"So many." Calen couldn't believe his eyes as he, Erik, Vaeril, and Tarmon approached the unbroken river of refugees that led from the gates of Berona, past the lake, and stretched onwards into the distance. The sheer number of souls simply did not seem possible – they easily would have filled all the villages back home ten times over.
Calen had initially been worried they would stick out like sore thumbs at the city gates, their clothes, skin, and hair matted with blood and crusted with sand and dirt. But as he looked at the people before him, he realised that wasn't going to be an issue. Some rode on weary horses, others sat on the backs of wagons that looked as though they had been dragged through the void, splintered and bloodstained. But most travelled on foot, traipsing mindlessly forwards, their stares blank, their clothes torn, their shoulders drooped. Calen had heard the Urak attacks in the North had been ferocious, but he had never imagined anything of this scale. Never in his wildest dreams. There had to have been thousands of people trudging towards Berona, a city that was likely already filled to the point of overflow. How many homes and towns had been destroyed? Hundreds at the least. How many had been killed? Thousands. This is what war truly looks like.As he took in the corpse-like march of those seeking shelter, Calen remembered Tarmon's words at Kingspass. 'Tonight, those men and women are not empire soldiers. They are just people. People who don't want to die. And they need us. They need you. They need a Draleid.'
Calen had thought he'd understood then, but it was only now that it truly made sense. Now, as he saw people no different from his own, people who were likely farmers, blacksmiths, hunters, tanners, innkeepers. Soldiers died in war, but it was these people who suffered.
"There has to be thousands of them," Erik whispered as they joined the procession. A rickety wagon, pulled by a horse that looked like it hadn't eaten in days, rolled along beside them, axles squeaking from lack of oiling, uneven wheels thumping against rocks that had been kicked onto the paved road. "And this isn't even the main entrance. The main gates are at the northern face of the city."
Someone let out a harsh chesty cough to Calen's left. "Where you coming from, m'boy?"
Calen turned to see an old man hobbling beside him. At least sixty summers lined his face, his cloak was charred and stained with blood, torn to the point of being almost unusable. A raw wound ran along the man's forearm, only partially scabbed, angry red flesh around it. Infected. Redness like that and swelling, along with increased warmth from the area, had been the first things Calen's mam had taught him to look for in a wound. Followed by oozing and sharp pain. In severe cases, Calen, if left untreated, even a small infection can lead to nausea, fever, shock, and in many cases, death. The thought of his mam sent a twinge of panic through Calen. He clapped his hand against his hip, where the silk scarf he had bought her all those moons ago still hung, looped through the belt that held the sword his father had given him. The panic was followed by guilt, at the soft waxy touch of the scarf beneath his fingertips, slightly tarnished by dirt and sand. He had almost forgotten it was there. It was the only thing he had left of his mam, and she'd never even held it.
"We are coming from Copperstille," Tarmon chimed in when Calen didn't respond. "And you? You look like you've travelled quite a distance."
"That I have," said the old man with a cough, phlegm catching in the back of his throat. "All the way from Ravensgate…" The old man stared into the distance, his eyes glazing over.
"Ravensgate? That's a long way to travel alone."
"I wasn't alone at the start…" The man shook his head, and Calen noticed his hand shaking at his side. "We ran from Ravensgate to Bromis, but they kept coming. I lost my son and his wife in there. My grandson took an arrow to the neck going through the pass… But they let me live. Why did they let me live?"
The man's hand continued to shake, his head twitching sporadically. Something in his memories must have triggered him. Calen understood that all too well; he could still taste the ash on his tongue from the walls of Belduar, still hear the crackling and popping of charred skin, the stench of voided bowels.
Calen rested his hand on the man's, squeezing gently. The old man's hand stopped shaking, and his eyes regained their focus. "You're here now. It would take a hundred thousand Uraks to break through Berona's walls."
"Uraks?" The man shook his head back and forth, back and forth, more a spasm than a motion. "No, no, no. Not Uraks. Elves."
Calen spun his head around at the mention of the word 'elves', his eyes meeting Vaeril's who had a panicked look on his face. Vaeril had insisted on coming with them into Berona, despite the fact that he himself acknowledged the stupidity of it. He walked with the hood of his cloak pulled tight over his head, his hair tied in a way that covered his ears, but if any guard stopped them and took a closer look it would be plain to see he was an elf. Like Dann, Vaeril was as stubborn as a rock once he'd made up his mind – particularly when it came to his honour and his oath.
