Al'Nasla – Earlywinter, Year 3081 After Doom
Duran Linold, Ark-Mage, Year 1807 After Doom
Today I met a rather peculiar man. Tall and broad of shoulder, but as gaunt as a tree branch. His complexion and overall appearance was that of a man who had witnessed the passing of no more than thirty or so summers, but his demeanour told a different story.
Why is this of any importance, you ask? Why is this one man worthy of a mention in the pages of this book? Well, I believe he may, in fact, have been a druid. Ah, but this raises more questions, doesn't it? It does indeed. But they are questions I will answer. Fear not.
The first question is, how did I meet the man? Well, I came upon him on the road from Ilnaen to Amendel. I did not meet him as two travellers passing one another. No. As I travelled the road with my retinue, we came across the man sitting cross-legged in our path. He wore nothing but a long, brown, hooded robe.
Now we move to the second question. What made me suspect this man might, in fact, be adruid? This is the pressing question indeed.
When I asked him why he was sitting in the middle of the road, he told me he was waiting.
"Waiting for what?" I asked.
"For you," he replied.
Needless to say, my interest was piqued. He may have been a wandering vagrant, but that didn't seem to be the case. His hair was meticulously groomed, his skin scrubbed clean. Were I any other man, I may have marked him an irritation and ridden on, but I am not any other man, and it is a good thing I am not, for if my interest had not already been piqued, what he said next brought it to new heights.
"You are Duran Linold, Ark-Mage of The Order." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.
Now, based on my research, as noted in my entry on page 153 of this book, dated year 1798 After Doom, if this man was in fact a druid, he was a Seerdruid, one capable of glimpsing future events. I do believe it is needless to say that the prospect left me more than a little excited. Sightings, rumours, and whispers of druids are not all that uncommon. But confirmations? Not one in nearly four hundred years.
But another question remained. How do you have a conversation with a man who already knows what you're going to say? At first, I thought that mayhap I simply never say the first thing that comes to mind, but I dismissed that utterly. Pure idiocy. How am I to get answers to questions I never ask?
And this is where the peculiarity truly began.
"How do you know my name?" I asked the man as I dismounted, eager to study him more closely.
"Why, you told it to me. On a different path."
Rist reached the end of the page and reluctantly lifted his eyes from the book, glancing at the wrought iron clock that hung on the wall at the far end of the enormous library hall. If he didn't leave soon, he'd be late. And it was best not to think of what Garramon would do to him if he was late. Garramon was a kind man, or at least, he was kind to Rist. He had believed in Rist, sponsored him into the Circle. But as Garramon's apprentice, Rist was a reflection of his sponsor, and Garramon did not tolerate tardiness.
With one last reluctant glance at the page, Rist folded the corner and stuffed the book into his pack. Contemplating, he picked up the two other books that sat beside him on the table. One, he had found tucked away in the far corners of the library, slipped behind a row of books on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. He had not been looking for it specifically, but once his gaze had fallen on it, he had snatched it up right away. The Spark: a study of infinite possibilities.
He had sought the second book out purposefully – The Forging of an Empire, by Orduro Alanta. The embassy's library contained many detailed accounts on the formation of the Lorian Empire after The Fall – or 'the liberation of the free peoples of Epheria' as it was named in the North – but the vast majority of those accounts were written by Scholars and historians who Rist had already learned not to trust. From reading their work, he had determined they were far from objective in their recounting of events. Their works were always overly praising of the empire, which in itself wasn't a problem, but they lacked any critique, and Rist didn't trust a historian who lacked critique.
It was quite an interesting thing really, how hundreds of years of history could differ so greatly from one place to the next. The stories he had heard growing up in the South were nothing like the stories that were told here in the North. He supposed it was similar to paintings. If ten artists were asked to paint the same flower, ten vastly different paintings would be produced. And the only way to find a true-to-life idea of what the flower originally looked like would be to examine each of the ten paintings for commonalities and then build a new picture. Which was exactly what Rist intended to do.
It had taken him quite some time to decide where to start, though. But once he learned that Orduro Alanta had been sent to work the mines in Dead Rock's Hold not two years after finishing The Forging of an Empire, his decision was made. If a man was cast aside for his ideas, that generally meant there was merit to them, merit that others did not wish to see the light of day. Of course, he might just as easily have been a raving lunatic.
