Page 51 of Of Empires and Dust

“He confirmed the reports. A new dragon has hatched. We must…”

Salara allowed her words to fade as Vandrien raised a hand.

“We must follow the plan, Salara. I promise you, on my honour, that I will do everything I can to find out more about this, but we must hold fast.”

“Du haryn myia vrai, Myia’nari.”You have my thanks, my queen.

Vandrien nodded, sipping her wine. “May I ask a question of the heart?”

Salara nodded. A queen did not need to ask. Vandrien gave Salara more honour than she was due.

“How was it, seeing him again? How is your heart?”

Salara took a long draught of her wine, breathing in through her nose as she did. “Torn,” she said, exhaling. She folded her arms, staring off at an empty patch of red canvas on the tent’s wall. “I can’t reconcile the Eltoar I knew with the monster that ripped us apart. Seeing him only made that worse because he doesn’t look like a monster.” Salara turned to Vandrien, not bothering to hide her emotions. “He doesn’t, Vandrien. He looks like my master, like my friend. He looks like the elf who taught me everything, who taught me what honour truly meant, what it was to be a Draleid. He taught me who I am.”

“We are, each of us, capable of things we could never imagine.” Vandrien moved beside Salara, following her gaze. “No soul is incorruptible. Good and evil are words created so that our minds might grasp, in its most simplistic form, the concept of what is right and what is wrong. But the words themselves serve no purpose. For boiling down right and wrong into such basic forms is not possible in the living world, only in theory.”

Vandrien placed her cup on the table and filled it once more, doing the same with Salara’s. “Eltoar Daethana is not evil. He isnot a monster, nor a demon, nor a god. He is an elf, a Draleid. Nothing more. He is capable of both good and evil, right and wrong. But it is through his actions and the actions of those who followed him that so many of our people died. He is your former master, but he is also the butcher of everything you loved. He betrayed us, betrayed you. He hunted and slaughtered more Draleid than we could ever hope to count.” The queen gave a soft sigh. “Come. I have something you need to see.”

Salara followedVandrien from the tent, the queen’s Sunguard taking up positions on either side as they made their way back through the camp. There were six in total, never any more, never any less. Each guard wore a suit of smooth plate forged from Antherin steel and brushed gold. Charging stags adorned the tops of their articulated pauldrons, while their breastplates were marked with depictions of the sun. Unlike the rest of the army, the cloth that decorated their armour was not crimson but white trimmed in gold.

They were, each of them, the greatest warriors in Numillíon, masters of the blade, artists of the Spark. Even Salara herself would be hard pressed to fight her way through their steel.

“Alaith anar, Draleid.” Their commander, Olmaír Moridain, inclined his head to Salara. He was a tall, lithe elf with long, wiry arms and sharp eyes and had seen a hundred battles by the time Salara had drawn her first breath. A living legend.

Salara returned the gesture, bowing slightly. There were few for whom she held as much respect as she did for Moridain. Her father had raised her on stories of the elf.

As they walked, there were no bows from the elves they passed along the way. A bow was not sufficient for the one who would lead them from the darkness. Instead, each elf dropped one knee, leaving it to hover just short of the ground, restingtheir sword hands atop their pommels. It was something they had taken to doing when Vandrien had commanded them not to kneel, a sign they were always ready to fight for her.

After a while, they came to a section of the camp where the canopies switched from crimson and gold to a plain cream, marking where the elves who had been freed from the human iron mines were housed. She had not visited in the days since the mine’s sack, for which guilt still wracked her. She simply could not bring herself to look upon what the humans had turned her kin into.

The guards who stood about wore no armour and held no weapons. Crimson tunics adorned their shoulders, linen trousers falling over sandalled feet. Vandrien stopped and spoke with one of them, then gestured to Moridain. “Wait here.”

“Myia’nari.” Moridain and the Sunguard spread out in a line.

“Leave your sword with Olmaír,” Vandrien said to Salara, moving forward and gesturing for her to follow.

Salara did as commanded.

“You have the blood of Achyron in your veins, Salara,” Vandrien said when Salara caught her up. The smile that sat upon the queen’s lips was one of sorrow and sympathy. “You are a warrior through and through. But you still bleed like any other, still feel the crush of heartache.”

Salara looked at the ground as she walked, as much to avoid Vandrien’s gaze as to mind her step.

“Feel your grief,” Vandrien continued. “Let it flow through you. But so too feel youranger.” Vandrien’s voice rose, a growl forming in her throat. “Feel the rage at what was done to our people. Feel the fury at whatEltoar Daethanadid to our people,hispeople. Feel the fire.”

Vandrien rested a hand on Salara’s pauldron, her voice gentle. “Lift your gaze, Salara. Do not look away.”

Before them, the tents had parted into an enormous opening with hundreds of baldír lined along the edges, their white glow dim. Now that she focused, she could feel the thrum of the Spark in the air, see the threads of Spirit, Air, and Fire swirling about the mages who sat with their legs folded.

After a moment, her gaze moved to what Vandrien had brought her here for.

“So long have they been surrounded by rock on all sides that they refuse to sleep in the tents for fear of being trapped.” Vandrien clasped her hands behind her back, worry in the creases of her eyes, anger in the tremble of her voice. “The baldír give them comfort, shelter from the darkness.”

Everywhere Salara looked, elves lay in the dirt or sat huddled in groups. They were packed so tightly it was like looking upon a colony of ants. Each was garbed in the finest spider-silk woven in Eselthyr – beautiful, vibrant garments of blues, yellows, greens, and reds. They had been bathed in warm waters, their hair brushed, skin scrubbed. They had received treatment fit for royalty, and yet they huddled in the dirt, looking as though they feared their own shadows would come for them.

Rage smouldered in Salara’s chest, her jaw clenching.

“They have known little else besides the mines, besides the darkness and the walls, the hopelessness and the pain. They were born into a life of chains and bonds. Brought to the surface only so that they would know the light – know what they would never have.” As Vandrien spoke, Salara felt her draw from the Spark, threads of Earth and Spirit. “Generations of our people born into subservience, born to believe they were worth nothing more than the dirt in the ground.” The cup of wine that Vandrien had carried from the tent cracked and splintered, shattering, wine spilling like blood. Her hand shook, still holding the cup’s remnants. The queen’s dress flapped and lifted, threads of Air swirling around her. Waves of power surged from her,pulsing like a beating heart. She looked to Salara. “Warmarshal Luilin leads their integration. He is having the bralgír tell them stories of times passed, showing them our customs and culture, teaching them of honour and how to hold a weapon, educating them on the choosing of a valúr and what it means. But sometimes these things are not enough.”

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