"Elves?" Erik raised a suspicious eyebrow, glancing at Calen and the others. "Surely you mean Uraks?"
"I meant what I said," the old man snapped, his timid demeanour flipping in an instant, teeth grinding and nostrils flaring. "Thousands of them." The man's eyes grew glassy again. "They cut us down like livestock. The fire… the dragons… I can still hear the screams." The old man stared at Calen, his eyes piercing. "Nowhere is safe. Nowhere. They're coming."
The old man stumbled sideways, knocking into a woman who then fell to her knees. The woman's husband started shouting, and then they were swallowed by the swarm of people. Calen wanted to go back to help, but he quickly realised there was nothing he could do. One old man in a sea of refugees. He turned, looking to Vaeril.
"I don't know." The elf grasped at his chin, a worried look in his eyes. "It could…" He lowered his voice. "The elves of Lynalion might have declared war. It is possible. I just never thought the day would come."
"Hold on," Erik said, a smile mixing with an expression of incredulity. "That man was clearly insane. We would have heard if the elves of Lynalion had declared war."
"We've been in the Burnt Lands for weeks, Erik – I've lost track of how many. Anything could have happened in that time." As Calen spoke, he felt Valerys's blood pumping as the dragon swooped and snatched a thick-furred goat from the side of a cliff some fifty or so miles away. Even as the dragon tore into the goat's flesh, anxiety flooded into his mind, worry and fear. Before they had set foot in the Burnt Lands, Valerys had understood what would happen when they reached the other side. He understood he couldn't come with them into Berona. Rist was as much Valerys's family as Erik, Dann, or Tarmon, and Valerys would do anything for his family. But that didn't mean the dragon didn't burn with both rage and panic at the thought of letting Calen be so far away. Valerys had insisted on staying closer to the city, but the risk was too great. If anyone spotted him, word would spread like wildfire. And they were in Loria now. The Dragonguard could be anywhere. Three days. If we can't find him in three days, we'll leave, I promise.A deep rumble resonated in the back of Calen's mind. Reluctant acceptance.
"I'll ask around when we get inside," Erik said. "If anything like that has happened, Ingvat will know. But the old man was mumbling about dragons. I honestly think he's been broken by the Urak attacks. I've seen it before. The mind is a fragile thing."
Calen nodded, glancing behind him to see if he could spot the old man. As the column of weary refugees marched towards the western gate of Berona, Calen couldn't help but feel his heart bleed at their broken souls. At first, the massive procession had reminded him of the road into Camylin, packed with so many people. But this was nothing like the road to Camylin. There was no joy, no wonder, no bubbling excitement or anticipation.
These people were exhausted, mentally and physically. Calen saw it in their empty stares, their despondent expressions, the lethargic shuffle of their feet. Even those on horseback had drooped shoulders, their fingers barely holding the reins, the horses starved and moving with a listless gait. Not a stitch of clothing was untorn or free of dirt, and only the lucky few travellers were not marred by bloodstains.
Passing through the gates had been far easier than Calen had anticipated. Over a hundred Lorian soldiers and guards had stood watch over the enormous arch of white stone, hollering and shouting commands at the refugees as they flooded into the city. But there were simply not enough of them to deal with the flow of people.
"They're going to close the gates soon," Tarmon whispered, looking around as they passed beneath the archway, shuffling shoulder to shoulder with those who walked beside them. "The city will overflow if they keep them open like this. They've lost control of the influx."
"What does it matter?" Calen asked. "These people need the protection of Berona's walls. Surely they wouldn't turn anyone away?"
"It's not as simple as that," Tarmon said with a weak smile. "There is more to consider."
"What more is there to consider than ensuring the people are safe?"
"Capacity, food, squalor. A city is only built to be able to provide for a certain number of people. Try and cram too many in and the sewage systems will overflow, disease will spread, food will grow short. And that is when things are normal. But now, with the Uraks attacking, they need to consider potential siege situations. Sieges are rarely ended by the attackers scaling the walls. It's starvation that kills. Starvation and disease. Letting too many in can be as a much a death sentence as turning them away. Sometimes it can be worse."
