Calen drew in a breath of heavy, loam-tinged air, letting his gaze drift across the forest. The last time he had been in the Darkwood he had barely been able to see more than a foot in front of himself. But now, as the group marched through the dense wood towards the elven city of Aravell, rows of baldír were lined on either side, white light pushing back the ever-pressing dark.
The rebels who had fled with Calen across the Burnt Lands walked behind him in a column, along with Gaeleron, Lasch, Elia, and Haem and the warriors who had come with him. Dann was back at the tail end of the group, walking with Elia and Lasch, as he had done since the moment he had recognised them. The pair were finally able to walk unaided, but the journey across the Burnt Lands had done them no favours.
Aeson, Senas, and some of the elves walked at the front of the column of people, leading the way. Aeson hadn't spoken to Calen since their confrontation, which suited Calen just fine; he could still feel his anger simmering beneath the surface. All the man had done since the moment they had met was attempt to tie Calen with strings and march him around like a puppet. Not anymore. Calen would not allow it. Like Aeson had said, there were people who needed him now. But he would be no use to them if he was nothing more than a head on a stick spouting the words of another man.
"How are you feeling?" Therin asked, handing Calen a waterskin. The elf hadn't left Calen's side since the moment they'd been reunited. Neither had the two wolflike creatures who now walked to Therin's right, their long languid gait seeming so effortless it was almost graceful.
"I've been better." Calen gave Therin a weak smile as he accepted the waterskin, taking a deep mouthful before handing it to Erik, who walked at his left. Calen nodded towards the two creatures. They hadn't spoken since they'd knelt before Calen and called him 'Son of the Chainbreaker'. They had simply risen to their feet and stood about like statues. "What are they, Therin?"
"They are Angan of Clan Fenryr," Vaeril chimed in from behind, a sort of reverence in his voice. "Shapeshifters. Children of old gods." Vaeril nodded towards one of the four enormous white stags that walked at the edges of the group, black, gold-veined antlers snaking upwards. "And they are Angan of Clan Dvalin. They are bound to my people by promises made when we first decided to settle within Aravell. It is their presence here that provides us safe passage."
"That it is." Therin gave Vaeril a soft look, like that of a father who had just been given the sweetest of compliments. It had been so long since Calen had seen Therin, or any of the other elves from Aravell, besides Vaeril, that he had almost forgotten the way in which most of the Aravell elves had treated Therin. It had only ever been Vaeril, and sometimes Alea, who had offered Therin so much as a smile.
Therin turned his head slightly to look at the two Angan, then looked back at Calen. "There is much I need to tell you. Much you do not know. I had asked Baldon and Aneera not to say more than they did, so that I may explain things to you as they are."
"When, Therin? There are always so many things I'm not being told. And every time I ask, I'm told to wait. I'm done with waiting, Therin. You once told me that the day we stop learning is the day we are consumed by what we do not know. The list of things I don't know seems to get longer by the day. You do me no favours by adding to that list."
"Tonight." Therin nodded, more to himself than to Calen. "Tonight I will tell you everything."
Hours passed as they marched through dense, dark woodland, the light from the many baldír casting shadows as they moved.
Occasionally, Calen thought he saw figures staring at them from the depths of the shadows, eyes of smoking white mist. He had thought them tricks of the mind until Vaeril had explained that they were the Aldithmar – the spirits that inhabited the Darkwood. The same spirits that had taken Vaeril's brother. It was these creatures that the Angan of Clan Dvalin held at bay.
The how and why of it were questions Calen simply had not had the energy to ask. All he wanted to do was reach this elven city – Aravell. For months, upon months, upon months, all he had done was run and fight. He was tired. He would ask questions later.
A warmth touched his mind, easing some of his aches and pains, dulling the burn of the blisters that had formed, burst, and reformed on his feet since leaving Berona. Valerys had grown too large to navigate the forest and so instead soared above the dense canopy, staying low, riding the strong currents of air that swept in from the coast. It's all right. Calen drew in a slow breath, settling himself, and, in turn, helping to settle Valerys's own worry. Therin said it's not much further.
