Antigan Ocean - Summer, Year 3081 After Doom
Ella looked out over the glistening water of the Antigan Ocean, the summer sun blazing overhead, the ship swaying beneath her. The sound of waves breaking against the ship's bow was cut by the sharp squawks of gulls overhead. It had taken over a month to cross Loria and get a riverboat from Catagan to the coast. Another two weeks had passed since then. The journey would have been easier if she wasn't travelling with two groups who refused to talk.
A low rumble sounded to Ella's right, and she leaned her head sideways without looking, feeling the rough brush of Faenir's fur against her cheek. The wolfpine was so large now his head stood almost at a measure with Ella's. She smiled as he rested his chin on the ship's rail, staring out at the ocean with her. "We'll see him soon, boy." She had to reach her hand up to scratch the crown of his head, receiving a grumble of satisfaction. "I promise."
Footsteps clapped against the wooden deck, and Yana appeared to Ella's left. She folded her arms across the rail and rested her chin atop her hands, mimicking Faenir. The woman looked at the wolfpine, pursing her lips. Faenir didn't move, but his eyes shifted to look at her. He let out a low growl.
"Stop being so grumpy," Yana said, scratching him on the nose. She stood to her full height, resting her palms on the rails. After a moment, she turned and leaned back, looking over the other side of the ship. "You know, if you look starboard you can see the outline of Wolfpine Ridge in the distance."
Ella nodded, smiling. "Honestly, I'd rather not look. It's easier to be so close if I don't look."
Yana reached her left hand over and rested it atop Ella's. "Your parents would have been proud of the person you've become, Ella. I know that for a fact because I am, and I've not known you nearly as long as they have." Yana let out a sigh, then rested her hand on Ella's shoulder and kissed her cheek. "We'll get you to Calen, don't worry. But just remember—"
"If any harm comes to Tanner, you'll kill me in my sleep – I know."
"What? No, that big idiot's old enough to be responsible for his own safety for once. No, what I was going to say was to remember that no matter what, you're not alone. Now, Ilyain is on cooking duty tonight. And I know Tanner and Farda are doing that whole 'broody no talking' thing, but you remember what happened the last time we left the blind elf to cook alone. We don't need another fire. And seeing as Farda and Hala don't seem interested in helping him, I'm going to go be his eyes."
"What's for supper?" Ella asked as Yana walked away.
"Same thing as every night for the last two weeks. Fish, potatoes, an apple, and an orange. Smuggling ships aren't known for their cuisine."
Ella laughed as Yana walked towards the other end of the ship, disappearing below deck. Despite what had happened in the Lorian camp, Ella had actually come to appreciate Ilyain's company. The elf spoke twice as much as Farda and Hala combined. Over the course of their journey, he had spent many a night talking to Ella of druids and of his 'Ayar Elwyn', Andras. Ayar Elwyn – One Heart. That phrase only ever made Ella think of Rhett. There were days when she missed him so desperately her lungs refused to draw breath, and her heart ached. Sometimes when she closed her eyes she could feel his thumb rubbing her cheek; she could see the way he smiled with his eyes.
Ella sniffed, wiping her tears away. "Were you just waiting for her to leave?"
She didn't have to look to know Farda stood behind her; his scent filled Faenir's nostrils.
"Honestly?" Farda didn't move. "She scares me."
"She scares you?" Ella shook her head, then turned to face Farda, leaning against the rail. She put on her best Farda impression, dropping her voice low and talking as though she'd spent her life gargling stones. "My name is Farda Kyrana, Justicar of the Imperial Battlemages. I can't feel any pain and I like to stand around being dark and broody. I'm also scared of a woman half my size."
Farda looked past Ella, his gaze fixed on the shifting waves. After a few moments, a half-smile cracked through his stony expression. "She's not half my size," he said as he moved towards the rail to Ella's left. "And she's the type of woman who'd cut you to pieces in your sleep for crossing her."
Ella smiled weakly as she looked at Farda, who stared out at the water with his hands clasped behind his back. The man had said a lot to her that night Yana, Tanner, and Farwen had found them – and then barely anything since.
'I don't know what it is you've done to me, but when you're near, I don't feel so fucking broken.'
Those words had twisted Ella's heart and shaken her to her core. For the first time since she'd met the man, she'd actually seen him and not the armour he wore every day to shield himself from the world. And it was in that moment of pure vulnerability, as he trembled and shook, she had seen how appropriate that title – Rakina – truly was.
'You're shattered. Your soul is shredded and splintered, its many fragments thrown to the wind. You are nothing, you are nobody. All you feel is empty, and cold, and wrong.'
