Page 80 of Of Empires and Dust

The room on the other side was dimly lit, the curtains drawn across windows, tallow candles casting soft light on the stone.

Two men stood at the chamber’s heart, deep in conversation. Even before Rist could see their faces, he could tell by the gold and red trims on their black cloaks and by the undulating waves of power that rippled from them that they were none other than Andelar Touran and Fane Mortem.

It seemed such a ridiculous thing that he would be standing in this place, in the same room as these two men. Rist Havel, son of Lasch and Elia Havel, standing in the High Tower of the Circle of Magii with the Primarch of the Imperial Battlemages and the emperor of Loria. It felt as unbelievable as one of Dann’s stories.

“Ah, Garramon. Right on time.” Fane Mortem exuded that same insouciant charisma he’d had the first time Rist had methim. He held that same focused look in his eyes, that same intensity. “Wine?”

Garramon shook his head, greeting Fane and the Primarch. “Primarch Touran, this is Rist Havel, Brother of the Imperial Battlemages.”

The older man took a step closer, the soft light of the candles illuminating the deep wrinkles in his skin. Such visible aging meant the Primarch was nearing the end of his time – but how long had that time been? He’d heard some say Touran had witnessed over nine hundred summers. From what Rist had read in multiple accounts, how long a mage lived was as varied as how long any soul lived. Some saw four hundred summers, others eight hundred. But there are some instances of mages surviving over a thousand. Rist couldn’t quite grasp the concept of watching that much time pass him by.

In the chamber by the Well of Arnen during Rist’s Trial of Will, he hadn’t realised quite how tall Andelar Touran was. The man’s frame was thin and bony, but he was taller than Rist by several inches.

Andelar stared at Rist, examining him. The Primarch’s cold expression gave away nothing.

“I remember you,” he croaked, his voice sounding far less indomitable now that it wasn’t amplified by threads of Air and Spirit. “Your Trial of Will was interesting.”

Rist couldn’t help but wonder why the man had said that, why he had chosen the word ‘interesting’. There was a subtlety in the word that was not lost on Rist, a subtlety that confirmed something he had long wondered: the Primarch had seen what Rist had seen.

“Emperor Mortem has told me of your exploits.” Andelar looked to Fane, who held a cup of wine in his right hand, his arms crossed. “He believes you have a unique potential. As does Exarch Garramon. I am yet to be convinced.”

Fane let out a short laugh and grabbed a second cup of wine from the table beside him. “Always so serious, Andelar. Even when I was only a child, you were the same, back in your… ‘youth’.” He offered the cup to Rist. “Wine, Brother Havel? I fear you might need it.”

“Ehm… Yes.” Rist looked to Garramon, who raised a curious eyebrow. “I mean, no. Thank you.” He hesitated for another moment, then took the cup. “Yes.”

Rist wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but he’d grown quite fond of wine and thought of what Magnus would say if Rist told him he’d refused a cup from the emperor of Loria.

“Brother Havel.” Fane gestured to a set of three black leather couches surrounding a low table a few feet away, then dropped himself languidly onto a cushion. He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, draping his right elbow over the armrest. “Do you remember our conversation in Al’Nasla’s library?”

Rist and Garramon both took a seat on the couch opposite Fane while the Primarch occupied the third.

“I do, Emperor Mortem.”

“Please, call me Fane. You’re a full Brother now, the youngest in the history of the Circle, if I am correct? Taking the record from me.”

Rist stared back awkwardly, which drew a grin from the emperor.

“You remember, Rist, how we spoke of that thrum in the air, that rhythmic vibration? And how you said you had felt it in Al’Nasla? Did you feel it here?”

Just the mention of the thrum brought it back to the fore of Rist’s mind, overwhelming his senses. A low buzz rang in his ears, the hairs on his arms pricking. He stopped himself from closing his eyes and pressing his fingers into his temple. As he looked at the others about him, he realised he could almost ‘see’ the power pulsing from all three men, like the ripples thatundulate across water when a rock is dropped. Focusing, he could see that although power flowed from Andelar Touran, the old Primarch was nothing in comparison to Garramon or Fane. If Touran was a stone dropped in a lake, Garramon and Fane were boulders.

Rist once again opened the pages of a book in his mind and settled himself with the words, the thrum fading.

“Your reaction answers my question,” Fane said, sipping his wine. “I’m sure Garramon told you of his first time in Berona. Well, some years after that, I walked through the main gates, fresh as a spring flower, and do you know what I did?”

Rist shook his head.

“I emptied my guts onto the stone after about five minutes. Then I passed out in my own vomit. I was six.” The emperor laughed, shifting back into the hard cushion behind him and taking another drink. “I don’t tell many people that story for obvious reasons. But most people can’t relate to it, can’t understand. You can, can’t you?”

Rist took a deep mouthful of the wine he hadn’t touched until that moment. He recognised the taste immediately. It was the same wine he’d been given before the Battle of the Three Sisters: the wine from Etrus. Garramon had said Fane kept some of the casks for himself. “It’s like I can’t think,” he said, scratching at his arm. Thinking of the sensation sent an anxiety through him. “…or breathe, or hear, or feel. It just… it takes over.”

“You’ve obviously found something that focuses you, judging by your current state – far quicker than I did, might I add. What is it?”

“Books.”

“Books?” Andelar Touran’s voice was equal parts curiosity and scepticism.

“Books,” Rist confirmed. “Your books are some of them.A Study of ControlandThe Spark: A Study of InfinitePossibilities.When the feeling gets too strong, I read the pages in my mind. It calms me, allows me to focus.”

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