Rist shoved the two books into his pack, careful to ensure nobody was watching him, then slung it over his shoulder. He pulled in a thin thread of Air, snuffing out the candle that sat on the table to his left, and exited the library in as swift a manner as he was able without drawing any pointed glances from the librarians. Irritating the librarians didn't bother Rist – they were grumpy and irritable at the best of times – but he didn't want to draw any undue attention. He wasn't strictly permitted to remove books from the library, but he had a lot to read, and there were distinctly too few hours in the day.
The sun sat high in the cloudless sky when Rist stepped from the library, lifting his hand to his face to shield his eyes. Earlywinter was not as frosty in Al'Nasla as it had been in The Glade, but the air was still cool enough to send a shiver across his skin. He pulled his second-tier apprentice robes tighter about himself. He would be a far happier man when spring finally arrived.
Rist made his way from the library through the embassy grounds, then through the winding palace gardens. He paused only for a few moments to chat with Tommin, who was on his way to meet with his own sponsor, Sister Danwar of the Healers. Both Tommin and Lena had undergone their Trials of Will a week after Rist and Neera. They had both passed and joined the affinities of their sponsors, the Healers and Consuls respectively. Rist had been curious to know if the Trials of Will for the other affinities were similar to what he had undergone, but neither Tommin nor Lena had been willing to talk about them. He didn't blame them. He still hadn't told anyone about what he had seen in his own trial, not even Neera. The memories of it still swirled in his mind, still haunted his dreams: the faceless man, Neera's dead body, the blood spilling from his mother's throat – Calen.
'You should have been by my side,' Calen's voice echoed in Rist's head, sending a shiver through him. Rist pushed the memories from the Trial of Will from his thoughts, picking up his pace.
When he finally arrived at the practice yard, he had worked up enough body heat that beads of sweat had formed on his brow and his shirt had grown tacky. The practice yard itself, one of four courtyards gifted to the embassy of the Circle of Magii, was over a hundred feet in both length and breadth. Four sparring squares of hardened clay framed by red brick sat at its centre, each about fifteen feet by fifteen feet. A number of benches sat around the perimeter of the squares, along with four weapons racks laden with a variety of blunt-edge swords and long wooden staffs. The courtyard was framed on all sides by the grey stone of the palace walls, and several large oak trees were set about its perimeter, providing shade. Brother Garramon stood at the centre of the courtyard, between the four squares, his silver-trimmed black robes neatly folded on a bench beside him – not a good sign. That meant he had been waiting. Garramon was talking to a woman who stood about a head shorter than he did, Exarch robes draped over her shoulders, blonde hair tied into an unmoving bun.
Garramon threw Rist a sideways glance as he approached, a frown touching the man's face.
"Tell him I will be there as soon as I am finished here," Garramon said to the woman.
"As you please, Arbiter."
"Fulya, please. That title is long gone."
The woman gave a placating smile, inclining her head in a way that seemed more submissive than respectful, then turned and strode from the yard, glancing towards Rist as she made for the archway he had just come through. It wasn't the first time Rist had seen another Exarch act strangely towards Garramon. And then there was that title – Arbiter. As Garramon let out a sigh, Rist turned towards the palace walls, pulling his robes from his shoulders, trying his best to make it look as though he hadn't been eavesdropping.
"You're late."
"I'm sorry, I got caught up in the library." Rist turned to find Garramon staring at him. "I—"
Garramon gestured for Rist to stop. He shook his head, letting out another sigh. "It doesn't matter. From what I've heard, Brother Pirnil has been disciplining you enough for the both of us. Need I remind you that your insubordination to other mages reflects on my ability as a sponsor?"
"No, Brother Garramon." Even as Rist stood there, he could feel the fresh scabs on his back pulling at his skin. If he didn't graduate to Acolyte soon, his flesh would look like a wicker basket. "Brother Pirnil and I simply have differences of opinion, which he doesn't like." Because he's wrong. Rist wanted to say that part out loud but figured it wouldn't go down well.
A flicker of a smile betrayed Garramon's otherwise stony façade. "Come, you have already wasted enough time."
