The sun cast a deep red glow across the world as it dipped into the western horizon, sinking into the woodland of Lynalion. The smell of burning wood incensed the air, wafting on the gentle earlywinter breeze. The wind was nothing compared to the frozen winds of Drifaien, but it still sent a rolling shiver over Calen's skin. Ahead, where the river Kilnír forked, he saw a house composed of stout logs, nestled snugly at the edge of a grove, a thick column of languid grey smoke drifting from its chimney. The house stood two storeys tall, with a small porch-covered deck that fronted the main entrance. It reminded him of the houses in The Glade – of home.
Calen shifted in the saddle, his left shoulder clicking as he rolled it back and forth, attempting to ease the stiffness that had set in. On the first day after leaving Kingspass, Vaeril had regained enough strength to see to most of Calen's, Erik's, and Tarmon's major wounds, including closing the gash along Erik's calf and relieving the residual pain in Calen's shoulder – though some aches and stiffness still remained. The elf marched to the left of Calen's horse, a weary look in his eyes and a laboured strain to his gait. Even with the toll the healing had taken on Vaeril's body, the elf had refused to trade places with Calen on the horse. The journey had taken just over two days of riding, and even Calen's body was crying out for some proper rest. He couldn't imagine how Vaeril must have felt. The only person Calen could think of who was more stubborn than the elf was himself, though he would never admit it.
As they rode closer to the house, Tarmon and Erik riding further ahead, Vaeril still trudging along at Calen's side, Calen let his mind drift into Valerys's. Every moment spent seeing through the dragon's eyes was a moment his mind didn't linger on Haem.
The warmth of the dragon's soul soothed the aches and pains that held on to Calen's mind and body. The more he let himself sink into Valerys's thoughts, the more his senses shifted and sharpened. The smell of charred wood dissipated, replaced by the crisp clean scent of cool air as Valerys swooped through the clouds overhead, so high that Calen wouldn't have known he was there were it not for their bond. Through the dragon's eyes, Calen could see so much more than the hazy glow of the setting sun. To the east and west, the woodlands of Lynalion and the Darkwood stretched for hundreds, even thousands, of miles, their mottled greens and browns disappearing into the distance in either direction. The jagged razorback peaks of Mar Dorul ran along the edges of Lynalion, dark and barren, stretching upwards like savage claws threatening to tear at the fabric of the sky.
Valerys banked left, diving through a blanket of cloud, tucking his wings in tight, dropping at an incredible speed before unfurling them once more and sweeping forward on a rushing current of air. The sensation was like lightning in Calen's veins. He could feel the gelid winds crashing against Valerys's scales, the currents of air shifting beneath his wings.
It was then, below the cloud cover to the north, that the vast emptiness of the Burnt Lands came into view. The ravaged wasteland was still hundreds of miles north, at least ten days' ride, harsh mountain peaks jutting from the ever-shifting ocean of sand and dunes. Even through Valerys's eyes, Calen couldn't see any place where the wastes ended. He knew from the maps that the Burnt Lands stretched for thousands of miles from east to west, from the foothills of Mar Dorul to the Lodhar Mountains. Captain Kiron had said the nearest point to nearest point from south to north was only about two hundred miles across, but that would bring them out at Copperstille, some thousand miles from Berona. The way Calen saw it, though, the less time they spent in the Burnt Lands, the better.
Through Valerys's eyes, Calen stared out over the vast wasteland, letting its enormity sink in. That was where he was taking his companions, his friends. That was what he was asking them to face. And not to win a war or topple an empire, but simply to find Rist. After watching Haem step through that gateway, Calen's resolve to find Rist had only strengthened. Rist was family in all but blood, and Calen would not abandon him. Not again. But what Calen did question was whether he was right in allowing Tarmon, Vaeril, and Erik to join him. He should never have asked them to risk their lives. This was not their fight. It was his and his alone. And Dann's. I wish Dann were here."I'm still not sure about this."
Calen pulled his mind back from Valerys's at the sound of Erik's voice. He turned to see Erik pulling his horse up alongside Calen's, his gaze focused on the stream of smoke that drifted from the house ahead.
"If Arkana wanted us dead, she could have killed us ten times over. She had plenty of opportunities. Why would she have let us leave the city?"
