Page 139 of Of Empires and Dust

Tivar drew a long, slow breath. She stared at the ceiling with an almost sympathetic smile on her lips. “You are not wrong, Calen. But you speak with a simplicity born of youth. I know you don’t want to see it, but I am guilty of everything they say. I turned my back on my brothers and sisters. I burned, and I killed, and…” She stopped, clenching the muscles in her jaw. “I see the faces in my nightmares, hear the last screams of the Draleid whose bonds I shattered. I can give you excuses, I can tell you the reasons why I followed Eltoar, why I believed what we were doing was right. I can tell you how Efialtír twisted my mind… But when all is said and done, it was my hands that held the blade, my heart that yielded to the rage, my soul that let weakness in.”

“Tivar—”

“You don’t know me, Calen.”

“I know that when I needed you, you came. I know that you taught me what I am, what I needed to be.”

She shook her head, her eyes sunken. “I deserve death for what I did. I do not blame Chora and the others, the same way I do not blame a house for burning when it is set on fire.”

“No.” Calen rose and walked to where Tivar sat, dropping to a knee before her. He stared into her eyes, taking in her pale skin and the cleft in her lip. “That’s not enough.”

Tivar stared back at him curiously.

“You’re right. I don’t know your past and I don’t know you. But I know that you knelt before me and pledged to give your dying breath to this cause. Dying is not enough. When Fane Mortem is dead and the empire is nothing but dust, then, and only then, may you die. Until that day, I need you to fight. I need you to be the guardian you were meant to be. Do you understand? I will not accept anything less.”

Tivar held Calen’s gaze for what felt like an eternity. “You are like her second coming. I just hope you are stronger.” She looked as though she were going to say more, but she simply nodded. “I understand.”

“I hope you do, because you will help end this or I will swing the blade myself.”

Calen stood and made for the door.

“Anataier aldryr ar orimyn,” Tivar said as Calen pulled the door open.

Give them fire and fury.

“I will see you free from this place. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

She shook her head. “You were angry.”

“I was scared. Scared of who I am, of what I might do.”

“Fear exists for the sole purpose of being overcome.”

Calen stared at Tivar a moment longer, nodded softly, then stepped back through the door and closed it behind him. He drew a sharp breath, felt it tremble in his chest, and did his best to stop his hands from shaking at his sides. He hated this. Tivar had saved his life, saved Valerys’s life, and likely all lives within Aravell’s walls. But so too had she been a part of the slaughter of The Order. Chora and the others had as much right to want her dead as he did Farda.

Ilyain’s words repeated themselves in his head.“I am so deeply sorry for the world we have left you. And for the burden we place on your shoulders as we ask you to fix it.”

Collecting himself, Calen thanked Amaril and set off back through the corridor with Vaeril.

His hands shaking, Calen stopped in the middle of the corridor, candlelight flickering shadows on the ground.

Vaeril raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Vaeril. Gods, I don’t know what I’m doing at all. I’m the son of a blacksmith and a healer,” he said, shaking his head. “Two years ago, I didn’t know anything but The Glade. And now there are thousands of men and elves readying to march across the continent in my name, bearing a sigil of Valerys’s likeness on their breasts. They’re marching towar, Vaeril – inmy name. The man who murdered my mother walks these corridors freely, and all I want to do is tear his heart from his chest, and I can’t. I can’t touch him, but I can send a thousand men to die. Explain that to me. None of it makes sense. This should have been Erik or Dahlen, or you or Tarmon, or anyone but me.”

Calen’s chest heaved, his pulse racing. All the while, Vaeril stared back at him, watching.

The elf looked towards the ceiling as though searching for an answer in the white stone. “There are some who have picked up your banner because of what you are – more than some,” the elf said with a shrug. “They wish to be part of a saga tale, part of the legend of the first free Draleid in four hundred years. They don’t care who you are, just what you are. I was one of them. But I’m not anymore. At Belduar, you risked your life to buy the Kingsguard time, men and women you didn’t know, people to whom you owed little loyalty. In Vindakur, you were the last one through the Portal Heart. You saved every life you could. No exceptions. In Kingspass, you were willing to die to protectthe people of a nation that had taken everything from you. You were so unwilling to give up on Rist that you crossed the Burnt Lands, a thing that had never been done. Above this very city, you and Valerys risked your lives to buy precious moments for my people. There are many who might feel they deserve what you have, who feel they have a right to it, who feel they are your better. But none of them would be half of what you are if they stood in your place. There is a difference between you and Aeson Virandr. He would watch the world burn if it meant the empire lay in the ashes. He cares about tearing down what stands, but you care about what will be left when it’s all done.”

Vaeril grasped Calen’s forearm and stared into his eyes. “I am with you. Heart and soul. We are Vandasera. I will follow you into the void if that’s where you lead. And so would every soul wearing that sigil. Not just because of what you are, but because of who you are. That army isn’t marching to die in your name, Calen. It’s marching because someone finally showed them they can stand and fight, because someone finally showed them that there is something greater to fight for.”

Aeson pulleda long breath in through his nostrils, the cold flowing through him, his lungs swelling. Calls and shouts echoed across the yard as the army went about its final checks. Queen Tessara had come good on the promise of her five thousand, as had Uthrían and Galdra, and along with those who bore the white dragon, just short of fourteen thousand strong filled the courtyard to capacity.

Wagon axles squeaked and groaned, armoured boots drummed against stone, and the constant hum of chatter floated on the air.

All this lay at Aeson’s back, filling his ears with a calming buzz. This was what he had waited for, what he had fought for: the rebellion was well and truly under way, and the empire was burning. Thousands marched in the name of something new, something better. In truth, it was a sight he wasn’t sure he’d ever see. Everything he had done, every sacrifice he had made, had come to this. And yet, all he could focus on was the dragon that stood before him.

Valerys, scales gleaming as though freshly polished, had to be seventy feet long. His neck was thick and muscular, his chest deep. Just like the other dragons in Valacia, he radiated a sense of power and grace.

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