Dann let out a grunt as he hauled himself up the stairs, the muscles in his arms and back spasming. He'd been practicing the sword with Calen every day. He didn't give half a shit about the sword, and he despised waking up before the sun, but since they'd arrived in Aravell, Calen had been pulled left and right by anyone who could get their hands on him. Practicing the sword was the only way Dann could truly guarantee he'd get to spend any time with Calen. And now that he'd sworn that oath, he kind of had to show his face.
Not to mention, along with the sword, he had spent his afternoons practicing the bow with Alea and Lyrei. Lyrei had even begun speaking again after Aeson had paid her a visit. They'd not talked for long, but once he'd left it was like she'd gone back to being her old self.
All in all, Dann was absolutely fucking exhausted. But he was the happiest he'd been in quite some time. And he made sure to hold on to that happiness as he pushed open the door at the top of the stairs.
The room was three times as large as his own back in The Glade. Two beds sat against the far wall, both with a small side table. Between the side tables, Loura, one of the rebels who had come with Calen across the Burnt Lands, sat in a chair with her legs crossed, a book bound in green leather held in her hands. She looked up as he entered, raising a finger to her lips as she placed the book on the table beside her and got to her feet.
"They're sleeping," she whispered, resting her hand on Dann's shoulder and ushering him towards the archway set into the wall on the left side of the door he had just come through.
The moonlight sprayed down as they stepped out onto the balcony. The earlier wind and rain had stopped, and the air held a warmth in it that spoke of the beginnings of summer.
"How are they?" Dann asked, turning to Loura. The woman had seen only a summer or so more than he. Her hair hung past her shoulders, and she always wore it down. Elia, Rist's mam, had been suffering with night terrors since they'd arrived in Aravell, and Loura, along with some others, had volunteered to watch her through the nights. Dann often visited when he knew she was there.
"Good." Loura looked back into the room. "They ate even more today than yesterday. They were asking for you and the Draleid – I mean, Calen."
Dann laughed. "He gets a bit touchy when you call him 'the Draleid'. He's like that. I'd make sure everyone calls me 'the Draleid'."
Loura smiled, the light of the moon glinting in her eyes.
"Thank you," Dann said, resting a hand on the white-stone balustrade and looking back in at Elia and Lasch who lay asleep in their beds. "For caring for them."
Loura shook her head. "It's the least I can do. Calen brought us here from Berona. I hated it there – always looking over my shoulder, always wondering if someone would come for me, each day feeding into the next. Besides, I like the quiet. It lets me read."
"What did you do, in Berona?"
The warmth wilted from Loura's face, and she placed her right hand over her left. "I was a whisperer. I…" She glanced at Dann, hesitating. "I was a courtesan. Many of my clients held high positions in the Circle, some in the Beronan nobility. Many liked to talk when we lay. I would feed those whispers to Sulin, and she to Ingvat."
Before all of this, Dann had never been to a city, but he knew what a courtesan was. He understood why sitting by Lasch and Elia's bedside and reading was a welcome respite. "You're here now."
Loura nodded, a joyless smile on her face.
"Drunir's outside." Dann leaned out over the balustrade and whistled. The response was an excited neigh that echoed in the night.
"You better be brushing him." The joy returned to Loura's smile, and she laughed. She jabbed a finger into Dann's chest. "Or I swear…"
"I'm brushing him, I'm brushing him. It's a two way street. I brush him, he brushes me. Then we both sing a song, or well, I sing a song, and he has to listen, because he's a horse."
"You're an idiot," Loura said, laughing.
"At your service." Dann gave a mocking bow. "Go, he likes you more than me. Then maybe go get some sleep. I'll stay here until the next person comes."
Loura looked at Dann for a moment, her gaze softening, then she nodded. "You better not just sit here drinking wine again."
Dann lifted his hands. "Under Elyara's eyes, I swear. Who's taking over from you?"
"Good." Loura narrowed eyes as though trying to find something in Dann's gaze. "Ingvat will be here in a few hours to see through the night."