A rumble of disagreement sounded at the back of Calen's mind, and he let himself drift into Valerys, relief washing over him. Through the dragon's eyes, he saw an ocean of dark green that spread hundreds of miles in all directions. The seemingly endless canopy broke only sporadically where wide rivers carved their way through the land or mountain peaks rose to scratch at the sky full of dark clouds. No rain fell, but claps of thunder rippled through the air, flashes of light illuminating patches of sky.
It took a moment for Calen to understand what Valerys was trying to show him: there seemed no end in sight. "Therin, I thought you said it wasn't much further?"
Therin raised an eyebrow at Dann, who had joined them an hour previous.
The smile that spread across Dann's face at that moment worried Calen far more than any smile should. "Just wait for it."
Calen narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. Nothing that put that wide a grin on Dann's face could be something Calen would enjoy. Still, whatever it was, he didn't care. Dann could pull whatever tricks he wanted, Calen was just happy to see him. Seeing Dann brought all of Tarmon's words into perspective for Calen. This was what he was fighting for. For Dann, Rist, Elia, Lasch. For his family, those he had lost and those who had come back to him.
Calen turned his head as he walked, a smile touching his lips as he saw Haem walking next to Tarmon. The two of them were so large the elf walking beside them looked like a child. Haem was a little taller, but Tarmon was broader in the shoulders.
He's alive… The word 'happy' barely scratched the surface of the emotions Calen felt when he looked at Haem. And yet, Calen had spent two years coming to terms with the idea that Haem was dead – with the notion that he would never again lay eyes on his brother. Haem had explained to him what had happened. He had explained why he had not come back, but that alone wasn't enough to drive the loss from Calen's heart, nor the anger that lingered. He couldn't stop himself from thinking what if Haem had been there the day Rendall and Farda had killed their entire family? They might all still be alive. And Calen might not have been so alone all this time.
Once more, warmth flooded over from Valerys.
Not alone. Not entirely.
Calen pulled a deep lungful of air in through his nostrils. He knew thinking like that was a dark path to walk down, but still, his mind pulled towards it.
The thought of his parents pulled Calen's attention to Elia and Lasch, who walked beside Aeson's contacts from Berona, Ingvat and Surin.
Calen still hadn't told Elia and Lasch about Rist, about how he was taken. He had tried, but their minds were still not what they used to be. Parts of them had returned, slowly, as they crossed the Burnt Lands, but only in flashes. His heart ached just looking at them. After reaching the camp at the edge of the burnt lands, Calen, Dann, and Haem had taken it upon themselves to bathe Lasch and Elia, to clean the dirt and dust that had crusted into their skin. Calen had expected them to fight and argue, but all they did was curl up and shiver like frightened animals. The sight had caused both Calen and Dann to break down. It was only Haem's steady hand that had kept them going.
Calen bit down gently on the inside of his cheek, let out a sigh, then looked towards the head of the group. He stopped dead in his tracks and dropped his hand to his sword, pulling it free from its scabbard, while at the same time opening himself to the Spark. Aeson and the others who were leading were gone – vanished into thin air.
Barely a second passed before Tarmon and Erik were at his side, weapons drawn, eyes searching the forest around them. Haem and the other knights were right behind them, metallic green liquid flowing over their bodies, melding with their clothes, forming their armour.
The silence in the forest was broken by a deep, bellyaching laugh that echoed and rippled on the wind. Dann dropped to his haunches, covering his mouth with his hands, his shoulders convulsing with laughter.
Erik and Tarmon turned to Calen, confusion in their eyes.
Dann tilted his head back, let out a heavy sigh, then stood. "I've literally been waiting for that to happen for about two miles." He started forwards, the light from the baldír either side of him duplicating his shadow. He stepped over a thick, gnarled root, raised an eyebrow, then walked forwards and disappeared.
