Page 431 of Of Empires and Dust

Garramon looked down at the young man strapped to the chair and grabbed Pirnil’s arm.

The man rounded on him, raging. “What do you?—”

Garramon grabbed Pirnil by the throat and slammed him against the wall, the gemstone dropping from the man’s grasp. He wrapped his fingers tighter around Pirnil’s throat. Garramon already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask, but he needed to ask it. “Who is the candidate?”

“Your apprentice,” Pirnil choked. “That little southern wretch.” Even with Garramon’s hand wrapped around his throat, Pirnil’s lips twisted into a grin. “Fane thinks he is perfect. But I know he doesn’t have the strength to accept The Saviour into his body. I will watch fondly as he is ripped apart from the inside out, and Fane will finally understand that he himself is the only true candidate. You will see, Garramon.”

“You will see nothing. Not ever again.” Garramon wove threads of Air and Fire about himself, then lashed them across Brother Pirnil, a hundred at a time. The man screamed and thrashed, but Garramon held him in place. “How does it feel, Drakus, to have your cruelty inflicted upon you?”

Garramon ripped and burned the flesh from Pirnil’s body, searing through his tattered robes. “Scars over time can build a man, Drakus. But you don’t have time. I will not let you come for my family again.”

“I didn’t,” Pirnil screamed. “I never! Agh!”

“For every scar you gave Rist, I will give you a hundred. For every drop of pain you have inflicted on these poor souls, I will give you a thousand. This ends here.”

“But the emperor… The Saviour! We are so close!”

“I can’t believe you’re the one I’m saying this to.” The acrid smell of fresh-burnt flesh slithered into Garramon’s nostrils as he held Pirnil against the wall, thousands of cuts lacing the man’s body. “But it has taken me four hundred years to realise that I cannot place the will of a god above the lives of the flesh and blood, living people that I love. No… not that I cannot, but that Iwillnot. Burn in the void, Drakus Pirnil. It is all you have ever deserved.”

Garramon pulled threads of each elemental strand, weaving them into his fist until a shimmering blue níthral formed in his hand. He drove the blade into Pirnil’s chest, watching as the light went out in the man’s eyes.

He released his níthral and let Pirnil’s body drop, then unbuckled the straps that held the young man in place and pulled the rag from his mouth. “Can you stand?”

Barely a grunt escaped his lips.

Garramon moved over to Pirnil’s bench and grabbed the black leatherbound book he had been scribbling in, along with the one he had just had copied. With all four books stacked in one hand, Garramon hauled the young man upright and carried him from the chamber.

All broken thingsstarted with tiny cracks. Some grew quickly, with little time to fix them. Others happened slowly and were never noticed until it was too late.

There were two broken things in the library that night: Rist and his understanding of the world.

Rist sat in a small nook on the top floor of the truly enormous Beronan Library, a curtain drawn. The Circle had its own library, but he’d wanted to be alone. Splayed out on the table before him was every letter he had ever received from his parents. He had spent hours going over them. Calen’s words echoed in his mind.

“Rist, your mam and dad are alive. They’re safe. They tortured them, Rist, but I broke them free.”

Those words had sounded again and again and again. Even when Rist slept. They gnawed at him from the inside out. What had Calen meant?

Rist dropped his elbows to the table and clasped the back of his head.

Calen was the Draleid. Calen was the one who had burned Kingspass, the one who had incited the rebellion. How was that even possible? Nothing made sense. Nothing.

Pieces were missing. How could he solve a puzzle with the pieces missing? He needed to speak to Garramon. There were things the man hadn’t told him, and he knew it. He’d always known it, but he simply hadn’t realised quite how large those things were. He knew if he asked Garramon a straight question, the man would answer him. He would.

Where are my parents? Have you lied to me?

The curtain slid open, and Rist found himself staring up at Fane Mortem. Every fibre of his body told him to grab the letters and hide them, but it was too late.

“You and I are alike in so many ways, Rist.” The emperor dropped himself into the armchair on the other side of the table as though he were Rist’s oldest friend in the world. “The library was always where I went when I sought peace… or answers.” He glanced down at the letters on the table. He smiled. “I wish I had parents as dedicated as yours to send so many letters. Mine sent me off to The Order when I was barely old enough to read. There was coin, you see, as reimbursement. I didn’t see them again until I was… oh, perhaps in my twenty-sixth year? Cherish them, Rist. A mother and father like that are worth holding on to.”

“Emperor Mortem…” Rist tried his hardest not to stare down at the letters. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I’m not staying long. A little birdie told me you were here, and I just wanted to check in. I saw Garramon after his return from the battle, but not you. Azrim reported to me that you showed a great deal of strength in dealing with the Draleid. Perhaps it is time we see if you are fit to join the ranks of the Arcarians. What do you think?”

“Already? Now? Tonight?”

Fane stared at him a moment, tilting his head to the side, then smiled. “No, not tonight. But I believe we are very close.” Fane leaned across the table. “You have the power within you, Rist. I felt it from the first day I met you. You have the power to change the world, just like I did, just like Garramon. I will guide you.”

The curtain moved once again, and this time a Praetorian in ruby red plate stood in the nook’s opening. He bowed to Fane. “Emperor, Helios has returned. Commander Daethana has sent a message.”

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