"Ugh." Dann tossed his back. "Anyone but Ingvat. She makes you feel guilty just by looking at you."
"That she does… but only if you're actually guilty of something." Loura smiled knowingly, then stepped back into the room, checking on Elia and Lasch before making her way to the door, giving Dann a smile before she closed it behind her.
"Just you and me," Dann whispered, looking over Elia and Lasch.
Two wooden chairs sat against the wall to the left of the balcony arch. He grabbed one, pulling it towards himself and shrugging his satchel from his back. He dropped the satchel into his lap as he lowered himself into the chair.
Dann undid the satchel's buckles, opening the top flap and pulling out a stoppered ceramic jug of mead he'd managed to find in the city. He lay the satchel on the ground, hearing the clink as two more jugs knocked against each other.
"She said no wine," he whispered to himself, smiling. The sound of Drunir nickering drifted through the window.
Dann pulled the stopper from the top of the jug, holding his nose over the mouth, taking a deep sniff. He covered his mouth as he coughed, the sharp scent of spirits hitting the back of his throat. "Well, it's not going to be as good as yours," he whispered to the sleeping Lasch.
He held his nose further away, getting the slightest tinge of honey.
"One for me." Dann lifted the jug to his lips and took a mouthful, feeling the burn as the mead slid down his throat. It was nowhere near as sweet as Lasch's mead – more of a spirit than a wine. But it would do. "One for you." Dann lifted the jug in the air, gesturing towards Lasch. "Well, two for me, I suppose." He took another deep mouthful, letting out a sharp hiss after he swallowed.
"How are they?"
Dann turned to see Calen standing in the doorway. His friend looked as though he'd spent the last few nights getting beaten to a pulp for fun. Calen's eyes were ringed with purple, his hair was saturated from the rain, a fresh cut – still trickling a thin stream of blood – adorned his right cheek, and his shoulders drooped.
"Sleeping." Dann pulled himself to his feet, his muscles arguing with him. He gestured for Calen to take his chair as he pulled the second chair over and dropped into it. "I take it the flying is going well?"
Calen puffed out his cheeks in response, hobbling across the room, undoing his sword belt as he did and resting it on the ground. He let out a long, heavy sigh as he sank back into the wood. After a moment, he looked to Dann and down to the jug in his hand. "What's that?"
"Mine."
"Dann."
"There's more in the satchel." Dann nodded to the satchel that sat on the ground beside Calen's chair.
Calen reached down and pulled out one of the ceramic mead jugs, looking it over with scepticism.
"It's mead… Well, it's what passes for mead here. Tastes more like…" Dann stopped and watched as Came pulled the stopper from the top of the jug and took a long, thirsty mouthful of the mead. "It's pretty strong, you probably shouldn't…" Dann pursed his lips as Calen continued to drink. "All right, what do I know?"
Called pulled the jug from his lips and let out a long sigh, followed by a heavy breath. "It tastes like piss."
"Honeyed piss," Dann corrected, holding up one finger. "It's an important distinction. Because if it didn't have that hint of honey, I'd really be wondering."
Calen sat forward, leaning his elbows on his legs as he choked on his laughter, trying to stay quiet for Elia and Lasch. He took a few slow breaths, then lifted his head, looking over the man and woman who lay in the two beds. "They're here because of me, Dann."
"Don't think like that."
"It's true. I started all this when I brought Erik's mantle out after him in The Two Barges."
"No, I'm pretty sure you started all this when you decided to step between imperial soldiers and Aeson, but, you know, semantics."
That drew a short smile from Calen, but he just took another breath and another swig from the jug. It felt strange for Dann to see Calen this way. Dann had changed since leaving The Glade, he knew that, but not as much as Calen had. Calen had always had a spring in his step, always seen a bit of sunlight on the dark days. That was still there, somewhere below the surface, but it was covered by a weight that pressed down on his shoulders.