"Worse?"
"Have you ever seen someone starve to death? It's slow, creeps on you. Pulls the meat from your bones to feed your heart. You can see the pain in a person's eyes." Tarmon looked at the expressions on Calen and Erik's face, reading the unspoken question – when had Tarmon seen this? "My father. Belduar has been cut off from outside trade for a long time. Longer than I've been alive, and our relations with the dwarves have been tempestuous. When I had seen no more than five summers, our crops were struck by blight. It wouldn't have been so bad had we not relied so heavily on tubers. Not all the crops died but enough that thousands starved. My father had been splitting his rations between me, my sister, and my mother. We didn't realise what he was doing until it was too late."
"I'm sorry, Tarmon." A knot formed in Calen's throat. He had no doubt that Vars would have done the same thing in that situation. That was the kind of man he was. Calen hadn't thought about it before, but he was happy that, at the least, his dad's death had been quick. The sight of it was burned into Calen's mind – Inquisitor Rendall's sword sliding through Vars's chest, Vars's body dropping, lifeless to the ground. The sound of his mother's screams still haunted him. He would never forget that day.
The numbness.
'Wake up! Wake up!'
The emptiness.
'Please, please, for the love of the gods, wake up! Dad…'
The rage.
Tarmon rested his hand on Calen's back as they pushed through the throngs of people, the streets even more packed than the road outside. "Death is the only thing we are assured of in life. It's not how we die that matters, it's how we live."
It had taken hours to find an inn that had any space, and even at that the only room available in The Black Horse was essentially a broom closet with three beds wedged in. Truthfully, calling them beds was generous. They were cots with rotten wood and rusted bolts, rammed so close together there wasn't space for a sheet of paper between them. Likely all the rooms in every inn in the city looked exactly the same. With this many people seeking refuge within Berona's walls, every innkeeper would be fitting as many beds in as many rooms as possible.
Calen tossed his satchel on the middle bed, behind which was the room's solitary window, wooden framed and arched with a large crack running from the left side to the bottom. Had they been anywhere else, the draft would have left a chill in the air, but Berona seemed to hold on to some of the unnatural heat that consumed the Burnt Lands. The morning held a gelid touch, but that had soon evaporated once the sun had risen clear into the sky. Calen didn't even want to know what the place was like during summer.
He dropped himself on the thin, rigid 'mattress', sure he heard a snapping sound beneath him. Tarmon and Erik were tossing a coin for the last bed, loser having to sleep in the sliver of space between the end of the beds and the door.
"Crowns." A broad smile spread across Tarmon's face, stretching into a grin.
"Ugh. Fuck the gods. Gimme that." Erik snatched the silver coin out of Tarmon's hand and stuffed it into his own pocket. "We're running low on coin as it is. We're tossing again tomorrow night."
"If you get scared, you're welcome to share the bed with me." Tarmon's grin grew wider as he tried not to laugh.
"How could anyone share a bed with you? You barely fit on it yourself. I pity your mother having to give birth to you. I bet you came out with a full beard and shoulders as wide as a wagon."
"I'll keep you warm," Tarmon said with a wink, still keeping a straight face.
"I'd rather cuddle up to a wyrm."
Tarmon's eyebrows shot up, and he bit his lip, looking over to Calen, then back to Erik.
"Oh, fuck off, you know what I meant! I'm going to reach out to Ingvat. She can put us in touch with Father's contacts in The Circle. Can one of you see if there's anything decent for supper downstairs? I'm sick to death of eating that leather N'aka meat and salted strips of beef. Also, I'd murder a priest for a bar of soap and a hot bath."
"Sure," Tarmon said, his lips turned down as he tried to contain himself. "What's your preference? Sausage?"
Erik narrowed his eyes at Tarmon. "You be careful, it's been a long time since I've felt the warmth of a woman." A smile crept across Erik's face as he stepped from the room, and both Tarmon and Calen burst out in a fit of laughter.
Vaeril, who sat cross-legged on the bed at the far left of the room, pulled a whetstone and a small leather container of oil from his satchel and began to sharpen his blade. He lifted his head as Calen and Tarmon's laughter subsided, looked between both men, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head as he turned back to his blade. The elf's reaction only caused Calen and Tarmon to break out in more laughter.
