Calen sat on a smooth spark-wrought bench of white stone, a fire pit blazing before him. Dann, Vaeril, Erik, Tarmon, and the two Fenryr Angan – Aneera and Baldon – sat in a circle around the fire. Night had descended, and Chora and the other Rakina had arranged a celebration in the central courtyard of Alura, their home within Aravell.
Chatter and footsteps filled the air as rebels, Rakina, elven dignitaries, and people of note – who Calen had been methodically introduced to – talked and drank wine. Even Queen Uthrían had shown her face, along with Ithilin, one of the Ephorí of Vaelen, and Varthon with some of her Dvalin Angan. Just as Harken had suggested, the other elven rulers and Ephorí had apparently not been too pleased with Chora for arranging celebrations before they did.
Lanterns and fire pits were lit all about the courtyard, their incandescent light blending with the soft glow of inlaid erinian stone and the pale wash of the moon.
"It's not that bad." Dann looked from Calen to Vaeril. The elf held a small block of wood that had been carved into something that vaguely resembled a human face. "It's not! Baldon says I've come a long way. He wants me to do his likeness next. Tell them."
Baldon, who sat with his fur-covered legs crossed, gave Dann a curious look, golden eyes shimmering. "It is true, Sureheart's craft has come far. His first attempt was horribly poor. This is markedly more proficient, though still poor."
"Sureheart?" Calen whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Dann took a draught of his wine, then shook his head, not hearing Calen. "We're really going to have to work on your compliments, Baldon."
"It wasn't a compliment," the Angan said with a shrug. "It was a statement of fact. Your rate of improvement is no more than normal. But it is improvement. Mastery is not something you achieve based on the speed at which you improve, but due to your ability to persevere in the face of failure. It is repetition, dedication, and consistency. We have discussed this."
Dann puffed out a sigh then laughed. "I take back what I said before, Baldon. You shouldn't talk more. You were right, what's rare is special."
Calen wasn't sure what kind of response he had expected from the Angan, but he was surprised when Baldon's lips curled into what looked to be a smile, sharp white teeth showing.
Beside Calen, Vaeril turned the block of carved wood in his hand. The elf gave a downturn of his lip. "The pursuit of a valúr is not a small thing, Dann. You bring honour to your name. I am impressed."
Vaeril made to hand the carving back to Dann, but Erik gestured for Vaeril to pass it to him. "What is a valúr?" He asked as he looked the wood over. "I've not heard that word before."
"Amongst my people—" Vaeril turned towards Erik, taking a sip of wine from his cup "—it is taught that to possess the ability to destroy you must first understand what it is to create. Any who wish to be trained in the bow, sword, the Spark, any weapon, must first take on a valúr – the pursuit of creation."
Erik gave a half smile as he looked over the carving. "That is a sentiment that many would do well to learn."
Across from Vaeril, Tarmon leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, wine sloshing in his cup. The big man was already on his fifth cup, and Calen had never seen him in such good spirits. "I have a question," he said, resting his chin on his fist. "Does Aeson Virandr know you carved a likeness of him? Because I've never known the man to take kindly to mockery."
"It's not mockery I… Fuck off!"
Dann, Tarmon, Erik, Calen, and even Vaeril burst out laughing. Dann leaned over and knocked his cup of wine off Tarmon's, shaking his head. The pair had been getting on well, and seeing it brought made Calen smile. He had felt his friend's absence each and every day, but it was only upon seeing him again that Calen understood what it was Dann had always given him: hope. Dann wasn't as chirpy as Elia Havel had always been – and hopefully would be again – but he had a way about him that reminded Calen that despite everything he had lost, there was still so much left.
"I'm just saying," Tarmon said, spilling some of the wine from his cup and taking the carving from Erik. "He looks like he fell out of a tree and hit every branch on the way down."
A hand rested on Calen's shoulder as Erik and the others burst out laughing.
"Mind if we sit?" Haem stood over Calen. Lyrin and Varlin, two of the Knights of Achyron, were at his side.
Calen just stared back at Haem for a moment, looking over his brother's face. He didn't think there would ever come a time where even just the sound of Haem's voice wouldn't be like music in his ears. "Never."
Calen slid over on the bench, gesturing for the others to sit. Haem sat beside Calen, Lyrin on his right, while Varlin moved around and took a place on the ground beside Baldon and Aneera.
Varlin's skin had a coppery hue to it, and four circles of black ink bisected by a black line adorned both her forearms. Her head was shaved tight on either side, her blonde hair tied into a plait. She was Valtaran, or at least she once had been. Calen wasn't sure as to the correct order of things when someone was taken into the knighthood.
