Page 202 of Of Empires and Dust

“You loosed an arrow past Ingvat’s head two nights ago while we were eating.”

“Yes, but?—”

“Then jumped through the fire shouting ‘I got the fucker.’”

“The… the bird. I almost got him. He was just…” Dann’s voice trailed off as Tarmon raised his eyebrows. “I see your point.”

“Good.” Tarmon stopped and let out a long sigh, resting his hand on Dann’s shoulder. For a moment, Tarmon thought about reminding Dann of his position. Dann was a commander in the rebellion now. Everything he did, every word that left his lips, reflected not only on himself, but also on Calen. But Dann knew. Behind all the jokes and all the humour, he knew.

Vaeril satin the dirt with his legs crossed, a bowl of stew in one hand and a cup of wine balanced on his knee. The fire’swarmth drove the cold from his bones. Even at that moment, Ünviril sat on the ground before him.

Dawnbringer.

He’d never wanted to be so far from any one single thing, and yet that one thing spent most of his waking hours strapped to his body. It seemed a cruel joke.

Not two feet from him, Queen Tessara Vaelen Alumír sat just as he did: legs crossed, a bowl of stew in one hand. At first glance, her clothes were simple. A long-sleeved tunic, trousers, boots, and a mantle clipped together by a silver broach in the shape of a star. All black with silver embellishments. Cut gems of jet were set into the polished silver circlet atop her head, a silver star at its fore. She wanted to appear as a queen of the people, sitting in the dirt with those not of royal blood, eating food from her lap, drinking wine from a wooden cup. And yet, every single item she wore was carefully chosen to signal who she was and the power she wielded. To make others feel grateful she deigned to honour them with her presence. There were layers in everything.

Vaeril knew little of Queen Tessara. But she was Vaelen, and she played the games well, as was becoming of any ruler of Vaelen.

Her Ephorí, Dumelian, sat at her side. Though, judging by the way he kept shifting uncomfortably and pulling faces at the dirt, he would have been far more comfortable at a table with a silver plate.

Many others sat about the fire at the queen’s invitation also.

King Galdra had sent his Ephorí, Thurivîr, to act as commander of the elves pledged by Lunithír, while Queen Uthrían had sent Baralas. Both elves sat across the fire, eating quietly, their personal guards arranged around them.

Thurivîr was a stark contrast to Queen Tessara, all blazing gold where she was shrouded in black. His golden silk shirt –ornamented with rubies – was paired with stiff maroon trousers, and his dark hair was swept back from his temples and tied with gold string. Opulence was a weapon the kingdom of Lunithír had long wielded. Gold and crimson were their colours, the mighty stag their crest.

Baralas was garbed as though he were a ranger of Aravell. A thick brown leather cuirass covered his chest, while a deep green cloak hung about his shoulders, his sword still belted at his hip. His part in this theatre of politicking was that of a warrior who fought alongside the common elf. Though, if Vaeril was being fair, Baralas had not shied away from the battles. He had thrown himself into the thick and bore a new scar along the right side of his chin for it, along with bruises that ran all about his neck. His leathers were neither polished nor pristine. They bore the marks and wear of well-used armour. And they fit him well, which meant they were likely his own. Vaeril respected him, even if he didn’t like him very much.

The young smith, Valdrin, had travelled with them also. Both Calen and Therin had attempted to convince him otherwise, but he had been quite insistent that he see how his armour performed in the field. He sat alone, his wine untouched, his entire focus on the journal in his lap as he sketched new designs for not just armour, but livery, banners, weapons, and all manner of things.

Besides Tessara and the Ephorí, Atara and Harken ate to Vaeril’s right, while Dann, Tarmon, Lyrei, and Erik sat on his left. He was not sure how to express it, but having them there, having his Vandasera by his side, meant a great deal to him. It brought him honour, but also comfort.

The only ones missing were Gaeleron and Calen – and Alea. Calen, the one who bound them all together. Since crossing paths with Calen Bryer, Vaeril had barely been apart from theman. Even chained in Arisfall, they had not been this far from one another.

It was a strange thing. Once, Calen had been his oath. Now, the man was his brother. No longer a responsibility, now a privilege. And now Calen and Valerys were alone, flying from Arkalen to Ilnaen, and there was nothing Vaeril could do to keep them safe. He was honoured to be leading this army alongside the others, to protect Calen’s home as Calen had protected his, but he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t rather be at Calen’s side.

Besides, he hated being a piece in the game of kings and queens. And around this fire, that’s all he was.

Queen Tessara caught Vaeril’s eye, a cup of wine in her hand, her bowl of stew finished and already being carried away by a young attendant. “You fought well today,” she said. “You brought much honour to Vaelen.”

“The honour is mine, Myia’nari.”

“Seeing you wield Ünviril against the same souls who destroyed our world… It was a special thing. An elf of our kingdom, wielding the new dawn and bearing the sigil of the first free Draleid in centuries. The bralgír will tell stories of you, Vaeril Ilyin.”

Vaeril cast a furtive glance at the silver star pommel of the sword at his hip. He took a last mouthful of the flavourful stew, then placed the bowl on the ground. “The bralgír will have many stories to tell from this age, Myia’nari. I do not believe there will be time to tell mine.”

Before the queen could respond, an excessively long and wet slurping noise cut through the campfire. Vaeril turned to see Dann holding his bowl of stew to his lips, glistening beads of grease clinging to the stubble that surrounded his mouth.

Dann’s eyes widened, the bowl still pressed to his lips, as he realised everyone was staring at him. He carried on.

“Thank you for having us around your fire tonight.” Tarmon gestured towards Queen Tessara, a flash of irritation on his face at Dann.

Vaeril held back a smile.

“You are most welcome.” It was not Queen Tessara who spoke, but Thurivîr. The queen didn’t say anything, but her eyes betrayed her. “If we are to fight in the same wars, we should ‘break the same bread’, so to speak. The stew you eat is an old Lunithíran recipe from when my people held sway over everything they could touch from Ilnaen to the foothills of Mar Dorul in northern Lynalion, back when we had the land to raise cattle. It’s been almost three hundred and fifty years since I last tasted beef. Nowadays the stew is typically made with venison or boar, but this—” he gestured down at the drained bowl of stew in his hands “—there is nothing quite like beef in a good Milaríse. I only wish my son and daughter were here to taste it.” For a fraction of a second, Thurivîr’s unreadable expression cracked. “They were born after The Fall.”

“Where are they now?”

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