Kallinvar stood over the war table, his palms resting on its cool stone edge. He felt as though he spent the majority of his time standing in the war room now, planning, moving pieces on a board. It didn't feel right. It wasn't him. His place was on the field of battle. Even before Verathin had given him the Sigil. He'd entered the Amendel guard as soon as they'd let him in, and that's where he'd stayed until Amendel fell, and Verathin had saved Kallinvar from falling with it.
He'd tried his best to go with the rest of The Second when he could, but without him in the temple, the others couldn't utilise the Rift; they were hamstrung. He let out a sigh, lifting his head towards the two captains who stood before him: Darmerian, Brother-Captain of The Fifth, and Airdaine, Sister-Captain of The Ninth. He'd barely spoken a word since they'd entered the chamber.
Kallinvar turned his gaze back to the table before he spoke, not having the strength to look Darmerian in the eyes. He looked over the carved stone map, stopping at the ridged mountains that rose a few inches – Wolfpine Ridge. "Darmerian, Watcher Gildrick tells me The Fifth have done well looking over Illyanara. I am sorry about Sister Urilin. She was a brave soul." Kallinvar clenched his jaw as he spoke. Urilin had been slain by four Bloodmarked in a town an hour south-east of Camylin. When Kallinvar had extended Darmerian's watch from the west of Illyanara across the whole province, the Brother-Captain had warned Kallinvar that Bloodspawn numbers were growing too large in the region. But all Kallinvar had done was ask him to hold strong. They didn't have the numbers, and the Uraks had learned – they were spreading themselves out, using their hordes to their advantage.
"That she was, Grandmaster. She will be missed."
Kallinvar wished he had words that would grant Darmerian some peace. But he didn't. He knew all too well what it was like for a captain to lose a knight under their command. He knew the visceral, heart-rending pain, like a hot knife carving into his flesh. Even then, Kallinvar could feel Urilin's loss echoing through his Sigil. He was finding that as the Grandmaster, not only could he feel the emotions of his knights, but their loss resonated within him as well, lingering far longer than it ever had before. And yet, he knew his pain was nothing next to Darmerian's.
And I caused it. I sent them there. I should have given more.
Yes, Kallinvar wished he had the words, but words had never been his strength. Words of battle were one thing. Setting courage in hearts and fire in veins, that he could do. But talk of the heart, talk of pain, that was as alien to him as the ever-elusive notion of peace. And so he simply gave Darmerian a sorrowful smile and nodded. "What of the factions you approached? What do they say?"
"There is a faction based here." Darmerian leaned forwards, pointing a finger towards the foothills of the Baylomon Mountains, by the coast. "They call themselves the Red Suns. They're gathering strength, organising. And they've fortified a town along the coast, maybe six or seven thousand fighters. They're not truly a force yet, more a rabble, but they're on the right path."
"And what did they say, Darmerian?" Kallinvar tried his best to keep the frustration from his voice.
Darmerian scrunched his mouth, biting the side of his bottom lip. He let out a sigh. "They said they will pledge themselves to our cause."
Kallinvar raised his eyebrows, stepping back, surprised.
"They will pledge themselves to our cause," Darmerian repeated, "if we support their leader in his claim as the King of Illyanara."
"Fuck…" Kallinvar leaned on the table, shaking his head. It had been the same across the continent. Just as Kallinvar had predicted. The rebellions that were breaking out had been devastating for the empire. That, combined with the resurgent attacks of the Bloodspawn and the chaos caused by the new Draleid, had spread the Lorians thin. Even with dragons, a continent was not an easy thing to control, and the empire no longer had many dragons. Unfortunately, the side effect of a crumbling empire was that all the small lords and would-be kings and queens were carving each other apart in the pursuit of dropped power. "Any others?"
"There's a faction that controls a large section of land south of Fearsall. They are constantly at odds with the Red Suns, and they fly the banner of old Amendel." Darmerian gave Kallinvar a look as he said that – the banner of old Amendel. Kallinvar's home.