"What is it we're talking about?" Lyrin asked, leaning forwards to look at the carving in Tarmon's hand. "What in Achyron's name is that?"
"Not you too." Dann tilted his head back and let out a sigh. "It's a process, all right. I'm still learning. You can only ever succeed if you allow yourself to fail."
Lyrin took the carving from Tarmon. "Well, you've definitely got the last part right."
Dann snatched the carving from Lyrin, setting it down on the bench beside him. "Well, if I spend as much time carving as you do combing your hair, I'm sure I'll be a sculptor by the end of the week."
Both Haem and Varlin erupted in laughter, while Lyrin glared back at Dann.
The two began trading insults, Tarmon, Vaeril, and Erik joining in. Baldon and Aneera sat in silence, watching, while Varlin stared into the flames, running her finger along the black line tattoo on her right forearm.
"How are you feeling?" Haem asked, leaning closer.
"Tired." Calen took a sip from his wine cup. "I don't remember the last time I wasn't tired."
"Me neither." Haem gave Calen a weak smile, swishing the wine about in his cup. "Calen, I know we've talked, but I just wanted to say I'm proud of you. I'm not sure I could have done what you've done."
Calen nodded, looking into the fire. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Always."
"When you fought the Uraks in the forest that night… the night you… The night you died." Calen swallowed, a knot catching in his throat. He couldn't lift his gaze from the fire. "Do you remember what happened to Rhett?"
Silence passed between them, and Calen regretted asking the question, though he'd wanted to ask it for days. If what Haem remembered aligned with what Calen saw in his dream, well, that would go a long way towards being sure that what he saw was more than a simple dream.
"He tried to save me," Haem said after a few moments. "He was calling to me. He took an arrow, but he just kept cutting through the beasts. Everyone always told me how great a swordsman I was – Dad loved it. But that was only because Rhett never bothered to show off. I was never as good as he was. He was almost to me, but then…" Haem touched his hand to his stomach, fingers pressing against the linen shirt. "They were all dead when Kallinvar gifted me the Sigil. Every one of them."
Calen turned from the flames and looked at his brother, his pulse quickening. "Haem, Rhett didn't die that day."
The colour drained from Haem's face, his eyes growing wide. "What do you mean?"
"He didn't die that day," Calen repeated. "He was the only one who lived. When he got back, his arm was broken, he was covered in blood, and he was half dead."
"Rhett's alive?"
"I hope so." While travelling through the Burnt Lands, Haem had told Calen of the Urak attack on The Glade. Of seeing Erdhardt holding Aela's body in his arms. Of Ferrin Kolm, Marlo Egon, Joran Brock… There had been more, and likely more again that Haem hadn't found. Calen had no idea who from The Glade still lived. He still hadn't told Dann; there hadn't been a chance. He tried not to think on it. "He and Ella were courting."
A broad smile swept across Haem's face, and he laughed. "He finally plucked up the courage, then? He'd been pining after her for a whole summer. How were they?"
Calen could feel the tears wetting his eyes. "They were good. In love. He treated her like she was the moon and the stars, and she was herself with him – you know, annoying."
Haem laughed, drinking a mouthful of wine. "That's what sisters are for…" He sighed, staring at the flames in the fire pit. The silence that passed between them was sombre – Ella was gone.
Calen lifted his cup to his mouth and downed its contents, letting out a long sigh. He shifted in his seat, then heaved himself upwards. "I need more wine. Another?"
Haem shook his head. "I've had enough, I think. I know we're among friends, but we still need to stay alert."
Calen stared at Haem, allowing himself just another moment.
"What?" Haem looked back at Calen, then down at his shirt. "Have I spilled the wine?"
"No," Calen said with a laugh, his chest tightening. "I just never thought I'd see your face again." He drew in a breath through his nose, shaking his head to try and stop the tears he knew were forming. "I'll be back in a minute."
Calen made his way to where one of many casks of wine was propped up on a stand, a tap jutting from its end. He passed Asius and Senas, stopping to talk for a few minutes, then saw Surin, Ingvat, and a few of their rebels, smiles on their faces, cups of wine in their hands. As he walked, he admired the courtyard itself: the white stone, the tall trees at its centre, the lanterns that blazed atop the pedestals, the streams and bridges that ran around its perimeter. And beyond the courtyard, to where the homes of bone-white were nestled along the rock face. A hundred or so feet up, at the end of a long grass-covered path, was a plateau four times as large as any of the others, backing into a massive alcove that had been carved into the rock with the Spark. The plateau had been created that evening by elven Craftsmages, and upon it sat eight of the Spark-wrought homes, rising multiple storeys.
