver.
“I practice every night before I sleep.”
It was a statement of fact. The rain was not even a consideration.
“I know.” It felt a strange thing to have such pride in a young man that wasn’t of his own blood, and yet, that’s precisely what Garramon had. “I admire your dedication, Rist. But you’ll catch your death out here in the rain. Exhaustion and cold bones don’t mix.”
“So Neera told me.” Rist pulled his sword arm in and straightened. “I’m sorry for earlier. I spoke out of turn and I?—”
“You have nothing to apologise for.” Garramon held up an open palm. “You questioned a command that deserved questioning. Nothing more, nothing less. For what it’s worth, I think the men and women of this army would have found strength in the sight. They just watched rebels attack Berona, kill innocent citizens, kill their brothers and sisters who watched over the city. I think the sight of refugees slaughtered while fleeing to a place they thought to be safe may have only added fuel to their fire. But it is Taya’s command, and I trust her. I will hear no more of it, understood?”
“Yes, Exarch.”
“And Rist, get back to the tent, get out of those clothes, dry yourself off, and get some rest. The heart of your argument earlier was to do with exhaustion. It’s a bit hypocritical to then run yourself into the ground.” Garramon didn’t think it necessary to have to tell someone to remove their wet clothes and dry themselves before climbing between the sheets. But sometimes Rist took things a bit too literally, and Garramon had learned to be explicit with his instruction. “And dry the sword, lest it rust.”
Rist stared at Garramon for a moment, then inclined his head, droplets of rain streaming from his hair and down his face.
“I will see you at dawn before we march to continue your channelling.”
The young man inclined his head once more before heading back to his tent.
With that, Garramon set off towards the tent that had always been his destination. It wasn’t long before he found it. Two guards with the roaring lion on their breastplates stood at the entrance, candlelight coming from within. Good, the man was still awake.
The two guards straightened as Garramon approached, pressing closed fists to their chests. “Exarch.”
“Your watch has ended.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Your watch has ended, soldier. Brother Tuk says he no longer requires your presence. You may retire for the night. I have left a cask of Etrusian wine along with fresh cuts of lamb and clean blankets in the cook tent – a thank you for your understanding. Tell Omelda that Exarch Garramon Kalinim sent you. You will be well looked after.”
The two men exchanged an unsure glance, which was slowly replaced by one of realisation.
“If the High Ardent requires it,” one of the guards said, inclining his head.
“He does.”
The guards left Garramon alone before the tent’s entrance, the scent of burning sage drifting from within.
Candles puddled in small iron bowls about the tent, two atop a long wooden desk to the right next to a third in a bowl that wafted white smoke.
High Ardent Solman Tuk stood with his arms crossed, a cup of wine in his hand and red stains on his lips. He looked down at an open ledger on a table, his brow furrowed. It took a moment for Tuk to notice Garramon, but when he did, his expression shifted to one of surprise, then caution. “Garramon, what are you doing here? Where are my guards?”
“They have the same taste for wine as you, I’m afraid.” Garramon took slow, measured steps, scanning the tent. No fewer than three finely woven rugs adorned the ground, spun with vibrant reds, golds, silvers, and blacks. Two heavy chests worked with gold rested at the foot of the wooden-framed bed, and at least six thick blankets lay across a feather mattress. It appeared the High Ardent never travelled without his luxuries, and Garramon would do well to inform Taya that there might be some inefficient use of her wagon space.
“What do you want, Garramon? It’s late.”
“It is.”
“Is this about earlier?” Tuk let out an irritated sigh, shaking his head.
Garramon nodded, slowing his steps as he drew closer to the High Ardent.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Garramon. You’re all the same. Cold and apathetic. That boy is no different. You Battlemages attract the type. I will not apologise.”
“I didn’t much come here to talk, nor to seek an apology.”
Tuk’s eyes widened at that, and he unfolded his arms, his back stiffening.
“If you ever speak to any of my Brothers or Sisters like you did today, I will pin you to the floor and remove your tongue with a blunt spoon. And I will call one of your companions to stop the bleeding only because death is too quick for a weasel like you.”