In his mind's eye, Kallinvar could see the red banner rippling in the air, a white gryphon emblazoned across the front. Much like the druids, the Jotnar, and many others of times long past, the gryphons were gone now, slaughtered to the last when the Illyanaran army took Amendel's capital. Kallinvar shook the thoughts away. "And what did they say?"
"Actually, their leader, a woman by the name of Aryana Torval, said she would be willing to meet with you."
"Good. I'll make it happen. Others?"
Darmerian went on to point out spots on the war table where smaller factions had begun to gather strength across Illyanara, Kallinvar marking the locations with small blue markers. No fewer than fifteen, though some numbering less than a thousand. When Darmerian finished, Airdaine did the same, though none of the factions she had encountered in Varsund had extended the same offer as this Aryana Torval, who flew the banner of old Amendel.
Once Kallinvar had dismissed Airdaine and Darmerian, he had less than a minute or so to breathe before another knock sounded at the door. Kallinvar reached through his Sigil, but felt no response on the other side of the door, which meant his new guest wasn't a knight. He let out a subdued sigh. "Come in."
The door creaked open, and a storm of footsteps followed. Kallinvar lifted his head to see Watcher Gildrick entering the war room, white-trimmed dark green robes flowing behind him. Another watcher strode along at his side, a dark-haired woman with bronzed skin and a sharp face; she looked young, no more than twenty summers. Two priests of Achyron shepherded a number of porters carrying trays of food, some cups, and jugs of wine and water into the room, their green cloaks missing the white trimming that marked Gildrick and the woman as watchers.
"What is all this, Gildrick?"
"You've been in here for twelve hours, Kallinvar. The sun has risen and set without you seeing its light. The Sigil might grant you great strength, but you need to eat, drink, and sleep just like the rest of us. And seeing as I can't force you to sleep, I may as well feed you."
Kallinvar made to protest, but Gildrick raised a greying eyebrow, an unyielding expression on his face. Kallinvar couldn't help but stifle a laugh at that, thinking of how he had once given the same look to Gildrick when the Watcher had seen no more than fourteen summers.
The porters set out foldable tables beside the war table, laying down trays of steaming hot meats, thick slices of cheese, a block of butter, and a beautiful loaf of ash bread – a staple bread of Amendel, leavened with pearl ash.
"As appreciative as I am, Gildrick, I couldn't eat all this if I had an entire day and an empty stomach."
"Which is why we shall be helping you." As the two priests shuffled the porters out of the room, closing the doors behind them, Gildrick reached over and filled three cups with wine.
"We?" Kallinvar looked from Gildrick to the young watcher at his side who gave Kallinvar an awkward, if enthusiastic, smile.
"This," Gildrick said, handing Kallinvar a cup of wine then gesturing towards the young woman as he handed over her cup, "is Watcher Tallia. She is my new charge and will be shadowing me from now on. I know you had called for me earlier, but I was tied up in arranging a few things for the festival tonight. I apologize for my lateness, but I thought it was better to be late than to not show at all, and I also thought it a good learning experience for Tallia."
"Your apology's not necessary." Kallinvar took a sip of wine as he cut a slice of ash bread, slathered it with butter, stacked meat and cheese on top, then devoured it in two mouthfuls. In truth, he had spent so long in the war room and talked to so many knights and watchers alike, the hours had blurred together, and Kallinvar had entirely forgotten he had asked Gildrick to come at all. But the questions he had for the Watcher were important ones.
"First lesson, Tallia, is Grandmaster Kallinvar has the table manners of a hog." Gildrick frowned at Kallinvar before gesturing for Tallia to take her choice of food.