It felt good to laugh. Calen didn't laugh as much as he used to. Then again, it was usually Dann who made him laugh. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of Dann alone, but tried his best to push it aside. As soon as he found Rist, they would go back to Dann together. The plan had already been set. Find Rist, cut straight back through the Burnt Lands, then Vaeril would lead them through the Darkwood to the elves, and they would make their way to Durakdur from there. It all seemed a lot easier when it was laid out nice and simply like that. But Calen was well aware that not a single one of those tasks would be simple. And even once all that was done… there would be a war to face. Aeson's war.
'Why do you put yourself through this for people who only seek to control you?' The words Artim Valdock had spoken when Calen was locked in that cell. 'The men and women you protect would see this continent burn, so long as they have their revenge. And they would use you as a puppet to achieve this. They are not your allies or your kin. They are your puppet masters.'They were words Calen had spent many a night thinking on. He had tried to dismiss them, to let them wash over him. But no matter how hard he thought on it, he could not help but find truth in the words.
"Calen?"
Tarmon's voice pulled Calen from his thoughts. "Huh?"
"I'm going to go scrub my body until it's raw. I suggest you do the same. You smell like shit." Tarmon turned to Vaeril. "I'll have a serving girl bring you up a bucket and a cloth. The place is too packed for you to take a bath."
Vaeril nodded, expressionless as he continued to run the whetstone over his blade.
Calen pulled himself up from the edge of the bed, the blisters on his feet stinging, his muscles aching. "We won't be long, Vaeril."
Calen hated the idea of leaving Vaeril on his own after what they had all just been through, but they couldn't risk bringing him down to the baths. The towns and villages in the South were one thing. But if someone recognised that Vaeril was an elf, he would likely be killed on the spot in Berona. From what Erik had said, any bad blood between elves and humans in the South was nothing compared to the sheer hatred that festered in the North.
"Take as long as you need, Calen." A smile touched Vaeril's lips as he emphasised Calen's name, showing the conscious effort he was using to not say Draleid. "The Lord Captain is right, you do smell like shit."
An hour later, the sky dark overhead, Calen let out a sigh of relief as he stood in one of Berona's many dark alleyways, rain drumming against him, saturating his cloak, tacking his hair to his head. He tilted his head back and smiled as each cold drop brought its own tiny fragment of happiness. The water Vaeril had been able to drag up through the sand in the Burnt Lands had only been just enough to keep them all from dying of thirst. That, combined with the scorching heat and sand – which he had developed a new hatred for – had given Calen an appreciation of rain.
Tarmon and Vaeril both stood to Calen's left, hoods pulled up, the Lord Captain leaning against the white stone wall of the alley, his hand resting on the pommel of the short sword at his hip. Erik and Aeson's contact, Ingvat, stood a foot or so to the right, discussing something as they stood out of the rain under a roofed walkway.
When Erik had said his contact's name was Ingvat, Calen's mind had conjured the image of a large burly man with a thick beard and bushy eyebrows. As it turned out, Ingvat was a small woman with long blonde hair and a nose that had been broken more than once. Her gentle smile would have been more at home on the face of a comforting mother than a smuggler working to overthrow the empire. She wore a dark cloak over a leather vest and sturdy-looking trousers, a short sword strapped on her right hip.
"Are you sure they're coming?" Erik frowned, looking to Ingvat.
"They're coming. Have some patience, Erik." Ingvat leaned back against a column that propped up the roof of the walkway. A broad smile crossed her face as she looked Erik from head to toe.
"What?"
"The last time I saw you, you were no taller than I am, and you couldn't grow a beard to save your life. Your mother would be happy with how tall you are. She always said she wished her boys would grow taller than their father."
Erik let a sigh out through his nose, giving a soft smile. He didn't speak of his mother much. Calen remembered him saying she had died from consumption when he was young, but that was all he had said. Calen had only seen one man die of the disease before, and Freis hadn't let him get close in case it spread, but from what he saw and what his mother had told him, he knew it was a horrible way to die. First the lungs went, leading to coughs so harsh they cracked ribs. Then parts of the skin blackened, growing cold to the touch. The disease then consumed the fat and muscle, leaving the victim withered and stick thin, a taut bag of bones. His mother had said the whole process could take weeks, and there was no cure. Just the thought of it broke Calen's heart. Nobody deserved a death like that.