"I don't know. I just… I can't trust her."
"Then trust me."
Erik let out a sigh. "It's not that simple.
"It's as simple as you make it, Erik. Besides, look at Vaeril." Calen gestured towards the elf who was all but stumbling along beside Calen's horse, his stare fixed ahead, his feet moving one after another, more from sheer force of will than anything else. "He needs rest, or at least a warm meal."
Sighing through his nostrils, Erik nodded. "All right. But if there is even the slightest sign of something wrong then—"
"We'll handle it," Calen said, smiling weakly.
Tarmon had already dismounted by the time Calen, Erik, and Vaeril had reached the house. A knot twisted in Calen's stomach as the man slid his greatsword from his back, lifting a finger to his lips.
"The door is open," Tarmon whispered.
As Calen dismounted, he could feel Valerys in the back of his mind as the dragon folded its wings and plummeted through the clouds, falling like an anvil dropped from the sky.
No. You need to stay hidden.
A roar of defiance rippled through Calen's mind. Too many times Valerys had left Calen alone, and too many times he had not been able to keep his soulkin from harm. It would not happen again.
Within moments, the dragon had broken through the lowest blanket of cloud, his scales scintillating red and orange in the incandescent light of the setting sun. Unfurling his wings to their fullest, Valerys swooped overhead, stirring a gust of wind in his wake. With a crack of his wings, Valerys landed beside Calen, his lavender eyes fixed on the house that was nestled into the grove.
Calen's horse snorted at the sudden arrival of the dragon, reeling backwards. Calen didn't blame the animal. Valerys was now at least thirty feet from head to tail, his chest thicker than oak barrels. The horns that framed the dragon's face were longer than Calen's arms and just as thick. Valery's wingspan was almost twice the length of his body, his forelimbs laden with powerful muscle. The sight sent a surge of pride through Calen.
"It's all right," he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster, running his hand along his horse's muzzle. "It's all right."
The horse calmed at Calen's words, but it still shifted, stamping its feet into the ground and pulling away from the dragon. Calen continued to run his hand along the horse's muzzle as he led it over to where Tarmon had tethered his horse to a short fence that sat about ten feet from the front of the house. He tied the animal to the fence, reassuring it once more before sliding his sword from its scabbard.
"Why has nobody come out?" Erik whispered as he and Vaeril stepped up beside Calen, their swords drawn. "Valerys made enough noise to wake a village."
Tarmon turned back to them, his brow furrowed, his finger pressed to his lips. He inclined his head, gesturing for the others to follow, gripping the handle of his greatsword with both hands.
The warm glow of candlelight emanated from within the house, becoming more apparent as the sun's descent quickened its pace. Condensation clung to the insides of the windows, droplets of water rolling along the glass. Barely a sound came from within except for the crackling and snapping of burning wood.
Calen let his mind drift into Valerys's as they approached the short set of wooden steps that led to the porch-covered deck of the house. The smell of slow-cooked meat filled his dragon-sharpened nostrils. Valerys could feel the warmth that flooded the house radiating through the air in waves. But such was the warmth from the fire within that it drowned out the body heat of whoever or whatever occupied the house. Valerys took a few steps closer, his talons sinking into the ground, his neck arching, lips pulling back.
Stay back for now. Arkana said this man is a friend, but we still need to be careful.
A low growl formed in Valerys's throat at Calen's words, but the dragon held his ground, the frills on the back of his neck standing on end.
Tarmon's foot had barely touched the first step when a voice called from within, surprisingly mirthful with a slight lilt.
"Come in, come in, come in. There is no need for weapons here."
"I'm not putting my swords away," Erik whispered to Calen, both his blades gripped firmly in his fists.
Calen looked to Tarmon, then to Vaeril. Both shook their heads.
Calen nodded, tightening his grip on the handle of his sword before moving up next to Tarmon, his foot eliciting an aching creak from the wooden step. "Together."
Tarmon gave a short nod, and they moved up the steps, Vaeril and Erik following close behind. They crossed the deck in a few paces, then locked gazes once more before stepping through the door.
