Page 365 of Of Empires and Dust
In his mind he could still see that massive dragon crashing to the ground, crushing Taya Tambrel and so many others beneath it. Even in death the creatures were weapons of utter destruction.
He knew everything was gone. His books, his notes, everything except what he’d left in Berona. There was nothing that could have survived this. But still, he needed to see for himself. He knew where he’d pitched his tent. Precisely threehundred and forty-seven paces from the tree near the centre of the camp that was now nothing but a brittle husk.
“Rist,” Neera said softly, taking his hand in hers. “You don’t need to.”
“I do.” He squeezed her hand, running his thumb along hers. She’d removed her breastplate and wore only a loose linen tunic. He thanked Varyn no lasting damage had been done. Neera had been through enough.
When he found the remains of his tent, he drew a sharp breath, then swallowed hard.
“I can go.” Neera cupped his cheek. “I’ll go.”
He shook his head, then gently pulled her hand away. He could see the spare breastplate Garramon had given him jutting from the pile of ash and charred bits.
He stepped past to the other side where he had placed the stake in the ground, where he had tethered Trusil. He stood there for a few moments, staring down at the horse’s blackened bones and burnt flesh, the acrid smell still clinging to the air.
Rist moved to stand at the horse’s head, the right side of which was barely recognisable. The left side, which had been pressed to the ground, still held some of his colouring. The blackened wooden handle of one of the long list of brushes Rist had acquired for keeping Trusil’s coat clean and smooth stuck out from beneath the horse’s neck. A dandy brush by the look of it.
He’d spent far too many hours reading about the proper care and tools needed to keep a horse healthy and happy. No, not far too many, he decided. Just enough.
“You were a good horse,” Rist whispered, kneeling in the ashes.
“He was,” Neera said from the other side of Trusil’s remains. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You took really good care of him, Rist.”
“I did.” Rist felt a tear of his own slowly run along the inside of his nose and drip onto Trusil’s charred muzzle. He’d not lost many people in his life. He’d been lucky in that. Tommin, Anila… He’d barely known his grandparents. They’d died young. Seeing Trusil like that, helpless and alone, probably scared for his life… There was something different in that. “I wonder if he thought I left him,” Rist whispered. He lifted his gaze to see Neera staring behind him, the sound of crunching ashes reaching his ears moments later.
A cold hand rested on the back of his neck.
“You had a bond with this creature?” The voice was harsh and layered, and Rist knew it immediately. He looked over his shoulder to see one of the Chosen standing there in a red shirt, black trousers tucked into muddied boots. He recognised the face of a young man, not much older than he, blue spiral tattoos snaking over his arms and winding up from his collar. This one called itself Azrim. It had barely left Rist’s side during the battle.
“I did.”
“Curious.” Azrim dropped to his haunches beside Rist and stared down at Trusil’s charred body for a moment before leaning forwards to touch the ashes.
Rist grabbed the Chosen’s arm, his grip like iron. “Don’t.”
Azrim turned his head slowly, his deep black eyes staring into Rist’s. “No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because that is not what you do to the dead.”
“And what do you do to the dead, Rist Havel?”
“You respect them.”
“How should I respect him?” Azrim looked down at the blackened bones of Trusil’s ribs.
“Start with his name. He was called Trusil.”
“Trusil…” Azrim spoke the name as though tasting it, staring at the ashes. “A name holds power.”
“He liked carrots and apples,” Rist said. “And he had a tendency to chew on fences if left next to them for too long. Only fences, never posts or trees.”
“And he always licked my face,” Neera added, wiping a tear from her eye.
Azrim just stared at Rist, tilting his head to the side, those black eyes betraying no emotion. “You will findTrusilagain, Rist Havel. Efialtír treats life equally. This is only the mortal shell he was granted.” Azrim raised a hand over Trusil’s ashes, and threads of Air, Earth, Fire, and Spirit wove around his fingers. The threads of Air lifted some of Trusil’s ashes into a vortex below Azrim’s palm, swirling.