It was etiquette within the temple and amongst the people of Ardholm that the lowest of rank or station should eat first. It had always been that way. Verathin had told Kallinvar that it fostered trust and understanding. The knights might be Achyron's champions, but every person within the temple and the bounds of Ardholm had their part to play. It was a tradition that Kallinvar had fallen afoul of many times since taking over the title of Grandmaster. He was not used to being the highest of rank in any room, and he had taken many of his meals alone recently. He gave Gildrick an apologetic look, then washed down the bread, meat, and cheese with another mouthful of wine. Until just that moment, he hadn't realised he was starving.
Shaking his head at Kallinvar, Gildrick gestured to Tallia, and the young woman handed him a dark leather satchel from which he produced a stack of journals that he set on a foldable table to his left. "When we spoke this morning, you asked about Verathin. I took the liberty of breaking these free from the vault in the Watcher library."
"What are they?" Kallinvar asked, swallowing another mouthful of wine as he narrowed his eyes at the stack of journals.
"They are chronicles of the Grandmasters, taken by the Watchers. There are some still in the vault that date back to the very first Watchers, but they are nearly illegible at this stage." Gildrick tapped his finger against the leather of the top journal. "Most of the important information has been transcribed into these over the years."
"And these contain—"
"Everything," Gildrick said, finishing Kallinvar's sentence. "From thoughts and feelings to tactics and advice. But most importantly, what I think you're looking for – detailed accounts on the gifts granted to the Grandmaster."
"It's like you can read my mind, Gildrick."
"Well, I've known you all my life. If I didn't have some idea what you were thinking, I wouldn't be a very good Watcher."
Kallinvar smiled, looking at the grey touching Gildrick's temples, the marks of time on his face. In his centuries, Kallinvar had known many Watchers, priests, cooks, and porters. He had seen them all grow from children, watched them mature, then wither, their bodies caving to the incessant abrasion of time. It was one of the many burdens of the immortality granted to the knights. To live forever was a notion chased by many dreamers, but it was, in many ways, a poisoned chalice. Life had meaning because it had an end. Without the end, each day was just a blur in a vast ocean. Kallinvar had seen nations rise and fall, rivers carve paths through the world, and landscapes change in their entirety. But if he was honest with himself, the hardest part was growing to care for someone while knowing you would be there to lay them in the ground when they died. He had seen many knights struggle with the notion. Some, though few, had taken their own lives, unable to come to terms with their new reality.
When Kallinvar was young and his elder sister had died on a hunt, their mother had told him that time heals all wounds. What she had said was true to a point, but only within the bounds of a single lifespan. When a lifespan was extended, the meaning was inverted. Time no longer healed all wounds, it created them as the permanency of loss became ever more present. For a knight to truly accept who they were, they needed to embrace their new purpose, their new meaning: to protect the world from The Shadow.
Kallinvar bit the side of his lip, realising he'd been staring at Gildrick for longer than he intended. He gave another smile, then let out a puff of air and walked around to the other side of the war table, surveying the land. Counters of numerous colours were scattered around the carved stone map. Stacked white counters sat beside carvings, denoting the allegiance and relative size of armies in their thousands. Black counters marked wherever a major Bloodspawn attack had occurred, while red counters marked wherever the knights had not arrived in time to stop those attacks. From the start, the red counters had been far more numerous than the black, but now there were at least two red for every black. There weren't enough knights.
Green counters marked positions of knights outside the temple – eighty-six at that moment. Kallinvar could feel each one of them. Their life force pulsed through him, resonating in his Sigil, an unseen tether connecting them. It had overwhelmed him at first, but looking at the war table helped him visualise things, helped his mind reconcile the new sensations. Where each counter sat on the war table, Kallinvar could see the knight to whom it belonged. Brother Ormin and Brother Lumikes of The Sixth were investigating a smaller convergence near the Aonan Wood. Sister-Captain Olyria and two of her knights, Turilin and Galvar, were at a town near Yarrin in Arkalen. Sister-Captain Arlena of The First was with Jurea and Helka near the Darkwood to see if there was any truth to the rumours of elves within. He'd sent Brother-Captain Armites and four of his knights to Lynalion, but in truth, he held out little hope of the elves there entertaining any form of alliance. Many of the other counters were scattered around the war table – knights sent to intercept convergences, to watch over vulnerable areas, or to engage in ambassadorial missions to strong factions.