Long wooden floorboards ran from the front of the house to the back. The stairs leading to the second storey stood to the right of the doorway, rising to a dark-obscured landing. The living area was almost twice the size Calen had expected, as though the inside of the house was somehow larger than the outside. Two long shelves decorated the far wall, laden with thick leatherbound books that looked as though they had seen more summers than Calen could have even dreamt of. Beneath the shelves sat a mixture of heavy wooden chests and open topped boxes filled to the brim with trinkets that glistened in the firelight.
Six wooden chairs sat in the middle of the room atop an enormous bearskin rug, each turned slightly to face the roaring hearth set into the left-most wall. A thick woollen blanket was draped over the back of the nearest chair. A cookpot was suspended on a hook over the flames, and by the cookpot stood a tall, grey-haired man with long brown robes draped over his shoulders.
"Sit, sit, sit," the man said, as though speaking only to himself. He reached down to a small table that stood beside him, picking up one of six wooden bowls. "After you sit and eat, then we can talk. But like I said, there is no need for weapons. I'm sure you are all strong enough to break the bones of a frail old man without the use of a sword."
The man didn't turn to look upon the intruders as he spoke. Instead, he gripped the handle of a ladle that hung by the fire, dipped it into the cookpot, and proceeded to pour the contents into the bowl, the fire casting his shadow along the bearskin rug.
"Here," he said, turning, extending the wooden bowl out to Calen. As the man turned, Calen got a good look at his face. There was nothing particularly striking about him. He looked as though he had seen sixty or seventy summers. Deep wrinkles sat below his eyes, at the corners of his mouth, and along his forehead. His hair was almost shoulder-length, grey streaked with light brown. His eyes seemed like those of a much younger man, bright and observant. Calen wasn't quite sure what colour his irises were. They seemed to shift from a grey to a pale blue, changing with the flickering light.
"Well, come on," the man said when Calen hadn't grasped the bowl. In truth, Calen was more than a little taken aback. There he stood, in the living area of the man's house, his fingers still gripping his sword, three of his companions – one of whom was an elf – standing by his side, but the man didn't so much as bat an eyelid.
Calen hesitated before taking the bowl, still a little unsure as to what was happening.
"Good, now, take a seat while I serve your friends. And again, can you please put away that steel?" A firmness set into the man's voice as he finished his sentence, as though that would be the last time he would ask the question politely. Without waiting for Calen's reply, the man turned, picking up another wooden bowl and filling it.
It was only then that a rich, warm, comforting smell reached Calen's nostrils, and he looked down to see a full bowl of mouth-watering stew. Chunks of carrot and potatoes floated in the rich broth, next to lean pieces of meat that looked as though it would fall apart at the slightest touch. Calen salivated. It had been quite a while since he'd eaten something that looked even remotely as good as this.
Calen lifted his eyes from the stew to find the old man staring at him, another bowl gripped firmly in his hands. The man lifted an eyebrow, an unimpressed look painting his face.
Casting a furtive glance towards Tarmon, Calen took a deep breath and slid his sword into its scabbard. If the man wished them harm, Calen could always use the Spark, as could Vaeril.
The old man smiled. "Good. Now come, sit. I'm sure you're tired as well as hungry." He offered the bowl to Erik, who eyed the stew like it was a steaming pile of dung. The man sighed. "It's a little hot, but it's not poison. Please don't knock it from my hand. I've seen how that ends, and I don't want to ruin a perfectly good rug. Here, look." The man lifted the bowl to his lips and took a deep mouthful of the stew, swallowing. "Now, if it's poison, we'll die together. That's the best I can offer you. Take it or leave it."
His brow furrowing, Erik glanced at Calen who nodded before taking a seat. As he set himself on the wooden chair, Calen reached out to the Spark. He didn't draw from it; he just wanted to feel its energy and know it was there if he needed it. He could sense Vaeril doing the same thing.
Calen rested the stew on his lap, feeling the residual warmth from the bowl spread through his legs.
"Are you Rokka?" Calen said as the man walked towards the cookpot. There was a slight limp in his gait, barely noticeable, but enough to be distinctive.