In The Glade it had taken weeks or even months to build homes, but the Craftsmages had done it in hours. Calen had watched in wonder as they weaved threads of all the elements through the rock, carts of white stone, a material that looked like antlers, and various powders and liquids. Not a single piece of timber was used.
Chora had ensured enough rooms had been constructed to accommodate Calen and all the others, including those who had come with them from Berona – Surin, Ingvat, Kiko, Loura, and the other rebels. There had been one or two disapproving faces amongst the Rakina, and Aeson in particular, but Chora had waved them away. Calen understood; this was their place of rest, their sanctuary. He had tried to express his appreciation to Chora, but his words hadn't felt enough.
He held his gaze on the plateau as he opened the tap and filled his cup. Could this be home? At least for now? It was peaceful, and seeing the others smile and laugh lightened Calen's heart. The Rakina had named it Alura – Rest. The name seemed fitting, but Calen didn't think he would find much rest, not with what was to come. It was then, as he closed the tap on the cask of wine, that Erik's words from the hall in Belduar rang in his mind. 'We have to allow ourselves the small things.'
"How's the wine?" Calen hadn't heard Aeson approach.
"I'd never had wine before leaving The Glade." Calen still held anger in his heart for Aeson. No matter what the man had lost, he was still trying to make Calen his puppet. But Calen was doing his best to understand, to find a middle ground. "It's not Lasch Havel's mead, but it's not bad."
A sympathetic smile touched Aeson's lips. "I'm sorry for what happened to them." He shook his head. "There are some people in this world, hard as it is to believe, who thrive on the pain of others."
Calen nodded. "He's dead now. He can't hurt them anymore."
"They're resting?"
"They are, Gaeleron too. One of Sulin's people – Loura – is watching over them. She said she didn't have much of a taste for drinking and loud noises."
Aeson folded his arms and turned, looking out over those gathered in the courtyard. "They're not Sulin's people, Calen. They're yours – ours. They've not come here on their way to somewhere else. They came here to follow you."
Two men and a woman – whom Calen recognised as the Healer, Kiko – passed by, raising their cups to Calen and Aeson. "Draleid."
Both Calen and Aeson raised their cups in return, and Aeson smiled as though his point had just been proven.
Calen sighed, taking a sip of wine and crossing his arms.
"Both the Havels and Gaeleron will recover, Calen. There is nowhere on the continent that would be better for their recovery. They will get the best of care here, and the elven Healers are masters in the treatment of the mind. There are some who dedicate their entire lives to better understanding the things we can't see."
Calen nodded absently. He knew Aeson was right, but he just couldn't get the images of Elia and Lasch in the interrogation room out of his head. Their brittle skin and sunken eyes, the sight of their ribs poking through, the fear in them. It was not something he wanted to think on. "Aeson?"
"Hmm?"
"What did you lose?"
Aeson turned to face Calen, an uncertain look on his face. "What do you mean?"
Calen wasn't sure how to ask the question or if it was even a question that should be asked. But Aeson owed him that much. "When Lyara died, what did you lose?"
Aeson stared back at Calen for a long moment. His smile, when it came, was weak. He turned to look at a group of Rakina who stood around one of the fire pits. "To be Rakina is a strange thing. No loss is the same. Each two souls blend differently, it seems." Aeson pointed towards the tall, broad-shouldered man with hair down to his waist who had greeted them when they arrived in Alura. "Harken looks as though he's lost nothing, doesn't he? Next to Chora, who will never walk again, or Dynan – over there in the red tunic – whose fingers curled inwards and hardened like stone. But Harken's loss was… cruel. When Taravin died, he took Harken's memories. Not all of them, but those of his family, of his little girl and wife. Other memories as well. Things as small as how to tie knots and as vital as how to speak. It took Harken years to learn to talk again – the adult mind isn't as absorbent as a child's. He also cannot touch the Spark or see colour." Aeson took a long drink of his wine. "It's a strange thing. The only commonality is a loss of the will to live. Those here have all fought against that pull, some more than others. Finding a purpose helps." Aeson re-crossed his arms and pressed the wine cup against his shoulder, tapping his fingers on the rim of the cup. Aeson stared into the crowd, his jaw clenched, eyes glistening. He stood like that for a few quiet minutes, and Calen saw the pain the question has caused Aeson. He wished he could take it back. Aeson could be a harsh man, and single minded, but Calen was beginning to understand him – to understand why he was the way he was.
