Page 199 of Of Empires and Dust

When everything settled, he was once again seeing through his own eyes, both Haem and Kallinvar staring back at him, voices dull and distant in his ears.

“Calen.” Haem shook him, hands clasped at his shoulders. “Calen. Wake up. Wake up.”

“What are you doing?” Calen stepped back, pushing Haem’s arms at the elbows to release his brother’s grip. “What…” He looked about himself. He no longer stood in the corridors. A chamber rose around him, illuminated by the baldír at his side. The walls climbed into a vaulted ceiling, carvings of dragon scales and wings marked into the white stone. At the centre,shards of sapphires, emeralds, amethysts, and a dozen other coloured gems comprised a mosaic of a dragon egg. A swirl of rubies and topaz flowed about the egg, mimicking the movement of flames.

The chamber had only two entrances, one behind him and one ahead of him. He looked back at Haem, who was staring into his eyes.

“You just kept walking,” he said, unblinking as he watched Calen. “We called to you, but you didn’t stop. Your eyes… they were like Ella’s, white as clouds.”

The knights all studied Calen, some curious, others uncertain. They didn’t know what he was… though, in truth, neither did Calen himself.

Kallinvar met Calen’s gaze. The man didn’t speak, but the look on his face told Calen that he expected an answer.

“I can… see… things. The past. In glimpses. I’ve no control over it, and I’ve not experienced it like this before. At first, it was only when I slept, in dreams.”

“When you say you see glimpses, what do you see?”

Calen explained what he’d seen outside the tower, in the antechamber, and again in the corridors. Speaking the words aloud somehow made even Calen sceptical.

“Very well.” Kallinvar nodded slowly, staring past Calen as he did. “Carry on. You lead, we will follow.”

“You believe me?”

“I knew Tarast. Met him and his soulkin many years ago in Amendel before I joined the knighthood. Laid eyes on his níthral at the Battle of Ulthar’s Helm. I cannot see a way you would know his name, and that of Antala’s, let alone know the light of his níthral. I don’t know the workings of druids. I’ve never laid eyes on one. Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. But if you can lead us to the Heart, I can sacrifice understanding for faith.”

Calen drew a long breath, letting the knight’s words sink in. He looked between the two doorways. “Which way did we enter?”

Haem gestured to the one behind Calen.

“This way then,” Calen said, marching in the other direction.

The doorway led to a long stairwell that sank into a dark abyss. Calen hesitated a moment, Valerys rumbling in the back of his mind. The dragon soared in the sky above Ilnaen, watching for any signs of movement. He’d spotted some N’aka and a few drifting shadows, but nothing that set his frills on edge. And yet, the idea of Calen moving deeper into the ground, where Valerys couldn’t get to him if needed, was one the dragon vehemently opposed.

They should never be apart. Dark things happened when they were separated. Memories flooded his mind. Memories of Drifaien, of the agony, of the emptiness.

Haem will be by my side. He would never let harm come to me.

The dragon snorted his disapproval. Haem was family, but he had not been able to protect Ella. He had not been there when Calen had needed him. He was strong, but he was not Valerys, and in the protection of Calen’s life Valerys trusted no-one but himself.

There are no choices here. I must go. If you trust no-one else, trust me.

The dragon gave a reluctant rumble of acquiescence in the back of Calen’s mind and wheeled off to watch over three of Sister-Captain Arlena’s knights, who searched the rubble to the tower’s south.

Calen stared down into the stairwell’s shrouded depths for a moment, then adjusted his baldír and descended.

Chapter 44

Forged in Fire

18thDay of the Blood Moon

South of Midhaven – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Tarmon walkedwith his hands clasped behind his back, his warm breath misting in the winter air. Campfires crackled, and chatter floated on the wind. Three elven guards bearing Calen’s white dragon on their breastplates inclined their heads as they passed.

The mood in the camp was a strange one, but one Tarmon recognised well: bittersweet triumph.

In the week they had spent traversing Illyanara, marching every second they were gifted, they had fought four battles. One against Uraks, two against Lorian forces, and another against some emerging warlord who bit off more than he could chew. Such was their numbers advantage that they were never truly in danger of losing even once out of the four.

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