Calen grunted as he lay on his back, the cold stone of the cell floor providing some reprieve from the pain that burned across his back. Artim Valdock had been true to his word. The agony Calen felt was like nothing he had ever imagined. New cuts and welts littered his back, chest, and legs, some scabbed over, some still seeping pus and blood. He no longer had nails on his feet or hands, and he was sure some of his ribs were broken. A healer would be along soon to apply salve to his wounds, as they had each of the last eight nights. The better he healed, the more he could be tortured.
A pang twisted in his stomach, his body screaming for even the smallest morsel of food. Calen pushed his hunger to the back of his mind; it would do him no good to listen to it now. Gritting his teeth, Calen stretched his arm, snatching the loop of the waterskin with his finger, hearing only the slightest of sloshing noises from within. He gasped, a sharp pain shooting through his side as he pulled the stopper from the waterskin and lifted the nozzle to his mouth. Only a dribble remained at the bottom of the skin, just enough to wet his lips and tongue.
The voice in the back of his mind told him to empty the waterskin's contents onto the ground. He would not survive long without water. But alongside that dark, all-consuming voice, rang his father's words. "The sun will set, and it will rise again, and it will do so the next day and the next. The gods are in charge of such things, but it is by our own will that we pick ourselves up when we fall."Dropping the empty waterskin to the floor, Calen closed his eyes. The High Mage had not lied, but he had failed to understand something crucial. No matter how much torture or pain he put Calen through, it paled in comparison to the absence of Valerys from his soul. It was a tangible emptiness. Half of him was gone, and his entire consciousness cried out for what was lost.
He still heard Valerys at night. The dragon's roars bellowed like thunder through the dark, sometimes even shaking the walls of the cell. He had urged the dragon to stay away, but he knew Valerys could no more hear him than he could hear Valerys.
"Just stay alive…"
The bread was hard and difficult to chew, gone stale maybe two days past. Soaked in the juices of the pork, however, it was edible. Dann choked it down hungrily.
He shuffled closer to the fire as it crackled and snapped, spitting plumes of embers into the night. As the days moved deeper into winter's grasp, the cold grew more ravenous and was forever nipping at his skin. The group had set up camp only an hour ago, three or so hours after the sun had set along the horizon. Riding in the dark didn't seem to bother anyone; they didn't have time to waste on the whims of the sun and moon.
He wasn't quite sure where they were. He had seen the Marin Mountains not too far in the distance that morning. At least, Therin had said they were the Marin Mountains. Dann did not know well enough himself. It had not been that long ago that he had not even laid eyes on Camylin, never mind the mountains that shaded the Illyanara capital, Argona. The Glade was far enough to the west that Argona was rarely ever mentioned, though traders and bards who passed through often told of its splendour and riches. That's all bards ever seemed to talk about: splendour and riches, the beauty of battle, and the honour of warriors. I'd wager every one of those bards would shit themselves if they ever saw the pointy end of a sword. The only bard who had ever truly captured Dann's attention was the one who currently sat to Dann's left, legs folded beneath himself, a tin of charcoal sticks balancing on his knee and a small sketchbook in his hand. "What's that?"
Therin raised an eyebrow. "This?" he asked, glancing towards the sketchbook. "Nothing interesting. Just my valúr."
Dann pursed his lips inwards, holding Therin's gaze, giving a slight questioning shrug. Getting straight answers from the elf was like drawing blood from a stone.
Therin smiled as though reading Dann's mind. "It is elven custom that any elf who wishes to hold an instrument designed to take life must also learn to create. A valúr is your gift to the world. This," he said, gesturing to the sketchbook, "is mine."
More than one smart remark crossed Dann's mind – he thoroughly enjoyed irritating Therin – but the idea of the valúr was something he genuinely understood. And so, he bit his tongue, reluctantly, and watched as Therin's hand moved the charcoal swiftly over the paper, the form of a wolfpine taking shape beneath his fingertips.
Aeson stood against a tree on the other side of the fire, barely visible through the flames. He always took first watch any time they made camp, and often last watch as well. Aela and Lyrei sat together to the right of the fire, conversing in low voices, their golden eyes gleaming. For a moment, Alea's eyes met his, lingering, then she looked away.
The Angan, Baldon, had not yet joined them that night. That was normal, though; he usually appeared long after the sun had set and was gone by sunrise. That was the only rhythm to his comings and goings.
