Hours after the battle in Drifaien, Kallinvar lay in the waters of Heraya's Well in the Tranquil Garden, his eyes closed, the soft sounds of birdsong and falling water rumbling in his ears as the many web-like streams of the garden fed into the pool. He drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. As he floated, every ache and pain faded, the Waters of Life washing them away. He still felt a slight sting in his shoulder from where a Fade's nithrál had sliced through his Sentinel armour and seared his skin. The muscles in his upper back were tight and bunched, but the tension melted away with each passing moment.
They had won the day, carved the Bloodspawn from the town, and none of his knights had died, but Kallinvar had allowed his fury and grief to cloud his mind. He had let Verathin's loss consume him. Everything had been all right – this time. But that would not always be the case. If anything had happened, it would have been on his shoulders. I am the Grandmaster. It is always on my shoulders. I do will do right by you, brother. At least, I will try.Footsteps broke the peaceful repetition of water and birdsong – three sets by the sound of it. Kallinvar didn't bother opening his eyes. He had expected this.
"Mind if we join?"
Kallinvar let out a sigh. "If I said yes, Ruon?"
The sound of splashing water reached Kallinvar's ears before Ruon responded. "Good point, Grandmaster."
Kallinvar cringed at the emphasis Ruon placed on the title. He replayed the moment in his mind where Arden had stopped him from harming the woman – stopped him from tearing an innocent soul from the world. Kallinvar knew he shouldn't have spoken to Arden as he did – as Grandmaster, he had every right to, but he shouldn't have, and he regretted it.
Two more splashes sounded. Ildris and Tarron.
"I'm not in the mood, Ruon."
"I don't care. We need to talk. You know we do."
Kallinvar drew a deep breath in through his nostrils, then let it out in a sigh, lifting himself upright, opening his eyes, and allowing his feet to touch the bottom of the pool. The water of the well shimmered, coruscating clusters of vibrant blue shifting through darker patches, glimmering as they twirled and moved in response to Kallinvar's and the other knights' bodies. Ildris, Tarron, and Ruon stood in the pool, their eyes fixed on Kallinvar.
Ildris leaned against the edge of the pool, dangling strands of moss and thin roots touching his shoulders. His skin was dark, his head shaved clean as always, his beard thick and well groomed. The man's shoulders were broad and dense, his chest like plate armour – a warrior to his bones.
Tarron stood a foot or so to Ildris's right, blond hair slicked back over his head, arms folded across his chest, his mouth curved in a half-smile that spoke only of worry.
Ruon moved through the middle of the pool, her dark hair wet and tacked to her neck and shoulders.
"We know you're hurting," Tarron said, staring at the glittering clusters of bright blue that swirled through the pool. "And we're here for you, brother. In any way you need. You know we are."
"Scars run deeper than the flesh." Ildris touched his fingers to his throat, subconsciously tracing a line left to right. It had been over six centuries since Paldrin, the Sister-Captain of The Second before Kallinvar took the mantle of Captain, had led Kallinvar and the others to the city of Ilirinth – where Aerilon now stood – to find Ildris hanging from the rafters of the armoury. The lord Ildris had been charged with protecting had been killed, along with his wife and their children. Ildris had blamed himself and taken to spirits to drown his sorrows. And when his guilt had finally consumed him, he had settled on taking his own life.
What had struck Kallinvar more than anything was how eager Ildris had been to take the Sigil. Most often when a new candidate was found, they were moments from death – the choice being to accept their fate, or to take the Sigil and live on to serve Achyron. But Ildris hadn't been close to death. Paldrin had cut the rope, and Ildris had survived. He could have refused the Sigil and continued to live, but he didn't. It was on that day that Kallinvar truly learned that wounds of the mind were as much a death sentence as wounds of the body.
"I'm all right, Ildris. I promise."
"It's not going to be that easy." Ruon moved closer to Kallinvar, the luminescent lights of the pool glistening off her skin. She tilted her head to the right, a weak smile touching her lips as she looked at him.
"Six hundred years we've fought together." Tarron pushed away from the edge of the pool, drawing level with Ruon. "Eat, fight, sleep. Each day I wake up to your ugly mug. Six hundred fucking years. That's over two hundred thousand days. That's a lot of days, Kallinvar. You're less a brother and more a limb we can't cut off. All the knights are our kin, but there are few souls in the world who have seen what we've seen and done what we've done. If it weren't for you bastards, I'd have lost my mind centuries ago. So you can push us away all you want, but we're not moving. I know your face better than I know mine – mostly because we don't have a lot of mirrors in this forsaken temple, but that's an issue I'm arguing with Watcher Ralgan about."
"What Tarron is trying to say," Ildris said, throwing Tarron a sideways glance, "is that lying to us is a lot harder than lying to yourself. What good is protecting each other on the battlefield if we don't protect each other off it. You let your grief take you today. Not only did it almost lead you to shearing the soul of one who had never touched the Taint, but it put your brothers and sisters in danger."
Kallinvar looked between Ildris, Tarron, and Ruon, who stared back. His throat constricted and his stomach clenched. His mind drifted to Verathin, to all the nights they had passed talking in Verathin's study, and all the drinks and meals they had shared. He thought back to the lessons learned, the knowledge passed, the hours upon hours spent sitting in silence when no words were needed. He thought back and his heart bled for his oldest friend, for the man for whom the word 'brother' had been truest of all. Despite himself, Kallinvar could feel tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He wasn't a crier, never had been. Nothing wrong with crying, it just wasn't something that came to him often. In fact, the only tears he remembered shedding had been since Verathin was taken from them. A few tears tickled his cheeks as they rolled. He didn't sob or convulse, but as he stood there in Heraya's Well, his true family around him, Kallinvar let himself cry.
"I can't be what he was, Ruon… I can't…"
"We don't need you to be what he was, Kallinvar." Ruon rested her hand on Kallinvar's shoulder, her eyes red, tears rolling. "We need you. We need our brother. Our Grandmaster."
"I feel lost, Ruon. Like a raft adrift at sea. He…"
"Then we'll drift on the raft with you," Tarron said, letting out a laugh, a smile curling at the corners of his lips.
"Like we said, brother, we are with you, always. Verathin granted each of us the Sigil, but you are our Grandmaster now, and we will follow wherever you lead."
Kallinvar brushed a tear from his left cheek, a tightness in his chest, a warmth spreading through him, battling against the cool touch of the pool's water. He took in a deep breath, then let out a sigh, smiling. "As much as this truly does mean to me, how about we put some clothes on and have a drink?" A laugh fluttered in Kallinvar's chest, growing louder and deeper, until he shook his head, his cheeks hurting. In the life they lead, happiness was fleeting. So he embraced that moment like a long-lost friend.
Ruon, Tarron, Ildris joined, doubling over as the laughter took hold. It was a whole minute before Ruon pulled herself together, a few rogue laughs still escaping her. "Come on," she said, clapping Kallinvar on the shoulder, the water swishing as she moved. "I had Lyrin pick up a bottle of Karvosi rum the last time he was in Vaerleon. I can hear it calling for us."
"You've been holding out?" Tarron gave a look of mock surprise.
"Only on you, brother. Only on you.