"It's like the Burnt Lands," Erik said, eyes narrowing. "An illusion."
Calen moved forwards, voices calling him, and then he was blinded by white light that caused him to snap his eyes shut and raise his forearm across his face. He took another step forwards, feeling solid ground beneath his feet. He peeled his eyes open a little bit at a time, the light dulling. He pulled his arm away from his face and let his eyes adjust. "How…"
What stood before him should not have been possible. The Darkwood was gone, and the sky above was dark and etched with grey-black clouds, pale moonlight breaking through in thin strands. A courtyard of smooth white stone spread in all directions, laced like the leaves of a tree with veins of azure stone that radiated a beautiful, soft light. The courtyard was filled with rows upon rows of elves armoured in pristine silver plate that flowed over their bodies like water, shimmering in the light of the glowing stones. Each elf grasped long-shafted spears with curved blades. Green cloaks were draped over their shoulders, flapping in the gentle breeze. A clear pathway stretched from where Calen stood – Dann at his side now – through the ranks of elves, and onwards, towards an enormous set of whitish gates that looked as though they had been grown rather than built. The same azure stone meandered through the bone-like material of the gates, bathing the courtyard in its strange light. White walls extended on either side of the gate, connecting to massive cliffs that rose hundreds of feet, framing the courtyard. No city, or painting, or work of art Calen had ever seen could have come close to comparing to the sight before his eyes.
Footsteps sounded as more people followed Calen and Dann through the invisible barrier. Calen turned to see Erik and Tarmon stepping through, hands covering their eyes, Vaeril and Therin following close after. It was only then that Calen realised the Darkwood was not gone; it still lay behind them, but it rose steeply, as though they had been walking down the side of a mountain the entire time.
Even as Calen pondered the thousand questions that flitted through his mind, horns bellowed. The gates of hewn bone began to open, and a procession marched through from the other side.
"We didn't get a welcome like this." Dann folded his arms and squinted, looking out over the courtyard. Even though the sun had long set, the light from the moon along with the soft glow of the azure stones glittered and reflected off the polished silver elven armour, lighting the courtyard in much the way the sand in the Burnt Lands had cast the waste in a perpetual twilight.
As the gates on the other side of the courtyard continued to open and the procession advanced, flickers of orange-red torchlight mingled with the white that radiated from baldír orbs. The steady drum of footsteps filled the air.
A surge of elation swept through Calen's mind, giving him no more than a moment's notice before an air-shaking roar thundered overhead, crashing against the cliffs and resounding through the open courtyard.
The drum of feet slammed to a halt, and a wave of gasps and whispers rippled across the gathered elves. Even some of those who had come with Calen – rebels from Berona, along with the elves who had guided them through the Darkwood – stopped and stared towards the sky as Valerys burst through the invisible barrier overhead, wings spread wide, jaws open.
The dragon unleashed a second roar, his scales shimmering in the light of the glowing azure stones, the black veins of his wings stark against the white membrane as the moon shone down from above. Calen took that moment to truly appreciate the power and wonder of Valerys.
Valerys was still only a fraction the size of those that had laid waste to Belduar, but he was a far cry from the vulnerable creature that had crawled from that egg almost a year ago near Camylin. And as Calen saw the looks of awe on the faces of the closest elves, a smile spread across his face. The dragon swept across the cliff face and over the procession of elves. He cracked his wings against the air and alighted beside Calen, his talons clicking against the stone as the resulting gust of wind blew Calen's hair off his face.
"They didn't welcome you like this," Erik said, turning to Dann as Valerys lowered his head and nuzzled the tip of his snout into Calen's outstretched hand, "because you didn't bring a dragon."
"The Ephorí of Aravell," Therin said, nodding towards the procession marching towards them. "Before we go any further, Calen. I need you to listen to me."
Calen turned to Therin but didn't speak.
