Page 242 of Of Empires and Dust

“I did have one problem, though. If you’re taking critique.”

Salara raised an eyebrow at that as she crunched on a particularly robust tuber.

“Well,” Boud continued when Salara didn’t respond, “it was a touch hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Salara swallowed, setting her hands down against the wooden table. “Careful, druid.”

That same false smile. Boud dropped her head and continued eating, then drained the remnants of her wine.

“Go on then.” Salara couldn’t help herself. Boud had been with them quite a while, ever since they’d found her wandering the depths of Lynalion. She had always been far too arrogant for a prisoner and had done little to shield her wit. And when she chose to speak, there was always a point to it. Salara had learned to listen.

Boud reached across the table, grabbed the bottle, and poured herself more wine. She didn’t ask this time. “Well,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, “you spoke of chains and collars and of what the Lorians took from these former slaves – the Onarakina you call them, no?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You revile the Lorians for what they did to those elves, and rightly so, slavery, binding living souls in iron, is not a pleasant thing. And yet… I am a little perplexed by your revulsion.”

Boud fingered the rune-marked collar around her neck. “Apparently, it’s only a dark and horrible deed when someone else does it. Seeing as my collar doesn’t affect you so.”

“Yours is necessary.”

This time the smile was genuine, breaking into a stifled laugh. “You really believe that, don’t you? The arrogance.”

“Watch your tongue. I won’t warn you again.”

“Or what, you’ll take it from me? What then? Do you think I will do what you ask after you’ve taken my tongue?”

“There’s plenty left to take after that.”

“Have you ever stopped and listened to the words that leave your lips, Salara Ithan? You talk to those elves as though what was done to them is the darkest of all horrors. You tell them how they will have their vengeance, tell them how things will be made right. All the while, you keep a collar around my neck and threaten to cut out my tongue and more pieces of me besides.”

“You do not look like a slave,” Salara said, tilting her head towards the plate of food before Boud and the full cup of wine in her hand. “And you do not act like a slave.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Boud drank deeply from her cup. She shook her head and continued eating without speaking another word.

Salara stared at her, clenching one hand into a fist beneath the table, unable to look away as the woman devoured her food.

Once the plate was emptied, Boud picked it up in two hands and licked it clean, fully aware that Salara was staring at her. When she was done, she placed the plate down carefully and let out a long, satisfied sigh, leaning back on the bench, her two hands bracing against the wood. After a moment, she rose from her seat, then leaned across the table and stared into Salara’s eyes. “I’m not sure whether it’s arrogance or wilful ignorance, but it is for a certainty interesting that you do not see how you are no different from the empire you wish to destroy. An endless cycle.”

Salara jolted upright, pushing the bench back, Vyrmír’s rage stirring within her. She did not temper it. She leaned forwards so her face was only inches from Boud’s. “I would kill you right here and leave your blood to drain into the stone.”

“And what would your queen say about that? About you killing her prized little pet?”

“You think yourself more than you are. You are a boon, not a necessity. We will win this war with or without you. You would do well to remember that.”

The false smile crept onto Boud’s lips once more. “I guess we will see.”

Chapter 55

Choices

18thDay of the Blood Moon

Berona – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

“This depictsthe first ever taming of black lions by Thrandon Firehand, before Loria was even a kingdom – four hundred and nine After Doom, I believe.” Fane stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fingers interlocked. The wall before him was adorned with a tapestry woven in fine threads of gold, crimson, and black, accented by thin embellishments of pure white.

Eltoar was silent at Fane’s left shoulder. The elf had taken the loss of Catagan as a personal failure. Near enough a hundred thousand had died. Almost every living soul within the city. Some reports said the city’s garrison had surrendered and the elves had slaughtered them anyway, while others insisted the garrison had fought till the end, refusing to yield the city to the foreign invaders. Fane found it unlikely that the elves hadrefused the garrison’s surrender, but it was not a rumour he was going to stop.

“As it moves on,” Fane said, pointing from the left side of the tapestry and then across its length, “it traces the Lorian history from the first king, Orden Ubbein, all the way to now. Every thread of it was woven by hand. One of the largest of its kind created without the Spark. A true testament to human craftsmanship and dedication. I wouldn’t have the patience for it.”

“Is there a point to this?”

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