Page 425 of Of Empires and Dust

Haem fixed his gaze on Calen once more. “I wanted to come to you… I tried… I just?—”

“I understand,” Calen said. “More than you know. It’s not like it used to be, is it? When our choices were our own.” Calen pushed the thoughts of Farda from his mind, realising he had something far more important to tell Haem. “Ella is awake.”

Haem’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping. “Is she all right? Is she?—”

“She’s all right… better than all right.” A broad smile swept across Calen’s face, and before he could say another word, Haem pulled him in tighter.

Calen closed his eyes for a moment and just savoured knowing his brother was so close.

“Come,” Calen said, eventually pulling away from Haem. “First, we must pay our respects to the dead. But then we will talk, and tonight we can drink and eat with the others.” He grabbed Haem’s shoulder. “It’s good to have you back… I needed you back.”

“No, Calen. I came here to tell you that you must take Valerys now and fly with me. Grandmaster Kallinvar has asked that you come to the Temple of Achyron so that we may ready ourselves for the last day of the Blood Moon. It’s not far, a day’s flight at most.”

Calen just stared back at his brother, dumbfounded. “Leave? Now?” He gestured towards Salme and the piles of burning Uraks and the pyres and the graves. “Do you not see this? Are you blind, or have I gone mad?”

“Calen, if Efialtír crosses into this world, there will be more dead than you can imagine. We need to go. None of this matters if The Traitor crosses.”

“You sound like your Grandmaster now.” Calen stared into Haem’s eyes. “These are our people, Haem.” He pointed at Erdhardt in the saddle. “Ourpeople! The Glade is gone, but this is our home. Jorvill is dead – Dann’s mam is dead.”

“Ylinda…” The hardness that had set into Haem’s eyes vanished in an instant.

“Burned alive by cowards who fled on the boats.”

“Calen, I didn’t know. I’m?—”

“I can’t leave tonight. What am I if I do that?” Calen drew a slow breath in, trying to calm himself. It wasn’t Haem he wasmad at. “If I cannot honour the dead, what right have I to ask the living to keep fighting?”

In the back of Calen’s mind Valerys’s thoughts wrapped around his, the dragon’s fire warming him, stilling the pain in his heart. Calen drew a breath to settle himself. “I asked fourteen thousand souls to march hundreds of miles to fight and die in a place far from their homes and the people they love. A third of them died here because I flew north when I could have flown south. I have accepted my choice. It was the choice I needed to make. But Iwill notfly away as though their deaths did not matter. Do you understand me? I will not be that man. They need me here,Dannneeds me here, and this is where I will be.”

Calen wrapped his fingers around Haem’s forearm. “And if you are my brother, this is where you will be. I don’t care what they told you at that temple.Thisis your home, your people. Erdhardt thought you were dead until I told him last night.” Calen gestured up at Erdhardt. “Do as I ask today. Then tomorrow come with me to The Glade. Erdhardt buried Mam and Dad there. I want to plant saplings. Will you do that with me? Then I will fly. You have my word.”

“Calen, we can’t wait. We need to?—”

“One fucking day!” Calen roared, trying desperately to quell the anger that burned within him. “Give me one day. Our parents’ bones lie alone beneath the ashes of our home, and you will not come with me? Haem, or Arden… because that’s who you are now, isn’t it? You’re not Haem anymore. You’ve not been Haem in a long time.” Calen knew those words were harsh, but his fury burned too bright to take them back. “I’m going to watch as Valerys lights the Belduaran pyres. I’m going to say the Blessings of the Gods over the graves. And I’m going to drink and eat with those who were lucky enough to survive. Tomorrow I will go to The Glade, and I will bring saplings to plant whereMam and Dad rest. If you are still here, then Tivar and I will answer your master’s call.”

Calen didn’t wait for an answer. He gestured to Tivar, whose face showed a recognition of his pain, and set off down the slope towards the city, nodding to Erdhardt as he went.

When night fell,Calen stood outside The Rusty Shell with a tankard of ale in his hand that he’d not touched and a weight in his heart that scratched at him. The streets were full, illuminated by wood-filled braziers and lanterns suspended between the buildings by lengths of chain. Even in the small space outside the inn, at least five different songs were being played by five different bards, and not one of them was as bad as the bard from The Two Barges in Milltown, who had sounded like a drunk man strumming a cat.

“The people of Belduar were honoured to see Valerys light the pyres,” Tarmon said, his arms folded, a cup held firmly in his right hand. Much like Calen, the man hadn’t touched his drink. “It was appreciated beyond measure.”

“It was our honour.” Calen stared across the wide street to where Dann stood with Tharn, Lyrei, Therin, Erik, and a young girl who’d seen fifteen or sixteen summers. All Calen wanted to do was take his friend and go drink by the water. They didn’t have to talk. Sitting and staring out at the ocean would have been enough. But he needed to give Dann his space. He would be there whenever Dann needed him, as Dann had always been for him.

“Warden.” Two men and three women approached and gave a slight bow before passing on and entering The Rusty Shell.

“It is strange,” Vaeril said, sipping at his drink.

“What is?” Tarmon asked.

“To see so many souls from so many worlds all in one place.”

Calen couldn’t help but agree. Elves of Lunithír, Vaelen, and Ardurän laughed and drank and danced next to men and women of the villages and warriors of the Dracurïn who had come from all about the continent. Even a handful of dwarves walked among them.

“Stranger still to see Lorian soldiers.” Calen narrowed his gaze at the men and women who all stood together on the far side of the street. Most wore loose shirts and trousers, but some were still clad in the black and red leather of Loria.

“I’ve heard tell there are two Battlemages amongst their number,” Tarmon said.

“You have heard true.” A dark-haired man of middling years stepped through the crowd and inclined his head to Calen and the others, a silver-trimmed black cloak about his shoulders. “I am Exarch Dorman of the Imperial Battlemages of the Forty-Third Army.”

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