"Was there something in particular you wanted to ask, Kallinvar?" Gildrick raised an eyebrow, and Kallinvar realised he had been silent for almost four or five minutes.
"Many things," Kallinvar muttered, folding his arms across his chest. "Aside from these notebooks, did Verathin ever talk to you about his gifts?"
Gildrick pouted and tilted his head. "Not really. From time to time, yes, or when I asked. But Verathin served as Grandmaster for over eight centuries. He'd asked all his questions a long time before I was brought into the world." Gildrick narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"
"Nothing." Except that I'm hearing the voice of a god in my head. It had been a while since Achyron had spoken, but Kallinvar could feel him there at the edges of his mind. It was both anxiety-inducing and awe-inspiring. Had Verathin heard The Warrior too? Had the other Grandmasters? Kallinvar would have asked Gildrick outright if it hadn't sounded so insane. No, now that Gildrick had brought Kallinvar the journals, Kallinvar would search those first. If the answer was written within those pages, then Kallinvar would not have to ask the question aloud. "Tell me," Kallinvar said, stroking his chin. "It is likely in the journals, but you might be able to save me some time. The convergences."
"Ah, yes. How are you finding them?"
"Stomach-churning." Kallinvar gave an uneasy smile, thinking back to the last time he had sensed a convergence. "It's like the world around me dims, and all the sounds blend into a discordant wave that crashes over me. But more than that, they take too long to decipher. I can feel the Taint pulsing, pounding, hammering in my head." Kallinvar glanced towards the young Watcher, Tallia, becoming aware how openly he was speaking in front of someone he knew little of. "I can't focus on it. I can't narrow in. Entire villages have been lost by the time I've organised my thoughts, Gildrick."
"I see." Gildrick stepped towards the war table, his left hand clasping his right elbow, his right hand scratching at the stubble on his face. "Verathin did tell me, when I was young, that he used this table to map out the Taint."
Kallinvar raised an eyebrow.
Gildrick ran his tongue across his teeth, tilting his head sideways. "He said that aside from the convergences, there was also a base level of the Taint that he could feel across different areas. And the same as you, the feelings and sensations were overwhelming. Instead of trying to unravel the…" Gildrick clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth as he pondered, snatching at the right word. "… ball of twine in your mind, if you will."
"I'm not sure that's a fantastic analogy, Gildrick, but continue."
"Instead of trying to unravel the ball of twine in your mind, use it to thread a tapestry and lay it over the map."
Kallinvar did his best to suppress a laugh. "Is there a less poetic way to say that?"
Gildrick let out an unimpressed sigh. He looked to Kallinvar, then to Tallia, and back to Kallinvar. "It can be hard to build something without a framework. Instead of trying to focus on the convergence in your mind, where it's muddled with everything else, lay it over the war table. Lay it over a map of Epheria. Use the map as your framework. Feel the Taint through the map. Verathin had said it always helped, particularly when he was learning."
Kallinvar frowned. It was easy for Gildrick to say, but it wasn't so easy to do. Still, it was worth a try. His head had been throbbing constantly since he had received the Sigil of the Grandmaster, particularly when any convergences occurred. Perhaps this was the solution.
Tracing his finger along the carved stone, Kallinvar walked around the war table, taking it in, examining it in its entirety before stopping back where he'd started. He looked down at the green counters, focusing on the single counter at Kingspass: Lyrin. Kallinvar had sent him to reach out to his network in Kingspass and the surrounding areas to see if he could uncover any information on where the Draleid had been headed. He would likely be signalling Kallinvar soon to send him on to Berona.
