Page 172 of Of Empires and Dust

Readingthat letter over caused Rist’s throat to tighten and his stomach to feel like a tight ball of lead. What if they were dead? What if his mam and dad were already gone?

The thought terrified him to his core. He had never known the world without them. They had always been his compass, his map, his stars. How was he to find his way in the world without his stars to guide him?

They couldn’t be dead. Because if they were dead… if they were dead, then he no longer understood the world. People like Lasch and Elia Havel were meant to die old and fat in their beds. Their hair was meant to turn grey, their faces lined from laughter, while Rist brought them dinner and passed them their grandchildren to hold. That was how it was meant to be. Good people were rewarded with a happy life and an old death. Because if that wasn’t true, then what in the void was the point of everything?

He refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket, staring out over the city. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, but he held them back.

His thoughts moved to Calen. Vars and Freis had been good people, some of the kindest and most loving Rist had ever known. They had not died fat and old. They had died in the street, murdered.

Murdered by soldiers of the same empire Rist now fought to protect. The thought was not one that avoided him. But he’d reasoned out the logic. If an entire group of people should be condemned for the actions of a few, then all of Pirn should have been slaughtered after Jonas Urn killed Iain Timbal of Erith over two cows. And even more directly, The Glade should have been burned after Calen and Dann killed those soldiers outside The Two Barges.

The soldiers who’d killed Calen’s parents were nothing like those Rist had met. They were not Magnus, or Anila, or Neera, or Garramon. He was under no illusion that there were no evil souls within the armies of the Lorian Empire, but the same was true in every corner of the world. At least where he was, he hadthe power to make a difference. If he’d never left The Glade, never learned what it was to touch the Spark, what would he even be? Nothing. He’d be pouring mead behind the bar of The Gilded Dragon, reading and eating until he grew fat and old. Which, if he was being honest with himself, didn’t sound half bad. But he would still have been weak and helpless in the face of Uraks.

Even still, he’d spent no insignificant amount of time pondering Ella’s words after she’d attacked him in the tent after Steeple.

“How could you fight for them? You’re meant to be his closest friend. How could you turn on him, Rist?”

At first, he’d thought she’d been referring to what had happened to Vars and Freis. That would have made sense.

But that wasn’t it.

Ella had not been there when Vars and Freis had been killed. But more so, she had specifically said ‘how could you turn onhim’. On Calen, not her.

Rist pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop his mind from racing, from cycling through every possible permutation of every situation. He tried the trick Garramon had taught him to focus when the thrum of the Spark grew too overwhelming, reading pages ofA Study of Controlin his mind, the words settling him.

“Thought I might find you up here.”

Rist started at the sound of Magnus’s voice, almost falling from the window ledge. That would not have been a pleasant way to die. He shivered at the thought.

“Catch.” Magnus threw the waterskin before the words had left his lips. It soared through the air, past Rist’s face, and out the window. Three heartbeats were followed by a wetsplatand the roars of an irate guard.

Magnus gave Rist a look of sheer and utter disappointment. His lips moved, but no sound came. He just stood there and stared.

“You threw it at my head? How was I meant to catch that?”

“With your fucking hands, lad.” He pressed his palm to his face. “I only have one, and I’d have caught that. Has anyone ever told you that you have the coordination of a drunk Varsundi donkey with one eye?”

“They’ve not been that specific, no.”

Magnus let out a long sigh, swinging a satchel around to his front and pulling another skin from within.

“You’re lucky I always come prepared,” he said, making to hand the skin to Rist but drawing it back at the last moment. “You sure you’ve got it?”

“I’m sure.”

“Want me to warn you before I pass it to you? Count back from three?”

“What is it?” Rist snatched the skin from Magnus’s hand, examining the cork stopper before pulling it free. The sweet scent of honey mead drifted to his nostrils.

“I thought you could use a taste of home. It’s mead you said your father brews?”

And just like that, Rist was warm again, memories of home flooding him. “It is.”

“I’m sure it’s not as good as your father’s, but I’d wager the second mouthful will taste better than the first.”

“Thank you.” When Rist had first met Magnus at the camp outside of Al’Nasla, the last thing he’d expected from the bearded mountain of a man was the kindness of an old friend. But Magnus had continued to prove that assumption wrong time and time again.

“Don’t thank me till you’ve tried it. Berona’s known for many things, lad. Good mead’s not one of them. Come to think ofit, I’ve not seen bees in quite some time. It might not even be mead.”

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