Aeson stood atop a low ridge, arms folded, looking down over the small camp they'd been living in for over three weeks. It was nestled in beside a patch of dead trees and a high rock formation, with a deep furrow in the dried earth near the northern edge that had once been a river. Three weeks and they'd heard nothing from Baldon's kin on the other side of the Burnt Lands. Nothing to tell Aeson if Erik and Calen were alive or dead.
Every morning he woke in a cold sweat, despite the sweltering heat that radiated from the Burnt Lands. Nightmares plagued him; twisted dreams of dark things. Each night he watched his sons die. Erik in the wasteland, driven mad by Efialtír's touch, torn to shreds by Valerys. Dahlen at the tip of a Lorian blade or sent to Achyron's halls by the poison of the Hand whilst he slept.
Over the past four centuries Aeson had made as many enemies as he had friends. If he were to die chasing Erik into the Burnt Lands, Dahlen would be left alone to face the seeds Aeson had sown. And the likelihood was that he would die if he attempted to do so. There would come a point where Aeson simply wouldn't be able to wait for Erik any longer.
Naia, my love. Please guide me. Be my compass.
Aeson closed his eyes as the warm, sand-dusted breeze swept over his skin. He pictured Naia's face in his mind. Her eyes, brown with flecks of green and gold. Those eyes had held more love than Aeson had felt in hundreds of years. They saw him, saw everything he had forgotten about who he was and who he needed to be. That nose, the way it crinkled when she smiled. Those lips that scrunched together when she knew he was up to something. Images turned to sensations as Aeson remembered the soft touch of Naia's cheek against his fingers, the feeling of her hair as he ran his fingers through it. But more than anything else, he remembered how they would stay awake until the early hours just talking. He would have listened to the sweet sound of her voice until the rivers dried, mountains crumbled, and the wheels of time stopped turning. She'd always been more clever than Aeson could have ever hoped to be, always quicker to comprehend, always first to see the way forward. What's more, every word Naia spoke made sense. She understood the world, and talking about it brought her so much joy. Often times she would have persuaded him to her point of view within five minutes, but he would allow her to argue for hours just to see the passion in her eyes.
A soft smile touched his lips. Aeson opened his eyes as a tear rolled down his cheek. He could have filled an ocean with tears and never spent long enough mourning the death of his heart. The death of his heart after the sundering of his soul. Naia and Lyara. All he had left tethering him to the mortal plane was Erik, Dahlen, and the visceral need to carve apart the people who shattered his world.
Aeson cast one more look over the Burnt Lands. From where he stood, he could see over the ridge that marked the beginning of the arid wasteland, an ocean of sand broken by patches of rock and ruined cities obliterated by Fane Mortem's Blood Magic, reduced to remnants of a time long past. Aeson had tried to enter the waste only once before, almost four hundred years ago. He and Therin had taken a group to search Ilnaen, to see if there was anything in the ruins of the city that might give them hope. They had made it no more than a few miles in when a mage by the name of Goran Freck stumbled and smashed his head on a rock. The group made the decision to rest in a cave while Goran's wounds were tended – they'd spent weeks in the saddle trekking through Lorian lands from Highpass to Copperstille, and none of them had argued against the opportunity to get a few days' rest.
Now that he looked back, he could see the signs of the madness setting in: the tempers flaring where there had been no need, the sideways stares, the bubbling anger. By the fourth day, Goran himself, a man that Aeson considered a close friend, had slit the throats of three men while they slept, muttering of betrayal and slithering snakes as he did so. Aeson held Goran while he died, after driving a knife through the man's heart. He could remember it now, the whispers in his mind, the oily sensation that crept through his body – the blood on his hands.
Fifteen souls had entered the wasteland. Only three left alive: him, Therin, and Halya Dreken. Even that had only been possible due to Therin holding onto his mind a little longer than the others. Had they made it any further into the Burnt Lands, there wouldn't have been a hope of them finding their way back out. Aeson wasn't sure what kind of magic had created the illusion on the edge of the Burnt Lands that made them seem endless, but by the time they'd stepped through and knelt on solid ground, the whispers in Aeson's head had come far closer to convincing him to take his own life than he'd ever admit.