"My connection with the Spark is tenuous. Sometimes I can feel it, sometimes I can't." He looked at his feet. "I can't feel the middle toe on my left foot, believe it or not." He laughed, shaking his head. "Naia always found that funny." Aeson's expression shifted at his own mention of his dead wife. Calen remembered Erik telling him she died of consumption when Erik was young. "I lost things I can't put my finger on. Contentment," he said with a shrug. "The will to exist. I came close to taking my own life many times. My mind sometimes feels like an endless ocean, and I'm just swallowing water, drowning."
"How do you even…" Calen's voice trailed off. He couldn't begin to contemplate how a person pushed past such a thing.
"I make a choice to live every day. It's not easy. Some days it feels like the hardest thing in the world. The only thing that kept me going was the need to ensure her death wasn't in vain and to make sure those who destroyed my world felt her pain. When I found Naia, it was as though she filled the gaps in me, eased the pain. Her contentment was mine, and when she passed into Heraya's arms, it broke me all over again." Aeson looked towards where Erik, Haem, and the others were still drinking and talking. "Erik has her eyes and her sweetness. He's kind, like she was. Dahlen has her fire and her mind, the way she looked at things, the way she protected others. They're what keep me going now. I want to see the empire crumble, but it's Erik and Dahlen I'm fighting for."
In less than a day, Aeson had been more honest with Calen than he had been throughout the entirety of the time they had known each other. He had no doubt this particular moment was aided by the wine, but he appreciated it no less. He thought back to that cell in Drifaien, that emptiness the rune-marked manacles had created, and in the back of his mind he could feel Valerys's warmth. The dragon was in the eyrie with the others, curled up between Ithrax and the pink-scaled dragon – Thurial. Both joy and sorrow radiated from Valerys; he had found more of his kin, but they were broken, Rakina, little more than shells of what they had once been.
"I'm sorry." Calen looked at the ground, then lifted his gaze to meet Aeson's. "For going after Rist. I mean, I'd make the same choice again if I had to." He allowed himself a sombre laugh. "I'll always try to help the ones I love, but I could have done it differently. I was just… I was scared if I went back you wouldn't have let me go, and I needed to go."
To Calen's surprise, Aeson smiled. "You're probably right, I wouldn't have. You would have made a fine Draleid, Calen, even before."
The sound of clapping and cheering echoed through the courtyard, and Calen looked towards a fire pit near the yard's centre where Therin had risen to his feet and was now bowing theatrically.
"All right, all right." Therin raised his hands in the air, gesturing for quiet. "Settle down." He waved his hands at Calen and Aeson, and then to the others scattered about the yard. "Gather round, gather round." He lifted his cup to his mouth and drained it, holding it out. "If I'm going to tell stories, someone better keep me supplied with wine."
To Calen's surprise, it was Dann who leapt to his feet and grabbed Therin's cup, giving the elf a mocking bow and making his way towards the wine cask behind Calen and Aeson.
"He's drunk," Dann said, a gleeful smile on his face. "I've never seen him drunk. He might not answer the question 'can elves grow beards', but I can make him answer the question 'do elves vomit when they're drunk'."
Dann skipped off towards the wine cask, a devious glint in his eye that Calen had missed.
"He's always asking the important questions," Calen said with a laugh, taking a mouthful of his wine.
"I came dangerously close to cutting out his tongue."
"Have you seen the carving?"
"Don't talk about the carving. Please, for the love of the gods, don't talk about the carving." Aeson puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. "Let's go hear some of Therin's stories."
Calen almost spat out his wine with laughter as Aeson continued to shake his head, taking a seat by the fire before Therin, the others gathering around.
Haem approached, throwing his arm around Calen's shoulder. "I never thought I'd hear one of Therin's stories again. It takes me back to the Dragon."
Calen savoured the feeling of his brother's arm around his shoulders and the sound of Haem's voice. It brought him back to being in The Gilded Dragon too. He lowered himself to the ground, finding a place between Haem and Tarmon – who had just taken a seat on the stone. Of course, he had managed to sit between the two largest men in the courtyard, besides Harken, who stood with his arms folded on the right side of the fire.
Therin moved so he stood in front of the fire, grabbing the cup of wine from Dann.
"Shift over." Dann didn't wait for a response as he dropped down between Haem and Calen, shuffling himself into the narrow gap. Once he'd wedged himself firmly in place, he gave both Calen and Haem a big, shit-eating grin, then took a mouthful of wine. "Just like old times."
