Aeson stood with his arms folded at the edge of the cliff. The wind slapped his face with rain that felt like sheets of ice, his cloak billowing out to the right. Overhead dark clouds dispersed the sun's light, painting the world in a grey hue. Before him lay a system of tight valleys coated in dark forest. He had only visited Aravell a few times across the centuries, but each time the scope of what the elves had created, along with the power of the glamour that concealed it, left him awestruck.
Líra, the elf who had led the entire endeavour, had always been exceptional, but Aravell was without a doubt her masterpiece.
"Here he comes." Chora sat in her chair to Aeson's left, her face and hair dripping, the hood of her cloak blown back onto her shoulders. Her eyes were keener than his.
The young elf, Valdrin, who Therin had rescued all those years ago from the empire, stood beside Chora. He had insisted on coming to watch Calen fly and now stood in nothing more than a soaked linen tunic and trousers with his hands clasped behind his back. He was a peculiar one, but he had been through a lot.
A few moments passed, and then Aeson saw a white flash in the distance. Valerys tore through the valleys, moving at speeds Lyara had only achieved after she'd seen her tenth summer. The dragon rose and fell, catching wind currents as he wove in between the jutting cliff faces, disappearing then reappearing from Aeson's vision.
Beside Aeson, Chora weaved threads of Fire and Water through the air. Sections of rain coalesced, forming spheres of ice as threads of Fire pulled the heat from them. And then the spheres were careening through the air towards Valerys and Calen as they rounded a cliff face.
The dragon spun, dropping low, spheres of ice crashing against the rock behind him. Valerys rose above the next wave of projectiles, rolling in the air as he did, holding himself in an upside down position. Aeson couldn't help but be impressed, not just by Valerys's agility and reactions, but by how Calen managed to hold his position. Even with the intrinsic magic that moulded a dragon's scales to their Draleid and held them in place, holding on during manoeuvres like that at those kinds of speeds was no easy feat.
Chora launched more spheres of ice, each of which Valerys avoided. Threads of Fire and Water swirled in the air, forming the rain into a thick sheet of ice before Valerys. The dragon unleashed a pillar of fire, wrapping his wings around himself, making himself as small as possible as he flew through the melted hole at the centre of the sheet. Valerys dropped for a moment, then unfurled his wings, catching the air currents and sweeping upwards.
Chora formed the rain into another sheet, to which Valerys reacted by performing the same manoeuvre, but this time Chora formed a second sheet of ice as soon as the dragon's fire ceased. Valerys flew through the gap in the first sheet only to crash through the second, unleashing a roar that echoed through the valley. As the dragon hurtled forwards, attempting to regain control of his flight, Chora launched another wave of ice spheres.
Aeson felt Calen pull from the Spark as a streams of fire poured from the young man's hand. Then, the fire cut off sharply.
"Two in the chest." Chora folded her arms and sat back in her chair as Valerys swept past them, wings spread wide, a gust of air following in his wake. "Still, impressive. Their bond is unlike anything I've seen in ones so young," Chora remarked without turning her gaze from the valleys ahead. "Perhaps the Valacian dragons truly do have a deeper connection to the Spark. Or perhaps there is something more. I've heard the Lorians who travelled with Calen across the Burnt Lands refer to him as the Warden of Varyn. They say he swept through the battle of Kingspass, his eyes misting with a purple light. Now, that is something I'd like to see."
"Purple light," Valdrin whispered to himself.
"You know how stories spread." Aeson ran his tongue across his teeth, looking out into the distance as Valerys soared back through the valleys.
"It is not true? His eyes do not glow?"
Aeson grunted. He had seen the purple light in Calen's eyes when they had argued outside the Burnt Lands. "All I'm saying is tales grow with the telling."
"If I didn't know you better, young Virandr, I'd think you were jealous."
Aeson laughed, turning to see Chora staring back at him, her smile stretching from ear to ear. She was the only one who still referred to him as 'young Virandr' – it was nice. "Jealous?"
Chora smiled again, raising a knowing eyebrow, then her expression grew more sombre. "What do you think of him, Aeson? Do you truly think he can do what needs to be done?"
Aeson let out a heavy sigh. "Not on his own."
A gust of wind swept across the cliff as Valerys soared past, banking left and right before dropping and disappearing around a cliff edge.
"He is gifted. That much is clear. But even if he had decades, which he does not, seven of the nine living Dragonguard remain in Epheria. Even Eltoar and Helios would not be able to fight those odds alone."
"True enough." Chora sat in silence for a moment. "But he is not alone."