Rist nodded, following Garramon to the nearest weapons rack, where the man handed him a dull-edged longsword with a brown leather-wrapped handle and a plain, flat-bar crossguard. Rist took the weapon, loosening and tightening his fingers around the hilt, gauging the weapon's weight and balance. Since the Trial of Will, when he had seen how helpless he truly was with a blade, Rist had made a point of improving his swordsmanship. He knew it took years to be considered even a reasonably capable swordsman, and years more to be proficient, but Rist often found that most obstacles of time and learning could be significantly reduced through strict, single-minded dedication. Or, more simply put, working harder than anybody else. He had never been strong like Calen, or quick like Dann, or even particularly charismatic, but one thing Rist prided himself on was his commitment and refusal to give up. That was something unique; it was something he was in complete and utter control of.
Most nights, after his lessons were finished, he would continue practising sword forms and movements long after the sun had set, when the courtyard was illuminated solely by baldír light. He did his reading after that, followed by exercises with the Spark from Andelar Touran's A Study of Control. The secret to rapid progress, he had discovered, was reducing his hours of sleep to the absolute minimum his body required to function and then shaving a sliver of time off that as well.
He actually found himself enjoying the sword forms far more than he had anticipated. But that had more than a little to do with the fact that every time he practised his forms, it made him think of Calen and Dann – more Calen than Dann, as Calen had often practised in the mornings long before their worlds were turned upside down. He was starting to understand the peace that Calen seemed to find in it.
Neera had joined him on more than a few occasions, but she didn't share his enthusiasm for what she called a 'layman's weapon'. She instead preferred the Spark and its 'elegance'.
"You look tired," Garramon said, stepping into the sparring square nearest them, turning his foot back and forth in the clay. "You're not sleeping."
"I'm fine," Rist lied. Well, it wasn't quite a lie. He was tired but not tired enough for it to be a problem.
Garramon nodded. His expression let Rist know the man didn't believe him. "Set your feet. We will go through form one, movement six before we begin."
"That Exarch," Rist said, shifting his stance a little wider, following Garramon through the sixth movement of the first form. He liked that the forms were numbered. When Aeson had taught Calen and Dann, he had always used obscure names that seemed unnecessarily difficult to remember. Numbers were simpler, more structured. "Why did she call you Arbiter? I've not heard that title."
"A story for another time, apprentice."
Rist wasn't letting Garramon get away that easily. "If I land a blow, will you tell me?"
There was no mistaking the amused smile that sat on Garramon's face. Rist had not landed a single blow in any of their sparring matches. In fact, he hadn't even come close. "You have a deal. Land one blow, and I will tell you. Starting now."
Rist nodded in acknowledgement, rolling his shoulders back and forth. One deep breath and then he charged towards Garramon.
For what felt like minutes but was in actuality only seconds, they traded blows in a whir of steel, the constant vibrations jarring Rist's arms. Then, Rist felt a jolt of pain as Garramon's foot crashed into the inside of Rist's right knee, not hard enough to break bones, but enough to cause Rist's leg to give way. His heart pounded as his knees hit the hardened clay. Garramon swung his sword. He's not going to stop!
In a panic, Rist lifted his left arm, reaching out to the Spark. He pulled in threads of Earth, driving them into the clay beside his knee. He shattered the clay, lifting it with threads of Air, then reformed it into a solid shield that hovered over his left arm. Garramon's sword collided with the makeshift shield, shattering it into a thousand pieces and sending Rist sprawling to the ground. Falling backwards, Rist caught the fragmented shards of clay with threads of Air, separating them. He flung half the shards at Garramon's left foot and the other half at the man's hand. Using threads of Earth, he melded the clay together, encasing Garramon's hand and the hilt of his sword while also binding his foot to the ground. The manoeuvre led to Garramon's arm dropping flat by his side due to the combined weight of the clay and sword, while stumbling sideways as his foot broke free from its temporary prison with a jolt.
No sooner had Rist hit the ground than he threw himself back to his feet, lunging after Garramon. I just need to land one blow. He drove his sword forward, aiming for Garramon's torso, only for the man to step sideways, slam his palm into the flat of Rist's blade, and proceed to drive his elbow into Rist's nose.