Looking down at the green counter, Kallinvar could feel Lyrin's Sigil pulsating. As he focused, he matched his connection with Lyrin in his mind to the counter on the war table, overlaying them. And almost immediately, it clicked. Where Lyrin's counter sat on the table, Kallinvar could feel the thrum of Lyrin's Sigil, an almost imperceptible green glow radiating from the counter. The glow must have been in his mind, for it didn't touch the surface of the stone, but he could see it, nonetheless.
"Is it working?" Kallinvar could hear the earnest curiosity in Gildrick's voice.
After an hour or so of questions, Gildrick and Tallia left Kallinvar to examine this newfound layering of his mind over the map on the war table – they'd also left the food and the wine.
Kallinvar slathered a layer of butter over a thick slice of ash bread, carefully layering slices of cheese and ham roasted in a jacket of redcurrant jam. When he'd placed the last piece of cheese, he dropped a big dollop of honey on top and smeared it around the mountain of meat and cheese, then took half of it into his mouth in a single bite, sighing through his nostrils in satisfaction.
As he chewed, he looked down over the war table. It had taken the better part of the hour with Gildrick to truly layer the sensations of the Taint and the pulses of his knight's Sigils over the stone-carved map, but once he had pieced it together and visualised it on the map, he'd felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Beside the counters that marked Brother Ormin and Brother Lumikes, Kallinvar could physically see a dim red glow where he'd sensed the convergence of the Taint. The glow wasn't truly there. It was his mind's visualisation of the convergence. But just being able to see it like that made it so much easier to comprehend. He would have to properly thank Gildrick.
Kallinvar took another bite of bread, cheese, ham, and honey, washing it down with a long draught of wine, then looked back over the table. Everywhere he had sensed convergences, big and small, he could now see glowing patches of red, their size commensurate to the strength of the convergence. In other places, he could see dim layers of red stretching over large patches of land: Mar Dorul, Kolmir, areas of Wolfpine Ridge, and many other sections of the map where Bloodspawn dwelled. But more than anywhere, the Burnt Lands glowed so ferociously the light was opaque, a blanket of red. Nowhere else on the map held anywhere near that level of the Taint.
Kallinvar scratched his chin, taking another drink of wine. He'd been to the Burnt Lands a number of times since The Fall, his Sigil protecting him from the madness that dwelled within. The Taint was so thick there that breathing the air was like drinking oil, and yet, he'd not found nearly enough Bloodspawn to justify even a fraction of that Taint. A handful here or there, pillaging broken cities, but nothing that would explain why the Taint was so thick, and why it spread through nearly all the Burnt Lands. There has to be an explanation.
As Kallinvar refilled his cup, already feeling the warmth of the wine spreading through him, he touched his hand against his chest, feeling a pulse ripple through his Sigil. He let out a sigh, a soft smile touching his lips. It seemed he wasn't going to get any more than a half-hour's worth of solitude. But for Ruon, he would allow it.
The war room door creaked open. "I thought I might find you here."
Kallinvar filled a second cup with wine and handed it to Ruon. "I just needed to look it over again."
"You've been looking it over for hours, Kallinvar. You need to sleep or at least take a break."
Kallinvar gave Ruon a half-hearted smile, meeting her green-eyed stare for a moment before looking back down at the table and pointing to a spot just north of Cardend, where two green counters lay. "Sister Oryn and Sister Vendire are fighting here, right now." A red glow pulsed beside the counters. "The more I look, the more I think I should have sent another with them."
"Kallinvar." Ruon placed her full cup of wine down on a foldable table left by the porters, then rested her hand on Kallinvar's shoulder. "You need to sleep."
"Brother Maklas died two days ago because I sent him and Sister Yirsa to investigate a convergence near the Marin Mountains. I hadn't sensed the true power of the convergence. They were swarmed by Bloodmarked and a Shaman. Sister Yirsa barely got out with her life. Maklas died because I wasn't good enough, Ruon. And he hasn't been the only one."
"And his loss is felt, but he was a knight, Kallinvar. He was one of Achyron's champions. He knew the risks. We all do. This is what we are made for. Don't take his death away from him by claiming it for yourself."