"I am indeed, my boy," the man said while handing a bowl to Tarmon, who had already sheathed his greatsword, his eyes still watching Rokka as though the man were a wolf in sheep's clothing. "I've been waiting for you. Had this stew going since morning. I'm surprised it's not all mush to be honest. Venison, potatoes, onions, carrots, and tomato, with a sprig of rosemary from the garden out back, and a splash of Arkalen wine. I've always thought stew was appropriate for weary travellers. There's no way to make a decent one while you're on the road, at least not if you like your meat edible." The man cackled at his own joke, a phlegm-filled cough catching in his throat. He left Tarmon and Erik to take their seats while he turned back to the cookpot. "It simply takes too long. But I have all the time in the world, so what better to cook?"
"Arkana sent us here, she…" Calen's voice trailed off as the old man's words sank in. "You've been waiting for us?"
Rokka ignored Calen, filled a fourth bowl, then turned to Vaeril, his face softening as he handed it to the elf. "Det gryr haydria til myia elwyn at haryn du ocha sír myia aldryr." It brings honour to my heart to have you eat by my fire.
Vaeril stared at the man, his face expressionless. Calen wasn't sure if the elf was about to embrace Rokka or strike him down. Slowly, Vaeril sheathed his sword and took the bowl from Rokka, his gaze never dropping from the old man's.
"Here," the old man said, reaching towards Vaeril. The elf moved backwards a little, pulling away from Rokka's hand, but the man matched him, resting his palm on Vaeril's shoulder.
A tingling sensation ran down the back of Calen's neck, his eyes widening as he felt the old man reach for the Spark. He's a mage!
A fury rose in Valerys, a fire that Calen felt simmering in his blood as the dragon moved closer to the house, a protective urge radiating from his mind. The man drew on threads of each element, weaving them around himself in a pattern of complex spirals and motions that Calen couldn't even dream of following. It was only the shift of the expression on Vaeril's face that stopped Calen from leaping to his feet and Valerys from crashing through the wall. In only moments, Vaeril's hard stare softened, his shoulders dropping, a slight sigh escaping his mouth.
He's healing him.
"There, that should feel much better. The next time you heal, you need to remember to keep more for yourself. You elves always think you are invincible. Like perpetual children, the lot of you." Rokka shook his head, turning back towards the cookpot, leaving Vaeril standing there with a dumbfounded expression.
Calen shifted in his seat. His throat tightened, and his hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. The situation had turned in an instant. This was no frail old man standing before them. It was a mage. One capable of weaving a complex and powerful pattern of threads. Calen didn't understand the depths of how the Spark affected ageing, but if the man looked as old as he did while also being able to touch the Spark, he must have been far older than even Aeson or Therin.
"What just happened?" Erik asked, lifting himself from the chair and grasping Vaeril's shoulder. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Vaeril said with a shaky nod, casting a glance towards Calen, then back towards Rokka. "He's a mage."
Erik ripped a blade from the scabbard across his back while Tarmon leapt to his feet, stepping between Rokka and Calen, pulling his short sword from the scabbard at his hip, stretching his arm out so the tip of the blade was pointed towards the old man.
"Children," the old man whispered with a laugh, once more turning back towards the cookpot, muttering to himself. "Sit back down. I have no intention of harming you. If I did, I wouldn't have wasted my stew on you. Sit, sit. Eat, eat."
Both Erik and Tarmon exchanged glances with Vaeril and Calen, who nodded.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Erik asked Vaeril, concern in his eyes.
"I am," Vaeril said, sounding as though he weren't quite sure himself. But the elf's eyes looked more awake and his movements more certain, as though the man had pulled the tiredness from his bones. Vaeril took a seat opposite Calen, resting the bowl of stew on his lap. The look on his face told Calen the elf wasn't quite sure what to make of what had just happened.
"Ahh, Elyara guide me. There are only four of you. This is a different path. My old age must be getting in the way." Rokka shook his head as he turned away from the cookpot, a bowl of stew in his hand and another empty bowl still resting on the small table at his side. The man sighed, lowering himself onto the wooden chair nearest the fire, next to Tarmon. It was only then that Calen noticed not only were there six bowls, but there were also six chairs. The man had been expecting five travellers, not four. But how had he been expecting anyone at all?
Rokka looked around, an amused expression on his face. "Have I not already proven it's not poison?" The man grasped the bowl with both hands, tipping it upwards, pouring a long draught of the stew into his mouth. His mouth still full, he gave a broad smile, a few glistening droplets escaping his mouth and rolling down his chin.