Aeson drew in a breath, the warm, dry air filling his lungs, then exhaled slowly, allowing his memories to fade. He made his way down the side of the ridge upon which he had been standing, his fingers aching from the climb. He would simply have jumped and softened his landing with threads of Air, but his ability to touch the Spark had been even more unreliable recently than it had been before. By the time he'd made it to the bottom, his fingers and palms were coated with a mix of wet and dry blood where the rockface had reopened the cuts he had earned climbing up each of the previous days. He didn't mind the stinging; pain was a reminder he was still alive.
"See anything new today?" Therin asked, a mocking tone in his voice. Elves weren't known for their sense of humour – at least, not among humans – and Therin, even after centuries, was still not much different. But the elf had a dry sarcastic wit that only became apparent after some time.
"Aye," Aeson said, taking his place beside Therin, looking over the small camp. Four tents stood at the base of the rock formation, hidden from the view of anyone who might be passing by – though Aeson didn't think that would be an issue this close to the Burnt Lands. Four elven rangers had stayed with them under orders from Thalanil, but the rest had returned. At present, all four of the rangers sat on rocks or on the ground, laughing hysterically at Dann who sat in the dirt with his legs crossed, all his attention focused on something in his hands. Baldon, the Angan, was perched atop a flat rock, his long, fur-covered legs folded, his eyes closed. "I saw an elf with a sense of humour."
Therin smiled. "Rare, those are."
"Have you heard anything of Alea and Lyrei?"
Therin shook his head, pressing the fingers of his right hand into his cheeks then dragging them down. "They will have been punished for failing in their oath to protect Calen. But with the storm that is coming, I imagine the elders will be lenient."
Aeson let out a grunt. Elves were obsessive in their adherence to honour. So much so that it often bordered stupidity.
"What of Lyrei?" Therin asked.
"What of her?"
Therin raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
"It is up to her to complete her Holmdúr, Therin. She stepped over a line."
The elf gave a tut. "You both stepped over a line, Aeson."
"When we return to Aravell, I will speak to her." As silence settled between them, Aeson folded his arms, turning his attention back to Dann and the elves. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen four elves erupting with such genuine laughter. "What's Dann doing now? He's not trying that trick with his thumb again, is he?"
Therin shook his head, letting out a deep laugh. "Come on, it's better to show you."
Aeson followed Therin over to the centre of the small camp where Dann and the elves sat. He squinted as he moved closer, trying to see what Dann held in his hands. "Is he… is he whittling?"
Therin nodded. "That's not what's funny."
"You're all just jealous," Dann said, shrugging, as he worked a small knife into the block of wood in his hand. That drew another round of laughter.
"What's he doing?" Aeson whispered to Therin.
"He's trying to develop his valúr." Therin smiled, a touch of laughter in his voice, but Aeson could also see a sliver of pride in Therin's face. Therin didn't take to many people, and when he did, he was often still withdrawn, but Aeson saw a connection growing between Therin and Dann as they'd travelled. In truth, Aeson understood why Therin had taken a liking to the young man. Dann was the living embodiment of a pain in the arse, but Aeson admired his heart and his loyalty.
"And why, in the name of all the gods, is he trying to do that? And now, of all times?"
"Is there a better time than while we sit on our hands waiting?" Therin raised an eyebrow, and Aeson shrugged, acquiescing. "When we feel helpless, we often turn to things that are within our control, something to grasp on to, something to ground us."
Aeson nodded, softening. "Is he any good?"
Therin choked on his laughter. "I've never seen anyone as terrible in my life, and I've lived a very long time." He reached into the pocket of his robes and produced a small piece of carved wood that seemed to have no discernible shape whatsoever.
Aeson took the piece of wood, turning it over in his hands. Up close it did look somewhat like a face, but the features were squashed and misshapen, one eye almost twice as large as the other and what looked to be something resembling a nose but instead seemed more like a smashed apple. "What is it?"
Therin let out a sigh, his mouth drawing up in a thin line. "It's meant to be me."
"You've looked better."
"He's doing you now."
"He's what?" Aeson looked across at Dann who lifted his head and met Aeson's gaze, holding up the partly-carved wooden block in his hands, igniting a chorus of laughter from the elves gathered around him.
"Elyara, give me patience. I'm going to string him up by his ankles."