Blinding pain was accompanied by stars flitting across Rist's eyes as his head bounced backwards. He stumbled, only just stopping himself from falling. Rist's nostrils felt as though they'd been stuffed with cloth. The coppery taste of blood touched his tongue, dripped down the back of his throat, and rolled over his lips. He shook his head, doing his best to clear the dizziness.
Rist brought his blade up, deflecting a swing of Garramon's sword, then another, and another, until a heavy blow crunched into his right hip, then again into the outside of his right leg, above the knee. The edge of Garramon's blade might have been dulled, but the weight of the steel still hit like a horse's kick. Rist staggered backwards, his jaw clenched, his blade raised defensively. He was under no illusions that Garramon was putting in any effort. If the man had wanted, he likely would have had his sword to Rist's throat within the first ten seconds. But the sparring wasn't about Rist beating Garramon, it was about progress. Every day, progress. And today would be the day Rist would land his first blow.
Rist shifted his feet into the stance of form two, movement three. He needed to go on the offensive. At the same time, he reached out to the Spark, feeling the elemental strands pulsate in the back of his mind, their energy radiating through him, filling him with a sense of calm. He pulled on threads of Air, Fire, Earth, and Spirit, dividing them into the segments he would need. He saw Garramon raise a curious eyebrow and felt the man open himself to the Spark, preparing for whatever Rist might attempt.
Rist drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then charged. He weaved threads of Air, Fire, and Spirit into a baldír, closing his eyes for only a fraction of a moment as he allowed the orb to pulse with a harsh burst of light before letting it flicker from existence. He opened his eyes to see Garramon stumbling, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, the other covering his eyes. Perfect.
With Garramon staggering, Rist took a single thread of Earth and formed a lump of clay at the Exarch's feet, no larger than three or four inches off the ground – a technique he had seen in A Study of Control. The Spark didn't always have to be grandiose and extravagant, just effective.
Stepping forward blindly, Garramon's foot hit the lump of clay, which was enough to knock his already precarious sense of balance. The man fell forward, and a surge of pride rushed through Rist's body. Progress. He lunged.
As Rist swept his sword towards Garramon, the man swung his blade in an arc. It wasn't a targeted strike, but it was moving straight for Rist's head, meaning Rist would either have to deflect it or get out of its way – meaning he would miss his opportunity to land his blow. Luckily, he had prepared for this. Keeping his blade on course, he sent a whip of air towards Garramon's sword, intending to knock it off course. But then threads of Spirit wound around him, forming into a barrier, his grip on the Spark vanishing, his whip of air dissipating.
Garramon side stepped, his blade sweeping through where Rist's whip of Air had been.
In only moments, everything had shifted. Rist now stood with his weight on his right leg, his sword extended through the space where Garramon had been only seconds before. Garramon stood to Rist's left, the cold steel of his dull-edged blade resting against the nape of Rist's neck.
Rist let out a deep, regretful sigh. "A ward of Spirit."
"Indeed." Garramon lifted his blade.
Rist shook his head, lifting himself back to full height. He shouldn't have been so stupid. Wards were something he had dedicated little time to as they were complicated and intricate. He needed to master the basics first. Had he been paying more attention he would have been able to put a hole in the ward before it was formed.
"You're thinking of the ways you could have countered my ward," Garramon said, walking back towards the weapons rack. "That is not the line of thought you should be taking. You know better than that."
"Excuse me, Brother." Rist handed his sword to Garramon, wincing as he wiped his bloodied nose with his shirt. The combination of the throbbing pain and his inability to breathe through his nose was rather irritating. "But what line of thought should I be taking?"
"Your ingenuity is not your problem, apprentice." Garramon set his sword back on the rack, doing the same with Rist's. He then reached into a pack that sat beside his robes on the nearby bench, producing two waterskins. He tossed one to Rist, then sat on the bench. Upon closer inspection, Rist noticed Garramon was slightly short of breath, and a bead of sweat rolled down the man's brow. Rist might not have landed a blow, but this was also the first time he had made Garramon sweat. Progress. The surge of elation caused him to snort blood onto his hand. "You demonstrated that with your little trip hazard – page one hundred and twelve from A Study of Control. Well executed, I might add."