"Nothing here means what you think it means. A smile, a frown, a kind word, an admonishment. When we first brought you through the Darkwood, we brought you to Belduar and not to Aravell. We did that for a reason. These are my people, and I love them dearly. But there are things at play here that have been brewing for centuries. Each of the Ephorí clutches at power and will do anything to find an advantage over the others. The Triarchy are no different. Each one of them will seek to use you for their personal gain."
"That is not much different to what I already know," Calen said, looking towards Aeson, who now stood a few feet away with Asius, Senas, and two of the Dvalin Angan by his side.
"It is very different. Aeson has his flaws, many of them, but no matter what you feel, he fights for a wider cause than simply his own interests. He has lost almost everything to this war, and still, he fights. There are those among my people who would stand by your side in the void itself, but there are those who would use you as little more than a ladder to climb higher."
A hand touched Calen's shoulder.
"I'll be right there with you." Haem gave Calen a weak smile.
Calen slid his sword back into its scabbard and rested his hand atop Haem's, inclining his head. He turned back towards the procession. As the elves drew closer, Calen saw seven figures marching at their head, two in robes of red and gold, two in robes of black and silver, two in robes of dark green and brown. And on the far right, strode what looked to be an Angan of Clan Dvalin, the veins of gold in their black antlers shining in the moonlight. Many of the elves who followed the leaders wore similar colours, lanterns and banners held high.
"The Angan is Varthon, Matriarch of Clan Dvalin. Dvalin are close to Fenryr. With Baldon and Aneera at your side, you should find a friend in Varthon," Therin said, leaning close. "The two in black and silver are Dumelian and Ithilin of the Kingdom of Vaelen. Even by mage standards, Ithilin has seen a vast number of summers. She is wise beyond her years and tempers much of Dumelian's brazenness." The elf gestured to the pair of elves in the middle. "Thurivîr and Ara, the Ephorí of Lunithír, wear the crimson and gold. I have known them for many centuries. Lunithír was the largest of the five elven kingdoms before The Fall, and that pride and arrogance is still present in everything they do – use it against them. The last two are Baralas and Liritháin of Ardurän. They are both sharp as steel, and having been reared in Ardurän, they were forged in the fires of politicking and mind games. They are like vipers, sweet as honey and deadly as Nightfire."
"Therin, it sounds like you're preparing me for war."
Therin's sombre expression didn't shift. "We're already at war, Calen."
"I see you're in one of those sunshine and rainbows moods you're famous for." Dann raised an eyebrow at Therin.
"Therin Eiltris speaks the truth, Calen." Calen hadn't noticed Vaeril moving closer. The elf's gaze was fixed on Therin. "As a Ranger, I pledged to serve all Aravell, but by birthright I am of Vaelen descent. The political rivalry between the kingdoms extends back to long before we made our home in Aravell. It has only worsened since."
Before Calen could answer, the horns sounded again, this time sharp and short. He turned to face the procession that now stood no more than twenty feet from Calen and the others, the six Ephorí and Varthon at the front.
As the sounds of the horns echoed off the cliffs and slowly faded, silence descended, the whistle of the wind and the flapping of cloaks and banners the only sounds.
One of the Ephorí stepped forwards – Thurivîr, judging by his crimson and gold robes. He stood over six feet tall, hair as black as jet with broad shoulders.
"Welcome," Thurivîr called out, his voice so subtly amplified by threads of Air and Spirit that Calen had barely felt the elf draw in the Spark. "To—"
The ground shook and quivered as Valerys stood to his full height, leaned on his winged forelimbs, extended his neck, and unleashed a roar so primal and visceral Calen felt it ripple through his entire body. Valerys's roar echoed through the courtyard of white stone as spittle flew from the dragon's mouth. It was a rage that burned through their shared soul. It was pride and power. It was a message, a pronouncement.
"There will be no strings or chains," Calen whispered, his voice drowned out by the seemingly never-ending roar of the dragon at his side.