"He finds light in the darkest of places," Therin said, his expression sombre as he looked at Dann, who had turned back to carving the wood. "It's a special quality. He jokes and he laughs, but he's lost, Aeson. He's seen no more than twenty summers. He's thousands of miles from his home, and those closest to him are beyond his saving. Give him a break. He's trying."
As night set in, Dann lay with his head resting on his satchel, which he'd placed atop a low, flat rock, his blanket draped over his legs. As unnatural as the heat was during the day, at night the air was as cold as any he'd known in The Glade.
The others sat around him, gathered by the fire. Languin, Thrain, and Alyra sat to Dann's left, huddled together playing a game with strange twelve-sided dice, while the other elven ranger that had been left with them, Ilwin, stood watch atop the nearby ridge in case any travellers stumbled upon them or the others returned from the Burnt Lands.
Therin and Aeson sat at the other side of the fire, engaged in deep conversation, the light of the flames dancing across their faces. Normally Dann's curiosity would have been scratching at him to hear what they were talking about, but at that moment he didn't care. It didn't matter if they were talking of war, rebellion, betrayal, or their favourite type of cheese. None of it made a difference. All that mattered was Calen and Rist.
Dann wasn't sure how he was meant to feel: sad, angry, alone. When Rist was taken back in Camylin all those months ago, Dann had been certain they would find him again. Everything Aeson had said made sense. If Rist could indeed use magic, or 'touch the Spark', as the others had called it, surely the empire wouldn't have killed him. Rist was alive. He just knew it. But Dann had always thought that he and Calen would go together, because that was what they did – they stayed together. Since they were little, the three of them had been inseparable. Calen had been the heart, Rist had been the brain, and Dann had been the idiot they looked out for. They were his brothers, the only ones he'd ever had. But now, not only was he alone, he was helpless. All he could do was sit around and wait.
He lifted himself into a sitting position and reached into his pocket, pulling out the block of wood he had been carving, rolling it around in his hands. His valúr.
'It is elven custom that any elf who wishes to hold an instrument designed to take life must also learn to create.' Therin's words when Dann had found him sketching.
Dann ran his thumb over the rough wood, the firelight causing shadows to flicker across the wooden features. He remembered sitting in the back of the cart almost a year ago, his hands covered in blood – the blood of the first man he'd ever killed. Dann remembered seeing Calen on the ground, a man stood over him gripping a double-bladed axe. He remembered lunging forwards. He remembered the bite of the steel as his sword plunged into the man's neck, the crunch of bone, the release as the blade burst out the other side. Dann closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers tightening around the carving in his hand, the memories flitting through his mind.
His hands trembled, a lump forming in his throat. His mouth felt dry as cotton, his palms clammy. He opened his eyes, looking down, seeing blood covering his fingers, staining his palms, dripping from the carving. His heart beat so viciously he could hear it thumping in his ears. Clenching his fist around the carving one last time, he tossed it into the fire, watching as the flames swallowed it whole, a few sparks rising into the night.
He looked down. No blood marred his hands, at least not physically. I can't clean that stain by carving a piece of wood. Dann's breath trembled as he drew in slowly and exhaled. It was shit anyway.
"You humans are strange creatures, Dann Sureheart." Dann hadn't heard Baldon approach. The Angan stepped from the dark of night, the firelight glimmering in his amber eyes, then gracefully set himself on the ground beside Dann, folding his long, willowy legs beneath him. No matter how much time Dann spent around Baldon, he still couldn't get used to the Angan's appearance. He was almost human, except he wasn't. His body was covered in a thick grey fur, as rough as a wolfpine's. The nails at the end of his fingers and toes were more akin to claws than anything else. The fur on his face was shorter than the rest of his body. His brow was thick and harsh, his eyes a golden amber that glimmered in the night. His nose was the only part of his face besides his lips devoid of hair. It was black and leathery, like a wolf's, flatter than a human's, wider, with curled nostrils and a narrow groove that ran down through his lip.
Dann raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn't spoken much with Baldon. The Angan didn't speak much with anyone. Yeah, we're the strange ones. "Sureheart?"
Baldon pouted, fixing Dann with an intense stare, golden eyes glinting. "It is the name you have earned. As Therin Eiltris is Silverfang, Aeson Virandr is Broken One, you are Sureheart."
