Page 134 of Of Empires and Dust

Salara lifted herself back onto her haunches and took Tualin’s hand into her own as she rose. With as much care as she might use to pluck a flower, Salara removed Tualin’s helmet and dropped it to the ground.

His dark hair was soaked in sweat, and streaks of it ran through the blood on his face. He could not have witnessed more than twenty-five summers, but his cheekbones almost pierced his skin, his lips cracked… and his eyes… She had never seen such turmoil, such fear and uncertainty, in another soul’s eyes.

What did they do to you?

She had seen the Onarakina when they had been freed from the mines. Seen their withered bodies, their scarred and scabbed flesh, their dark, listless eyes. And so too had she watched them receive the finest silks and heartiest meals and everything any soul could want. Queen Vandrien had ensured it. And in her naivety, Salara had thought them on the path towards healing, that the clothes and the food and the luxuries would close their wounds, both of body and spirit. She could see now that naivety was too meagre a word. Idiocy, absurdity… ignorance. Yes, ignorance was the word.

What was done to these elves would never heal, never scab over or fall away. It was a torture of the soul and the mind, a torture of the blood.

Salara gave a soft sigh, then gently rested her gauntleted hands on Tualin’s cheeks. “I cannot give you back any of what was taken. I cannot give you solace, or peace, or serenity. And so I will not make that promise. But I can give you vengeance. I can hone you. I can teach you to take that rage in your heart, that darkness, and give it a place in this world, give it a way to earn a different life for our kind. What do you say to that?”

Tualin’s stare hardened, his lips pressing together, his nostrils flaring. He gave a sharp nod. “Ah… Avis.”

Yes.

A smile broke out across Salara’s face at the sound of the Old Tongue – of Enkaran – leaving Tualin’s lips. It was such a simple thing, such a small and insignificant thing, at least on the surface. But language was culture, it was heritage, it was history. Language was the path that connected a soul to their ancestors. “Go,” she said, gesturing towards the elves who were helping the other Onarakina to their feet. “You have done all you can here. Sleep, eat, rest. What remains is up to us.”

Salara handed Tualin over to one of the warriors Undrír had selected to escort the Onarakina back to the camp. Once more, she whistled, three sharp bursts, augmented by Air and Spirit – the signal for Taran and Indivar to halt their assault and join her.

A pair of monstrous roars answered her call.

“Sankyar Undrír,” she called, finding Undrír helping an injured Onarakina to her feet, blood seeping from an arrow embedded in her shoulder. “When they are all seen to, we march for the keep. Kill whatever stands in our way. The time for mercy is long past.”

Chapter 31

Wars Are Not Won

12thDay of the Blood Moon

Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Calen satby Ella’s bedside, his hand resting over hers. Faenir lay on the ground at his feet, the crest of the wolfpine’s back reaching past Calen’s knees.

“I have to go.” He pressed his forehead against the back of his sister’s hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you want to wake up in the meantime, I won’t argue.” He lifted his chin so it rested on her knuckles, then let out a sigh. “Lasch and Elia are staying, as are Tanner and Yana. They’ll watch over you.”

Calen sat there a while longer before he drew a breath and rose. Aeson would be waiting for him, and he still had one more thing to do. He moved past Faenir and leaned over Ella. He brushed her hair aside and placed a tender kiss on her forehead.

“Don’t give up,” he said, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

He hunkered beside Faenir, resting a hand on either side of the wolfpine’s head. Faenir pressed his head left, then right as Calen scratched, a low rumble in his throat. “Keep her safe.”

The wolfpine lifted his head and met Calen’s gaze, his golden eyes full of understanding. He pressed the flat of his snout against Calen’s forehead, giving a high-pitched whine.

Faenir climbed onto the bed, the frame creaking and groaning beneath his weight. He squeezed himself between Ella and the wall and rested his chin on her shoulder. There was no soul in the world that would protect Ella more fiercely.

Calen picked his gauntlets up from the ground and slid them into place, then grabbed his helmet from beside the chair and slung his satchel over his shoulder.

When he made his way downstairs, he found Elia Havel standing over a pot of boiling water, two mugs on the counter beside her. “Oh, Calen. You’re leaving already? The water’s only just boiled. I was about to bring you up a mug of Arlen Root tea.”

“Not today, Elia. I fly for Arkalen soon with Aeson. I need to be on my way.”

“Are you sure?” she said, offering him a mug. “Your mother would want you to.”

Calen shook his head. “When I get back.”

The front door creaked open, and Lasch stepped in. “I’ll have fresh mead ready for when you get back, my boy. The tea can wait.”

The man strode across the room, folding his arms as he shook his head and let out a long sigh. “I’ll never get over seeing you in that armour." He laughed to himself. “I suppose this is where I say something deep and meaningful? I’ve not got much left to say. Your father was always better with words than I was.” Lasch cupped his hand on the sides of Calen’s head. “We’ll watch over Ella. All we need you to do is come home, you hear?”

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