Rist popped the stopper from the waterskin, taking a deep, longing draught of water before using the remainder to wash the blood from his face. He had long since grown used to Garramon's blunt nature. In fact, he had come to appreciate it. "What is my problem, Brother?"
"Well, there are two. The first is your unwillingness to deviate from your established plan. No plan survives contact with the enemy, apprentice. Real battles change in an instant, turn on their heads with the flash of a blade. When you realised I had warded you, you should have adapted. Commitment to a broken plan is often the reason commanders send their men to their deaths. Refusal to adapt is fatal. Second, you rely too heavily on the Spark. I felt your doubt as soon as you were cut off. If you are to be a Battlemage, you must hone your body as well as your mind. Your sword must be as much a part of you as the Spark. Though, from what I have seen, you are working to rectify that issue."
Rist nodded, doing his best to steady his breathing. As the pain from his nose dulled, the rest of his body called out, reminding him of the numerous places Garramon had laid steel against skin. "I will improve, Brother."
"I know you will."
Silence descended over the courtyard as Rist dropped to the ground. He crossed his legs and leaned back, his hands pressing against the hard clay. Sweat had tacked his shirt to his skin, and his lungs burned. The only sounds that drifted through the open yard were the rustling of fallen oak leaves in the breeze and the trill of birdsong. It was quite peaceful. If Rist closed his eyes, he could imagine he was still sitting on that fallen tree near the edge of Ölm Forest the day he, Dann, and Calen had gone hunting before the Moon Market.
"You didn't land a blow," Garramon said, breaking the silence, "but you impressed me."
Rist looked towards his sponsor, raising an eyebrow.
"Four hundred years ago, after the liberation, Emperor Mortem and Primarch Touran granted me the title of Arbiter." Garramon gave Rist an amused laugh, letting Rist know he must not have hidden his surprise at Garramon's age as well as he'd thought he had. "Yes, I am that old. I was once a Battlemage of The Order. But that is a tale for another day. The years that followed that first battle at Ilnaen were tempestuous at best. The political landscape had been irreparably changed, power was in flux, and we faced enemies from outside and within. Trust was a commodity in scarce supply. For the empire to succeed, it needed loyalty. It needed men and women who believed in it. As Arbiter, I was charged with determining that loyalty and rooting out those who sought to do the empire harm. It was a necessary task but not an easy one. I am not proud of the things I had to do. It was almost a century before the position of Arbiter was no longer deemed necessary." Garramon stared towards the sky as he spoke, a pensive sadness filling his eyes. "The Exarch you saw, Fulya. She was once my wife. She has never forgiven me."
As always, a hundred thousand questions ran amok in Rist's mind. But he could see by the look on Brother Garramon's face that now was not the time to ask them. That in itself went against Rist's very nature. How could it ever not be a good time to ask a question? But Calen had always admonished him for not understanding that not everyone thought that way; it was something he was working on.
So instead of asking the questions, Rist simply sat in silence, letting his emotions percolate. It was strange, blending sympathy and anger. Sympathy for the task Brother Garramon was given, and anger at him for following through. But Rist knew he had no right to be angry. A man could not judge another until he has walked in their shoes. "I'm sorry, Brother."
Garramon shook his head, seeming to pull himself back into the moment. "What is done is done, apprentice. We cannot change the past, only move forward with its lessons." Garramon lifted himself to his feet. "We will have to keep it to one bout today. I have somewhere I must be. But from what I remember, you are to meet Sister Anila soon."
It was not a question, but Rist knew Garramon well enough to know he expected an answer. "Yes, Brother. Neera and I are to meet Sister Anila at the palace gates. She is taking us outside the city walls to where the First Army is barracked."
"Good." Garramon unfolded his silver trimmed robes, shrugging them on over his shoulders, then replaced the two waterskins into his pack. He inclined his head, his gaze lingering on Rist for a moment before he turned and left.
Particles of dust floated in the beams of sunlight that drifted through the arched windows along the wall to Garramon's right as he walked through the corridors of the Imperial Palace. Birdsong and the constant chatter of servants and porters drifted up from the gardens outside, filling the quiet emptiness of the corridor.
Two guards dressed neck to toe in black plate trimmed with red steel stood at the entrance to the Imperial Chamber. Each had a large square shield strapped to their back and a longsword at their hip. The doors they guarded were forged from gold-plated steel, each emblazoned with the image of a roaring black lion facing inward. Each door stood over fifteen feet high and ten feet wide, meeting in an arch at the centre.