"You haven't changed in the slightest, Dann Pimm."
"I'd say the same to you, but you were dead, and now you're not. That's a pretty big change." Dann stared at Haem, then his eyes widened, and he waved his hand frantically. "It's a change I'm happy about!"
Haem let out a sigh. "Shut up, Dann."
"You know, I think you're going to get on with Aeson." Dann turned to Calen. "What's that smile for?"
"Just happy to be back, Dann." Calen took a sip of his wine. "Just happy to be back."
"All right, quiet down." Therin stumbled slightly, much to Dann's amusement. "Who here has heard the tale of The Huntress and The Exile?"
An hour or so passed with Therin weaving story after story. One of Surin's people, a lithe young woman by the name Indira, emboldened by wine, had taken over the task a few stories ago with the encouragement of her companions. And, much to everyone's delight, she was a better story weaver than most Calen had heard in The Glade – not quite as good at Therin, but still fantastic.
"Brilliant." Therin stood, using Aeson's shoulder for leverage. "Another cheer for Indira."
Claps and whistles rose, but Therin frowned. "You can do better than that!"
The applause grew louder, and Calen looked around, knowing his smile stretched from ear to ear. There were over a hundred souls gathered in the courtyard – elves, Rakina, Angan, rebels – and each of them were hanging on every word Therin said. The last time he had felt any kind of comfort like this had been back in Belduar when Arthur had arranged a feast for their arrival. The thought soured in Calen's mind. He would never see Arthur again. Another good soul taken by the empire. Some of Arthur's last words pulled to the front of Calen's mind. 'I'm not here talking to you because you are a Draleid. I'm here talking to you because I believe in who you are.'Calen's chest tightened at the words. He pulled out of his own head only when the fire pits about the courtyard snapped and crackled, pluming sparks into the air.
"Now, are there any tales anyone wishes to hear?" Therin called. "The Demise of Durin Longfang? The Death of Amendel? The Ghosts of Ilragorn?"
A number of voices shouted, calling out names of tales and stories, some of which Calen had heard, some he hadn't. He wasn't sure if it was the wine, but something stirred within him, and he straightened his back, leaning forwards. "Tell us the tale of the Chainbreaker."
Calen had spoken louder than he had intended, and the voices quietened, eyes turning to him. He hadn't expected such a sudden reaction.
The smile on Therin's face quickly faded, and he stared at Calen, sobering. "Later," he said, dropping his voice to a more sombre tone. His eyes flashed to Haem for a moment. "Now is not the time."
"No." Calen shook his head. "I would like to hear it told like this, Therin. I don't want to know his past, I want to hear his story." Therin hadn't told Calen the Chainbreaker was Vars, but it hadn't taken much working out when Baldon and Aneera had called him the son of the Chainbreaker. "Please."
Therin drew in a long breath, twisting his tongue in his mouth, then acquiesced. "All right."
Dann leaned in, elbowing Calen in the ribs. "Finally. I've been trying to get him to tell this story for months."
Both Calen and Haem glared at Dann, but Dann was completely oblivious. He took a long draught of his wine, then shuffled himself into a more comfortable position, ready for the story.
"This story," Therin said, staring off into the distance, "is different from the others. For I am not just the teller of this tale, I am its observer, and to tell it, I must go back to the year three-zero-five-four After Doom. The Varsund War had been raging for four years, and fires blazed from Gilsa to Midhaven." Therin swept his left hand through the air, his right still firmly gripping his wine cup. Now that Calen could touch the Spark, he could see the threads of Air and Fire that Therin wielded to blow a gust across the courtyard and send flames flickering into the night. Being able to see the threads should have taken away some of the wonder, but somehow it did no such thing. "The cities of Torebon, Haling, Kald, Hewe, and Aylia were all under Varsundi control, the Arthyn Plain was a mass grave, the Dornang River ran crimson, and Carvahon had all but conceded victory, leaving Illyanara to fight alone against the might of High Lord Rayce Garrin and the Varsundi armies."
Therin took a draught of his wine, allowing the silence to settle.
"The Varsundi were relentless. Not only was Rayce Garrin one of the greatest tacticians seen since before The Fall, he also had three of the finest warriors Varsund had ever produced in his close circle. The fierce and famed general, Durin Longfang, named after the enormous greatsword he wielded, had never lost a battle. Taran Shadesmire was widely considered by some to be the greatest swordsman in all Epheria. And it is said that Halya Starn could cave in the heads of two men with one swing of her mace. Not only that, but Varsund's cavalry, the legendary Varsundi Blackthorns, dominated every battlefield they trod on. Over the course of those first four years of the war, the number of major battles in which Illyanara emerged victorious could be counted on one hand of a four-fingered man.
