Page 241 of Of Empires and Dust

Salara turned as she spoke, staring out at the hundreds of Onarakina, who had all drawn closer. The silence was so complete she could have heard a pin drop.

“I remember where I was the moment I felt my heart ignite. I was but a child, many years ago, struggling – as you all struggle – to find my valúr. I heard an elf with the voice of a god sing ‘The Lament of Gods and Ashes’. Her name was Líra Alunea.”

As Salara shifted in place, she spotted Ervian, Cara, and Vandrien all watching from a low balcony that overlooked the yard. The druid, Boud, stood at their side. “It is a song written during the Age of War, and it found new meaning after the Cuendyar. It speaks of loss, and death, and darkness. But alsoof hope, and heart, and finding strength within ourselves and in those around us.”

Salara closed her eyes and thought back to that night in the city of Mynivír, in the great auditorium where the legendary Craftsmage Líra Alunea had sung the song that had changed Salara’s life. Her mother had taken her while her father had been serving as an emissary to Caelduin. It had been a long, trying day, and her mother had bribed Salara with promises of sweet cakes and pastries. Simpler times.

“Hearing that song, hearing Líra sing it as though she were bleeding her heart into every word… it changed me. And as I look back on my life, I realise it played a large part in forging me into the elf I am today. And that is why I ask that you pursue your valúr with the same vigour and relentless determination that you do weaponscraft. Because it is our culture, our history, our language – and our pride in all three – that make us Evalien. Whether your valúr is song, or storytelling, or crafting, or sculpture, or anything in the world, wear it with the same pride you would a gilded suit of armour.” Salara slammed her fist against her breastplate. “Because youareEvalien. You are proud. You are strong. And no matter what they try to take from you, you are no longer alone. Your valúr is yours. Your passion is yours. And you are home. I denír viël ar altinua!” she roared, a burning passion rising within her, the flames ignited by Vyrmír, who lent his voice to hers, Baerys and Nymaxes joining. “Du é evalien!”

Feet stamped, and beside her Undrír and Taran began to clap their hands to their chests.

“In this life and always. You are elves!”

A low hum, rising and falling to the melody of ‘The Lament of Gods and Ashes’, touched her ears, and she glanced over to see Taran humming the tune.

“When the Lorians face you on the field of battle, let them face Evalien who would die for what they are. Let them know that, after all this time, they still could not strip your heart from you, that you found your people!”

The long, sweet strokes of a violin sounded, followed by the delicate plucking of a harp. Two of the elves charged with instructing the Onarakina had taken up the instruments and accompanied Taran’s humming.

Salara looked back at the elf who had spoken. “A valúr is yours. It is part of who you are and where you are from. It is your blood, and your bones, and your soul.”

She turned to where Warmarshal Luilin stood with Captain Undrír. She clasped Luilin’s shoulder and met his gaze. “These elves were stripped of everything that made them elves. They were collared and chained and forced to work until their bodies gave way.” She turned back to the crowd of Onarakina, who were now clapping their hands to their chests along with the beat of an elf who had taken up a drum. The smile that stretched Salara’s lips was a precious sliver of joy in a dark world. “They have never heard the sound of instruments. Never seen a summer’s twilight or a winter’s dawn. They do not need to be brought to heel. What they need is someone to give them back their pride. To give them purpose… Give them that, Warmarshal, and you will have them forever.”

Salara walked back through the crowd to Vyrmír. The dragon bowed his head to her, gold and crimson scales gleaming, a soft purr in his throat. Pride and honour and defiance flooded from his mind to hers. The Onarakina represented everything they were fighting for. And Salara and Vyrmír would protect them with their lives.

As she climbed onto the dragon’s back, Taran’s voice rose above the hum, singing the words of ‘The Lament of Gods andAshes’ clear and true. She patted Vyrmír’s scales and urged him upwards, adding her voice as the dragon ascended.

“In ashes of a burning world, I kneel before you now

My voice is torn, my body broke, the flames are growing higher.

My tears could never quench the fire, my cries are never heard.

Do you listen anymore? Have you ever done?”

Having leftVyrmír to rest in the eyrie he had claimed for himself in the cave of a nearby hill, Salara sat alone at a long table in one of the many halls of Cuinviel’s newly-erected keep. Moments alone were rare and precious. And the silence was even more so.

Before her was a cup, a bottle of deep-red wine, and a plate piled high with roast pheasant, slices of duck breast, half the flesh from a leg of lamb, carrots, tubers, glazed onions, and a plethora of other multi-coloured vegetables that made the plate look like a painting. All of that, along with a basket of bread fit for three people and a pitcher of lamb gravy that would act as a pond for every morsel of food to pass her lips. Food in Lynalion had never been scarce, but neither had it been as opulent or as varied.

In a war such as the one being waged, Salara never knew which day might be her last, and so she felt not a drop of guilt as she devoured the contents of the laden plate.

She was washing down a mouthful when footsteps sounded through the doorway that led to the hall. She motioned to wave away the porter before realising it was not a porter that approached.

Boud held an empty cup in one hand and an enamelled plate as full as Salara’s in the other. Six guards followed the druidinto the hall, two holding position at the doors, the other four framing her as she walked.

“Mind if I sit?” The woman had already set her plate down before asking the question, but Salara nodded. She was not destined for silence or a moment alone, it seemed.

Boud gestured to the bottle of wine, and Salara grunted in response.

“My thanks.” She filled her cup to the point of spilling, then set the bottle back in its place.

The sounds of eating and drinking echoed in the empty hall, not a single other soul bar the guards in a place fit for hundreds. It would have been such a glorious silence.

“That was a rousing speech you gave in the yard.” Boud stripped the meat from a small chicken leg, the skin crackling as she tore with her teeth. She washed it down with a mouthful of wine. “I watched from your queen’s side on the balcony. Very impressive.”

“Hmm.” Salara glanced up at the woman while sipping at her own cup.

“Truly. I was stirred.” Boud gave the falsest of smiles. Vandrien didn’t allow the druid to roam the city at will but gave her certain freedoms within the keep. She wanted to keep Boud close. Though, in all the time since they’d captured her, Boud had never tried to escape. And for some reason, that didn’t sit well with Salara.

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