Page 253 of Of Empires and Dust

Garramon’s hands were just as dirty as Tuk’s, just as bloody. He knew that. There was no redemption for the things he’d done. But he would use those bloody hands to keep Rist safe. He would not fail him like he had failed his son.

Cold rain droppedon Garramon’s face as he stepped from the tent, the smell of burning flesh still clinging to him.

As he turned and made for his own cot, Magnus emerged from the shadows between two tents opposite the High Ardent’s.

“I was planning on paying our friend Solman a visit.” Magnus glanced down at the red droplets falling from Garramon’s hands. “Have you seen him?”

“It appears he burned himself out, attempting to draw more power than he was capable of.”

“Awful. How is he?”

“I was just on my way to fetch a Healer. Wouldn’t want to leave him in that state.”

“You’re such a considerate man, Garramon Kalinim.”

Garramon stared into the night, then looked into Magnus’s dark eyes. He allowed the pain in his heart to seep into his voice. “He killed Malyn, Magnus… He admitted it. It was him who betrayed my son.”

Magnus only nodded, the rain dripping from his black beard. He let out a long sigh. “Some wounds don’t heal, we just have to let them bleed. Come. I’ve got some Drifaienin whiskey. Then you need some rest. We’ll fetch a Healer on the way.”

Chapter 57

Patience

19thDay of the Blood Moon

Berona – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Fane stoodon the balcony of the chambers he had taken as his study in the High Tower of Berona. He leaned forwards, looking over the city, his arms resting on the low stone parapet.

The dark skies had cleared, the rain following Garramon and the First Army northeast towards the mountains. And with the stormhead gone, the Blood Moon’s light washed down over the white city, painting the buildings pink, just as it had in Ilnaen all those years ago.

The sections of the wall destroyed during the attack were still under repair, with many of Berona’s Craftsmages sent to Elkenrim and Greenhills, along with Al’Nasla, to strengthen the cities’ defences.

Slowly, everything was falling into place. He’d had centuries to prepare for these moments, and he had done so meticulously.There were always variables that could not be accounted for – the new Draleid, Eltoar’s fluctuating conscience, the elven onslaught – but Fane relished creating opportunity from the unexpected and deciphering the hearts and minds of others. And if those hearts and minds continued to behave the way he expected them to, the Heart of Blood would soon be his.

He took no joy in twisting the knife in Eltoar’s heart or keeping Garramon in the dark, but he would do what needed to be done. All great things required sacrifice. That was something Fane believed utterly. Everything he had done, all the choices he had made and all the losses he had accepted, had been for a reason, for a cause. And he would not falter now, not so close to the end.

The proverb ‘patience is a virtue’ was oft spouted sarcastically and in a mocking tone. Fane had found that those who spoke the proverb were frequently the same people who lacked the necessary patience when it mattered. The world was a spider’s web, millions of threads interwoven, everything connected. A man who knew which thread to pull – and possessed the patience to know when to pull it – was a man who could achieve anything. The threads had been pulled, the pieces placed, and now all he needed to do was wait. But patience and waiting were two separate things. He had the former but was never good at the latter.

Drawing a deep breath of the winter air, Fane stepped back inside his chambers, moving to the two black leatherbound books that rested on the desk he’d had brought to the room.

Kiralla Holflower’s research – with invaluable input from Brother Pirnil. The Scholar had proved himself a surprisingly valuable asset, picking up where Kiralla had left off with voracious rapacity. He had a keen mind and an unquestionable devotion to Efialtír – which had only strengthened since theChosen had crossed. Even then, with the sun long set, the man worked tirelessly on the new tasks he had been given.

Brother Pirnil had a twisted and black heart. Fane had seen that from the moment he’d met the man. But at the very least, Pirnil was obsessed with the consumption of knowledge, and as long as that obsession remained focused on blood runes, Fane could look past the other details.

As Fane touched the black leather that covered Holflower and Pirnil’s research, a knock sounded at the door, followed by the creaking of wood at Fane’s admittance.

“Emperor.” Brother Drakus Pirnil bowed deeply. His eyes were sunken and ringed purple, his clothes stained and creased. Obsession had indeed been the correct word. Fane knew that feeling all too well. There were many times in his youth when he’d gone for days on little or no sleep, neither bathing nor changing for fear of losing even a moment. Though as Fane felt the sweet taste of Essence radiating from the man, it was clear this was not simple exhaustion. Pirnil had been consuming Essence at far too high a rate. Subtle veins of red snaked through the whites of his eyes, and his skin had grown ghostly pale. Fane needed to ensure that Pirnil finished his work before he succumbed.

“Brother Pirnil, I was only just thinking of you.” Fane tapped his index finger against the black leather book. “What do you need?”

“I’ve done it, Your Majesty.” The man swallowed, his head twitching slightly, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand rubbing back and forth over each other.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate, Brother Pirnil, and perhaps take a second to slow your mind.”

The Lector’s hands shook as he held them in the air. He spoke so quickly Fane could hardly understand him. “The runes, the runes of the Bloodmarked. I understand them. They are notjust carved, there is more to it. I was right, you see. A blade is not used. No. Not a blade. Also, intent. You need intent. Runes require a purpose. A purpose, yes. They are pieces of your soul.”

“Brother Pirnil.” Fane raised his voice, firm and deep.

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