"It wasn't until the summer of that year, when the Illyanarans, led by the emerging general Burdock Folkwin, defeated Halya Starn and her forces at the Battle of the Shallow Trench, that the tide began to turn." The light of the surrounding fire pits glistened in Therin's eyes, his silver hair coruscating. "With Folkwin at their head, the Illyanaran armies went almost a year without tasting a major defeat, and in that time, they pushed the Varsundi back across the Marin Mountains. However, in the winter of the year three-zero-five-five After Doom, calamity struck when Burdock Folkwin and some twenty thousand Illyanarans suffered the single largest defeat the war had seen when they were slaughtered at the Battle of the Blood River. It is said the River Almellon ran red for three days and the bodies were piled so high they looked like hills in the night. It was in the aftermath of this vicious defeat that I stumbled upon a company of Illyanaran swordsmen, led by a young captain named Vars Bryer who had survived the battle – barely."
Therin straightened and raised his arm, and Calen could see the threads of Fire, Spirit, and Air, weaving around him, drawing in the light. "It was there, in the dead of night, beneath the canopy of the Elmwood to the west of Haling and the River Almellon, I told Vars and his surviving companions the reason they had lost the Battle of the Blood River so crushingly. The reason the Varsundi armies had known they were coming. The reason twenty thousand souls were sent to dine in Achyron's halls." Therin stopped, watching as all gathered hung on his words, the fire pits crackling in the night. "Rayce Garrin and the Varsundi had captured a god."
Gasps broke out, particularly from the rebels who had come from Berona. The elves and many of the Rakina barely flinched. And out of the corner of his eye, Calen saw Baldon and Aneera bow their heads, placing the palms of their right hands over their foreheads.
"Many of you know the Enkaran pantheon, the elder gods – Varyn, Heraya, Elyara, Achyron, Neron, Hafaesir, and the dread Efialtír." Hisses and boos rang out, the crowd playing to Therin's theatrics. "But when the humans came to our shores in the year three hundred After Doom, they brought with them their own gods, lesser gods, gods of flesh and bone – Fenryr, the wolf god." Therin threw his hands in the air, weaving threads Fire, Air, and Spirit. The flames of the pit erupted upwards into the night, taking the form of a howling wolf. "Dvalin, the stag." Therin gestured towards Varthon and some of her Dvalin Angan, the fire behind him forming into a charging stag. "Vethnir, the hawk. Bjorna, the bear. Kaygan, the kat." With each god, Therin wrought their forms from flame, letting them fade into the night. "It is said that each was as big as a dragon but could shift their forms to mimic ours. With their gods came the druids, and…" Therin looked to Baldon and Aneera. "The Angan."
All eyes turned to Baldon, Aneera, and the Dvalin Angan, whispers filling the courtyard.
"Since before the elder gods breathed life into the elves, the dragons, and all others we know in Epheria, the lesser gods have roamed the known world. And in that time, the Angan, formed in the images of their patron gods, have protected and served faithfully. In the summer of that year, Rayce Garrin captured the wolf god, Fenryr. And in doing so, he forced all Angan of the Clan Fenryr to do his bidding. Against their will, they were forced to slaughter and murder, acting as both monstrosities on the battlefield and assassins in the dark. But most importantly, their ability to communicate across vast distances instantaneously gave the Varsundi an advantage unlike any other. And so I gave those Illyanaran warriors a choice. Come with me, help me to free the wolf god, and, in doing so, aid their nation far more than they ever could on the field of battle, or go and take their chances trying to return home.
"Only four chose to stay, and among them was their captain, Vars Bryer. For the next three years, we moved across Illyanara, Varsund, and Carvahon, seeking answers and aiding the Illyanaran armies wherever we could. It was we who sunk the Varsundi fleet in the Bay of Light, emptied the coffers at the gold mine of Aonar, caused the cascade at Torebon, and lit the great fires of Ballmar. But one by one, those who pledged themselves to the cause lost their lives, until only Vars and I remained."
