The heat of the water almost scalded Dann's feet as he lowered himself into the large brass tub. He didn't care; the relief it gave his joints and muscles far outweighed the pain it caused. All he wanted was to remove the thick layer of dirt and dust that had crusted onto his skin. Five days. Not four days. Five. That's how long it had taken to get back to Durakdur. Though, he couldn't entirely blame Nimara; were it not for the dwarf's quick thinking in the tunnels, those stone spiders would have eaten them for breakfast. Still, it was a mite quicker than it had been to find that wrecked Wind Runner in the first place.
If it were up to Dann, he would have soaked in that bath until the water turned cold, then he would have emptied it and filled it right back up. It was not up to him, though. Aeson made it clear he would give them all two hours, and then he would send for them. It's not like Dann had a right to complain. He couldn't right well argue that they all should have stayed to keep searching the tunnels and then tell them he couldn't meet to arrange the plan forward because he was busy refilling his bath. He laughed to himself at the idea of it and at how Aeson's and Therin's faces would look.
Absently, Dann fingered the scarred flesh that stretched up along his collarbone and over his left shoulder. He had told Calen, and Therin for that matter, that he had kept it to impress women, and honestly, that was a factor. But it was also a reminder. A reminder of how close he had come. A reminder of what they faced. He pondered it as he traced his finger over the mess of twisted skin. He turned his lip upwards and shrugged. "It will definitely impress the women, though."
Once the water had turned cold, Dann reluctantly lifted himself out of the tub, flinching as his blistered feet touched the cold stone. After drying himself, he tied the drawstring on his trousers and pulled on the fresh linen shirt that sat on the chair opposite the tub. If there was one thing he would never tire of in this place, it was the never-ending supply of fresh clothes.
It was not long before he heard a short knock on the door to his chambers. Well, at least he thought of them as his. It's where they had put him before the battle of Belduar – or the second battle of Belduar, whatever they called it. Nobody had come to remove him, so he figured the chambers were his.
He opened the door to find a young boy staring back at him, no more than sixteen summers, wide-eyed and golden-haired, with a firm jaw and a surprisingly strong chin. Dann recognised him as the porter who had shown Calen around in Belduar. He wore a tunic in the purple of Belduar with a yellow trim and a high collar; it looked a little big on the boy's slight frame, as though it had not been made expressly for him. Dann almost stumbled backward when the porter bowed to him.
"King Daymon summons you, m'lord. I am to take you to his meeting chamber at once."
Lord? I think I could get used to that. "At once, he says?"
The boy nodded, not noting Dann's sarcasm.
"Conal, isn't it?"
"Yes, m'lord. Conal Braker."
"Good to meet you properly, Conal. My name is Dann Pimm, and I'm ready to go when you are."
The knock on Aeson's door had come sooner than he had expected. Dropping the razor into the clay bowl that sat beside the tub, he splashed some water on his face and patted it dry with a cloth. He threw his shirt over his shoulders as he made his way to the door.
"I came as soon as I received your message."
Aeson was a little surprised to see Dahlen at the door. He had not expected to see him until they met Daymon to discuss everything, but it was a welcome surprise. He reached forward, pulling his son into a tight embrace.
"It's good to see you, son."
Dahlen was silent for a moment, but then Aeson felt him lean into the embrace. "It's good to see you, too. You didn't find them, then…"
"We didn't." Aeson couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice, as much as he tried. "But we are not stopping. We will find them. We found the wreckage of their Wind Runner – they weren't among the dead, thank Heraya. I'm going to reach out to the Wind Runners Guild. Now that everything has calmed down here, they might be able to spare someone. We head out again in the morning once we have gathered supplies." Aeson had prepared himself for some sort of reaction from Dahlen. A request to join them, but none came. "Come in," he said, stepping aside to let Dahlen into his chambers. The room was relatively small, comprising only a bed, two chairs, a desk, and very little else, though it did have its own washroom at the back. "How goes everything here?"
Dahlen dropped himself into one of the chairs by the desk. "There have been no more attempts on Daymon's life, but there is definitely something going on here. Something more than is plain to see. Ihvon and I have been looking into it."
"Just be careful, son." Aeson had known Ihvon long enough to know the man didn't shy away from trouble. Ihvon knew court politics, and he knew how to talk his way around most situations, but he also put himself in more danger than was ever necessary. And his history with the dwarves was worrisome, to say the least.
"What do you mean?" A frown sat on Dahlen's face as he pulled himself upright in his seat.
Aeson could tell by the stubborn look in Dahlen's eyes that he was going to have to be very careful with his words. "Ihvon is a good friend and an even better man. There are few people I would prefer at my side in times like these."