As the sound slowly subsided, the lingering echoes fading, the dragon held his pose, looming over the gathered elves, his nostrils flaring, white scales tinged with azure light. The silence that followed was short lived, whispers spreading through the gathered crowd.
Calen saw the Ephorí exchanging glances, and then Thurivîr came forwards, his steps a little less certain than they had been. "Welcome to Aravell." The elf cast his gaze across the gathering, his stare resting on Calen and Valerys. "I am Thurivîr of Lunithír, Ephorí of Aravell. It is our great pleasure to welcome you, Calen Bryer, Draleid, soulkin of Valerys. And we also welcome your companions with open arms. Were it up to me, we would have held a more ceremonial welcome."
Out of the corner of his eye, Calen caught Dann raising an eyebrow, his mouth twisting as he stifled a laugh. The sight brought a smile to Calen's lips, along with the realisation of just how much he had truly missed Dann. Missed his laughter and his energy, his positivity, his candour. Dann was many things, and growing up he had always somehow managed to find trouble wherever he went, but of everything Dann had always been open, honest, and genuine. He was a light that Calen had sorely missed. Allowing his gaze to linger on his friend for another moment, Calen looked back to Thurivîr, who seemed to have noticed Calen's lapse in attention and was thoroughly unimpressed. Good.
"As it stands," Thurivîr continued. "Given the situation in the North and your presence here, the Triarchy have requested an immediate council. Please, Draleid, follow me."
Once they had entered the city, an elf by the name of Halmír had escorted the fleeing rebels to a hall in which they could eat and drink, while Gaeleron, Lasch, and Elia were taken to the Healers to see what could be done. Calen had asked two of the Knights of Achyron to go with the rebels and watch over them. Which left the remainder of the group following Thurivîr and the other Ephorí through the streets of Aravell, elven guards in smooth silver plate flanking them on either side.
It had seemed to Calen that each city he had laid eyes on since leaving The Glade held more splendour than the last, as though they were in perpetual competition. But when it came to sheer beauty, nothing was on the same plane of existence as Aravell. It was all Calen could do to not openly stop and stare as he walked in front of Valerys, who himself covered barely a third of the street's breadth.
The entire city resided within an enormous system of valleys that carved their way through the land, somehow hidden by whatever magic had created the barrier. And even to call it a city felt crass. It wasn't a city. It was a canvas, an oil painting of white stone through a valley of lush green, illuminated by moonlight and the soft azure glow of what Calen now knew were called erinian stones. Cylindrical towers, enormous bridges, archways, and gargantuan platforms swept across the valley, flowing through the landscape itself, weaving through rock, over and under waterfalls, and blending seamlessly with the natural flow of things.
Horns bellowed a song Calen didn't recognise as the group walked. Elves flooded the streets, walkways, and platforms that ran above and parallel to the one Calen and the others walked along. They leaned on parapets of smooth white stone, stretching out their necks, their gazes fixed on the procession, fixed on Valerys.
Ahead, the Ephorí stopped and now stood before a truly gargantuan structure of bone-white that rose from the ground like the roots of a tree shooting upwards, spiralling around each other and stretching out into walls that looked as though they were wings, reaching hundreds of feet into the air. Veins of erinian stone ran through the wing-like walls in delicate patterns, their soft glow making the structure look more like a work of art than a building. As Calen moved his gaze across the vast structure, he could see alcoves holding great statues and arched windows hewn into the outer walls. There was surely nothing in all Epheria that could compare to such a thing.
From where the Ephorí stood at the end of the long street, a staircase ascended towards an arched doorway.
Thurivîr turned back to Calen and the others, but when it looked as though he were about to speak, one of the Ephorí in dark green and brown robes, stepped across him, bowing slightly as he looked to Calen.
"Forgive me, Draleid. Our introductions were quick and sorely lacking at the gates." The elf raised his eyebrows and cast a glance at Thurivîr, whose stare remained cold and stony. "I am Baralas Thrain, Ardurän Ephorí of Aravell. It is my greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Alaith anar, Baralas. Din atuya gryr haydria til myia elwyn." Well met, Baralas. Your welcome brings honour to my heart.