“Your threats don’t scare me. I answer to the Grand Ardent and the emperor, not you. You hold no power over me, Garramon. You are not the Arbiter anymore, and even when you were…” Tuk shrugged.
There it was again, that tone in his voice, that smug look of pomposity in his eyes. There was something Tuk felt as though he had gotten away with, a battle he thought he had won – a battle he thought he was now safe from. He was wrong.
“Oh, but I do have power over you.” Garramon opened himself to the Spark and pulled on threads of Air, wrapping them around Tuk’s throat.
The man dropped his cup, wine spilling across the intricately woven rug, hands slapping at his neck, veins popping, skin turning red.
“Don’t worry,” Garramon said. “I won’t kill you like this. A child could overpower you with the Spark.”
Garramon released the High Ardent, who fell to the ground, choking. Tuk lifted himself to his feet, eyes filled with rage.
“That’s it, Brother Tuk, feel the anger. Breathe it in.”
Tuk clenched his jaw, teeth grinding, hands twisted into fists, white robes stained from the spilt wine. “You arrogant piece of shit. I will report this to the Grand Ardent, and he to the emperor.”
“Let it out.”
“You always thought you were better than me, always thought my affinity worth nothing but the dirt beneath your feet. Were it not for your tongue being so far up Fane’s arse, you would be nothing.”
“Is that right?”
Tuk’s lip curled in a grin, red-marked teeth flashing. “Who won in the end, Garramon?”
“I’m sorry, Brother Tuk, but I don’t understand. What did you win?”
The High Ardent’s eyes widened when he realised he had said too much, the wine making him too bold.
“Don’t worry. I already knew.” Garramon took another step closer. “I just needed to be sure… to be completely sure.”
“I didn’t… I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come now, Brother. You insult yourself. You know exactly what I mean. It was you who whispered in my son’s ear, you who gave him the letter to pass to rebels, and you who told of his betrayal.”
“I did no such thing.” Tuk’s voice was strong and steady, but his body gave him away. He swallowed. Took a step back, hands shaking, gaze darting for an escape. “Your son did what he did, Garramon. Accept it.”
“Yes, you did, Tuk.”
“You have no proof.” His tone grew sharper, his face red.
“I don’t need proof,” Garramon said with a shrug. “Back then I did. You held too high of a position for me to simply slit your throat. I needed evidence to bring to Fane. But I’ll give you one thing, Tuk, you’re a smart man. You covered your tracks well. The young man you hired to turn Malyn over betrayed you but didn’t live long enough for his words to reach any ears but my own.” He tapped a finger on the long desk, still moving forwards. “I thought I had you. But then I began to question myself. Was I obsessing? Was I wrong? Did the man just give me the first name that came to his head to save his own hide? Everything in my bones told me it was you, but every time I thought I found something to prove that theory right, it vanished into thin air. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I’d killed an innocent man. So all these years I’ve wondered but stayed my hand… until tonight. You slipped, Brother Tuk. It’s not your fault. It’s time’s fault. Time makes us grow complacent, makes us feel safe.”
“You found no proof because it’s not true, Garramon.” Tuk moved tentatively back towards the table, rubbing at his throat. “I would never.”
Garramon gave him a smile, then looked down at the burning sage in the bowl. “You know, I remember, back before the liberation, when we had an argument. Do you remember?”
“We’ve had a lot of arguments. But that’s always been the way. Battlemages and Healers, two sides of a coin.”
Garramon wagged his finger, stepping ever closer. “No, no, this one was different. We were drunk, you more than I, much like you are now. You wanted the prisoners from the Lyonin campaign turned over to the Healers. Do you remember now?”
“I don’t think… No, it doesn’t ring any bells.”