Amidst the constant drumming rain, Calen heard footsteps, splashes as feet slapped against wet stone. A tension snapped into place as everyone's head turned the direction from which the footsteps sounded, down the shadow-shrouded alleyway where the only light was the glimmering of the pale moon in the puddles that welled in the cracks of the paved stone.
Since Calen had entered the city, he had felt the Spark thrum in the air, not overtly, but enough that he was constantly aware of it. It clung to the air like the aftermath of a storm, like a mist of latent energy. He didn't want to imagine how many mages would need to be gathered in one city to cause that effect. But at that moment, he felt something more. That low thrum was disrupted by the more tangible sensation of someone very close pulling threads into their body.
A quick glance in Vaeril's direction let Calen know he wasn't imagining it as the elf pulled his sword from his scabbard. Calen did the same while opening himself to the Spark, preparing to pull on threads of Spirit, as Vaeril had shown him – he wouldn't be warded the way Artim Valdock had warded him, not again. The others were slightly slower to react as they couldn't sense the threads, but they knew Calen and Vaeril well enough to follow suit, the rasping of steel echoing against the stone.
"Swords away," came a calm, level voice, barely audible above the hammering rain. It was the voice of a man, gruff and harsh.
"Let go of the Spark," Calen answered, his fingers tensing around the hilt of his sword, his jaw clenching.
"The end of my watch is signalled by smoke. My life is measured not in years, but in hours. The thicker I am, the longer I live."
"You are a candle." The irritation in Erik's voice was evident as he stepped out from the protection of the covered walkway, turning back towards Ingvat. "You know who I am – this is a waste of time."
"She knows who you are—" A tall, heavy-set woman with harsh eyes stepped from the shadows, a long black cloak draped over shoulders, vibrant yellow robes peeking through from beneath. Her skin was tanned, her accent difficult to place. If Calen were to be pushed for an answer he would think it was a blend of Arkalen and Drifaienin. High pitched with a slight lilt. "—but we cannot take any chances."
A man followed behind the woman, slightly shorter than she was, with a thick black moustache and a shaved head. Both his cloak and the robes beneath it were black as night. A knot twisted in Calen's stomach, and he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. A Battlemage. "Meeting you out in the open with little planning is already a risk too far if you ask me." The man moved out of the shadows, his eyes fixed on Erik. "This one must be Aeson's son. He has the same arrogance."
"You'll find I have a lot of his qualities." Erik took a step from beneath the walkway, the steel of his swords glinting in the faint moonlight that reached down through the towering buildings
"Easy. They're on our side. Put your weapons away." Ingvat stepped after Erik, resting her hand on his shoulder.
Erik looked back at Ingvat, over towards the newcomers, then back again, before finally sliding his swords back into the scabbards on his back, Tarmon and Vaeril were slower to follow suit.
"I count Aeson a friend," the Battlemage said, inclining a head. Calen could feel the man release the Spark. "Look, it's not safe to stay out here too long, the Beronan Guard patrol the streets throughout the night, and I dare say we are an odd group – two mages, an elf, an Alamant, a known smuggler, a man clearly bred from Jotnar stock, and the son of one of the most wanted men in the empire. It's best we make this quick. You can call me Black, this is Gold. Our real names are of no consequence. Ingvat says you're looking for someone by the name of Rist Havel?"
Calen's heart skipped a beat, and he took a step closer to the man. "Yes. Have you seen him? Have you heard of him?"
"Who's the Alamant?" The man narrowed his eyes, moving closer to Calen, looking him up and down. "I've not seen eyes like that before."
Calen turned his gaze towards the ground, suddenly very conscious that his eyes now held the same lavender hue as Valerys's. Therin had told him of Alamants; those who could touch the Spark but had either broken free of the Circle or were cast out.
"He's a friend." Erik's voice was firm, a finality in his tone. "Like you said, it's best we make this quick. Rist Havel, have you heard the name?"
The moment held in Calen's mind as though encased in ice, the drum of the rain filling his ears. Please. If any of you gods are listening, please.