Dann leaned back, resting his palms on the grass where the fire had melted away the thin layer of frost that clung to the forest. He never liked silence. Some people loved it, even craved it. Not him. Silence gave him too much time in his own head, and he didn't like his own head. With a sigh, Dann plucked a long blade of grass from behind him and placed it between his teeth to chew. It had seemed strange to him at first, all those years ago, but Dann still found that chewing on something like a long blade of grass often distracted him from his own thoughts while hunting. "Therin?"
The elf let out a sigh, dropping a piece of charcoal into the tin that rested on his knee and turning his attention towards Dann. He raised an eyebrow, a look in his eyes that said, 'What is it this time?'.
"Back in Durakdur, the shapeshifter, the Angan. He said Calen was the son of the Chainbreaker. What does that mean? Vars was the Chainbreaker?"
With an outward sigh, Therin closed over the lid of the charcoal tin, then placed the tin and the sketchbook into his leather satchel. Dann felt a twinge of regret as he saw the forlorn look in Therin's eyes.
"That is a story for another time, I'm afraid."
"But—"
"Another time, Dann." Therin's voice flashed from angry to melancholy, the firelight glittering in his eyes. "Vars was a dear friend, and Calen should be here when I tell that story."
Dann nodded. It was a story he desperately wanted to hear. How did Therin know so much about Calen's father? What was the Chainbreaker? But the look in Therin's eyes told Dann not to push it, and so for once, he didn't. "Can you tell us a different story, then? Like the ones you used to tell in The Glade?"
Therin gave a weak smile, clearly happy to change the subject. "Any one in particular?"
"I've always wondered what happened, you know, after The Fall."
"I see," Therin said, sadness evident in his voice. A forced smile touched the corner of his mouth, but then faded as though the elf had a fleeting memory of fondness that had been tarnished. He glanced towards Aeson. Dann wasn't sure how the man had heard a word that had been said, but Aeson's head turned, his eyes fixed in Therin and Dann's direction. "Aeson? It has been a long time. Would you care to listen?"
Aeson didn't respond. If sadness had been evident in Therin's voice, it flooded from Aeson's body like water through a broken dam.
"Very well," Therin whispered, only loud enough for Dann to hear. "Alea, Lyrei, do the Bralgír tell these tales in the Aravell?"
For a long moment, only the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the forest could be heard in the campsite, Alea's gaze shifting between Lyrei and Therin. Up until that point, Dann had forgotten about the uneasiness that passed between Therin and the elves from the Darkwood.
"Not often," Alea finally replied, much to Lyrei's apparent irritation. "But it would bring honour to my heart if I were to hear it from your lips, Therin Eiltris."
Dann didn't think he had ever seen Therin smile as widely as he did then. "Then it would bring honour to my heart to tell you."
With a languid grace, Therin rose to his feet, his mottled-green cloak sweeping around him as he did. A shiver ran down the length of Dann's spine as the elf spoke. "The time after the fall of The Order is one of the darkest times in Epherian history, second only to the great Blödvar – the blood war between the elves and the Jotnar that raged thousands of years ago.
"In the year two-six-eight-two After Doom, as the city of Ilnaen burned—" Therin raised his hand in the air as he spoke, the fire erupting in a blaze streaking towards the sky, spiralling around itself. Dann couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a city within the fire. A city consumed by the fire, massive, winged creatures soaring through the sky – dragons. Dann rubbed the heels of his hands into the corners of his eyes. Though he had no doubt Therin was creating the images with his magic, it took nothing away from the wonder. "The Order was broken, and the agents of Fane Mortem and his fledgling empire went about their work. Ilnaen was not the only place Fane's soldiers struck that night – it was simply the most significant. All across Epheria, cities fell, and their rulers entered the void. Still, many mages and Draleid survived. But they were scattered—"
Again, the flames erupted in a plume of sparks and embers, and the darkness seemed to sink in around the camp. The firelight illuminated the sharp angles of Therin's face, coruscating off his silver hair.
"—Lost." Therin's voice sank to a slow requiem. "In one night, an entire continent was shattered, races were broken, and everything changed. Lost, alone, and fighting for their own survival, many Draleid and mages were slaughtered in the first weeks after The Fall. Many Draleid whose dragons had perished were taken alive, locked in chains forged with rune magic, a magic long thought lost in the annals of time. Those Draleid were tortured, hung in the streets, burned alive, stripped of their flesh in public plazas – a lesson to those who thought the Draleid could not be defeated.
"In a matter of months, the dwarves were driven back to their underground kingdoms. Without the Spark or dragons, they stood little chance. The elves broke after that, choosing to consolidate and survive. Though we did not all think the same way." Therin glanced towards Alea and Lyrei, a warm smile on his face. "Some chose to occupy the Aravell, to disrupt the empire's ability to communicate and send supplies. Others—"
"Chose to cower, to betray the ways of old," Alea cut across, a look of surprise on her face at her own words.