Dann nodded, pretending any of what Baldon had said made sense. He would have pressed the question further if he'd thought Baldon would have given him a straight answer. But from the little Dann could tell of the Angan, he spoke more riddles than Therin.
The fire crackled and popped, spitting embers into the night, joining the song of insects and the whistle of the wind. Dann couldn't help himself. He shifted to his right so that he faced Baldon, curiosity getting the better of him. "Why are we strange?"
"You spend hours carving your thoughts into the wood. Then you cast the wood into the fire, burning time you cannot get back." Baldon lingered on each word, his voice harsh. The Angan always spoke that way, as though he didn't trust his tongue to produce the correct sounds.
"It was shit," Dann said with a shrug.
Baldon drew in a deep breath, staring towards the fire, the light reflecting in his eyes. "To master a craft, one must first fail in every way possible."
"Where I come from, we have a saying that's pretty similar. 'Before you can run, you must first learn to walk.'"
The Angan licked his lips, pondering. "They are not similar."
"Yes, they are." Dann spread his arms in protest, staring at the creature, suppressing the laugh in his chest. Mocking Aeson was fun, irritating Therin was even more so, but Baldon was different. There was an honesty about him, a simplicity.
"No," Baldon insisted. "They are not."
"All right, then. Out with it."
Baldon's face scrunched in uncertainty. "Out with what?"
Dann sighed, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. "It's a turn of phrase. It means tell me what you're trying to say."
"Ahh…" Baldon's top lip curled, revealing a row of sharp canine-like teeth, his tongue flicking against their tips. "Out with it. Yes. I understand." He turned so he was facing Dann, his clawed hands resting on his knees. "'Before you can run, you must learn to walk' does not hold the same meaning because the concept of failure is not present, nor is it part of the intent. Walking is simply a precursor to running. It implies there are a series of steps that must be completed in a particular order and that success is not the hopeful outcome but rather the inevitable one."
"How is that really any different from what you said?"
"Because, Sureheart, mastering a craft does not require a series of steps that must be completed in a particular order. It requires perseverance and determination in the face of failure. The fear of failure is a concept that you humans have adopted more than any species on the mortal plane. I have seen it through generations. Often, with humankind, it is the fear of failure that prevents advancement, more so than failure itself. You spent hours carving your thoughts. Your first attempt was horribly poor."
"Ouch. Way to pull the punches, Baldon."
The Angan curled his lip in what might have been a smile but could also have been a sign that he was hungry. It was impossible to tell. "Your first attempt was horribly poor," he repeated. "Your second was less so. Among my kind we hold our failures close, so as to learn from them. We take pride in them because failing means you tried. You can only ever succeed if you allow yourself to fail."
"Well… that was actually quite insightful. You know you should talk more. You're actually better conversation than those two." Dann nodded towards Aeson and Therin who still sat on the other side of the fire, though they now sat in silence.
"What is rare is special."
"We're going to have to agree to disagree there, Baldon. Mead is pretty special, as is wine… as are spirits. I would prefer they never be rare."
Baldon's face twisted in what Dann could only assume was confusion. "I know of mead and wine. They are the liquids your kind consume to forget the sorrows that plague you. But spirits are the physical manifestation of the plane hereafter, such as those that attacked us in the Aravell. They are very different things, though you speak of all three as the same."
"I mean the spirits you drink, Baldon. Not the spirits that nearly killed us. And hold on, you don't only get drunk to forget. It's fun."
"You drink spirits?" What passed for Baldon's eyebrows rose, a look of shock on his face.
Dann let out a sigh, digging his fingers into his cheek in exasperation. Before Dann could try and explain, Baldon let out a gasp, jerking backwards, his spine straightening, his pupils expanding so the usual amber colour of his eyes was barely a sliver, then the Angan's eyelids snapped shut, and he sat there in silence, rigid.
The sounds of footsteps and shuffling bodies signalled that Baldon's sudden change had not gone unnoticed. Aeson and Therin were standing over Dann within moments, their eyes fixed on Baldon, the elves watching intently.
"What's going on?" Dann asked. "What is—"
"Shhh," Aeson hissed. "For once in your life, shut up, Dann."
"Well," Dann muttered, "that was a bit harsh." Dann's irritation vanished when Baldon's eyes snapped open once more, glowing gold.
"The son of the Chainbreaker has emerged from the Burnt Lands."