Page 109 of Of Empires and Dust
Elia’s head twitched, her shoulders clenching. After a moment, she looked past Calen into the night. “Our Rist isn’t there, Calen. You’re not there. Dann isn’t there. Ella and Haem aren’t there. If something had happened to us, we’d have always hoped that Vars and Freis would care for our boy. All we’d be going back to is a place we care nothing for when the people we care everything about are here. Rist is alive. I know, I know.” She held up an open palm as though cutting Calen off when he hadn’t even opened his mouth. “It sounds crazy, but I can justfeelit. A mother knows… a mother knows. And if we ever have a hope of finding him again, it will be here, with you. So if you don’t mind, we’d like to stay.”
Calen looked from Lasch to Elia. Both stared at him unwaveringly. Something in him cracked just a little bit, just enough for a tear to fall. “I’d like that.”
“Oh, come here.” Elia leaned across on her knees and pulled Calen in tight, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head into his neck. “Let nobody ever say you’re not your father’s son – all steel on the outside, soft as mud within.”
Aeson leaned back,his elbows resting on a twice-folded blanket, a cup of Lasch Havel’s mead in his right hand. After all Calen and Dann had said about Lasch’s mead, he’d had high expectations, expectations that were exceeded.
Campfires roared all about the courtyard, humans, elves, Jotnar, and Angan alike all talking, dancing, and singing. Across the way, Erik, Calen, Dann, and the others drank and laughed,the enormous silhouette of Valerys visible behind them only by the glints of reflected firelight.
Four hundred years he’d waited. And finally, the time had come. All his plans, all his promises, all his hopes had finally come to a head. When he awoke the next day, Calen and Valerys would fly him to Arkalen, and from there he would finally fulfil his promise to Arkin and Ilya Ateres. Valtara would be free.
And with the army marching to the western villages and Calen securing the loyalty of the Illyanaran leaders, the rebellion would be in a position to completely sever the empire’s hold on the South. And from there, they would take the fight north.
He’d expected to feel… something. But his heart would not allow such a thing. It was not done until it was done. And not until then would he feel any kind of peace.
In truth, his heart was torn. One half wanted to fly to Arkalen and hold to his promise, but the other demanded he ride with Erik to Salme. Dahlen was there. Aeson hadn’t seen his son in months. It was the longest they’d been apart since the moment Dahlen had taken his first breath. Deep down, Aeson knew Dahlen needed that space, that freedom to be his own man, but that didn’t make it any easier. He couldn’t protect his son if he wasn’t there. And if something were to happen…
He pushed the thought from his head. The decision was made. Dahlen was strong, stronger than Aeson could have ever hoped. And soon Erik would be with him, and the two of them together were a force of nature.
Aeson pulled himself from his own head, turning to look at Therin, who sat cross-legged beside him. The elf stared into the heart of the fire, his sketchbook on his right knee, a tin of charcoal sticks on his left. It didn’t take Aeson long to realise why Therin was lost in the flames: the left page of the sketchbook held a life-perfect image of his daughter, Faelen, in charcoal, the right page given to Líra.
Therin had not been himself since the confrontation in Mythníril. All Aeson had wanted to do was stand by his friend, but perhaps he had crossed a line. The honour of elves was a precarious thing, and anytime Aeson thought he understood it, he was proven very much wrong.
“It’s not you,” Therin said without turning his head. Shadows danced across his face, welling in the bags beneath his eyes. He turned his head to look at Aeson and gave him a weak smile. “What you did… what you said to Galdra and Thurivîr… I will remember it until my dying day. I fear it will come with a cost, but still, I will never find words to explain what it meant to me.”
Aeson shook his head with a sigh, taking a deep draught of his mead. “I should have said something long ago.”
“No.” Therin turned his head back towards the fire. “It was my choice to make, my battle to fight. I just… I can’t help but think…”
“Think what?” Aeson pulled himself upright, wrapping one hand around his knee. “Therin, talk to me.”
“That maybe I made the wrong choices, Aeson.”
“We could both spend a lifetime questioning our choices, old friend, and not a second of it would do us any good.”
Therin let a short breath out through his nostrils, vapor rising in the cold night air.
“Is that all that’s on your mind?”
Therin nodded. He folded over his sketchbook and placed the lid on his charcoal tin before sliding them both into a satchel at his feet. “I need to walk.”
As Therin made to rise, Aeson leaned over and grasped his wrist. “There is more. I can see it in you.”
Therin allowed the most insincere of smiles to adorn his lips, then pulled away and left, pushing through the crowd.
Aeson stared after him a moment before setting his cup down and hauling himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
Aeson turned around to see Chora sitting there in her wheelchair, one eyebrow raised.
“I need to find someone.”
Calen watchedfrom across the fire as Therin and Aeson stood and left, both moving in different directions through the crowd. Therin had been out of sorts since Mythníril. Calen had chosen not to say anything, thinking it best to leave him be. But the look on Therin’s face as he left had Calen questioning that decision.
“Heart of Blood!” Erik bolted upright, his eyes wide and everyone staring at him.
Erik had spent the past hour or so gazing up at the stars, lost in thought. He’d been so quiet Calen had actually forgotten he was there.