Black shook his head, a genuine look of disappointment on his face. "No apprentices or initiates by that name have been registered in the High Tower. Not in the last few years, at least."
Calen's heart sank. He was a fool for ever believing it might be that simple. "Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"
"Quite sure," the tall woman, Gold, said, her voice soft, her eyes softer. "I oversee initiate registration within the tower. There have been no initiates by that name. I'm sorry."
"He could have gone by a different name." Calen's heart was beating frantically. He hadn't come all this way simply to give in. "When he was taken, he might have given a false name."
"Even if that were the case, there would be no way of knowing. There are currently over four thousand initiates, apprentices, and acolytes housed within the High Tower. A proverbial needle in a haystack, if you will. I'm sorry, but in this endeavour, we cannot help you."
"That can't be it." Calen stepped towards the woman, close enough to see the flecks of brown in her green irises. "I want to see for myself. I need to see for myself."
The woman held Calen's gaze, seeming unperturbed by the desperation in his voice. "You will not find anything in that book that I haven't already told you. I am not lying. Already, I risk my life in what I do."
"Then take me inside. Let me look for him."
"Now?"
"Right now. Please."
"And what would you do?" The Battlemage raised an eyebrow and suppressed a laugh. "Sneak into every room and look over the initiates while they slept? There are forty-three floors in the High Tower. Hundreds of rooms, up to twelve initiates and apprentices in each. I haven't heard a more ridiculous plan in my life. The tower guard wouldn't even ask questions. They would have your throat slit before you got to the second floor. Skulking around the High Tower at night simply isn't an option. It will only end with you dead and our heads on the block. I'm sorry, but you and this Rist Havel simply aren't worth the trouble."
Fifty miles away, Valerys sat in the open mouth of a large cave set into the side of a cliff. Calen could feel the beating of the dragon's heart, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the air expanding in his lungs. But more than that, Valerys's rage burned in Calen, seeping through the back of his mind, boiling his blood. They had not come this far to walk away now. Rist was Calen's family, and by that measure, he was Valerys's too. Calen's jaw clenched, his hand shaking. "We lost good people, waded through a sea of Urak blood, and dragged ourselves across hundreds of miles of the Burnt Lands to be here now. We are not leaving without seeing inside that tower. Now either you help us, or I will carve my way in."
"What in the gods?" The man's eyes held something Calen never thought he would see in the eyes of a Battlemage: fear. "What are you?"
Vaeril rested his hand on Calen's shoulder, his fingers squeezing firmly. He whispered, "Your eyes."
What? My eyes? It was only then Calen saw the soft glow of the purple light reflecting off the Battlemage's rain-wet face, shimmering in the pools of water on the ground, and colouring the white walls of the alleyway. Still, Calen didn't back away. Valerys's anger still burned in him, their minds still fully entwined.
Gold moved to stand beside Calen, a smile spreading across her face as she met his gaze. "They call you the Warden of Varyn. That's a powerful title for one so young. Though, seeing you now, I have to say it fits."
"What?" Calen had no idea what the woman was talking about, but he dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword, which he had re-sheathed.
Gold tilted her head, a look of disbelief on her face. "It truly is you. Stories reached the city some weeks back. Stories of how a horde of Uraks swarmed Kingspass. Of how Bloodmarked laid waste to everything in their path. Then a white dragon descended from the sky, and a man with glowing purple eyes appeared. And that warriors fell from the sky, encased in armour of dark green, white capes at their backs, swords of pure green light – the Knights of Achyron no doubt."
Vaeril stepped between Calen and the two mages, his eyes locked with Gold's, his sword half drawn, threads of Spirit and Air weaving around him. Tarmon and Erik had also shifted, moving closer, their stares cold.
"Put your cocks away." Gold rolled her eyes. She turned to Erik. "I see your father has given you his trust issues along with his arrogance." The woman reached out her hand, her fingers long and dainty. "It is a pleasure, Draleid. Had I known nothing of you, I would still be glad to finally meet you. But tales of your deeds at Kingspass are already fast-growing legends – they are a welcome counter to the lies being spread by the empire. 'A Draleid sent by Varyn himself'. While I certainly wouldn't go that far, to know you are the kind of man who protects those who cannot protect themselves, even if they lie on the other side of a war, that is an admirable quality."