"Guinan, Karka." Garramon nodded to the two palace guards who stood watch at the doors to the Imperial Chamber. He had made it a point to memorize the names and faces of each guard, which included taking the time to introduce himself to any new recruits. It was a time-consuming task but one worth completing should there ever come a time he might need their favour. Old habits die hard.
"He awaits you inside, Exarch Garramon," the man on the left of the door, Guinan, said, inclining his head.
"My thanks."
Garramon stepped past Guinan and Karka, pushing open the door on the right and entering the Imperial Chamber.
The chamber was enormous, at least a hundred feet wide and double that again in length, with ceilings that stood taller than thirty men atop one another's shoulders. A long red rug embroidered with gold thread ran along the stone floor from the entrance to a raised stone dais at the far end of the chamber. A solid oak desk sat atop the dais and an enormous red banner, running from the ceiling to the floor, adorned the wall behind it. At the centre of the banner was the symbol of the Lorian Empire: the black lion of Loria. Garramon's eyes fell back to the desk for a moment. When they had taken the city and sentenced King Eric Ubbein to death, the first thing Fane had done was dismantle the throne room and have it rebuilt brick by brick. The throne had been melted down and sold, and Fane had chosen that desk to take its place. 'A throne is built to support the weight of those who have grown fat on their own incompetence and inaction. The Order's council sat on thrones,' he had said. 'A simple desk is far more practical.'
A marble fireplace was set into the wall on the left side of the chamber. Much like everything else in the room, the fireplace was at least twice the size of any other Garramon had laid eyes on. Two marble statues of roaring lions on their hind legs framed the fireplace, an ornately carved mantel of thick marble balanced atop their heads.
Light drifted into the chamber through a number of long windows set into the upper half of the wall on the right. Below the windows was a bookcase carved from solid oak that stood almost ten feet high and ran the entire length of the wall from the front of the chamber to the back. Ever since Garramon had known Fane, the man had been obsessed with books – with knowledge. It was knowledge that had driven Fane to seek out that Urak Shaman at Mar Dorul. And it was from that Shaman that Fane had learned the truth of the gods. The truth of The Saviour.
Garramon found his old friend sitting in one of two leather couches by the bookshelves, one leg crossed over the other, his back pressed into the firm cushion behind him, a book in hand. Fane wore a simple, black cotton shirt; light trousers; and a pair of black, thick-soled boots. His red-trimmed black robes lay folded on the cushion beside him.
Without a word, Garramon made his way over and dropped himself onto the couch opposite Fane. He knew better than to interrupt Fane while he was reading. Tilting his head sideways, Garramon took a closer look at the book in his friend's hands. It was bound in black leather, its edges beaten and worn, its pages stained with what looked to be blood.
"The research papers of Kiralla Holflower," Fane said without lifting his gaze from the book. "You remember her, don't you?"
"A member of the Scholars, was she not?" Garramon said, trying to picture the woman in his mind. Dark hair, reasonably pleasant face, no sense of humour whatsoever. From what he remembered, she was a religious zealot, utterly devoted to The Saviour. Garramon was a believer, but Kiralla Holflower was something else entirely. "It's been quite a while since I've seen her."
"She's dead," Fane said matter-of-factly, turning the page. "She was killed six years ago, along with three others and their retinue."
"That would explain it, then."
Fane lifted his gaze from the book for a moment, shaking his head at Garramon, a half-smile on his face. "She had been conducting research into Essence Runes and summoning, in an old fortress south of Gildor, just within the bounds of Mar Dorul – Kragsdenford."
"I've heard of it. It was abandoned almost a century ago, was it not?"
"For a time, yes. Whoever took it upon themselves to kill Kiralla also decided to burn the place to the ground. It was only by Efialtír's grace that the woman had carved protective runes into the inside of this book. Even at that, some pages didn't survive, but there's enough to be of use."
Garramon nodded, catching Fane's gaze over the top of the book. "I dare say, you didn't summon me here to talk about a dead woman's experiments."
