Calen gasped, his breaths trembling as he woke. Even as he opened his eyes, he remained in almost complete darkness, Valerys's wing stretched over him like a tent canopy, trapping the warmth in, keeping the light out. A rush of panic flooded Calen's mind from Valerys's, and the dragon's wings pulled back, letting in a combination of frosty morning air and the warm glow of dawn light.
Valerys craned his neck around, nudging his snout against Calen's shoulder. The dragon's nostrils flared in panicked irritation. They had shared a dream again. Could that mean something? There had to be a connection between what Rokka had said and the dreams that Calen and Valerys shared.
This dream was new. Two armies of Draleid flew against each other. So many dragons a canopy of scale and steel blotted out the sky. On one side, elves rode astride their dragons, on the other, Jotnar – Calen recognised them from their lean muscular frames and pale bluish skin. The two armies had crashed together in the sky, raining blood and corpses over the fields below.
Calen had never seen anything like it, and he hoped he never would again. The sheer scale of death and loss pulled at his heart. He knew what it was almost immediately: the Blodvar. The great war between the elves and Jotnar. Therin had told the story many times. The war had occurred over five hundred years before humans had even set foot on Epheria, and it had raged for over two centuries. It was only the Doom at Haedr that had signalled the end of the conflict, and with it the formation of The Order. From the brink of total destruction to a new dawn.
A wave of loss flooded Calen's mind, spilling over from Valerys's at the thought of the dream. It wasn't a sense of loss for the dragons that died in the dream, but loss of what might have been.
Calen rested his forehead against Valerys's snout. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He simply let his mind drift into Valerys's, let every part of themselves blend. He wrapped the dragon's sorrow in warmth, pushing memories through their mind: Valerys hatching, the first time Calen had said Valerys's name, Valerys riding on Calen's saddle to the Darkwood. With those memories, he blended moments with Dann, Rist, Erik, Tarmon, and Vaeril. We are never alone.With their minds melded, every sound and smell in the grove became heightened. Calen could hear frosted leaves shaking and crunching as birds flitted between the trees and squirrels scurried along the ground. He could hear the snapping of branches, the burbling of the nearby river. Even the beating hearts of the four rabbits who slept in a burrow not five feet away thumped in his ears: a mother and three kits.
One breath through his nostrils picked up lavender, pine, wet fur, and the blood of a fox almost a mile away that had been attacked during the night and was now slowly losing its fight for life.
The rush of sensation overwhelmed him, but he could feel Valerys's heartbeat slowing, his sorrow subsiding, the comfort of the bond spreading through him. "Myia nithír til diar, Valerys." My soul to yours.A low rumble resonated through Valerys's throat as the dragon pressed his snout harder against Calen. Valerys couldn't articulate his thoughts like Calen could, but the warmth that radiated from Valerys's mind said more than words ever could.
"Come on," Calen said, patting the side of Valerys's jaw. "That old man said we had to be gone before the sun was more than two fingers above the horizon."
The rational part of Calen's mind told him that Rokka was simply crazy. That the old man's ramblings were a result of living alone so close to the Burnt Lands, and any sense Rokka made was simply coincidence. But something told Calen there was more to it.
The words Rokka had spoken before retiring for the night played on Calen's mind. 'The path you are on will bring death beyond your wildest dreams. I say this not to steer you from it, but to steel you for it.' Were it not for the sadness in Rokka's eyes when he had spoken the words, Calen might have thought nothing of them. But as it were, every word had felt genuine – filled with a true sadness.
Letting out a sigh, Calen pushed off the blanket Rokka had given him – another thing that the man had seemed to foresee – and got to his feet. He strapped his sword belt around his waist, his fingertips lingering on the silk scarf he had tied through the belt's loops – the scarf he had gotten for his mother. His mother's scarf, a sword given to him by his father, and a belt gifted to him by Tharn Pimm. It didn't matter where he was in the world, those three things would always remind him of home, of everything he was fighting for, of the people he had lost.
Artim Valdock, Inquisitor Rendall, Farda Kyrana. You took everything. I will take something back. I promise you.
Just the thought of the three men set Calen in a dark mood. But as he made his way through the grove, Valerys moving beside him, a thought came to him. He swung his satchel around to his front and undid the buckles that held the flap closed. Reaching inside, he felt the cool touch of the brass-backed pendant that he had found in Vindakur along with Alvira's letter. He pulled both the pendant and the letter from the satchel before swinging it back over his shoulder.