“You came before the council arguing that if the prisoners could be used as specimens for study, then the Healers’ understanding of the living body could rise to new heights.” Garramon ran his finger across the edge of the table, rubbing away ash from the burning sage. “I was in the chamber myself at the time, providing reports on the rising Urak threat near Caelduin. Alvira called you a monster and – if I remember correctly – told you to rot in the void. And when Folan asked for further opinions, I gave mine. You didn’t much like it. You confronted me in the Grand Hall during the feast that night. Threw a cup of wine over me. And then you told me that I would regret what I said, that I would ‘rue the day’. Rather dramatic. You had this look in your eyes, this…” Garramon rolled his hand in the air as though trying to find the thought. “This arrogance mixed with superiority. The same look you had today when you spoke to Rist. And then when I walked into this tent and spoke of my son, I saw that same look.”
Garramon moved so he was within arm’s reach of Brother Tuk. To the man’s credit, he held his ground, though judging by the way his hand tapped against his hip, it was taking all of Tuk’s resolve to do so.
Again the man swallowed hard.
“I know it was you. After all these years, I know. And I will not let you do the same thing to Rist that you did to Malyn. I will not let you get inside his head. Twist him, and break him, and make him think that he is less, that he needs your approval. You are a self-important worm who clings to any side he thinks will win. You sit and you judge others, but Alvira was right – it is you who is the monster.”
Garramon held Tuk’s gaze, waiting, watching. A trapped animal always snapped, and Garramon needed to be sure. He would not kill an innocent man.
“Garramon. Come to your senses. None of this is—” Tuk broke off and reached for the Spark, slamming threads of Air into Garramon’s chest, then tried to break into a run.
The threads knocked Garramon back a step but did little else. He rammed his fist into Brother Tuk’s gut.
The man doubled over, coughing and grabbing his stomach. Garramon took him by the scruff of the neck and threw him to the ground.
“Where did you think you were running to? There’s nowhere you could hide from me. I am the Arbiter after all. Get up.”
Tuk twisted and threw open the lid to the chest nearest him, producing a long golden dagger, an Essence vessel set into its hilt. He leapt to his feet and swiped at Garramon’s arm, neck, then chest.
Each time, Garramon shifted in place, allowing the man to stumble around like a hapless idiot. And when he felt Tuk tapping into the gemstone, Garramon grabbed the man’s wrist and snapped it back, catching the dagger with his other hand.
He turned the blade over, admiring it. “There is something ironic about a Healer pulling a dagger on a Battlemage. Then again, you always were a snake.”
Garramon smashed his forehead into the bridge of Tuk’s nose, earning a beautiful snap , blood spurting as the man staggered backwards into the foot of the bed.
“Up. I’ll give you one last swing at this.”
The man grunted and stumbled forwards, pinching his bloody nose. “You won’t get away with this, Kalinim. You won’t.”
“It’s been four hundred years since the war ended, Solman. I could slit your throat and bury you beneath this tent, and this army will march on without asking a single question. Come on, it’s just me standing between you and leaving this tent.”
Tuk squeezed his nose one last time before lunging at Garramon. He snatched an iron bowl off the table and hurled it through the air.
The bowl bounced off Garramon’s raised arm, hot wax splashing over his face and shirt. The pain was nothing compared to the fire in his veins. He sidestepped a punch from Tuk, then jabbed him in his already-broken nose. As the man howled, Garramon grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his face down into the bowl of burning sage on the desk.
Tuk screamed and reeled backwards, swatting the hot ash from his skin.
Garramon threw a fist into the man’s ribs, and as Tuk doubled over, he clasped the back of Tuk’s head and dragged it down into his rising knee.
Tuk slumped to the ground, rolling onto his back. He gasped for air as Garramon rested his knee into the man’s gut.
“If you ever so much as look at Rist Havel…” Garramon wrapped his fingers around Tuk’s robes and lifted the man’s head and chest from the floor. “I will burn out your eyes.”
Garramon slammed his fist into Tuk’s face, knocking the man’s head back to the floor, a fresh cut bursting open just below his eye.
He wrapped his fingers tighter and pulled the man back up. “If you speak to him, I will break your legs and leave you in the Burnt Lands.”