"Words, Ruon. Those are all just words. I should have sent more knights. I made a bad decision, and Maklas suffered for it."
"And you will make more bad decisions. So will I. That's the way of things. We pick ourselves up, we learn, and we do better the next time."
"That's what I'm doing now – learning."
"Learning works better with sleep." Ruon sliced a piece of ash bread and spread a thick glob of honey across it, letting out a soft laugh. "Gildrick never forgets, does he? When he found out I was born in Valean, he somehow sourced seeds from a gileam tree and had them planted in the gardens. Three years later it bore fruit, and ever since he brings me gileam whenever he comes to see me. I hadn't eaten gileam in over five centuries until he found those seeds."
Kallinvar smiled at that. Ruon was right, Gildrick embodied everything that it was to be a Watcher. He truly cared for the knights. Not just their bodies, but their minds and their souls. Over seven hundred years, Kallinvar had never met someone as selfless as the Watcher. The day Heraya would take Gildrick into her arms was a day Kallinvar dreaded. "He has a good soul."
Ruon nodded, moving around the other side of the war table, taking stock of the land. "If you won't sleep, will you at least come with me to the festival in the village? I've heard there's a young woman who has quite a singing voice. I could do with hearing someone sing."
Kallinvar folded his arms and stared at the table. The Earlywinter festival was celebrated in Ardholm at dawn of each new year, marking both the passing of another year and the birth of a new one. In Kallinvar's first few centuries as a Knight, he had attended the festival many times. But as the years moved on, one hundred turning to two, then three, then four, it all started to lose meaning. The people of Ardholm lived longer lives than humans born elsewhere in Epheria. Some even lived to see almost two hundred summers, though that was rare. But even then, that was nothing when compared to the near eight hundred summers Kallinvar had seen. What was the passing of another year to someone who might live to see two thousand? And yet, this time, as Ruon stood across from him, Kallinvar found himself nodding. He let out a sigh. "All right. A song or two might not be a bad idea."
"Good. Some of the others are already out there. But Varlin and Ildris are in their quarters. We can get them on the way."
Kallinvar grunted an agreement, thinking. "How is Arden? I've not spoken to him since Kingspass."
Ruon gave Kallinvar a lopsided smile, drawing in a slow breath through her nose, then letting it out in a sigh. "He's struggling. It hasn't affected him in the field. If anything, he's been a force of nature every time I've gone with him. But when we get back, he's silent. And with Lyrin gone on task, he spends most of his time alone. He's trying, Kallinvar, but seeing his brother has affected him deeply."
"Hmm." Kallinvar scratched at his beard. "As it would any of us. If the Draleid accepts our help, I will need to decide which of us to assign as his guards. My mind battles my heart. I'm not sure if Arden is ready to face that."
"We never know we're ready until we're in the thick of it."
"True enough. Come," Kallinvar said, finishing the last of the wine in his cup. "Let's go hear this young woman sing."
Arden lifted his elbows from his knees and pulled himself into an upright position, taking a long draught from his tankard of ale. He'd never liked ale; the aftertaste was too bitter. Having grown up on the sweetness of Lasch Havel's mead, that bitterness was even more evident. But the innkeeper at The Salted Sparrow, Erkin Turnbat, had insisted Arden try his new batch of ale — as he did any time Arden wandered through Ardholm. He was a nice man, and Arden found it very difficult to say no to him.
Arden sat on one of several wooden benches that surrounded the many firepits burning across Ardholm. It seemed that every soul within Ardholm and the temple of Achyron had poured out into the streets to celebrate the earlywinter festival. Priests and watchers stood about in their green robes, sipping cups of wine and laughing with the village elders, watching over the children who were dancing and singing along to the music being played by some of the older children on lutes and drums. Arden recognised porters and chambermaids from the temple, though the smiles on their faces were far wider than he'd ever seen them before.