"But?"
Aeson sighed, running his fingers along his scalp. "But when it comes to the dwarves, he can't always see straight. His loss clouds his judgement."
"It's Daymon who can't see straight. All he sees is danger around every corner. His people are left wasting away while he—"
"Dahlen, that is a king you are talking about. Hold your tongue." Aeson let out a short sigh, pressing his fingers into his freshly shaved face.
Aeson could see the anger rising in Dahlen's face. Ever since Dahlen was a child, every time he got angry, his ears would turn red, and he would clench his fists at his sides – just as he was doing then. "What does it matter if Daymon is a king? Are kings not held responsible for their actions?"
"That's not what I'm trying to say, Dahlen."
"Then what are you trying to say? Because it sounds to me like you either don't trust my judgement, or you are telling me to put someone's title before their honour."
"Just listen to me!" Aeson roared, unable to hold his temper. Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Aeson wanted to drag them back. He always tried to keep himself level, which was difficult enough with the gaping wound in his soul where Lyara should have been. But Dahlen had always known how to pull the right chords to provoke a reaction. "I'm sorry," Aeson said, bringing his voice down near a whisper. "Ihvon's history with the dwarves is not a friendly one, no matter how he acts on the outside. I'm just asking you to be careful, please."
Waiting for Aeson to finish, Dahlen rose to his feet, his jaw clenched. "I trust him. I just wish you would trust me. I will see you in the meeting chamber."
"Dahlen. Dahlen, please," Aeson called after Dahlen as he stormed out of the room. "Gods dammit!" Aeson slammed the door shut, sighing as he rested his elbows and head against the hard wood. "Naia, things would be a lot easier if you were here. You always knew what to say…"
Dahlen, Ihvon, and Daymon were already there when Aeson entered the king's meeting chamber, as were Dann, Therin, and the two elves, Alea and Lyrei. The dwarves had certainly not skimped when it had come to providing Daymon with whatever he needed. The meeting chamber alone was three times the size of Aeson's bedchambers, and the decoration was far more lavish. A rail of gold skirted the walls on both the top and the bottom, busts of old dwarven rulers stood on pedestals along the far wall, and large ornate lanterns of winding crystal filled with bunches of the luminescent blue flower hung from the ceilings. Two couches sat facing each other with a matching quartet of armchairs at either end, each made of the finest quality Arkalen leather. They must have paid a pretty penny for that; the Arkalen were not known to drive an easy bargain.
"That is all of us, then," Daymon announced as Aeson stepped into the room. "Please, please, take a seat. Would you like anything? Food, water, ale?"
"I'm all right, thank you, Your Majesty." Aeson took a seat in the empty leather armchair closest to the door, Dann occupying the one beside him. "Let's get started."
They sat for three or four hours, going back and forth over everything that had happened in the past few weeks. The situation in the Freehold was worse than Aeson had anticipated, and as much as he hated to admit it, Dahlen was right. Daymon was not seeing straight. The boy seemed more concerned about more potential assassination attempts and about trying to retake Belduar than he did the plight of his people. From what Aeson could gather, the Belduaran refugees had been split up and spread across several camps in each of the four kingdoms of the Freehold, and most of them were not living like their king. There was not much Aeson could do, but he would try and broach it with Daymon once they had found Erik and Calen.
"I will talk to the Wind Runners Guild once we are finished here," Ihvon said, stroking his long beard. "You wish to leave in the morning? All right. I will see to it that supplies are arranged. We should be able to muster enough for two weeks, but after that we won't have the resources to send you down there again, Aeson. We simply don't have them. I wish there was more we could do, old friend."
"Thank you, Ihvon. I understand." Aeson nodded absently, pursing his lips. He had known that already. The Belduarans were stretched thin as it was, and supporting a kingdom's worth of people while you yourself were a refugee was not a task Aeson envied. If they were not successful on this trip, he would have to plead with the dwarves. Nimara and the others who had accompanied them to the tunnels were evidence enough that the dwarven people still held the Draleid in high regard.
"What will you do if you cannot find them within the tunnels?" Daymon asked, producing a crystal flask filled with a brown liquid from behind his heavy wooden desk. As soon as the king removed the plug from the flask, the scent hit Aeson's nose: Drifaienin whiskey. There was always the chance it had been given to him as a gift, but this far from Drifaien, buried beneath a mountain, it was unlikely. The only place Drifaienin whiskey was cheap was in Drifaien. He had once seen an old widower trade three cows for a single bottle. He would have to keep an eye on his old friend's son. Times like these could make a shadow of even the greatest men, and someone as young as Daymon needed guidance; twenty summers was not enough to carry the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders.