"That's who you are, Calen. You're the guy who gives back the mantle. I'm the guy who's drunk, wondering where you've gone. And Rist is the guy who's so busy reading his books he never realised there was a mantle in the first place. Did you ever think that if it was me or Rist who had picked up that mantle, we probably wouldn't even be here? It's funny how that works."
"Do you listen to yourself sometimes?"
"On occasion." Dann pursed his lips. "When the mood strikes. How about we keep drinking this mead while we watch over this little role-reversal here." Dann gestured towards Lasch and Elia. "Then, when Ingvat comes to take over and explains to us why we shouldn't be drinking ourselves silly, we go, pick up the rest I've stashed under my bed and take my horse to meet your dragon."
The vibrations of Trusil's steps jarred Rist's back, slow and steady, methodical. The horse was tired; Rist didn't blame him. They'd been marching for days with little rest since they'd received a response from High Command that the First Army – what was left of it – was to head to Berona to receive new orders. The Second and Fourth Armies had stayed behind at Elkenrim, waiting to receive reinforcements, and the Dragonguard had stayed with them. With the elves from Lynalion and their dragons now occupying all the land east of Steeple, there hadn't been much of a choice.
Around him, what remained of the First Army trudged, rather than marched, across the grass-covered plains, lethargy in every step. The First Army had fared better than the others, which left them with a little over two and half thousand still alive. Barely a soul spoke, and not a shred of joy was shared between them. Even the horses and pack animals – the ones they had managed to track down after Ella and the rebels had set them free – were sombre.
Now that Rist had seen war, he understood even less about the bards' tales. Nothing heroic or noble had come from the battle at The Three Sisters. Only death and darkness. Rist dropped one hand to his side, fingers brushing the gemstone set into the pommel of the dagger Garramon had given him. Without looking, he knew it glowed with red light. He could feel the Essence within. Half of his mind wanted to tap into it, to feel that sense of calm and power. But the other half recoiled, knowing what had been done to acquire the Essence. Every night when Rist closed his eyes, he saw the elf's face – the shock, the realisation. Every night he watched her die, feeling her life Essence pull into the gemstone. He clenched his fingers into a fist and lifted his hand back to Trussil's reins.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Neera rode to Rist's left. She hadn't spoken in a while.
"About what?" Rist wasn't trying to be coy. He truly struggled to pick any one of the dark things that had happened recently.
"The druid – the girl."
Rist sighed, shaking his head.
After Farda and the other Justicars had set Ella free and left him unconscious on the ground, he'd woken to Garramon, Magnus, Anila, and some of the other mages storming into the interrogation tent. They questioned him, and he told them the truth, mostly. He hadn't told them he'd hoped to set Ella free. Instead, he'd said that Garramon had sent him to give her water – which, of course, he hadn't, but to Rist's relief, the man corroborated his story. Everything else Rist had told them was the truth: he'd found Commander Talvare, General Vandimire, General Fulker, Generaal Hanat, and Farda already in the tent. Farda had killed the others and taken Ella, leaving along with the other Justicars. That had been enough of a scandal most of them had forgotten about Rist entirely – he'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But when Garramon had brought Rist back to the mage camp, he'd questioned Rist further. Garramon had asked Rist to leave the tent before Ella had been questioned, but from what Rist had heard, she hadn't spoken a word. But Rist knew Garramon had realised she was from The Glade just by the look she'd shared with Rist. And so Rist decided to tell him the truth, to tell him that he'd gone to set her free. He knew Garramon would have pieced it together, and it would work in his favour if he was honest with the man. He could trust Garramon.