After a few moments of hesitation, Vaeril raised his bowl to his lips, Tarmon following suit. Erik looked over at Calen, shrugged, then did the same.
Calen looked down at the contents of the bowl. Thick chunks of venison, crumbly potato, onions, and carrots floated in a rich broth that smelled of his mam's winter cooking. His stomach gave a deep, belly-turning rumble. The kind that would make a wild bear jealous. But before he could contemplate tasting so much as a drop, Valerys pushed at the back of his mind. He could feel the hunger radiating from the dragon. Valerys still stood at the front of the house, his neck craned into the porchway, his head only a foot or so from the open door.
"There is a herd of deer not far from here, maybe a mile or so north," Rokka said between great slurps of his stew. "They tend to stay around the river, but they do wander."
Tarmon, Vaeril, and Erik looked at the man as though he were mad, rambling on nonsensically about deer. But Calen knew precisely what he meant. Which only raised more questions. Questions Calen would get the answers to.
Go. We are safe.
Calen could hear the rumble in Valerys's throat through the doorway. Images flashed across his mind. Blood, loss, fire. A deep sadness spilled over from Valerys, twisting knots in Calen's stomach. It was the same sadness Calen had felt in the dragon after they had been reunited outside Arisfall. Placing his bowl on the floor, Calen got to his feet and stepped out onto the porch-covered deck, ignoring the questioning stares from the others.
Valerys stood at the foot of the deck's steps, the soft moonlight glistening off his scales, his lavender eyes fixed on Calen. Valerys extended his neck forward, pressing his snout into Calen's outstretched hand, nuzzling against his palm, the softest of whimpers escaping the dragon's throat.
"We will not be separated again," Calen whispered, resting his other hand on Valerys's snout, looking out over the dragon's massive body. He still couldn't believe how large Valerys had become and how much more the dragon was still to grow. Calen remembered when Valerys had ridden at the front of his saddle, curled up tail to snout, no bigger than a small dog. They'd been through so much in their short time together. "I promise you. Myia nithír til diar. I denír viël ar altinua." My soul to yours. In this life and always.
Calen rested his forehead against Valerys's snout, letting their minds drift into one another's, letting the warmth of their bond quench the fires of their fear and worries. "Go," he said, running his right hand across Valerys's scales. "You need to hunt and you need to eat. We will be right here. Stay low and close to the river. When you come back, stay on the north side of the house where the grove will block you from sight."
A weak rumble of defiance rumbled through the back of Calen's mind, but he could feel Valerys's hunger. The dragon had no choice. He needed to eat. "Go," Calen said with a laugh, pushing at Valerys's snout. "You're too grumpy when you're hungry."
Pulling his head back, Valerys blew a gust of warm air over Calen before turning towards the forest and spreading out his leathery white wings, veins of black threading through them. With a few wingbeats, the dragon lifted himself into the air, blending with the thin layer of white clouds that painted the night sky. It only took a moment before the scent of wet deer filled Valerys's nostrils, and the dragon peeled right, diving towards the north end of the grove.
"How?" That was the only word Calen said when he stepped back into the house. Erik, Tarmon, and Vaeril looked at him as though he was just as mad as Rokka, but the old man simply smiled.
"Can someone please tell me what is going on?" Erik held out his arms, the bowl of stew still held in his right hand, bits of potato and carrot clinging to the stubble that had begun to form on his upper lip and chin.
"Sit," Rokka said, gesturing to the chair Calen had vacated. "Eat, and I will answer."
Calen stared at the man for a few moments before letting out an irritated sigh. He pulled the chair closer and planted himself on it, his gaze never leaving Rokka's. "Tell me now or—"
"Eat," Rokka said again, gesturing towards the bowl of stew Calen had left on the floor. "You must be gone in the morning. You have a long road ahead, and you need to eat."
A shiver ran through Calen's body. The man could simply be grasping at straws. It would not be difficult to assume that the four of them were on a long journey. But there was more than that. Other things Rokka had said since they entered the house.
By the looks on the others' faces, they were connecting the same dots. Vaeril sat in his chair, one leg folded across the other, his bowl of stew balanced in his lap. His face was as calculating as ever, but there was a curiosity in his eyes, and Calen had noticed the elf had let go of the Spark.