"No." After Calen had sworn the oath with Gaeleron, Vaeril, Alea, Lyrei, Erik, Tarmon, and Dann, Gaeleron had made his way to the courtyard each day to observe Calen's forms and sparring. Vaeril, Alea, and Lyrei had remained tight to the young man's side. Vaeril in particular seemed to have a close bond with Calen. Erik and Tarmon Hoard – a man Aeson knew as an impeccable judge of character – were as close to Calen as brothers now, though with what they'd been through that didn't surprise Aeson. What was unexpected though, was how Sulin, Ingvat and the others from Berona looked to Calen. For all the arguments between them, Aeson had to admit the young man had a heart that people gravitated towards.
In Aeson's experience, there were two things that caused people to follow: fear or devotion. Fealty could be won through fear in a heartbeat. Fear was powerful, and it led people towards truly atrocious acts in the name of self-preservation. But it was fleeting – as soon as something came along that inspired greater fear, everything changed. Devotion, on the other hand, was hard earned, through actions and deeds. Whereas adversity often eroded fear, it only strengthened devotion. Fear could win battles and wars, it could sweep armies aside. But devotion was what held nations together. The empire built everything on fear and anger. As far as Aeson was concerned, a little bit of both was needed.
"Aeson?" The call was broken by the wind and the rain. He turned to find Ingvat standing at the top of the downward path, her long cloak flapping in the gale that swept over the cliff, her hair and skin saturated. The woman approached as he turned. "Therin sent me to call on you. Some of the Angan have returned, and letters have arrived from Argona."
The wind blew so fiercely Aeson stumbled sideways as he stopped before one of the myriad of bridges that swept across the city of Aravell. And while the wind howled, the rain beat down like hammer strikes against his hair and face.
"Just over there!" Ingvat called, pointing towards a plateau set into the rock about fifty feet up on the other side of the bridge. She was close to him, but she had to shout to raise her voice above the roaring wind.
Aeson nodded his acknowledgement. "Ingvat," he called as she turned to make her leave. "Thank you for keeping him safe."
Invite shook her head, shaking droplets of rain free. "Your son is just as you are. He can handle himself."
"That he can." Aeson moved closer to Ingvat, resting his hand on her shoulder and leaning in closer so they wouldn't have to shout. "How many came with you from Berona? I should have come to you sooner, but there's just not been a spare moment."
"Forty-two survived the journey." Ingvat pulled at her hood, using it to shelter her voice from the wind.
"How many can fight? Mages?"
"All can hold themselves well. A Battlemage, a Healer, a Consul, and two Craftsmages – Sulin included. We lost two Scholars in the wasteland."
Aeson nodded again. "It's time we start making something of them. I'll need a breakdown of each and every one of them. What do you think of him?"
"Calen?" Ingvat asked, raising a saturated eyebrow. "I followed him across the Burnt Lands, Aeson. You know the answer to that question."
"True enough." Aeson patted Ingvat's shoulder and watched as she walked down a winding path of smooth white stone before he set off across the bridge. He made his way across, then up towards the plateau.
A white pergola covered the plateau, the wind whooshing as it hammered rain against the structure's roof in sweeping sheets. Beneath the shelter of the pergola, Therin stood by a large stone table, Baldon, Aneera, and two more Fenryr Angan at his side. Even before Aeson drew close, he could feel the ward of silence that shrouded the plateau.
As Aeson stepped through that boundary of the ward, the pounding of the rain and howling of the wind vanished in an instant, giving way to silence. "You know we could have just done this somewhere indoors?"
Therin looked up from the other side of the table, his silvery hair dripping as it hung around his shoulders. "I don't visit Aravell often. I do not like to waste my time hemmed within the confines of four walls. It gives me warmth to look upon the things she created."
Aeson gave his old friend a nod of acknowledgment, allowing a smile to touch his lips. He understood. There were few things in this world that reminded Aeson of Naia – Erik, Dahlen, and the swords she had forged for all three of them. For Therin, there was only Faelen and the city of Aravell to remind him of Líra, which seemed bittersweet considering he so rarely got to look upon either of them, and Faelen refused to speak to him.
A map of Epheria was splayed out across the table, held down by four smooth stones. Beside the map was a leather sack, a small leatherbound notebook, a pen, and inkwell.
"What news?" Aeson looked to Baldon and Aneera.
Baldon stared back with those golden eyes, then looked to Therin.
"We have word from Baird in Drifaien," Therin said, tapping Drifaien on the map. "Those loyal to Alleron have taken Longforge, Helmund's Basin, and Whiterun. He's confident if they can take Arisfall, the rest of the region will swear fealty. Alleron needs no meeting – he swears his loyalty to Calen."
"Calen makes quite the impression."
"Indeed," Therin looked up from the map, smiling.
"Others?"
"Aryana Torval in Illyanara, who flies the white gryphon banner, has agreed to meet. She would be a strong alternative to Castor Kai – who has also agreed to meet Calen, though as we've discussed, that should wait. We've also received word from many other factions across Illyanara, Arkalen, and Drifaien. The larger factions are waiting for an audience, but those with smaller numbers are moving this way. There are rumblings of a great battle near Steeple, but the details are not yet known. It's all hearsay at the moment. Though there's talk of elves – and dragons."
