Page 171 of Of Empires and Dust

“And so you see now why it must be you and I. I will task Uncle with the testing of bersekeer blood. It runs in his veins as it does ours.” Kira rested her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Without this, Erani, we die. Our people die. I don’t want to fight just to reclaim my power. Who do you think Hoffnar will send in the vanguard of his war against the humans? It will be warriors of Durakdur, offered a chance at redeeming the honour that I blackened by butchering Elenya and Lakar. You know it to be true. I never wanted the crown. But now that I have it, I know I was meant for it. Because I will do anything to protect my people. I will give my life, my blood, my honour. I will not let him do this.”

“Are you sure this is the path you want to walk?”

Kira pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and nodded.

Erani pressed her forehead against Kira’s, hands clasping the sides of Kira’s head. “Then we will walk it together. Let me see what can be arranged.”

Chapter 39

Waking the Lion

15thDay of the Blood Moon

Berona – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

One unforeseen benefitof the Blood Moon was that it was far brighter than its pale, cold counterpart. Which meant that even after the sun had set, on a clear night like this one, Rist could sit and read without any need for a candle. He’d spent the day channelling the Spark with Garramon, and all he wanted to do now was sit in the nook near the top of the barracks’ western watchtower and lose himself in a book.

The book in question was one he had recently procured from the dark depths of the Circle’s Library.The Origins of Runecraft, by Ursula Klimmon. Runes fascinated Rist. Their capabilities, their limitations, and the fact that they were both entirely separate and infinitely capable of symbiotic use with the Spark.

Though it felt strange to him to be reading a book on Jotnar runecraft not written by a Jotnar. But censorship, he had found,was commonplace within the imperial libraries. And he did not suspect any books written by a Jotnar hand would have survived to adorn the shelves. Though, he had a sneaking suspicion that some scholars rewrote certain books in their own words, passing off the work as their own before burning the original. It was a sad thing, but it meant that if Rist was lucky, the information on the pages might actually be useful.

He sat there, unmoving, perched on the window ledge, his back against the stone, reading of glamours and keys, and bindings, and augmentations, and all manner of applications for runecraft. But after a while, one thing became painfully obvious: the book had not been stolen and transcribed. It was Ursula Klimmon’s original work. And that would have been a good thing if Ursula Klimmon had even the slightest understanding of how Jotnar runes actually functioned. As it was, the woman just rambled and rambled for pages, discussing the different applications of runecraft without actually diving into any tangible information on how or why runes functioned.

Disappointed, Rist tossed the book on the ground beside his satchel, frowning at thethumpit made. He loved books. And no, love was not an exaggeration. Books were a thing of insurmountable beauty and power. Be they immense repositories of knowledge, transcendent works of philosophical quandaries, or transportational tales, they were a thing to be cherished and adored. But there were some that were a waste of the precious paper on which they were printed. Some that would have been better off as trees. And a common factor amongst those particular books, he found, was a lack of passion and a lack of purpose. Sometimes one, often both.

The Origins of Runecraft, by Ursula Klimmon, was both.

As he sat there, distraught at his disappointment, he pulled out a folded letter from his pocket, opened it, and placed it down on the sill before him.

He’d not received word from his parents in quite a while. Months. He’d sent one before first reaching Berona and had received no response. Garramon could tell him nothing except that reports from the South had been few and far between.

Rist had considered slipping away in the night. He could take Trusil and ride to Antiquar. From there he was reasonably sure he could talk his way onto a ship heading south. His robes would likely be enough. He was a full Brother now, and he’d seen the power Battlemages had over other men. If all went to plan, it would take him just over a month, perhaps a bit longer, to reach The Glade.

But even then, he could hear his dad whispering in his ear, warning him of the folly in relying on everything going to plan.

Up to this point, the thought of leaving had not really been one worth entertaining. He would never have survived the journey across Loria, never have been able to afford passage on a ship from North to South, and likely would have been caught in the act either way. And even if those things hadn’t been as they were, he would have been too weak to protect his parents or anyone else for that matter. But he was stronger now, harder. He was a Battlemage. He’d fought elves and Uraks, seen dragons, watched thousands burn alive. He still had so much to learn, but he wasn’t that frail, helpless boy he remembered. Not anymore.

Rist leaned back and watched his breath steam in the cold air. If he was to leave, he would need to expect failed plans and plan for those failures in turn.

He lowered his head and read over the letter he’d written the night before last.

Mam and Dad,

It’s been a while.I wrote you some months back, and again more recently, but have heard nothing. I hope those letters were lost along the way, that they never found home, or that the same could be said of your reply.

I hopeyou’re all right. I hope you’re reading this. We all know I’ve never been one for the gods, but I hope Varyn is watching over you.

An ink stainmarked the page just below that line, where a tear had dropped while Rist had been writing. As he looked at it, he realised he’d used the word ‘hope’ far too frequently.

I met someone.A woman. Her name is Neera. She’s as sarcastic as Dann but much prettier. You’d like her, Mam. She’s kind, though she hides it sometimes. She watches over me, and I her. I’ll bring her with me when I come home.

I am coming home.No matter what it takes, I’m coming home. I promise.

Please stay safe.

Your son,

Rist

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