Tarmon leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, an empty bowl gripped in his left hand. He wasn't looking at Rokka; he was looking at Calen, waiting on Calen's word. Erik was much the same, though he looked a little more uncertain than either Tarmon or Vaeril.
Swallowing hard, Calen reached down and picked up the bowl. The mouth-watering aroma hit him almost immediately, the warmth of the bowl spreading through his hands. He let out a sigh before tipping it towards his mouth and letting the stew pour in. It tasted as good as it looked, better even – almost exactly like his mother used to make, though she had never added rosemary.
Rokka drew in a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, casting his gaze into the burning hearthfire. "I am what most people would call a druid."
Calen choked on the stew, sitting forward, bringing his hand to his mouth to stop from spilling. "A druid? But druids died out centuries ago."
"So did most of the dragons, did they not?" Rokka laughed, still staring into the flames. Rokka's voice dropped to a sombre tone. "We are dead because that is what we wanted. If everyone thinks we are dead, nobody hunts us – much like the Jotnar. But in truth, there are few of us left. Druids don't have the long life the Spark grants to mages. Unless you're like me, touched by both sets of gods, shunned by both sets of people. A blessing or a curse, I still haven't decided. But here we are."
"How did you know we were coming?" Erik asked. "Can druids see the future?"
Rokka snorted a little. "Not all of us, no. There are many branches of druid, each with varying gifts. I am a Seerdruid. And it's not as simple as seeing the future. If it were, I would have set out five bowls and five chairs instead of wasting my time. And either way, all Seers do not see forwards. Some see backwards, others sideways. I can see the paths not yet taken. But at any point in time, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of paths each person can walk. Each path changes the next path, and the paths of others, and so on. Millions of permutations in constant motion. When I dream or when the gods will it, I see glimpses of these paths. The most likely paths a person might walk. They are ever shifting, ever changing. Over the centuries, I have grown quite adept at judging which path is the most likely one, though evidently I am not as adept as I thought I was. The Drifaienin chose not to come then? Interesting. I had expected otherwise."
"Is he talking about Alleron?" Erik leaned forwards in his chair, his eyes wide.
"So you saw us, in your dreams?" Calen's heartbeat quickened. Ever since Valerys had lost control in the tunnels, something had changed. That night in the barn in Katta, Calen had seen things in his dreams that had felt as real as when he was awake. Skies filled with dragons, cities burning, pulsating waves of fire razing everything in their path. What was more, Valerys had seen it too. Until that point, sleep had been their one reprieve from each other's thoughts. Most of the time, it still was. When Calen was haunted by nightmares of Artim Valdock, they were his and his alone. But the other nights, when the dreams turned to things he had never seen, Valerys shared them. Until now, Calen had dismissed them as nothing more than his imagination. But what if they were more than that? Could they have been glimpses of the past? Or the future?
Rokka shifted in his chair, staring at Calen with a newfound intensity. "I did. Many times. Many different paths, each slightly diverging from the other."
"Why tell us this?" Tarmon said, breaking his silence, his eyes fixed on Rokka, a sharp edge to his voice. "If the last of the druids want people to believe they are dead, why tell four strangers who you are?"
There was a change in the air as Calen and the others realised what Tarmon was implying. Telling secrets to dead men held no risk.
"Well, I—"
"Before you answer, know that if you lie, if you in any way intend to harm the people in this room, I will gut you, mage or no."
"Believe me," Rokka said, leaning back into his chair and folding his arms across his chest, "you do not have to convince me of that. I've seen you do it four times already. I did get you once as well, I'll have you know. Though I don't like those odds."