Were dwarves not involved, he would have believed Ihvon to be the ideal person to provide that guidance. But when Alyana and Khris were killed, Ihvon's judgement was forever clouded. Aeson knew Ihvon blamed the dwarves for leaving them behind. But the dwarves had no choice. They couldn't have gone back for them; if they had, they all would have died. Ihvon was only alive because of the dwarves, but the man didn't see it that way, and in truth Aeson understood him. Had he been in Ihvon's place, had it been Naia, Erik, and Dahlen instead of Alyana and Khris, he would have felt the same way Ihvon did.
"Perhaps," said a wispy voice, "I can help."
Aeson reached out to the Spark, but it did not respond. It hovered just out of reach, as it had many times since Lyara's death. He leapt to his feet, ripping his swords from their scabbards, swivelling to face whomever the voice belonged to. The others around him did the same, though not all had brought their weapons.
"Who goes there?" Ihvon yelled, not the slightest sign of a quiver in his voice. "And how did you get past the guards?"
What stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the room took Aeson by surprise. It stood like a man, just over six and a half feet tall, with long, willowy limbs. But it did not look like a man. Its body was covered head to toe in a harsh, grey fur. Its feet were more like claws, while even its fingernails looked as hard as steel. Only its face seemed relatively human, and even at that, its eyes shimmered golden – like Alea and Lyrei's. Aeson had met its kind before, although that had been a long time ago. This was an Angan. Shapeshifter."Baldon, may the spirits of the gods guide your light," Therin said, ignoring the shocked faces of everyone around him. Of course, the elf knew what was going on. Aeson wasn't sure he had ever seen Therin any other way. "You received my message through Asius, then?"
"We did, and clan Fenryr thanks you, Silver Fang. Asius sent me to tell you that we have found the son of the Chainbreaker. Though our people weep for the death of the Chainbreaker himself. How did he die?"
Therin stepped towards the Angan, a deep sadness etched into his face. "Not in the way he should have, Baldon. At the tip of an Inquisitor's blade, defending his son."
"May the spirits curse the man who held the blade." A deep growl crept into the Angan's voice when he spoke. More animal than anything else.
"He will pay the price of blood." Therin's voice did not waiver as he spoke. His eyes remained fixed on the Angan's. "Vars Bryer deserved better…" Therin looked as though lost in thought, his jaw clenched.
"Vars Bryer? Therin, does that mean he knows where Calen is?" Dann interrupted. "And…" Dann looked towards the Angan, tilting his head sideways, "what are you?"
Both Aeson and Therin glared at Dann. The boy had a habit of never knowing when to be quiet.
"Sorry," Dann said, holding his hands up. "I'll ask them what you are later," he continued, nodding at Aeson and Therin in turn. The boy simply had no concept of what he should and should not say. "Carry on."
"Shut up," Dahlen whispered, just loud enough for Aeson to hear.
Therin gave Dann a sidelong look, a flicker of irritation on his face, but then he turned to the Angan. "Baldon, I need you to tell me if you can lead us to his son."
"I can, Silver Fang," the Angan replied, the growl still resonating through its voice. "He has been seen by our eyes in Drifaien."
"Well, then, to Drifaien we go."
"Surely they could not be in Drifaien, Therin," Aeson said, his face twisting into a frown. "It would have taken them months to get to Drifaien. Your eyes are mistaken, Angan."
The Angan smiled. At least, Aeson thought it was a smile. Its lips peeled back to reveal a set of sharpened teeth that looked more like fangs. "They are not mistaken. The son of the Chainbreaker is in Drifaien."
"You are sure?" Aeson said, fixing his gaze on the Angan. The son of the Chainbreaker? "You are absolutely certain they are in Drifaien?"
"Aeson, he would not—"
Anger bubbled in the pit of Aeson's stomach. "My son is with him, Therin. We must be sure!"
"I am certain, Broken One. He travels with a party across the Eversnow, humans, dwarves, an elf, and the young dragon among them."
A shiver ran down Aeson's spine as the Angan spoke. Broken One. He knew the creature only meant to show him respect, but its words were a reminder of what he had lost. The feeling was not something he could easily explain to anyone who had not experienced it. A constant emptiness sat in the back of his mind where he knew Lyara should have been. It was like missing a limb, but more than that. The elves called him 'Rakina' out of respect – 'One who survived'. But what the Angan had said rang truer to how he felt. Broken. He had survived by simply existing, but surviving was not living.
"Thank you, Baldon." Therin moved closer to the Angan. They placed their hands on the one another's shoulders, palms facing down, and then rested their foreheads against each other.