Therin emptied his cup of wine, gesturing for Dann to pass over his own – which he did with a beaming smile, enraptured by the tale. The elf took a mouthful, then dropped to his haunches, holding his gaze on Calen and Haem. "And let me tell you, I would call Vars Bryer as much a brother as a friend. He was wise, thoughtful, caring, and passionate. But he was also quick to anger and protected his own with a ferocity I have rarely ever seen. Vars was not a mage. He was not a Draleid or a being of mystical power. He was simply a man, but he was a man whose legend untold was a crime unto itself. His name should have been sung across Illyanara. He should be spoken of in wonder and awe like the great blademasters of old. For it was Vars Bryer who slew Durin Longfang in single combat and broke the siege of Argona. It was Vars Bryer who defeated Taran Shadesmire at the battle for Vaerleon. And it was Vars Bryer who ended the Varsund War."
The hairs on Calen's arms stood on end, his skin prickling. There was so much he didn't know about his dad. So much he wished he had been told. He lifted his right hand and wiped away tears that had begun to fall, at the same time feeling Haem's arm wrap around his shoulder.
Haem didn't speak, but he pulled Calen in tight, his hand squeezing, and Calen saw tears glistening on the side of his brother's face.
"Many credit the breaking of the siege of Argona and the death of Durin Longfang as the turning point in the war. The truth? It was not the blood that spilled from Longfang's veins that turned the war, it was the words that left his lips. For Durin was a good and honourable man, and it was he, after three years of searching, who told us where the wolf god was chained – beneath the city of Varsund itself. The heart of the enemy."
More gasps spread about the courtyard, and even Dann sat in silence, staring at Therin.
"And so, with the siege broken and the location of the wolf god now known, Vars marched through the streets of Argona and demanded a council with High Lord Castor Kai himself. And when that council was granted, Vars demanded that Illyanara march on the capital of Varsund come the dawn of the next day. When Castor Kai laughed in his face, Vars tossed down the bloody greatsword of Durin Longfang, and Castor Kai's tone changed. We talked, the three of us, along with Castor Kai's most trusted generals, deep into the night, and at dawn we rode for Varsund with fifty thousand swords at our backs. More joined as we marched across the plains, and past the Marin Mountains, and by the time the first siege tower was raised, near seventy thousand souls stood before the walls of Varsund.
"But while the armies battled on the walls, Vars and I found our way inside the city. For though the Angan were bound to serve the Varsundi for fear of their god's safety, one by the name of Baldon Stormseeker, who sits before you now—" Therin gestured towards Baldon, bowing at the waist "—saw there would be no end to the torture unless something was done. It was Baldon who first told me of Fenryr's capture, and it was Baldon who secreted us into the city during the siege. And there, deep in the dungeons of Varsund, beneath the keep itself, we found the wolf god, chained and beaten, a rune-marked collar around his neck, streams of blood flowing from where starglass had sliced his flesh. Fenryr was guarded by Varsundi soldiers, a clutch of Blood Mages, and Rayce Garrin himself. Never before have I seen a man's blade move like that of Vars Bryer's in that dungeon. And when Rayce Garrin's head hit the stone, Vars pulled the collar from Fenryr's neck, broke the chains from his arms and legs, and carried him to where the moon's light could touch his skin."
Therin let out a long sigh, drank from his cup, and looked at the moon. "But when Vars, Baldon, Fenryr, and I crept from the city, fire raging all around us, we were set upon near the edge of Lake Vasund by men and women bearing the six stars of Illyanara. Castor Kai had sent his son, Dorian Kai, to claim Fenryr for Illyanara. Dorian thanked Vars and me for delivering the wolf god but demanded we hand him over. Vars refused to allow chains to once more be placed around Fenryr's neck. And so we fought beneath the moon's light, Fenryr too weak to stand and the energy sapped from my bones by the Spark. But Vars was a man possessed. He fought like a god among men, Baldon at his side, and he fed the soil with the blood of those sent for him. And from that day forth, the Angan of Clan Fenryr pledged to always answer Vars' call or the call of his blood. For he had freed their god, Fenryr, and in doing so he had freed them – freed them of the blood and murder they had been forced into. He had become the Chainbreaker."
Calen pressed his tongue against the sharp edge of his tooth, staring into the smouldering fire. He drew a breath through his nose, the scent of burning wood tinging the air. The crackling of the fire was the lonely sound that filled the courtyard. Many had stayed and drank for hours after Therin had told the story of the Chainbreaker – of Calen's dad. But one by one, they had left, until only Calen, Dann, and Haem remained.
Dann sat on the ground to Calen's right, leaning back against the white stone bench upon which Calen sat. Haem was on Calen's right, leaning towards the fire, his arms rested atop his legs.
Calen still wasn't sure how to feel or what to think. Hearing Therin tell his dad's story as though Vars was a hero of old was something Calen would never forget as long as he lived. But at the same time, it had filled Calen with a longing that could never be sated. He would never see his dad again.