At first, Garramon had reacted calmly. He'd told Rist not to tell anyone what had really happened, and he'd even thanked him for his honesty. But the man's calm demeanour had changed when Rist had told him Ella's name. Why Ella's name had mattered so much, Rist didn't know. It didn't make any sense, but then again, none of it did. Ella was alive. Not only was she alive, she was burning Lorian army camps with the rebellion. And on the side of even less sense: she was a druid. Rist had spent every night since reading Druids, a Magic Lost by candle light, focusing entirely on the sections to do with Aldruids. Everything about her had lined up with what Duran Linold had claimed about Aldruids – even down to what he'd heard about her apparently using an owl to attack the Justicar. It all felt like something from a bards' tale. But even all that aside, what made even less sense was what she had said to him. Her anger, he understood, but her words… 'How could you fight for them?'He just couldn't work out what she'd meant. When Rist had first awakened in the palace in Al'Nasla, there had been no fighting between the Lorian Empire and the people of the South. At least, not fighting he had known about. That had started after. But it had been the rising factions that had caused the fighting. And Rist, so far, had only fought elves. But in truth, he could still understand her anger. The way the soldiers had begun to talk about the 'rebels', as though they were lesser, hadn't sat right with him either.
No, what baffled him was what she'd meant when she said, 'You're meant to be his closest friend. How could you turn on him, Rist?'
"Turn on who?" he whispered, squeezing on Trusil's reins. "Calen? Dann?" Those two were the only people Rist considered his closest friends, but he would never turn on them. He never had, and he never would. So then what was she talking about?
"Rist?" Neera's voice held that irritated tone. He'd drifted off into his thoughts again.
"Sorry." He gave Neera a weak smile. "Everything's just… It's not what I thought it would be."
Neera nodded, shifting in her saddle. "I understand that."
"I can't believe he's gone," Lena said, staring ahead. She'd barely said a word since Tommin's death. She'd barely even spent any time with Rist or Neera, instead choosing to bury herself in work with Brother Halmak. Rist understood. Lena and Tommin had been particularly close. "The two of us were meant to be the safe ones."
Since Rist had first met Lena, Neera, and Tommin, Lena had always been the calm one. She'd always been so sure of herself. But now, as they rode, the army marching around them, she sobbed.
Rist squeezed his fingers around Trusil's reins, pushing his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He wanted to cry. He wanted to weep for his friend. Tommin had always been so genuine. From the start, he had treated Rist like a true friend. And beneath the wit and jokes, he truly cared – being a Healer had suited him perfectly. It wasn't fair that Tommin had died. It should have been Rist. And so, Rist wanted to cry, but he didn't. Instead, he allowed Lena her chance to feel.
Once the sun had set over the Lodhar Mountains in the distance, the army had stopped to set up camp for the night. Rist couldn't help but notice how much smaller the camp was than when they were marching the other direction. So many dead…After Rist had helped in pitching the tents and setting up the cots, he'd slipped out into the night air in search of Garramon, who had asked Rist to meet him by the edge of the camp when he was done. Rist found Garramon atop a flat rock, his gaze lost in the flames of a small campfire. The man had been different since the battle, much like everyone had – except for Magnus and Anila, those two were just as they'd been before.
"It's warm tonight." Rist smiled at Garramon as he approached.
Garramon lifted his head, his hard stare softening as he saw Rist. He gestured for Rist to sit next to him. "That it is."
Rist walked in front of the fire, feeling the heat through his trousers, then perched himself on the rock beside Garramon. The two sat in silence for a while, the crackling of the wood blending with the lazy sounds of the camp setting down for the night.
"Thank you," Rist said, not turning his gaze from the fire. "For saving my life. I only realised today that I hadn't thanked you." Memories flashed through Rist's mind of the worry in Garramon's eyes when the man had tackled him out of the path of the dragonfire, the concern in his voice. "I don't know what happened… I just…"
"Froze," Garramon said. "Fear does that. There's no shame in it, Rist. The sight of dragonfire is a fear like no other. Many train and train. They hone their skills with a blade or the Spark, they learn what it is to fight in practice yards and tournaments. But true warriors aren't born in practice yards, they're forged on battlefields. The most skilled swordsman can freeze at the first sight of battle. And then, even with all that training, they still lie dead in the mud. What I need you to do, Rist, is take that fear and learn from it. Pick at it, poke at it, learn it and understand it the way you do with everything else. There is far more to be learned from fear than courage. A courageous heart can falter. A heart that overcomes fear is like hardened steel."