"May the gods watch over your journey, Baldon," Therin said.
"And yours, Therin Silver Fang," the Angan answered. "When you are ready, I will meet you by the Southern Fold Gate that opens to the mountain pass. The dwarves will show you the way." With that, the creature stepped from the room, eliciting not even a whisper from the stone floor.
With the Angan gone, the room broke into a furore.
Aeson looked out the window at the streets below as the room began to empty. The decision had been made. They would follow the Angan. It was their best option by far. They could have spent months – years, even – searching through the tunnels that ran through the mountain. And that was time they simply did not have. If Therin trusted the creature, then so would he. His old friend had earned that twice over.
"Father?"
Dahlen's voice pulled Aeson out of his own thoughts. "Dahlen. What is on your mind?"
"I'm not coming with you."
It took Aeson a moment to realise what Dahlen meant. And even then, he still did not truly understand. When Aeson had left him in Durakdur the first time, he had been furious, and now he didn't wish to come? "What do you mean you're not coming with us? We know where Erik is now, Dahlen. We must go and get him."
Aeson saw a flash of hesitation on his son's face, but it was quickly replaced with an expression he had seen many times over – gritty determination. "I know. But I truly think there is more happening here. Ihvon and Daymon need me. You go and find Erik. I will make sure there is a safe place for you both when you return."
"Are you sure about this?" Aeson rested his hand on his son's shoulder.
"My gut is telling me that what is happening here is important. I need to stay."
Aeson nodded, letting out a sigh of resignation. He could not argue any further, nor would he wish to. If Dahlen truly believed he was needed in Durakdur, then Aeson believed him. "All right. But I expect a hawk sent out to Arem's waypoint in Argona. We should be there in two weeks' time."
"It will be there, waiting for you," Dahlen said with a nod. "And… I'm sorry. I know you were only trying to help, but Ihvon is a good man. I trust him. I shouldn't have lost my temper, and for that, I am sorry."
"It's all right." A half-smile formed at the corner of Aeson's mouth as he looked at the man his son had become. Both Dahlen and Erik had truly grown into good men. Aeson remembered when they had been small enough for him to hold one in each hand. What he would have given for Naia to be able to see them now. "Be careful."
There was something familiar about the jolt that ran up Ella's spine as the carriage wheel cracked against a large stone. She did her best to hold her composure, though; she didn't want Farda to see any signs of weakness. Everything had been dangerous enough before she had learned he was a mage. Even the word itself sounded strange in her head. Calen had always been the one who loved the stories of the old times, when 'noble warriors rode astride dragons, and magic shaped the world'. That was how her dad always said it when Calen was little.
If Ella was being honest with herself, she had always liked the stories too, particularly Therin's. But magic? Real magic. An uneasy feeling twisted in her stomach at the thought of it. Men were dangerous enough with a bottle in their hands, never mind a sword. But magic changed everything. She could talk her way around a man with a bottle, and she could fight her way past a man with a sword – at least, she could with Faenir by her side. But what could she do against a man who could wield magic?
Ella let out an irritated sigh as she stared out the carriage window at the gleaming sunlight and passing farms. That was all she had been able to see for hours. Farm after farm and the occasional inn. Now and then, she thought she could see Faenir running between the fields. It was hard to be sure, but something in the back of her mind told her she was right.
"You're going to have to speak full sentences to me at some stage, you know?"
Ella took a deep breath and then held it to emphasise that she was annoyed. After holding it for three or four seconds longer than was normal, she let it out, shifting in her seat, moving to face Farda. "You can use magic," she said, leaning forward, raising her eyebrow. "But clearly you can't read a woman's mind. Which of the two skills would you think is more valuable?"
Farda's laughter was not what she had expected. She had expected an awkward silence or, at the very least, an irritated frown. Nobody enjoyed being made fun of, particularly men. Calen hated it. If she ever wanted him to lose his temper when they were younger, all she ever had to do was tell him he was short. But she had never received laughter as a reaction. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," Farda said, a grin spreading across his stubbled face. "Are you always this obvious?"
"I beg your pardon?" Ella twisted her tongue in her mouth, clenching her jaw.
"Are you always this obvious when you're clearly trying to make somebody angry?"
Ella glared at Farda but refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
"This is a long carriage ride, Ella Fjorn. The silent treatment will get old quickly."
Ella's veins turned to ice, and her stomach lurched. Ella Fjorn. She had forgotten she had given Farda that name.
It was her true name that had started all of this: Ella Bryer. That name had killed Rhett. Ella Fjorn was the name she had been robbed of. Why shouldn't she have it now?