Dann sighed and sipped his wine. "I still can't believe your dad is the one who killed Durin Longfang." He shook his head, staring at the fire. "I still remember Therin telling us the story of the siege of Argona."
Dann looked back at Calen, and Calen gave him a weak smile. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of footsteps.
"You're still here?" Therin appeared from behind Calen, stopping by the fire. The elf lifted his hands, turning his palms towards the flames. He looked towards Calen and Haem. "I've lived for hundreds of years, and I only knew your father for a small portion of that time, but I count him among the closest friends I've ever known." All the early theatrics were gone now, and Calen could hear the loss in Therin's voice. "He was a singularly unique soul, and he loved you both, your sister, and your mother with everything he had." The fire crackled and popped as Therin nodded to himself. "I miss him dearly."
Haem shuffled beside Calen, the firelight glowing softly against his face. "Therin, all those years you came to The Glade, and all those years you acted as though you were nothing more than a travelling bard. Why? Why did you both keep it all a secret? Why did our dad never tell us?"
The question was one that had floated in Calen's mind for hours.
Therin's cloak blew back in the gentle night breeze. He looked towards the dark, cloud-filled sky, then gave Haem a weak smile. "A few months before the attack on Varsund, your father returned to The Glade. And then, just after the siege of Argona was broken, he received word from your mother – she was with child."
"Me?"
Therin nodded, his gaze lingering on Haem. "Children change your perspective on things. But also, by the end of the war your father had made an enemy of both Castor Kai, and Rayce Garrin's heir, Korim Garrin, who is now the Varsundi High Lord. Both wanted his head. His only saving grace was that after the Battle of the Blood River, the Vars Bryer who had joined the Illyanaran army was presumed dead. Castor Kai knew him only as Cassian Tal – a name you might recognise."
Calen sat up straight, narrowing his eyes at Therin.
"Wait." Dann shifted in place, pushing himself back up against the stone bench. "Vars is Cassian Tal, the Cassian Tal?"
Cassian Tal was a legend. Every bard who passed through The Glade weaved tales of the greatest swordsman Illyanara had ever seen. The name of the man who killed Durin Longfang had never been known, but most storytellers had credited the deed to Cassian Tal. So many stories had been sung in Tal's name that it was long believed he was never truly a man but instead a fabrication, for no man could have achieved so many feats.
Therin nodded.
Dann puffed out his cheeks, then took a mouthful of wine. "Is he Achyron, too? Maybe he's Alvira Serris?"
Therin chuckled, looking back at the fire. "War is strange. Vars and his soldiers were among the few who survived the Blood River. There was always the chance they wouldn't be seen as heroes but as deserters. How else does one survive such a slaughter? So it was decided that the four who joined me would take up new names. Castor Kai and all others knew him only as Cassian Tal." Therin looked to Haem. "So, in answer to your question, after freeing Fenryr, your father made the choice to put family over all else. His first—" Therin gestured at Haem "—would draw his breath before the end of that year, and Vars refused to let you or your mother pay for the choices he made. I visited as often as I could, every year, sometimes twice a year. He asked that in the open we never acknowledge our past so as no links could be drawn between us. From time to time, we would meet near Pirn. He would bring a cask of Lasch's mead, and we'd talk and drink until the sun rose. But those times were few and far between."
Therin pulled his hands away from the fire and sat on the ground before Calen, Haem, and Dann. "About five summers ago, a man we once knew visited The Glade. He was not a man to be trusted. And so the Angan laid a cub at your father's feet. A cub blessed by Fenryr himself, gifted to watch over your family."
"Faenir?" Calen narrowed his gaze. "No, my dad found Faenir in Ölm Forest. His mother had died giving birth, as had the other cubs."
"There's truth in every lie. Vars did find Faenir in Ölm Forest, but he did not find the wolfpine nestled against the body of his dead mother. He found him in Baldon's arms. Baldon almost had to force your father to take Faenir."
"Even for your kind, the Chainbreaker was a stubborn man."
Calen turned to see Baldon standing behind him, eyes gleaming in the night. The Angan bowed deeply, then made his way around the bench. He lowered himself to the ground beside Therin, folding his fur-covered legs beneath him. He looked from Haem to Calen. "Your father risked everything to help my people. He did so with no promise of reward. He had a special heart, and I mourn him. But I also find happiness in seeing that he passed his heart on so that it may beat within his children. You honour him in your actions and in your words. You are the sons of the Chainbreaker."