Page 451 of Of Empires and Dust

They had spent some hours helping to take the bodies down from the trees along the Oak Road. Calen could have used the Spark, but the thought of it made him feel empty. Those people deserved the care and attention of living hands. They deserved the respect that had been denied to them.

At that moment, Lanan Halfhand was coordinating the dig of the burial site. Calen and the others would return to pay their respects once they left The Glade.

Ahead, Calen could see the burnt remains of the place he had once called home, the place he had once believed he would spend the rest of his life. With every step the horse took, Calen’s heart hammered heavier against his ribs.

“It’s strange seeing it for the first time,” Dann said, pulling his horse alongside Calen’s.

“Do you remember the night Rist had his first mead?” Calen gestured towards the charred remains of a tree stump that had stood near the western edge of the village.

“Like it was yesterday,” Dann answered. “Erdhardt stood in the puddle of puke the very next morning.”

Erdhardt looked back from atop the mountain of a horse he rode, Erik and Tarmon riding beside him. “He handled it better than you did your first mead, Master Pimm.”

“It’s not a competition,” Dann called back, a fleeting smile touching his lips.

The memory gave Calen a brief moment of joy, but it died as soon as his thoughts turned to the Firnin Mountains. To Rist. He still hadn’t told Dann. How did you tell someone something like that? He knew he needed to… but he also needed to find the right moment.

Calen tilted his head back and looked to Valerys and Varthear in the sky, then brought his gaze back down to the burnt buildings that had begun to creep around them. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat when he noticed that Haem had dismounted ahead.

Haem stood before a line of thick, silvery lavender bushes, one hand gripping his horse’s reins.

Calen threw one leg over and slid from his saddle, charred wood and ash crunching beneath him. He approached as slowlyas he could without coming to a halt. As he walked, his mind drifted back to that day – the day everything had changed. The day Therin had saved his life. The day his mam and dad had died.

A hand rested on his back, and he turned and gave Anya a weak smile.

“Erdhardt planted the lavender,” Anya said. “He took it from the bush Freis had planted by his own home. It was one of the only things that didn’t burn when the Uraks attacked.”

Calen looked over to try and find Erdhardt with his gaze. The man had drifted away and knelt amidst the charred remains of his home.

Haem had told Calen of Aela’s death, of the night The Glade had been attacked, of how the man had fought like a god, only to lose the one thing he loved. Calen allowed Erdhardt to mourn in peace and went to join Haem by the silvered lavender bushes that now stood where their home had once been.

The silence stretched for what seemed like an eternity and yet could never truly have been long enough.

“I’m sorry you had to face that alone,” Haem whispered, staring down at the patch of turned earth within the lavender bushes.

“I wasn’t alone.” Calen glanced at Dann, who stood only a few paces behind him, Lyrei at his side, Anya, Vaeril, and Tarmon close by. He looked back over at Haem, who stood in silence with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the dirt.

Calen rested a hand on Haem’s shoulder, then returned to the horse, where two saplings hung in a satchel from the saddle. They had been given to Erdhardt by a forester from Salme, and Erdhardt had given them to Calen. Seeds wouldn’t grow this time of year without constant tending, but the saplings stood a chance.

Calen pulled out the clay pots from the satchels and handed one to Haem.

His brother took it as though being handed a newborn babe. He inclined his head and gave Calen a fragile smile.

“They’d stand a better chance in spring,” Calen said, standing beside his brother.

“Calen, we had the same mam. I know what season is best to plant ash.” Haem elbowed Calen in the shoulder gently, then looked down at the pot in his hand. “Thank you.”

Calen nodded. “After this, we’ll fly to your temple. I promise.”

The air shook, wingbeats thumping overhead, and both Valerys and Varthear alighted on the other side of where Calen’s home had once stood. Sorrow and loss radiated from Valerys as the dragon stared down at the patch of earth, a low rumble in his throat.

Valerys had never met Vars and Freis, never seen their love with his own eyes or heard it with his own ears or felt it with his own heart. But the dragon knew their love through Calen, and he mourned them the same.

Calen stepped forwards through the gaps in the lavender. He set the clay pot down and, with his hands, he dug a deep hole in the earth.

Beside him, Haem did the same.

Together they pulled their saplings free and set them gently in the ground, covering the roots with soil.

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