"Dragons?"
"Like I said, hearsay. The Dragonguard were there, so it's more probable that stories have gotten muddled. But if the elves of Lynalion have left the woodland, the landscape is about to change. And if they were ever to do it, now would be the time. The empire is weak, only seven of the Dragonguard remain, and the South is in chaos."
"Indeed," Aeson scratched at his beard. He hoped the rumours were not true. Another player in the game would only complicate matters. But they would cross that bridge if they came to it. "What of Valtara, Varsund, and Carvahon?"
"Even with our connections, it takes time," Baldon said, leaning forwards, his words slow and thoughtful as though he was remembering how his tongue should form the sounds. "None of our kind are yet near the lands you call Valtara or Varsund."
"There has been word from our people in the north of Carvahon. Gandry reports he's gathered some two thousand in the mountains near Dalery and marches them towards Aravell in groups of one hundred as we speak. And Hodin says that if Calen so much as flies over Ballmar, the city will open its gates."
"What was the last we heard about High Lord Kalas?"
"As always, he's refusing to take a side. He allowed imperial fleets to be torched in the bay, but I don't believe he'll openly declare for us unless he believes he has no choice."
Aeson nodded, folding his arms and stroking the side of his cheek with his index finger as he looked over the map. "Ingvat said letters arrived from Arem in Argona?"
"Yes." Therin reached into the leather sack and produced a thick stack of envelopes, placing them on the table before Aeson. The first stack was followed by a second, then a third.
Aeson let out a sigh, sifting through the letters, pushing aside those he believed could wait while opening those that looked urgent. One was from a contact who kept watch over the gold mines in Aonar, another from a smuggler in Antiquar, another from the captain of the city guard in Catagan. His heart thumped as he eyes fell on two envelopes strung together, the top sealed in crimson wax and the hammer sigil of Durakdur.
"Everything all right?" Therin asked, looking up from the map.
"It's from Durakdur." The last letter he had received from Durakdur had been from Dahlen, telling him of what had happened between Belduar and the Dwarven Freehold. But that had not been pressed with any particular Sigil. Realising he'd grown silent, Aeson lifted his head and gestured towards the other letters. "Could you help me with those?"
Therin held Aeson's gaze for a moment, then nodded and proceeded to pull a stack of letters towards him.
Aeson cracked the wax seal on the top envelope, then pulled out the letter, unfolding it.
Father,
That first word breathed life back into Aeson's veins.
I'm not sure how to say this – Daymon Bryne and Ihvon Arnell are dead. Tensions rose to a head within the Freehold, and the Azmaran forces attacked the Belduarans – Daymon and Ihvon died in the fighting. Queen Kira and Queen Elenya came to our aid, and the Azmarans were put to the question. There is still more afoot within the Freehold, webs within webs, I'm sure of it.
After the fighting, Kira and Elenya forced Belduar into a vassalship in exchange for food, water, safety, and aid in retaking the city itself. Oleg Marylin was selected as 'Keeper of the Mountain' – a new title devised by the dwarves. As it stands, Pulroan is dead, Hoffnar is dead, and Kira and Elenya hold power over the Freehold. There is a moot currently being held in Volkur, and one soon to follow in Azmar. Though, from the whispers I'm hearing, it is likely that Kira and Elenya may consolidate power. They have both reiterated their support for our cause, as has Oleg.
Oleg has asked me, along with Belina, to aid in the escort of some two hundred Belduarans to safety in the western villages. I have accepted – our destination is Salme. Forward any reply there. Once the Belduarans are settled and I have received your location, I will come.
D
Aeson read the letter over twice. A lot had changed beneath the mountains of Lodhar. One of the Fenryr Angan was already on their way to the Freehold. Once there, communication with Kira and Elenya would be easier. Whether the Freehold had two rulers or four did not matter, so long as they were aligned to the cause. Both Kira and Elenya were brash and quick to anger, but it was Kira who came to Belduar's aid the night of the Fade's attack.
Aeson let out a sigh as his eyes settled back on the start of the letter – Daymon Bryne and Ihvon Arnell are dead. Ihvon and Aeson had butted heads on many occasions, but Ihvon had been one of the few people in the world who Aeson had truly called friend. That list was growing ever shorter with the passing years. To read of his death felt like nothing more than a dream. The man was carved from stone, and his blood was made from fire – there was a time Aeson believed that nothing on the mortal plane could kill Ihvon Arnell. That time, he supposed, was gone. I'll drink for you, old friend. At least you're finally with Alyana and Khris again. Enjoy Achyron's halls. I will see you there when he calls me.