"It was not that simple, my dear Alea—"
"Not for you," Lyrei snapped, her eyes narrowing. "Not for the one who should have sat on the council, should have been a leader, but instead chose to abandon his people. You are no better than the Astyrlína!"
"Enough!" The darkness scattered, and even the insects seemed to quiet their chatter as Aeson's voice echoed through the forest. Dann had not heard Aeson rise, but now he stood in front of the flames, shadows dancing across his face, his eyes blazing with a fury Dann had never before seen in the man.
"You are nothing but a child," Aeson growled, his eyes burning into Lyrei, seething. "How dare you have the arrogance to believe your honour is enough to question that of Therin Eiltris. No better than the Faithless? You were not there. You did not watch the ones you loved skinned alive before a crowd. You did not stand and watch as they were kept alive with the Spark while the flesh was stripped from their bones. And you certainly did not drive daggers through their hearts so as to lessen their suffering. You have no idea about that which you speak. Do you know how many of your people Therin saved? Do you know anything of what he sacrificed?" Aeson moved closer to Lyrei as he spoke, staring down at her. The sudden flatness of his tone sent a shiver down Dann's neck. Then he spoke words that Dann did not understand. "Din haydria er fyrir."
Both Alea and Lyrei gasped at Aeson's words as the man stormed off into the dark of the forest. Tears streamed from Lyrei's eyes as Alea comforted her, and Therin ran into the forest after Aeson.
Aeson roared, reaching for the Spark, drawing in threads of Earth and Spirit. He dropped to his knees, slamming his fists into the frost-covered grass, cracking the frozen earth beneath. His heart hammered against his ribs, his blood raging through his veins, dimming all sounds to a dull drone. He filled the emptiness in his soul with anger, letting it flow through him like wildfire. Tears burned his eyes, and rage rent his heart.
He had not meant to lose his temper. The young elf was only a child, raised on the thoughts of others. In truth, her words were simply the spark that lit the fire, nothing more. The true cause of his rage was the spiralling absence that consumed his heart and soul. Over the past four hundred years, he had learned to bury most of the pain from Lyara's death. But that was all he did – bury it. It was never gone, not truly. A man could not overcome the loss of a dragon. How would that even be possible? How do you overcome the sundering of your soul?
Finding Naia had come some way to it. The feeling of her lips against his was the closest he had felt to being whole since Lyara had fallen from the sky. But now she, too, was gone, leaving him alone to raise two sons in a world that sought nothing but death. And he had not even managed to keep them safe.
The sound of frost-covered grass crunching under footsteps broke the half-silence that filled the air around Aeson.
"Those words will haunt that young girl." There was no anger in Therin's voice, just simple fact.
"She should not speak of what she does not know." Aeson closed his eyes. He clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath through his nose, letting his chest swell, trying his best to calm himself.
"Your honour is forfeit? Aeson, you know what that means to her. She respects you. If you say her honour is forfeit, then it is."
"I will speak to her. She does have an honour debt to pay. That is your way."
"We were young once too, my friend. We did not always see things as we do now."
The anger that had so quickly overcome Aeson ebbed away. The tangible feeling of loss returning. Aeson opened his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. "I am sorry. I… I lost control. Lyara, she calls to me… Sometimes I feel as though I am going mad, as though my mind is not my own…" His voice trembling, Aeson lifted his gaze to meet Therin's, doing nothing to stay the tears that rolled down his cheeks. "I can't feel her, Therin. Sometimes I dream, and her heart beats with mine, her mind calls to me, her scales feel warm beneath my hands… Then I wake… and I'm alone."
Therin grabbed Aeson by the shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. Feeling his old friend's arms wrap around him, Aeson let his tears fall free.
Therin clasped Aeson's head in both hands and touched their foreheads together. "To be Rakina is a burden many cannot hold – never think that I do not know that, my friend. But you are not, nor will you ever be, alone. I have fought by your side for centuries, and I will die by your side if the gods grant me that honour. You will feel the touch of Lyara's mind again one day. But not this day."
"Silver Fang, Broken One. I bring news from my kin in Drifaien."
The hair on the back of Aeson's neck stood on end as the Angan stepped from the shadows of the forest, not so much as the crunch of frost-covered grass betraying its approach. He brought his hand up, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "What is it, Baldon?"
"The empire has taken the Draleid captive. They hold him in a tower in the keep of Arisfall."