"Farda?"
Farda raised an eyebrow.
"Back in Loria, when you, Ilyain, and Hala decided to come with me, you told them that they didn't need to come. You told them 'this journey does not end happily'. What did you mean? What are you not telling me?"
Farda sighed through his nose, looking at the waves that crashed against the ship's hull. "You know the stories, Ella. Now that you know who I am, what I am, I'm sure you can piece it together."
"I don't want stories. I want the truth."
Farda nodded. "I betrayed the people who trusted me. I killed many of them. When we get to where we're going, they're going to want to return the favour."
Ella stared at Farda, her gaze unwavering. Her throat tightened, and a fist clenched in her chest. She wasn't naïve enough to believe she could see something in Farda that others couldn't. She knew he was a man capable of great anger and terrible things. But she also knew he was capable of good. She remembered how Coren had told her that Farda had once been the Draleid her master held up as an example of what a warrior should be. 'Not in how they should fight, but in how they should carry themselves, in how they should treat those they protect.' But she also remembered Coren had said that a year before The Fall, Farda changed. What happened to you?"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you betray them if they were your friends, if they trusted you?"
Farda glanced at Ella, his gaze lingering for a moment before he looked back at the ocean. "They took something from me. Something they had no right to take."
Rist sat with one leg folded over the other at the top of a small hill that overlooked the Beronan Lake. His back rested against a satchel and a blanket roll as he watched the reflection of the setting sun paint the water a mesmerising shade of orange. He'd been there for a few hours, reading. While travelling to Steeple before the battle at The Three Sisters, he'd not had much opportunity to read, but on the journey to Berona, and the weeks they'd been waiting, he'd made sure to find the time.
He'd been on the last page of Druids, a Magic Lost since just before the sun had begun to set behind the Lodhar Mountains to the west. Rist always found there was something bittersweet about finishing a book. The sense of achievement and joy was often tarnished by the realisation that he could never read it the same way again. He could, of course, start from page one and read through to the end, but it wouldn't be the same. His preconceptions and notions were irrevocably altered by the first read. It was simply the way of things.
And so, Rist delayed reading the last page. Instead, he sat forward, folded over the corner of the page, laid the book down on the satchel behind him, and turned to look at the landscape. Tents of varying sizes skirted the edges of the Beronan lake for miles, stretching from the walls of Berona to the southern edge of the water. Garramon had said sixteen armies had already arrived with another five more on their way. That would make one hundred and five thousand soldiers. Not only that, but Rist had seen three of the Dragonguard flying over the city – Ilkya, Voranur, and Jormun judging by the colouring of the dragons' scales.
Whatever the emperor had called them all to Berona for, it was something enormous. After what had happened at The Three Sisters, Rist logically would have thought it would have something to do with the elves. But if that was the case, surely the armies would be marching towards Steeple, not Berona. What's more, Rist had heard from one of the cavalrymen that eighty thousand had been sent south from Al'Nasla to Gisa only a few weeks back while the First Army was still marching to Berona. That meant the emperor was planning a major move in both the North and the South.
"You've finished it then?"
Rist turned to see Garramon walking up the other side of the hill, Magnus and Anila at his side. For some reason Magnus had committed to not shaving the unburnt half of his beard, and strangely it was kind of starting to suit him.
"What is it with you two and books?" Magnus snatched up Druids, a Magic Lost and flicked disinterestedly through the pages. "He was always the same, you know?" Magnus tilted his head towards Garramon. "His head stuck in books." Magnus lay the book back on the satchel and strolled down the hill a few feet, gesturing out towards the lake which, in the light of the setting sun, now looked like sparkling fire. "If you lift your head from the pages, there's much more interesting things to look at."
"You're just bitter because you can't read," Anila said, picking up a stick and throwing it at the back of Magnus's head. She turned to Rist, a half-smile touching her lips. "The robes suit you, Brother Havel."
Rist looked down at the black robes draped over his shoulders, running his hand along the soft fabric. Garramon had only been able to get them from the High Tower the day before last. Rist had actually forgotten he was wearing them. "Thank you, Sister."
Anila inclined her head, her smile lingering as she moved to join Magnus where he looked out at the water.
Rist cupped his hand over his eyes to block out the sunlight as he looked up at Garramon. The man raised an eyebrow, and Rist realised he'd never answered his question. "Last page."
"What do you think then? All babble by the end?"
Rist picked up the book, tapping his finger off the cover. "I think it would be easy to believe so, without the proper context."