Rokka leaned forward in his chair, keeping his arms folded, looking towards Calen. For the first time since they had entered the house, Calen saw hesitation in the old man's eyes. "Each path I see has a different feeling, a different energy, if you will. Part of being a Seer is deciphering that energy and choosing which paths to walk down. Of all the paths I've seen where you arrive here, the one I wish to follow is the one in which we have this conversation. Truthfully, this can get more than a little complicated. Since we humans arrived in Epheria almost three thousand years ago, druids have been hunted. Sometimes simply from hatred of things not understood, sometimes because we were living symbols of gods that held no sway in these lands, but mostly for control. First by elves and Jotnar, then, as time passed, by our own people. I bear no loyalty to any nations, least of all this 'empire'. At this stage, the only point of my existence is to find a path where my people will not be banished to the annals of time. From what I can tell, that path involves this conversation, you leaving here before the sun rises more than two fingers above the horizon, and one more thing…" Grunting, Rokka lifted himself from his chair, making his way to the far wall. Bending over, he produced a key from his pocket, unlocked a heavy wooden chest, and rooted through its contents, muttering to himself. "You would think I'd have taken this out before you got here, but no."
"We should go," Erik whispered. "While we still can. He's insane."
"No." Calen turned to Erik, shaking his head. "Well, yes. He is a little insane. But he knew we were coming, Erik. He had food ready, chairs set. There has to be something in what he's saying."
"Does there? Can a madman not cook a pot of stew and set out chairs for imaginary friends?"
"Ah! Here it is."
Calen sat back in his chair at the sound of Rokka's voice, turning to see the man holding a flat steel disc about three inches across and no more than half a finger-width in thickness. As the man approached, Calen could see that the surface of the disc was polished to a mirror-like sheen.
"Here, take this."
Calen took the mirror disc from the old man, turning it over and back, wincing slightly as it reflected the light from the hearth. Then he saw something in his reflection that took him aback. His irises were a pale lavender, the same as Valerys's. "I…" He tried to find his words, but instead he found himself staring at the disc, examining the colour of his eyes. "What… what is this?" he said, holding out the disc. "What is it for?"
"I have absolutely no idea," Rokka said with a sigh, resting back in his chair.
"How can you have no idea?" Erik asked, his voice laced with irritation. "You can see the future. You just told him he needed it. How could you possibly have no idea what it's for?"
Rokka raised a bony finger, his eyes narrowing as he looked towards Erik, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "I do not see the future, boy. I see paths. And in the path I wish to follow, I give that disc to this man." Taking in a deep breath through his nostrils, Rokka lifted himself back to his feet. "On that note, it is time to rest. As I said, you must be gone from here before the sun is two fingers past the horizon. Eat more if you wish, but then rest. There are four beds already made upstairs. Room on the right. I am on the left. If you enter my room, I will stab you in the eye." Rokka turned to Calen, his eyes softening a little. "The blanket's for you." He nodded to the woollen blanket draped over Calen's chair. Reaching down, the old man rested his hand on Calen's shoulder. "Just know one thing, my boy. The path you are on will bring death beyond your wildest nightmares. I say this not to steer you from it, but to steel you for it."
Rokka sighed, his eyes lingering on Calen for a moment before he turned and made his way up the staircase by the door.
Tarmon stood in the doorway of the old man's house, looking down at Calen, who sat on the deck staring at the sky, his feet resting on the lowest step, the woollen blanket draped over his lap. The horses, tethered to the fence in front of the house, whinnied as Tarmon stepped out onto the deck. Stretched bones clicked and muscles ached as he sat down beside Calen. "No."
Calen took a moment, his eyes lingering on the skies above, before turning, raising an eyebrow as he did.
"I've seen that face before. It's the same face you had in Straga when you told us you were going after Rist. When you expected us to let you go on your own. So I say no."
Calen laughed, a smile touching his face for only a moment. He always did that. Always pretended as though he wasn't collapsing beneath the weight of everything Aeson Virandr had heaped on his shoulders. Beneath the weight of loss. But Tarmon could see it in the way dark circles perpetually ringed his eyes, or in how his smile never seemed to last longer than a few fleeting moments. His mind seemed to constantly wander, distracted by which choice was the right one – Daymon had looked the same way after Arthur had died.
Calen rested his forearms on his knees, dropping his stare to the ground in front of the house. "I should never have let you come with me, Tarmon. I needed to come after Rist. Even if there's only the slightest of chances he is in Berona, I need to try. I can't abandon him. I just can't." Calen's voice dropped to a melancholy lament. He let out a sigh. "I know I should be going back to Durakdur. I know I should be helping Aeson build the rebellion. And I will. But I just…"
"You wouldn't be the man you are if you chose not to go after your friend. And none of us are letting you do this alone."