Aeson's gaze settled on the name of young Daymon Bryne. The boy had not been ready. The only solace in his death was that Arthur had not had to be the one to light the pyre. Arthur – another friend no longer walking the mortal plane. Aeson whispered, "Living has its price."
Aeson folded the letter and slipped it back in its envelope. He cracked the seal on the second envelope.
Old Man Virandr,
I've tried to kill you seven times, but you're a stubborn bastard. I bet you still haven't forgiven me despite everything I've done since then – you do love a grudge. Well, when Dahlen said he was sending you a letter, I asked Oleg to tag this one along as well because, by my reckoning, I've stopped your son from dying three times now. What does that mean? That means four more times and we're even. And at the rate everyone with your last name finds trouble, you'll be owing me pretty soon.
I'll be travelling with him on my way to Dayne. Who knows, maybe he'll do something stupid again.
Your favourite,
Belina
p.s. Ihvon died the way he would have wanted – with sharp steel in his hand. I took some ashes from the pyre. I'll spread them over the ocean. He always liked to watch the sun rise over the water.
Aeson couldn't help but allow himself a smile as he folded the letter. Belina had a way about her. There were few people on the continent more dangerous and even fewer with larger hearts. He looked up to see Therin had walked towards the edge of the pergola, rain splattering against his back as he read a letter. "What's that?" he asked, slipping Belina's letter back into its envelope. "Dahlen's all right, but… Therin?"
The elf continued to read, ignoring Aeson.
"Therin? What is it?"
Therin lifted his head, looking back at the letter, then back to Aeson. "It's from Coren."
"And?" Aeson did nothing to temper the impatience in his voice.
Therin drew in another long breath, reading over the words again. "It's Calen's sister, Ella. She's alive."
"Alive? Where is she?"
"I'm not sure how long ago this letter was sent, but she was in Tarhelm with Coren. Tanner brought her in. He can't go back to Berona." The shock on Therin's face slowly spread to a smile. "We need to tell Calen."
Aeson reached out and grasped Therin's shoulder. His mind was racing, and his heart sank at the word that was about to leave his lips. "No."
Therin shrugged off Aeson's grasp, stepping backwards. The look on the elf's face was as though Aeson had just suggested killing a child. "What do you mean no, Aeson? We need to tell him. His sister is alive. Ella is alive. He needs this."
"And what will he do when you tell him?" Aeson held Therin's gaze, eyes wide. "What will he do, Therin? He'll mount Valerys and set off across the Burnt Lands, straight back into Fane's grasp. You know he will. He won't stop for a second's thought. He's done it before, but now Valerys is large and healthy enough to carry him. He'll be like a beacon to the Dragonguard."
"Then we tell him he can't go." Therin shook his head, incredulous.
"Listen to yourself." Aeson swallowed hard, adding moisture to his dry throat. He stepped back and drew in a long breath. "You're being naïve if you believe you can tell Calen his sister is alive and alone in the mountains in Loria, and you think he won't ignore every word that leaves our lips afterwards. Ella is safe. She is with Coren, and Farwen, and Tanner. They will look after her and when the time is right, we will send for her. It's better to bring her here than let him go there. This is about more than just his pain, Therin. It's about more than yours and more than mine – more than any one of ours." Aeson grasped both of Therin's shoulder, looking into the elf's eyes. "Do you think I want to be saying this? Do you think I don't know how monstrous I sound? Of course I don't want to keep this from Calen, but what choice do we have? If we tell him, he will go. He proved that with Rist. That is who he is, and that's something I would never change about him. But if he takes that dragon and flies to Tarhelm, he will be ripped from the sky, and all of this will have been for nothing. I've sacrificed more for this cause than most people could even begin to comprehend, and if this is the choice I need to make, then I will make it. If he hates me, he hates me. It doesn't matter. Sometimes we have to make the hard decisions, whether we like them or not. We can't just make the ones that let us feel good about ourselves."
Therin stared at the letter.
"I need you to promise me you won't tell him, Therin."
The elf looked up; Aeson could see the struggle in his eyes.
"I need you to promise me. We tell him, and one or more of them will die. We don't, and they may live. Your conscience or their lives. On your honour, Therin."
Therin shoved Aeson away with anger that Aeson had rarely seen from the elf. His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed. Therin out a roar. "Gods damn you!"
Baldon, Aneera, and the other Angan looked over.
Therin shoved the letter against Aeson's chest. "He deserves to know, Aeson!"
Aeson held his ground. "You can be the one to light the pyre then, Therin."
"I hate these games, Aeson. I hate them."
"I know." Aeson moved closer to his old friend and rested his hand on Therin's shoulder.
Therin shook his head, the muscles in his jaw clenched. The elf let out a long sigh, his shoulders drooping. "On my honour."