"What lies do they spread?" The way the woman spoke of the empire, Calen could have sworn she wasn't a mage at all. Therin had told him of the colours associated with each of the affinities within the Circle. The yellow robes beneath her cloak indicated that she was a Craftsmage. Why did she stand by the empire if she wanted it toppled?
"The kind you spread when you're worried," Gold answered, her lips curling into a smile. "You were right to conceal your identity. You were just very bad at doing so. But don't fear. I have lived enough centuries to be sure of the mistakes I've made and to be resolute in my path to setting them right. Now, we're going off topic. I believe I may have the answer to where you will find this Rist Havel."
"Why didn't you say?"
"Because until this moment, I didn't know who you were and therefore didn't know the significance of the information I hold. There is an Inquisitor by the name of Rendall Malkas—"
"Rendall…" The name left Calen's mouth in a growl. His own anger was fed by the rage that roared through Valerys's mind at the thought of the man who had killed their father. The man they in turn would kill. "Where is he?"
"Calen." Erik's voice was soft as he rested his hand on Calen's shoulder, but Calen shrugged him off, only barely managing to contain the fury inside.
"Ah, so you know him. Well, Rendall recently took on a sponsored initiate, which means their name would not have been recorded in the Tower's registry. But I pride myself in knowing the secrets of this city and it happens that this new initiate is a young man who hails from the villages of western Illyanara. A village known as The Glade."
Calen's eyes widened at the mention of his home. It had to be Rist.
There was no other possibility.
"I had a feeling that might stir something in you."
A hint of suspicion curled in the back of Calen's mind. "Why would you think that name means anything to me?"
"Oh, come now, give me the respect of not playing games. I may be a Craftsmage, but my business for Aeson is in information. Rumours spread, news filters down, soldiers talk. After a while, enough pieces can be put together, if you know what you're doing."
Calen held Gold's gaze, drawing in a deep breath, then exhaling slowly, the rain cold against his skin. "Are you certain this initiate is Rist?"
"He might well be. But then again, he might not. Never take a possibility for a certainty, Draleid. No matter how likely." The woman gave a slow nod, pursing her lips. "What is this Rist Havel to you?"
"A brother," Calen said without missing a beat.
"And what would you risk to find him?"
"Anything."
"The Inquisition headquarters in Berona are stationed in the city dungeons. The dungeons are over a hundred feet below ground in the northern section of the city, are labyrinthine in their design, and have only a single access point. Many of the Inquisitors have been sent the length and breadth of the continent to hunt down those who seek to instigate rebellion and solidify the empire's hold on the High Lords in the South. This leaves the Inquisition in Berona quite poorly stocked. But there will be a number of Praetorians left to guard the prisoners, along with a handful of Inquisitors. Rendall has been gone from the city for the past week, but he's not left the Inquisition headquarters for more than an hour at a time since he returned."
"He's here?" Something awakened within Calen. An anger so deep it didn't rage or swell, it burned white-hot.
"He is."
"Take me there."
"Fail to prepare and prepare to fail. No, tonight is not the night. I can arrange robes and armour for you all, a map of the labyrinth, and potentially the number of the interrogation rooms Rendall has most recently been using. But I can do none of that if we go tonight. I will gather those things and meet you in The Ugly Duckling, just north of the Lukar Bridge, once the sun sets and the streets begin to empty."
"Am I the only one who thinks this is insanity?" Erik said. "Break into a dungeon in the heart of the empire, with only one exit that is designed specifically to keep people trapped."
"If it was you in there, I'd go. What is the point in trying to save everyone if I can't save the people who matter the most to me? I'm going whether you come or not."
Erik simply gave a short nod. "I never said I'm not coming with you – I'm just pointing out the insanity of it all."
"We will need a count of how many Praetorians and Inquisitors remain within the city." Tarmon looked to Gold. "Can you do this?"
The woman pulled at the edges of her cloak, covering over the sliver of yellow that had been visible. There was a smile on her face and a glint in her eye as she looked at Tarmon. "I like a man who gets straight to the point." Her smile widened. "I believe I can. My contacts within the Inquisition are few, but they are reliable."
"How are we getting in?"
"You're going to walk straight through the front door."