"No. I did not." Fane leaned forward, snatching a long, thin bookmark of red steel from the low table that sat between the two couches. He slid it into place, then closed the book, setting it on the table. He folded his arms, and, leaning back into the couch, turned his full attention to Garramon. "Tell me of the boy's progress."
Garramon shifted in his seat. "His strength grows each day," Garramon said, trying his best to keep his tone flat and level. "He is intelligent, quick to learn, and as stubborn as he is wilful. It has been a long time since I've seen an apprentice with such potential."
"Good. He will be a powerful instrument against the Draleid. His Trial of Will went as planned?"
Garramon nodded. "It did. He is discerning, and he asks as many questions as breaths he draws in a day, but I believe he is beginning to let his walls down."
"He would be a good candidate for Ascension."
Garramon's chest tightened. "If he ascends, he will be of little use when it comes to the Draleid."
Fane let out a laugh, shaking his head. "You've grown fond of him, Garramon. Do not worry. He is far too valuable, particularly with the Blood Moon coming."
Garramon cursed himself for not seeing what Fane was trying to do. He often forgot Fane was no longer simply his old friend. He was the emperor. There was always more to his questions than met the eye.
"To that end, you are to commence his Trial of Faith by the next moon."
"So soon?" Garramon could do little to hide the surprise in his voice. He had always known Fane would want Rist's training accelerated, but to commence the Trial of Faith so soon, particularly in one who was not raised in the ways of the North, would be complicated indeed.
"Indeed." Fane leaned forward. "I will command the same of other sponsored apprentices as well. Primarch Touran is also under instructions to accelerate the training of all Battlemage apprentices in the High Tower. The Blood Moon is fast approaching, old friend, and we must be ready. I need not remind you that this opportunity has been four centuries in the waiting and will not come again for another four centuries. The Uraks grow bolder with each passing day. They seek to be the ones who strengthen Efialtír's hand in this world. Even now I receive reports of heralds aiding their cause. He tests us, and we cannot fail."
Garramon drew in a deep breath, then released it as he nodded. "I will make the arrangements. The trial will begin before the new moon touches the sky."
"Good. Between the unrest in the South and the Urak attacks, we are spread thin. I have spoken to Eltoar, and the full strength of the Dragonguard will be assembled. We must crush this uprising before it begins. We cannot allow it to distract us from our purpose."
As the words left Fane's mouth, the chamber dimmed as though the light had been pulled from the room, darkness encroaching from all corners. Garramon sat up straight. There were some things in life it was advisable to carry both a respect and a healthy fear of – a herald of Efialtír was one of those things.
"Brother Garramon, a faithful servant of the true god." The words echoed in the chamber like the rasp of steel.
Clenching his jaw, Garramon pulled himself to his feet, turning to see the herald standing at the end of the couch, its skin as pale as stretched parchment, its eyes as black as jet, its short hair bone-white. Swirls of vivid blue adorned the herald's black, light-drinking robes. There was only one herald Garramon knew that bothered with that kind of ornamentation, but Azrim's host had been destroyed during the first battle of Belduar. It seemed he had found a new one. Garramon inclined his head. "Herald Azrim, The Saviour's light upon you."
Azrim's attenuated lips pulled into a brittle smile. It was only then Garramon looked closer at the herald's face, or rather the host's face – the high cheekbones, the sharp jawline. Garramon tried to imagine him with bronzed skin and blonde hair. Artim Valdock.
Artim had risen to the rank of Battlemage almost two centuries ago and to the rank of Exarch fifty years after that. Garramon had fought many a battle at his side and shared many a bottle. He had certainly counted Artim as a believer, but he had never for a moment thought he was the kind of man who would have put himself forward for ascension. Artim was too arrogant, too focused on his own progress to give himself over to such a cause… at least, that's what Garramon had thought. Perhaps he had judged too quickly. As much of an honour as it would be to share his body with a herald of Efialtír, ascension was not something Garramon himself would have considered. There were far too many unknowns, and he had long questioned how much sentience the host truly retained. It had been a few years since he had last talked to Artim, but he was sad to know they had shared their final conversation.
"Azrim." Fane was slower to rise than Garramon. Looking more closely at his old friend, Garramon couldn't help but notice the weariness that wore dark circles under Fane's eyes. "What news do you bring?"