"I will. I promise."
"I know you will." Garramon smiled as he turned his gaze back to the camp, looking out over it. "I told you before, I was proud of you. My pride has only grown."
"Grown? I almost got myself killed, and you in the process."
"You acquitted yourself well on the battlefield. You are young and untested. Most Battlemages are not sent into the fray until they have seen many years more than you have. And what you experienced was not simply a battle. It was the beginning of a cataclysm. You stood against elves and dragonfire. There are mages who have lived a hundred years and not seen battle on that scale." The man shifted in his place. "Which brings me to why I asked you here – the dagger."
The words caught Rist by surprise. They shouldn't have, but they did. In the haze of everything that had happened, he had forgotten what filling the gemstone meant within the Circle. It was the last step to receiving his full colours. Rist swallowed as he dropped his hand to where the dagger hung on the left side of his belt. He'd covered the gemstone set into the pommel with a folded over piece of cotton, tied with string; it had felt strange to see the stone glow with its red light. Slowly, Rist slipped the dagger from its sheath, resting it on his lap.
Garramon gave Rist an amused grin at the sight of the tied cotton.
Rist undid the knot, stuffing the piece of cotton into his pocket as the stone's red glow washed over the black fabric of his trousers.
"The final step." Garramon gazed down at the glowing gemstone set into the pommel of the dagger. "How did it feel?"
"Honestly?" Rist wasn't sure what he was meant to say – he wasn't sure what an Acolyte should say. He decided to go with candour. "Horrible." He swallowed, biting at the corner of his lip, unwilling to meet Garramon's gaze. "When it happened, it took the pain from my body, sent a chill through me. But I could see the fear in her eyes – the terror as she grabbed at her neck." Rist had to stop himself from reaching for his own neck, feeling his throat tighten. "It felt… wrong."
Rist kept his head down, his gaze fixed on a patch of trampled grass near the fire.
"Good," Garramon said, his tone level.
"Good?" Rist turned, finding himself looking directly at Garramon. The man's lips were turned in a sympathetic smile that only confused Rist even more. "How is that good?"
"Because that feeling – that wrongness – does not come from filling the vessel, Rist. It comes from death itself. Both from the witnessing of it, and the causing of it. If that wrongness ever fades, you will have become a different man entirely. One should never take pleasure in killing. It is done only because it needs to be done. We are Battlemages. It is our duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Death is part of who we are. You need to consider this. If you had killed that elf with a regular dagger, or a sword, or a bow, or the Spark, or anything else at all, do you think you would be free of the wrongness – of the guilt?"
Rist looked down at the dagger, running his finger along the smooth, steel blade. "No…"
"The gemstone salvaged something from her death. Had you killed her in any other way, her Essence would have been wasted, floating in the void. And she still would have been dead. You still would have killed her. But now, her Essence is not wasted – it can be used. Perhaps to save your life, or the life of another. From death comes life anew."
Rist lifted the dagger, carefully wrapping his fingers around the blade and angling it so the gemstone sat just in front of his face. He watched as the gemstone glowed, its red light washing over his hands. Thinking of the elf still twisted his gut, but he couldn't argue with Garramon's logic. Thousands had died at the battle of The Three Sisters. Rist himself had killed others, their Essence left to fade into the wind. At least in this singular death, there could be some form of light. In this singular death, something good could maybe be found.
Garramon reached across and gestured for Rist to hand him the dagger. The man took the hilt, looking over the gemstone one last time before pulling on threads of Fire and Earth, funnelling them into the gold band that held the stone in place, heating the metal just enough to cause it to expand. As he did, he pulled the gemstone free and set the dagger down on his lap.