"It's not your fight, Tarmon. I… I can't ask you to risk your life for this."
Tarmon let out a ruminating sigh, staring off into the dark of night. "Erik is sitting inside, hunched in that wooden chair by the fire, his sleeping sack pulled up over his legs and his swords resting across his lap. He refuses to sleep in the bed because he knows you will be sleeping beside Valerys tonight, and if he is upstairs, he won't be quick enough to protect you. How he thinks he can protect you any better than a dragon, I truly am not sure, but still. The elf walked out the back door behind the staircase about five minutes after you came out here." Tarmon squinted, looking around the grove. "Which means he's probably hiding in the trees somewhere. Funny creature that he is. It's clear to me that more than his oath binds him to you, and in turn, to us all."
Calen reached back, running his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. "What's your point, Tarmon?"
"My point is," Tarmon said, meeting Calen's gaze. The purple hue that had set into the young man's eyes since Kingspass still unsettled him a little. "You may be a Draleid now, but you have no right to tell us this isn't our fight. We have stood by you, fought alongside you, bled with you, and suffered with you. We lost Falmin too, Calen. He was a good man, despite himself." Over the years, Tarmon had taught himself simply to not think of those who were gone. It was the easiest way of holding back the grief. But this wasn't the time to hold back. "We lost Korik and Lopir too. I watched my Kingsguard die in those tunnels, torn to pieces by the kerathlin. Men and women I was raised with and trained with. I watched my city burn. Your fight is our fight. I'm not sitting here because you're a Draleid. I'm sitting here because I made a choice. Because you, Vaeril, Erik, and I, we've been through things that would have broken others. We've lifted each other, carried each other, and stood by each other even when it looked like there wasn't a shred of hope. Your fight is our fight. Our fight is your fight." Tarmon looked into the night obscured grove. "This world chews us up and spits us out. It doesn't care if we live or die. It doesn't care who we love or who we hate. It is filled with misery, death, and loss. It cares little for us. But that is precisely why we must care with all our hearts, fight for the ones we love, and stand for what we believe in. Because in a world where nothing matters, what matters to us means everything. If we forget about the ones we love, everything loses meaning."
The tears that glistened in Calen's eyes took Tarmon by surprise. And in that moment, Tarmon could see the vulnerability in Calen, the true weight of both expectation and loss that hung over him. "So many are dead, Tarmon. My mam, my dad, Ella, Faenir, Ellisar, Falmin, Korik, Lopir"—with each name, Calen's voice choked more and more, his tone becoming darker, a single stream of tears beginning to flow—"The list is endless. I won't let Rist join that list. I won't let any of you."
"You don't have that control, Calen. If we die, we die. The beauty of life is in the living of it."
Calen drew a long breath in through his nostrils, nodding gently to himself. "The only thing within our control is what we choose to do with the short time we have – the things we fight for, the people we love, the things we hold dear."
A smile touched Tarmon's lips at hearing his own words spoken back to him. "Wise words," he said with a half-hearted laugh. "And that is why we go to Berona." Tarmon dropped his hand on Calen's shoulder and squeezed before lifting himself back to his feet.
"Tarmon, thank you for everything. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you three. If you hadn't dragged me from that cell. If you hadn't – quite literally – carried me away from Arisfall."
"And I wouldn't be here if you, Valerys, and Vaeril hadn't held the imperial soldiers back in the Wind Runner courtyard or if you hadn't saved my life in the tunnels below Lodhar. Is Valerys far?"
"No. He's hunting only a mile or so north. He'll be back soon."
Tarmon nodded. "Try and get some sleep, Calen. You're going to need it."
Leaving Calen on the porch, Tarmon stepped back inside the house, the warmth of the hearthfire wrapping around his bones. Erik lay in one of the wooden chairs on the right side of the fire, snoring, his neck turned awkwardly to the side, the blanket draped across him, his swords in their scabbards on his lap.
Tarmon let out a sigh and dropped into the chair opposite Erik. He had debated going up to the bed the old man had offered. His bones and muscles would thank him for it in the morning. But despite himself, he stayed where he was, snatched his sleeping sack off the floor, and draped it over himself. His short sword and greatsword lay in their scabbards within reach on the left side of the chair. They were still too close to Kingspass to take any chances.