Garramon smiled. "And what is the proper context?"
"That druids are not dead. Ella is a druid. Everything Ella was capable of doing – her eyes changing, her teeth sharpening, the way she controlled the owl – reinforced what Duran claimed about Aldruids. And so that fact lends validity to some of Duran's other claims."
"Very good," Garramon said with a nod before turning to look at the sunset. "Reading without context is like eating without swallowing. I may have to read it again." Garramon let out a soft sigh. "We have just come from a council with Fane. Once the Forty-Second, Twenty-First, Eighteenth, Eleventh, and Eighth armies arrive, we will be moving to the Dead Tower."
"What are we going there for?"
"The Blood Moon is almost upon us. With its coming, The Saviour will provide everything we need to drive back the elves and the Uraks. We will end this war, Rist. Swiftly and without hesitation. Then we can return to keeping the peace."
Rist looked up at Garramon. There was a fervour in the man's eyes, an intensity that sparkled in the light of the setting sun. "Garramon, what precisely does 'provide everything we need' mean? What are we doing?"
Garramon lowered himself to the grass beside Rist. He pulled his knees towards his chest and leaned forwards. "As the Blood Moon draws closer, the veil between our world and the world of the gods grows thinner. The heralds are Efialtír's warriors in the gods' world. But they are no more than simple soldiers. There are others more powerful, who, with the right aid, can cross over into this world. The Chosen. When the Blood Moon rises, we can be the ones to aid in their crossing. We can be the ones who earn their trust." Garramon looked to Rist, raising his eyebrow. "You're unsure?"
Rist looked out over the sparkling water and let out a sigh. "There's too much I don't know." Talking about the gods was always a precarious topic in the North. Rist still remembered Tommin's furious response when Rist referred to Efialtír as The Traitor and not The Saviour. But Garramon had always encouraged him to talk openly. The man was a creature of logic, like Rist. "I've never cared much for gods," he said. "Their existence has always mattered little. They don't affect where I sleep or what I eat, or the things I care about. What's more, I've always known Efialtír as The Traitor. But this…" Rist reached beneath his robes and pulled out the glowing gemstone that sat around his neck. "This changes everything."
"What have you seen of Efialtír?" Garramon held Rist's gaze.
"What do you mean?"
"What have you seen? Have you seen a single thing in your entire life that would earn the name traitor? I would wager not. Yet, while you've been here, you've seen how his gift of Essence allows the recycling of life. You've seen how after the battle, many of the Healers used Essence harnessed from the fighting to heal the wounded. Yes, you've seen the destruction it can cause, but that is no different than the Spark or dragonfire."
Rist nodded slowly, letting Garramon's words percolate.
"You saw what the elves are capable of at The Three Sisters. You saw the power they had. And you've seen the refugees from the Urak attacks, seen the death and carnage. This isn't about the North or the South, Rist. This is about all human lives. The Chosen can help us stand against the elves and Uraks, help us protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Rist didn't answer; he just continued to nod, staring off into the distance. He didn't like not understanding. He'd seen what Essence could do, the good that could be done with it. But he needed time to think. He was a long way from believing Efialtír was The Saviour, but Efialtír was the only god who seemed to have any tangible impact on the world.
"Take your time," Garramon said, standing. "I know it can be a lot to wrap your mind around. In the meantime, Magnus has procured a few casks of wine in celebration of you and Neera receiving your full colours. We came to get you"
Rist gave Garramon a weak smile and inclined his head. "I just want to finish this last page, then I'll come down."
Garramon nodded, and he, Anila, and Magnus made their way down to the First Army's camp, which lay on the other side of the hill. Neera was in the camp with Lena, enjoying the downtime before they marched again. He would enjoy sharing some wine with them later, but he was also glad for his own time.
Once more, Rist leaned back against the satchel and blanket roll, shifting in place to get comfortable. He opened Druids, a Magic Lost to the last page, unfolding the corner.
"All good things must come to an end," he said as he looked at the page.
Duran Linold, Ark-Mage, Year 2340 After Doom
This book is the culmination of my life's work. It is a result of centuries of research and dedication. And so, I thank you for reaching this final page and for dedicating the one thing that cannot be earned, bought, or found – time.
No matter what anyone tells you, the druids are not simply legend. They are not dead, they only wish you to believe as much. They play a larger part in this game of games than anyone dares to whisper. The Seerdruids are the puppeteers. The Aldruids are the warriors. The Skydruids are the instruments of change. The Aetherdruids are the movers. And most importantly, their gods walk among us.