Page 250 of Of Empires and Dust

“Yes, Exarch.”

“And Rist, get back to the tent, get out of those clothes, dry yourself off, and get some rest. The heart of your argument earlier was to do with exhaustion. It’s a bit hypocritical to then run yourself into the ground.” Garramon didn’t think it necessary to have to tell someone to remove their wet clothes and dry themselves before climbing between the sheets. But sometimes Rist took things a bit too literally, and Garramon had learned to be explicit with his instruction. “And dry the sword, lest it rust.”

Rist stared at Garramon for a moment, then inclined his head, droplets of rain streaming from his hair and down his face.

“I will see you at dawn before we march to continue your channelling.”

The young man inclined his head once more before heading back to his tent.

With that, Garramon set off towards the tent that had always been his destination. It wasn’t long before he found it. Two guards with the roaring lion on their breastplates stood at the entrance, candlelight coming from within. Good, the man was still awake.

The two guards straightened as Garramon approached, pressing closed fists to their chests. “Exarch.”

“Your watch has ended.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Your watch has ended, soldier. Brother Tuk says he no longer requires your presence. You may retire for the night. I have left a cask of Etrusian wine along with fresh cuts of lamb and clean blankets in the cook tent – a thank you for your understanding. Tell Omelda that Exarch Garramon Kalinim sent you. You will be well looked after.”

The two men exchanged an unsure glance, which was slowly replaced by one of realisation.

“If the High Ardent requires it,” one of the guards said, inclining his head.

“He does.”

The guards left Garramon alone before the tent’s entrance, the scent of burning sage drifting from within.

Candles puddled in small iron bowls about the tent, two atop a long wooden desk to the right next to a third in a bowl that wafted white smoke.

High Ardent Solman Tuk stood with his arms crossed, a cup of wine in his hand and red stains on his lips. He looked down at an open ledger on a table, his brow furrowed. It took a moment for Tuk to notice Garramon, but when he did, his expression shifted to one of surprise, then caution. “Garramon, what are you doing here? Where are my guards?”

“They have the same taste for wine as you, I’m afraid.” Garramon took slow, measured steps, scanning the tent. Nofewer than three finely woven rugs adorned the ground, spun with vibrant reds, golds, silvers, and blacks. Two heavy chests worked with gold rested at the foot of the wooden-framed bed, and at least six thick blankets lay across a feather mattress. It appeared the High Ardent never travelled without his luxuries, and Garramon would do well to inform Taya that there might be some inefficient use of her wagon space.

“What do you want, Garramon? It’s late.”

“It is.”

“Is this about earlier?” Tuk let out an irritated sigh, shaking his head.

Garramon nodded, slowing his steps as he drew closer to the High Ardent.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Garramon. You’re all the same. Cold and apathetic. That boy is no different. You Battlemages attract the type. I will not apologise.”

“I didn’t much come here to talk, nor to seek an apology.”

Tuk’s eyes widened at that, and he unfolded his arms, his back stiffening.

“If you ever speak to any of my Brothers or Sisters like you did today, Iwillpin you to the floor and remove your tongue with a blunt spoon. And I will call one of your companions to stop the bleeding only because death is too quick for a weasel like you.”

“Your threats don’t scare me. I answer to the Grand Ardent and the emperor, not you. You hold no power over me, Garramon. You are not the Arbiter anymore, and even when you were…” Tuk shrugged.

There it was again, that tone in his voice, that smug look of pomposity in his eyes. There was something Tuk felt as though he had gotten away with, a battle he thought he had won – a battle he thought he was now safe from. He was wrong.

“Oh, but I do have power over you.” Garramon opened himself to the Spark and pulled on threads of Air, wrapping them around Tuk’s throat.

The man dropped his cup, wine spilling across the intricately woven rug, hands slapping at his neck, veins popping, skin turning red.

“Don’t worry,” Garramon said. “I won’t kill you like this. A child could overpower you with the Spark.”

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