Above, the star-speckled sky glimmered, bathing Ardholm in silvery moonlight.
A sorrowful smile spread across Arden's lips as he looked over the festival, the people dancing, singing, drinking. It reminded him of the Moon Market in the villages back home. He hadn't minded it the previous years — if anything it had been a nice reminder — but after seeing Calen, everything felt different. He couldn't stop replaying the conversation in his mind. Calen's words echoing.
'Where were you? I needed you… I need you.'
Arden shuddered at the words, taking another mouthful of ale. The logical part of his brain told him there was nothing he could have done differently, even if he'd wanted to. Had he not taken the Sigil, he would've died that day in the forest, and then there would have been nothing he could have done to look after Calen and his family. At least this way, he could still do something. He could push back the Shadow. He could fight. And now that Calen was a Draleid, maybe, just maybe, Arden might have the chance to make up for the time they'd lost.
'Mam, Dad, Ella, Faenir. They're all dead!'
Arden downed the last of the ale and got to his feet, the warmth of the fire kissing his skin. Some of the children ran to him, raising their fists to their foreheads as a sign of respect. They tugged at him and pulled at him, asking him to join them in their dancing. He was about to acquiesce when he looked up to see four figures walking down the steps from the temple, mostly shrouded in shadow, only the touch of cold moonlight giving them shape. But Arden didn't need to see their faces to know them. Kallinvar, Ruon, Ildris, and Varlin had still been inside the temple.
"Another time," Arden said, ruffling the hair of a small boy who tugged at his shirtsleeves. The boy frowned but let go, the look on his face saying that he was less than impressed. Arden gave a nod to the priests who stood nearby and then set off back towards The Salted Sparrow. He might not have enjoyed the taste of ale, but the desire to be black-drunk pulled at him, and the more ale he drank, the better it would begin to taste.
'Haem…' Calen's voice resounded in Arden's ears as though his brother had been standing right beside him. Prickles crept over Arden's skin. He closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a breath, holding it in his chest. That name — Haem —was his, it belonged to him, and yet it didn't. He hadn't heard that name uttered aloud in over two years. It was a remnant of who he used to be. Am I still that person? Arden let his breath out slowly, pursing his lips slightly and focusing on the air leaving his mouth. I'd still die to protect Calen. I'd still give my life for his in a heartbeat."Brother Arden?"
Arden opened his eyes, turning. Watcher Gildrick stood behind Arden, the warm light of the many firepits dancing across his face, his white-trimmed green robes draped over his shoulders, a mug in each hand, steam wafting.
"Watcher Gildrick." Arden pushed his earlier thoughts from his mind, trying his best to muster a half-smile. "Enjoying the festival?"
"I am indeed. Though it feels a little strange to be celebrating while the world is at war, don't you think?"
Arden let out a soft breath through his nose, nodding.
"Here." Gildrick handed one of the mugs to Arden.
He took the mug in his right hand, then cupped both hands beneath it, feeling the warmth spread through his palms. The earthy smell filled his nostrils immediately. He stared down at the hot tea for a moment, then looked at Gildrick. "Arlen Root tea…"
Gildrick smiled, taking a sip from his mug. "It tastes like shit."
Both Arden and Gildrick burst out laughing.
"It really does," Arden said, still laughing. "It was my mam's favourite."
A comfortable silence descended between the two men. The tea warmed their hands as music played and children sang.
"Sit with me a while, will you?" Gildrick asked, inclining his head towards the bench where Arden had been sitting. "I've heard Yara Ilmire will be performing here soon. She's young but I have it on good authority she's the best bard in Ardholm."
Arden scrunched his mouth. In truth, all he wanted to do was be alone. And before Gildrick had appeared, that had been precisely his plan. But Gildrick just had a way about him. Arden looked down at the mug of dark liquid in his hands and took a sip, breathing in through his nostrils as he did. The warmth spread through his mouth and throat. He looked up at Gildrick. "It really does taste like shit."