Page 121 of Of Empires and Dust

Rist pondered that a while, giving that same blank stare he always had when he was thinking.

“Over time, more gold flowed into The Order’s coffers than I’d ever seen in my life. People I’d known for a hundred years began to wear the finest silks and gorge on the most decadent of feasts. They built homes that were better called palaces. They stopped caring about the people they were meant to protect,looked down on them. It all became about power and who wielded it.”

Rist opened his mouth to speak but visibly stopped himself, waiting for Garramon to continue. The man never made the same mistake twice.

“Alone, these are not things that justify a rebellion. But everything requires context. The gold, the opulence, the greed, it twisted them. It changedwhythey fought. Everything was steered by trying to retain what they had. Wars were fought for gold and favour. Souls burned in the North because a king in the South willed it. We became nothing more than enforcers and cutthroats, just in finer silks. And those who weren’t dreamt of wearing the crowns themselves. In ten years, more Epherians died by The Order’s hand than in the previous two hundred. There was always a reason, always a story woven by the most silver of tongues. You see, Rist, the desire formoreis as human a thing as any. But when a person wields the power of the Spark, or that of a dragon, they must be held to a higher standard. When a person possesses the power to snuff out hundreds of lives in a heartbeat… that changes everything. I could tell you stories of the tens of thousands of bodies I watched twitch and crackle in the fires that razed the city of Unmire because their king refused to pay a debt. Or I could tell you of the cries for help ignored because a member of the ‘esteemed council’ held a grudge against another man who had been chosen by a woman he desired. Or of the executions that took place again, and again, and again for those who crossed the wrong people. But if I did, we would be here all night and all day. The simple fact is, we became tyrants, our presence actively darkening this world. The people we were meant to protect were the ones who suffered the weight of our failure.”

Garramon looked to Rist, seeing the young man deep in thought. It was then he realised the simplest way to conveyinformation to Rist was in terms of something he understood. “You’ve read the memoirs of Edmire Burkiln. I’ve seen you with it.”

“I have.”

“All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”

“Those are not actually his words.” Rist pursed his lips. “They are those of Jon Stilvar Milner, a philosopher from the old kingdom of Endiral, though Burkiln adopted them as his own. ‘Let not any soul stay their conscience by the delusion that they do no harm if they take no part. The darkness of this world needs nothing more to triumph than good souls looking on and doing nothing.’”

“Well,” Garramon said with laugh. “The point remains the same. When Fane came to me, he gave me a choice – stand by and watch while The Order I gave my life to slowly rotted and turned against everything we stood for, or fight. I chose to fight. I chose to not allow darkness to triumph by my apathy.”

“And now?”

“I would do it all again.” Garramon nodded slowly as he spoke. Not a word of a lie left his lips. Hewoulddo it all again. “You weren’t alive in the days before the fall of The Order, or ‘the Liberation’ – what a fucking stupid name. What we did wasn’t a liberation. It was a war. I am not naive enough to think any different. We waged a war, and we won, and Epheria is better for it.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. In your lifetime, how many wars have you seen? How much family have you lost by the blade? Have you wanted for food? Yes, there are taxes, just as there were before. There are rebellions, just as there were before. But the peace this continent has known in the last three hundred years is unprecedented.Rebellions like the one burning in the South prey on short memories and fickle hearts.”

“What about the Valtarans? Or the Kolmiri dwarves? Or any of the other rebellions the empire has crushed?”

“Your reading is even more extensive than I’d thought. But do you think The Order would have dealt with them any differently? Alvira would have argued, like she always did. She was good, but she was weak. All the council had to do was prey on her honour and her code, and they could twist her any way they wanted. She didn’t understand their manipulations.” Garramon sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He could feel the anger rising within him, feel it burning his cheeks and clenching his fists. It wasn’t an anger at Rist but at the memories of the past, of the decisions he had been forced to make. “You remind me a lot of my son, Malyn. Never stop questioning things, Rist. Never stop questioning me, or Fane, or Primarch Touran, or anyone.”

“What happened to him, your son?”

“He died a long time ago.” Garramon didn’t have the heart to discuss what had happened to Malyn, how his son had betrayed them, how he’d watched Malyn kneel at the headsman’s block, and how Garramon had put him there by letting Solman Tuk wrap his venomous hands around Malyn’s mind. Garramon had died a little that day. “Come, it is time to spar before the sun sets completely. And I’d advise you to put on a shirt.”

Rist let out a long puff of air, running his hand down his sweat-soaked chest. “It’s a lot colder up here than it is down there. My nipples could cut glass.”

“Some things, Rist, are better left unsaid.”

Later that night,Rist trudged through Berona’s streets, the lanterns fading, the pink shimmer of the moonlight cascading across the stone. Each step felt like it would be his last, hips groaning, feet stinging, legs aching. Bruises had formed within bruises, deep black atop blue and yellow.

He was one swift strike of a staff away from breaking, and yet, he had never felt stronger – or fuller. Just the thought caused his stomach to rumble, and he rested a palm across it, puffing out his cheeks. Garramon had him eating like a horse, or probably more aptly a bear. He had learned three days ago that a human can sweat simply from consuming too much meat at one time. It was an entirely useless piece of information, but it was something Rist had never known before. It was also something that burned him with guilt. There were people outside the walls surviving off rations, and there he was eating enough for three.

The city was strangely quiet at night. Aside from the occasional drunk and more than a few shady figures here and there, the only people Rist passed were guard patrols. A dour atmosphere had settled over the place. Berona would see bloodshed. Between the Uraks and the elves, something was coming. It was not a matter of if but when. And to make everything worse the Lorian rebels were not only attacking and looting along all roads in and out of the city, they were actively raiding within its walls as well. That was why the Fourth and First armies had remained and been given barracks within the city limits.

With his slow, plodding footsteps for company, Rist made his way through the city and towards the barracks assigned to the First Army, praying to Varyn his legs wouldn’t give way. Unlikeat Al’Nalsa, where the barracks were situated in camps outside the city, a number of barracks had been purpose-built within Berona’s walls as the city itself lay at the outer reaches of Loria and far closer to Urak territory.

Each was a small fort of its own, walled even within the city limits, with towers at all four corners and battlements manned night and day. Similar layouts had been applied to the eastern cities along the Lightning Coast. Not that it had mattered when the elves had rained dragonfire upon them.

Rist nodded to the guards at the barracks gate, then stepped through and into the courtyard lined by stables ahead and baths to his right. The barracks consisted of twelve enormous halls, a stable, baths, its own storehouse and granary, latrines, several cookhouses, and a headquarters. Ten of the twelve halls were two storeys high and capable of housing up to five hundred soldiers bunked in tiers of three. The two remaining halls were broken into individual chambers for the one hundred and thirty mages of the First Army. Taya Tambrel and her generals took residence in the headquarters at the northern end, along with the Blackwatch.

As Rist stumbled through the barracks, his legs sensing he was close to bed, three mages of the First Army rounded the corner of the baths with towels around their waists and steam wafting off their bodies.

“Brother Havel.” One of the mages inclined his head.

“Exarch Gurney.” Rist reciprocated the gesture, greeting the other two mages in kind before they continued on to their chambers in the other hall.

Rist stood a little taller, rolling his shoulders back. It still felt strange to have the others, even the Exarchs, treat him as one of their own, treat him as a Brother. It felt stranger still to find pride in that recognition considering none of the High Mages had bothered to even glance in his direction previously. But hissteps were lighter the rest of the way to his chambers in the far hall.

He twisted the handle and pushed open the door with his shoulder, grunting as he did. The room was small and sparse, just how he preferred it.

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