He unfurled the letter, casting his gaze over it as the frost-crusted grass crunched beneath his footsteps.
My dearest Eluna,
I have left more. The pendant is the key.
Always remember, even in the shadow of what was lost, we can find light anew.
Your Archon, and your friend.
Alvira Serris
Calen read the letter twice before letting out a sigh and stuffing it into his satchel. The pendant is the key. He passed the pendant over and back in his hand, running his thumb along the intricate spiral patterns worked into its brass back, then over the cool, obsidian-cut front. White markings lay inside the black glass, depicting the symbol of The Order: a triangle, pointing upward, with three smaller triangles set at each of its edges. There had to be something he was missing. Alvira's words made no sense on their own. Could it be something that only Eluna understood?
The pendant is the key. The key to what?
The crisp morning breeze swept over Calen's face and through his hair as he emerged from the edge of the grove. He took one last look at the pendant, stuck it into his coat pocket, then swung the satchel back over his shoulder. Calen lifted his hand in the air, turning it sideways, flat against the eastern horizon over the looming woodland of Lynalion that stood a hundred or so miles away. The morning sun had only just begun to spray over the roof of the woodland, spilling orange light into the world.
"Not yet a finger over the horizon," Vaeril said, his voice carrying as he stepped out from somewhere within the grove, his green cloak – now torn and beaten – flapping lazily behind him, his sword strapped to his hip and his white-wood bow jutting over his shoulder.
Calen gave the elf a nod. Valerys had smelled Vaeril's scent the night before, no more than fifty feet from where they slept. Each person's scent was distinctive to the dragon. Once he spent long enough with someone, he could tell them apart by smell alone.
As Vaeril approached, Valerys shifted, craning his neck and lowering his head so it looked almost as though he was bowing to the elf.
"Du gryr haydria myia elwyn," Vaeril said, reciprocating Valerys's gesture with a short bow.
"I know I can't convince you to sleep inside and get some actual rest," Calen said as Vaeril stepped beside him. "But you don't have to hide."
The elf smiled. At least, it was almost a smile, more of a gentle upturn at the corners of his mouth. "Old habits die hard," the elf said. "Besides, it is easier to keep watch without your snoring distracting me."
Calen shook his head, suppressing a laugh. "Come on, the others are already waiting for us."
Calen could see Tarmon and Erik at the front of the house beside the horses, the gaunt figure of Rokka by their side, his brown robes hanging loose around his shoulders. Calen wasn't entirely sure if he trusted the man, but it wasn't as if he had any choice at this point.
"It's about time you got here," Erik said, shrugging a satchel over his shoulders. "I was about to go in there and look for you. Well, I was gonna look for him." Erik nodded towards Valerys, who stood behind Calen, his lavender eyes fixed on Erik. "He's a little easier to find."
Calen's eyes shifted from Erik, to Tarmon, to the horses, then back to Tarmon again. The horses' saddlebags all lay on the ground beside the animals, open and half emptied, while Tarmon hefted a bulging satchel over one shoulder, next to the greatsword that was strapped to his back, three more satchels at his feet.
"I figured it best we leave the horses here," Tarmon said in response to Calen's curious stare. "We don't have the food or water to attempt bringing them through the Burnt Lands with us, and they will likely die if we set them loose at its edge. Rokka has said he will take them. No sense in letting such fine animals drift into the void."
"I'll keep one," the old man said, running his brittle, liver-spotted hand along the neck of the horse Calen had ridden from Kingspass. "The others I can sell for a good price. I'll take them as payment for the satchels." Rokka frowned at Tarmon as he spoke, then pouted, turning back to the horse. "Hidranians can fetch a pretty penny around here. Whoever gave them to you must have liked you."
"They're the most expensive satchels I've ever heard of," Erik said, laughing.
"All right," Calen said. "You have a deal." He swung his own satchel around, moving his arms through the loops so that it sat on his front, then snatched up a satchel from beside Tarmon's feet and slung it around his shoulders. The satchel with the supplies was heavier. It would be easier to carry on his back. Vaeril and Erik followed suit, though their weapons made it slightly more awkward. "Rokka, thank you for your hospitality. It's been a long time since I've had a stew that reminds me of home."
"You're never going to believe this," Erik said, holding his hand in the air. He reached back to grab the satchel that hung from his shoulders but stopped. "I'm not sure which pack they are in. He baked the stew into pies. Pies, Calen! I don't know what hour of the morning you woke to get these made," Erik said, turning to Rokka. "But I don't think I can thank you enough."