Garramon produced a gold chain and wire from his pocket. He held the gemstone in one hand, the chain in the other, then lifted the wire with threads of Air, using Fire and Earth to make it malleable. He twisted the wire with Air, wrapping it around the gemstone, binding it, before coiling the wire about the chain and locking it tight, fusing the two metals together with Fire and Earth.
He pulled the excess heat from the newly-formed pendant with threads of Fire, dissipating it into the night air. He gripped the chain on either side, then lifted it. "Here."
Rist hesitated but bowed his head and allowed Garramon to place the pendant around his neck. The metal was cool against his skin as he held the pendant out in front of him, the red light glowing softly.
"When we reach Berona, we will procure your robes and cloak from the High Tower, Battlemage Havel. And, I could be wrong, but I believe you are the youngest ever mage to achieve that rank, though Neera has only seen a summer more. You have worked tirelessly. Your dedication has been whole-hearted and single-minded, but it does not stop now. This is only the beginning. Your forging is far from over. As my apprentice, and then my sponsored acolyte, you have brought me pride beyond measure. And now, I hope, you will do me the honour of spending many years fighting by my side as a Battlemage – as a Brother."
Rist, as seemed to be common lately, had no idea what to say Pride swelled within him, elation, disbelief – he was a Battlemage. But at the same time, his mind drifted to home, to Ella's words. 'How could you fight for them?'He drew in a long, steadying breath, pushing Ella's voice to the back of his mind. She had left him there, and he had no way of getting home, not yet. "Thank you, Garramon. It's difficult to believe…"
Garramon patted Rist on the back. "Magnus has asked if we would do him the honour of officially joining the Battlemages of the First Army. He's extended the same offer to Neera and Anila, and they have accepted. New Battlemages will be assigned to bolster the ranks once we reach Berona, but he said, and I'm quoting, 'I'd rather fight beside you two bastards. As long as you don't leave me trapped beneath a horse again'."
Rist laughed at that, shaking his head. He tucked the gemstone pendant beneath his shirt. "It would be an honour."
"Good," Garramon said with a smile. "Because if you'd said no, it would've been a very awkward march back to Berona." Garramon let a silence settle between them before his demeanour changed, growing more serious. "What happened the other night, in the interrogation tent…"
Rist's breath caught in his chest, his throat constricting. "I'm sorry, Exarch, I… I didn't know what to do. I…"
"I understand, Rist. She was your own. Where I come from, you look after your own. That's why I didn't have you put in shackles. But…" Garramon pursed his lips, his brows furrowing. "You put us all in danger. We are your Brothers and Sisters. Me, Anila, Magnus, Neera, Lena, and all the others. The soldiers are one thing, but the mages are another. We are bonded by something greater. That girl was your own. But so are we, and I need to know that you understand that. I need to know I can trust you. Trust is everything."
Garramon's words cut through Rist like a knife. Not only had the man been there for Rist every step of the way through this journey, pushing him forwards, teaching him, but Garramon had also risked his life to save Rist's on the battlefield. Garramon had charged towards dragonfire, with little thought for himself. And he was right, Rist going to set Ella free had put all the others in danger – Neera, Lena, Magnus, Anila. He hadn't given any of them even a fleeting thought. The newfound guilt clawed at him. It was an unwinnable scenario. He could never have not helped Ella. That was just not who he was. But at the same time, he now understood he couldn't endanger the lives of those he cared for.
"You can trust me."
Garramon stared into Rist's eyes, the light of the fire illuminating the angles of his face. He could have pushed Rist further, could have asked him to swear an oath, could have asked him for some kind of assurance, but he didn't. He simply nodded and said, "Good."
They sat for a while, Rist content with the silence until he remembered the letter in his pocket. He reached in and produced an envelope, holding it out to Garramon. "Before I forget, when we get to Berona, could you send this? With everything that's been happening, I haven't written back in a while. I don't want them to get worried."
Garramon's fingers lingered on the envelope before he took it from Rist, and even then he stared at it a few moments before nodding. "I will see that it's sent."