The elf's back straightened, confusion twisting his features. "Du talier il Enkaran?" You speak the Old Tongue?
"You would do well to hold your tongue, Baralas." Ara, the second Ephorí of Lunithír shook her head. "You insult the Draleid with your ignorance." She gave a deep bow towards Calen, her crimson and gold robes falling in folds about her arms. "Haydria cianor val din närvarin, Draleid." Honour comes with your presence, Draleid."Enough." The Ephori Therin had named as Ithilin glared at both Baralas and Ara, creases streaking her time-touched face. "We will have time for your sycophantic bickering later."
Calen had to fight the urge to smile as the older elf put the others in their place.
Ithilin, inclined her head only slightly. "What Thurivîr had intended to tell you is there is a platform near the top of the Mythníril." She gestured towards the enormous white building that stood before them. "Your soulkin may wait there undisturbed. Nourishment will be provided."
Calen nodded to Ithilin before turning to Valerys. The dragon lowered his head, pale lavender eyes staring back at Calen. His nostrils flared, and he nudged the tip of his snout into Calen's outstretched hand. The dragon lifted his head, extending his neck over Calen. He took a step forwards, forcing armoured elves to step out of the way of his winged forelimbs. A tension held thick in the air as Valerys slowly lowered his head, lips pulling back to show alabaster teeth, his lavender eyes fixed on the six Ephorí. The dragon held himself like that for a few moments, a deep rumble resonating in his chest, then spread his wings wide, causing elves on the walkways above to jump back from the parapets. Valerys lifted into the air, scales glimmering in the light of the erinian stone, and then he was rising upwards sweeping across the city, circling the massive structure of Mythníril, the murmurs of the gathered crowds sounding after him.
As Valerys disappeared from view, a protective wave rippled through Calen's mind, and he was under absolutely no illusions that if even the slightest hint of fear were to touch Calen's heart, Valerys would burn the whole city to the ground.
"Well," Dann whispered, leaning closer to Calen. "You've gotten better at speaking elf."
Aeson pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his eyes fixed on Calen while the others watched Valerys.
Much had changed since the night Belduar fell, more than Aeson had realised. Valerys had grown more quickly than almost any dragon Aeson had known. Most would have been little more than half Valerys's size at this stage. Perhaps the dragon's size could be attributed to the dragon's Valacian heritage, or perhaps he was simply inclined towards rapid growth. Either way, it meant Valerys had become a far greater asset than Aeson could ever have hoped at this stage – though it also meant Calen was equally as dangerous as he was necessary.
The boy was no longer a boy; that much was clear. Calen carried himself like a man who had seen twice his years, and his eyes held a weight Aeson had only ever seen in those who knew death intimately. There was danger in that. Aeson had spent too long, sacrificed too much. Calen would have to be steered with great care. He had a good heart, but he was yet young, and despite what he might himself believe, he still had a lot to learn.
As Thurivîr ushered them up the staircase towards Mythníril, Aeson's gaze rested on Erik. My son.
Having at least one of his sons back within arm's reach lightened Aeson's heart a little. Though the letter Aeson had received from Dahlen not long past had not carried favourable news, it had at the least assured Aeson of his son's safety. The dwarves and Belduar were important for what was to come, and as much as he would have wished to ride to his son's aid, he was beginning to understand that he needed to trust in Dahlen to make the right decisions, to be his own man. It was what Naia would have done.
Aeson let a smile touch his lips as Erik passed him, Calen, Vaeril, and Tarmon Hoard at his side, and made his way up the stairs towards Mythníril. Erik and Dahlen were everything. They were all he had left, all that pushed him forwards, and all that allowed him to open his eyes each morning. He would see Eltoar Daethana die. He would see the empire fall. And he would see a better world for his sons to grow old in.