Erik's beaming smile was one of pure delight. To most people, the idea of cold stew eaten from thick, crusty pies wasn't exactly a delicacy. But after surviving off mostly stale bread, cheese, and strips of meat for long enough, almost anything else sounded delicious. But to Calen in particular, this was even more so. He could still feel the weakness in his limbs, the aches and pains that plagued his muscles. It would be quite a while of good eating before he would regain the strength he had before Artim Valdock had locked him in that cell.
"Ah, there was too much for one old man. I don't like to waste." As he spoke, Rokka gave Calen a knowing look, as though he had just read Calen's mind.
"Thank you," Calen said, giving the man a weak smile. "For everything you have done."
Rokka inclined his head, the sleeves of his robes dropping over his hands.
"It's time we get moving," Calen said to Tarmon, Erik, and Vaeril, glancing towards the rising sun, its orange light spilling over the horizon.
As Calen went to turn, Rokka stepped forward, wrapping his bony fingers around Calen's forearm with a deceptive strength. "Before you go, I must tell you something that may not make sense to you now, but it will."
A strange tension hung in the air as the man gripped Calen's forearm. Both Tarmon and Vaeril had taken steps closer, their hands hovering over the pommels of their swords. Valerys edged closer, his mind pushing against Calen's, anger and fear permeating the dragon's mind. The experience in the Drifaien had set Valerys on edge. Calen tried to calm him, but Valerys ignored him. If Rokka made so much as a single motion in the wrong direction, Valerys would tear him to shreds.
Calen rested his hand on Rokka's, feeling the man's hand shake beneath his. The old man was strange, stranger than most, but there was something else in him: fear. "Tell me what you need to tell me."
Rokka nodded, easing his grip on Calen's arm. "I have lived a long time," the man said, staring absently at Calen's chest. "A very long time. And in that time, I have seen the landscape of this continent shift and change in more ways than I could explain. I've seen the birth of new mountains, rivers carved through dirt, cities rise that would put anything you've ever seen to shame. But I've also watched as dragons were torn from this world." Calen could feel Valerys's attention shift as Rokka lifted his head and gazed at the dragon. "I've watched as nations fell and rivers of blood soaked the earth and as my kind were hunted, one after another, by men, elves, and Jotnar alike, who sought to control us. But all that pales in comparison to what is coming.
"The Blood Moon is coming. It is earlier this cycle, perhaps due to thinning of the veil at Ilnaen. As the Blood Moon tarnishes the sky, the veil between this world and the world of your gods will thin even further. With each new moon, the followers of Efialtír seek to strengthen his tether between the worlds, and to this point, they have failed. But the Draleid no longer fill the sky, The Order no longer keeps the darkness at bay, and the world of men is led by those who call him The Saviour. The Blood Moon will rise as winter falls upon us once more. And this time, I fear we may not be able to hold the darkness back."
Calen's mouth went dry. Around him he could see the others had let their hands drift from their weapons, their attention focused on the old man's words.
Keeping his left hand wrapped around Calen's forearm, Rokka reached up and placed his other hand on Calen's chest. "As I said before, I do not see the future, I simply see paths – those not yet taken. In the long, winding road of time, there are anchors. People, places, and things that shape and mould the paths to be taken. You. All of you," Rokka said, his eyes fixed on Calen, before casting his gaze at Vaeril, Tarmon, Valerys, and Erik, "are one of those anchors. And I will do what I can to guide you. Last night, I had a dream in which I said these words: 'A city once lost, found it needs to be. A gem, a jewel, a trinket of sorts, but truly more a key. Not a door that it unlocks, a secret to be revealed. A trick, a mask, a painting over truth, thought forever sealed. There is a stone, a heart of blood, cast into the sea. The essence of life, drawn from birth, stolen, taken, seized. The moon of blood, of death and life, linked the two may be. For connections made will rise once more when the moon you can see.'"
"Here," he said pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and pressing into Calen's palm. "Before you ask, I already wrote it down."
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the whistling of the morning breeze. "I wish I could do more, but alas, my abilities have limits. As I said, these words may mean nothing to you now. They may seem the ramblings of a mad old fool who lives in a hut in the middle of nowhere, and perhaps they are. Even I don't know what they mean. But they do mean something. Now go, the sun is almost two fingers above the horizon.