"Your city of Kingspass was besieged by Uraks who sought to harvest." Azrim's voice was harsh and sharp, each word drawn out longer than it should have been, his breaths a rasping hiss.
If Kingspass had fallen, that would mark the first major city the beasts had razed. The fury in Fane's eyes was plain to see, the twitch of the muscles in his jaw. "And what was the outcome?"
"The city still stands." The herald's bluish tongue crept across its brittle lips as though savouring the words that would soon touch them. "The people speak of a Dragonguard who saved them."
"Dragonguard? Eltoar could not have mobilised so quickly. He is…" The fading of Fane's words mirrored Garramon's own realisation.
"A dragon of white scales," Azrim hissed. "A man with eyes that gleamed purple. They are calling him the Warden of Varyn."
Garramon rested his palm against the solid wood of his office door for a few moments, his gaze lingering on the shimmering gold insignia of the Circle — two thin, concentric circles with six smaller, solid circles set into them at evenly spaced intervals – that adorned the wood. Letting out a deep breath, he pushed the door open.
The familiar scent of parchment and burnt wood filled his nostrils as he stepped into his office, the subtle aroma of the candle on his desk lingering in the air. He moved past the rumara wood bookcase that covered the near wall, then dropped onto the wooden chair behind his desk. It wasn't a comfortable chair – far from it. It was sharp and solid, with no cushion, and it creaked every time he sat or stood, but that was the way he preferred it. If the chair had been comfortable, he would have been inclined to sit in it more often – which was precisely the reason the leather chairs by the fireplace had claimed so much of his time.
He reached down, opening the drawer on the right side of the desk, revealing two crystal glasses and a mid-sized crystal flask three-quarters full of Drifaienin whiskey. The tension that had knotted in his muscles during Fane's outburst at Azrim's report loosened at the sight of the mellow brown liquid. He grabbed one of the glasses and placed it on the desk in front of him, then pulled the crystal stopper from the flask and poured a healthy measure of the sweet liquid into the glass before replacing the stopper. He breathed in the earthy aroma as he raised the glass to his nose, holding it there for a moment before pouring every drop into his mouth.
As he held the whiskey in his mouth, the initial sharpness dulled, the earthy flavours distilling, slowly replaced by a sweetness. He drew in another breath through his nostrils, savouring the taste, then swallowed. The liquid burned on its way down, but the sweetness of its aftertaste lingered.
Garramon tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He stayed like that for a few moments before letting out a sigh, opening his eyes, and placing the glass back down on the desk. Reaching into the pocket of his robes, he produced a small iron key, the bow of which was wrought into an open circle with six small balls set at evenly spaced intervals – an imitation of The Circle's insignia. He inserted the key into the lock that was set into the front of the drawer on the left side of his desk, then turned until he heard a distinct click.
The drawer held a number of things: a gilded box of blackened oak that held an Essence vessel, a purse full of gold coins, a silver necklace with an emerald pendant, and a cream envelope sealed with beeswax. Garramon's eyes lingered on the gilded box and the Essence vessel within. It had been quite some time since he had felt the rush of Essence flowing through him. He was tempted to tap in, just to feel it, to taste it, but he resisted. As sweet as the power was, it was precious, and it shouldn't be wasted.
Looking past the small box, Garramon picked up the envelope, placing it on the desk in front of him. He ran his fingers across the rough paper, then over the smooth wax that sealed the top.
When Fane had first come to him and told him of Rist, of a young man the herald Azrim had found who not only had the potential to be incredibly powerful but was also a close friend of the emergent rebel Draleid, Garramon hadn't hesitated to do what was asked of him. His duty was to the empire, to Fane, and to The Saviour – as it always had been. Besides, the boy was lucky. Back when Garramon was first brought to The Order, to be trained as a mage was amongst the highest honours possible for a human child – second only to being chosen as a Draleid.
Garramon tapped his finger against the wax seal, producing a solid clicking sound along with a slight flutter as the paper of the envelope repeatedly pressed against the wood of the desk. The boy reminded him of his son, Malyn. They both held the same thirst for knowledge. The same drive. The same dogged determination.
Once more, Garramon removed the flask's stopper, poured a glass of whiskey, emptied the contents into his mouth, and swallowed. "We do what must be done."