Garramon drove his fist into Tuk’s broken nose as hard as he could, the skin on his knuckles cracking with the impact.
“The only reason I’m not going to kill you is because death is too swift.” Garramon snatched Tuk’s dagger from the floor. He let his anger rise, let it burn in his voice. “You twisted my son, fed him lies, then betrayed him, all for what? To hurt me?”
“To break you,” Tuk spat, his head lolling, face covered in blood. “To teach you what it is to lose something.”
“There it is…” Garramon’s jaw trembled, and his fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt. Where Garramon thought he would find blind rage within himself, he suddenly instead found a sense of relief, of calm. He had been right all these years. He had been right. “So you admit it?”
“Of course I do. You already knew. You knew then, and you know now.”
“You took my son from me.”
The High Ardent shook his head, coughing blood. “No… No. You killed your son. You had a choice, and you made it. All I did was tempt him. He was the one who took the bait, and you were the one who swung the sword. You killed him, Garramon. Not me.”
“I did. I made the wrong choice, and I will never make that mistake again. I will not. But my guilt does not absolve yours, and I’m the one with the knife. I won’t kill you, Tuk.”
“Thank you… Brother Garramon.” A fake smile danced on Tuk’s lips. “A life for a life and we’d all be dead. I’m sorry for what I did, truly. I’m sorry.”
Garramon nodded and returned the man’s smile. “You’re right, a life for a life serves no purpose. But you took my son from me, and now I must take something in return.”
“What?” Tuk lifted his head from the floor, eyes wide.
Garramon pressed his knee down harder into the man’s stomach and wrapped his hand around Tuk’s throat. “This will hurt more than anything you can imagine.”
Garramon opened himself to the Spark, thick threads of each elemental strand flowing through him. He held them, savoured them, then pushed every drop of power in his veins into the High Ardent.
Tuk screamed, but Garramon’s hand around his throat silenced him. The High Ardent tried to push back, but his strength was a trickling stream next to Garramon’s. He jerked upwards, veins bulging in his head and neck. And then Garramon felt it – felt the man’s connection to the Spark shatter. Tuk convulsed, his fingers snapping and cracking as he twisted and jerked. A white light shone from his eyes, growing brighter and brighter until the smell of burnt flesh filled the air and Tuk’s eye sockets were nothing but blackened husks. The man stopped kicking and screaming.
Garramon took no pleasure in what he did. He knew it was monstrous. But he cared little. Solman Tuk had wormed his way into Malyn’s head, convinced him to turn on his family and his friends, only to tear him apart. There was no pain in the world Garramon would not inflict on this man for what he had done to Malyn. And Garramon would not let the same thing happen to Rist. Rist, whose mind was already more fragile, already more vulnerable than Malyn’s had ever been.
Garramon’s hands were just as dirty as Tuk’s, just as bloody. He knew that. There was no redemption for the things he’d done. But he would use those bloody hands to keep Rist safe. He would not fail him like he had failed his son.
Cold rain dropped on Garramon’s face as he stepped from the tent, the smell of burning flesh still clinging to him.
As he turned and made for his own cot, Magnus emerged from the shadows between two tents opposite the High Ardent’s.
“I was planning on paying our friend Solman a visit.” Magnus glanced down at the red droplets falling from Garramon’s hands. “Have you seen him?”
“It appears he burned himself out, attempting to draw more power than he was capable of.”
“Awful. How is he?”
“I was just on my way to fetch a Healer. Wouldn’t want to leave him in that state.”
“You’re such a considerate man, Garramon Kalinim.”
Garramon stared into the night, then looked into Magnus’s dark eyes. He allowed the pain in his heart to seep into his voice. “He killed Malyn, Magnus… He admitted it. It was him who betrayed my son.”
Magnus only nodded, the rain dripping from his black beard. He let out a long sigh. “Some wounds don’t heal, we just have to let them bleed. Come. I’ve got some Drifaienin whiskey. Then you need some rest. We’ll fetch a Healer on the way.”