Page 135 of Of Empires and Dust

Calen nodded. “Are you certain you don’t want to go with Dann and the army? To go home?”

Lasch gave Calen a warm smile accompanied by a sigh. “Home is where you make it, my boy. Were you not listening? Our home is with you and Ella and Dann, and Rist… when he returns.”

Calen’s throat tightened at that.

“Go.” Lasch patted Calen on the cheek. “But before you do, could you tell me how to get Gaeleron to come inside and drink some mead? The damn elf just stands outside the door like a statue.”

“He does that.”

“No advice?”

“If you figure anything out, let me know.”

Calen shook his head as he stepped through the door, the crimson twilight washing over the basin of Alura. It was the twelfth day of the Blood Moon. Calen would not be sad to see the red wound gone from the sky.

From the reports that had started coming in again from Aeson’s contacts, all Epheria was on fire. Refugees flowed from city to city in both the North and the South. The Uraks laid siege to Camylin, Elmnest was gone, and Carvahon was in chaos. The worst of it was that this was only the beginning.

Vaeril stood to Calen’s left with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, Gaeleron beside him.

“I’m assuming you heard Lasch then?” Calen asked Gaeleron.

“I did.”

“Will you drink with him?”

“That depends how much mead he offers.” Gaeleron attempted to keep a straight face, but a smile flashed across his lips. The elf had come a long way since they’d first met in the Darkwood.

Calen laughed, then grasped Gaeleron’s forearm. “Thank you for watching over them.”

Gaeleron inclined his head. “It is my honour, Draleid.”

Calen did the same, then gestured for Vaeril to follow him as he made his way across the plateau.

The pair made their way across Alura and into the Eyrie, talking of the war to come. In truth, from the moment they’d been attacked in Camylin, it had felt like a war to Calen. But now, talking of armies marching and cities burning, Calen understood what made war so different to everything else: the cost and the consequence.

It was no longer just his life but the lives of thousands, hundreds of thousands. The consequence of failure was no longer his alone to bear. And no matter the outcome, a cost would be paid in blood. From this day on, Epheria would never be the same. No matter what he did or what choices he made, thousands would die and cities would burn. Wars were not won, they were ended.

Calen cast his gaze around the basin as he stepped onto the Eyrie’s main plateau. Sardakes lay by the stream that ran off the main plateau’s edge, his head resting on the grass, his chest rising and falling methodically. The other plateaus were empty, save for a number of Dracårdare who tended the grass and the trees, ensuring all was properly kept.

The Prime Keeper – Undiör in the Old Tongue – Yanîr, approached, bowing as he did. “Draleid.”

“Undiör.” Calen returned the gesture. “Where is Varthear?”

“Flying, Draleid.” Yanîr inclined his head towards the open valley at the other side of the plateau. “Since before the morning woke.”

Calen thanked the elf, then set off towards the old quarters where the Rakina had once held residence but where the prisoners were now kept. After the judgement, Chora hadallowed the prisoners to roam free within the old quarters and within the Eyrie itself. Calen was well aware that she allowed it simply to get under his skin, but none of the prisoners –Tivar included – had chosen to set foot in the Eyrie.

Sardakes lifted his head. A low rumble of acknowledgement left the great dragon’s throat, his deep blue eyes finding Calen’s. Though still prone to listlessness, it had become more and more clear that both Varthear and Sardakes had been changed since the battle at Aravell. Even the simple fact that Varthear had taken to the air, that she soared the valleys, meant something had shifted within her.

From what Calen had seen in his vision – if that was what he could call it – when he had touched Varthear, he understood what it was that had changed: purpose. A reason to live. A need to protect.

As they walked, wingbeats sounded from the open valley that connected to the Eyrie, and both Calen and Vaeril turned to see Varthear rise above the precipice of the plateau, her enormous vermillion wings spread wide, blue scales glistening. A gust of wind followed in the dragon’s wake, cold against Calen’s skin.

Varthear soared around the basin, a tremor running through the plateau as she alighted on the white stone.

Calen stared into her eyes, molten fire rolling about black slits, the dragon’s warm breath sweeping over him and abating the chill that had set into his skin.

Vaeril approached on Calen’s right, bowing deeply at the waist. “Alaith anar, Velikír Ayar.”

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