Winter’s Touch

Calen jolted upright, his chest heaving, his heart pounding, sweat dripping down the sides of his face and neck. His dreams had felt so vivid, so real. Images of dragons soaring through the sky, bolts of lightning stripping stone from buildings, blazing infernos that spread for miles. It felt as though he was there. He closed his eyes, trying his best to slow his breathing. Then he felt Valerys. The dragon's thoughts crashed into his own like a boulder rolling down a hill. They were the same as his. Panic, fear, loss. Calen could feel Valerys's urgency, as though he feared for Calen's life. They had shared the dream.

Valerys craned his neck around, nuzzling his snout into the side of Calen's head as they lay there in the hay pile.

"It's all right. It was only a dream. It was only a dream." Calen tried to calm the dragon as he ran his hand along the scales at the back of Valerys's neck. The words didn't calm the dragon entirely, but Valerys's fear subsided a little. Calen didn't blame him; it had felt so real. "Draleid n'aldryr, Valerys. Myia nithír til diar." My soul to yours.

The words came to him as naturally as breathing, though he was not sure how he knew them. Therin's lessons in the Old Tongue had not been as frequent as Calen had liked. He had only picked up bits and pieces. He did not remember learning that phrase, but he knew it. It was the strangest thing. Where was the language coming from?

"Is it you?" Calen looked into Valerys's pale lavender eyes, searching them.

The dragon returned Calen's stare, tilting his head to the right. They stayed like that for a few seconds before Calen gave a weak smile, pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind, and dragged himself to his feet.

Calen rubbed the palms of his hands into the corner of his eyes, trying to loosen the stickiness that always came with the morning. Still, as tired as he was, he was determined to see the sun rise over the mountains in the east. He wasn't sure how long they had been down in the tunnels. Weeks, at least two, maybe three… maybe four. But in the dim flowerlight, surrounded by miles and miles of rock, with no end in sight and the click-clack of the kerathlin claws ever in the back of his mind, weeks had felt like months. He hadn't wanted to say it to Erik, but he, too, had doubted whether they would ever find their way out. Were it not for Valerys pushing him on, he wasn't sure he would have been able to keep going.

Calen made his way to the wooden ladder that hung from the loft of the barn. Grabbing one of the rungs, he climbed up, his muscles aching with each movement. Once he had dragged himself to the top, he walked over to the nearest of the rectangular windows that held a view of the mountains to the east. Even then, while the world was still shrouded in the dark of the receding night, Calen could see the glow of the morning sun drifting over the horizon, accompanied by the trill of birdsong.

'It is the simple things, boys. It is the simple things that bring the greatest pleasure.' Calen remembered his father's words as they, along with Haem, watched the sun rise over Wolfpine Ridge not four summers gone. He missed them both fiercely, as he did his mother, Ella, and Faenir. Even the slightest thought of them set a knot in his stomach and sent a shiver through his veins. If he had not gone back that day…

He felt Valerys tugging at his mind. Images flashed across his eyes, pushing everything else to the back. Images of home, memories that he had not thought of in years. Haem teaching him how to hold a sword. His mother wiping his knee clean after he had fallen from the tree outside Erdhardt Hammersmith's home. Riding on his father's shoulders as they went to help Ella train Faenir. They were the purest of memories, and they set a warmth in his heart, if only for a moment. Calen brought his hand to his face, wiping silent tears away as they rolled down his cheeks. Thank you.A rumble in the back of his mind emanated from Valerys. And just as it did, the soft orange glow of the sun crested the snow-capped mountain peaks in the distance, casting a beautiful orange light over the landscape. For a while, Calen did not move. He just stood there and let the warm touch of morning gently kiss his skin as it rolled over the world of white and green, glittering against the snow and frost. The simple beauty of a sunrise was a luxury he would not soon take for granted again.

He allowed himself a few more moments of uninterrupted peace before he had to face the day. He knew what he needed to do; his mind was set and it would not be changing.

Calen climbed back to the ground floor of the barn, snatched a half-eaten piece of bread that he hadn't had the stomach to finish the night before, and pulled on the clean shirt and trousers Alleron had arranged for him.

"You need to stay here for a bit," Calen said as he turned to Valerys, who still lay curled up in the pile of hay where Calen had left him, his ever-growing wings folded over himself. The dragon craned his neck into the air at the sound of Calen's voice, his lavender eyes fixed on Calen, giving a half-hearted rumble of disagreement. Calen couldn't blame him. He had been trapped in those tunnels for weeks and now Calen was asking him to stay inside even longer. But Valerys did not put up much of a fight; he knew that he could not be seen by the villagers. From what Alleron had said the night before, the empire had sent mages to every High Lord in the South, and more Lorian soldiers were arriving at Gisa and Falstide by the day. It did not take a scholar to recognise that the empire was using the Battle of Belduar and the appearance of the 'rebel Draleid' to solidify its position in the South.

The emissary had not yet arrived in Drifaien, but rumours had travelled fast from the other provinces. They could not trust the villagers to keep Valerys a secret.

"We will leave at nightfall, and the skies will be yours." Calen reached out, running his hand along the length of Valerys's snout, feeling the cool touch of the armour-like scales. A sense of comfort drifted from Valerys, followed by a reluctant acquiescence. "I will be back shortly."

While Valerys nestled his head back down into the hay, Calen picked up his sword and scabbard. He moved his fingers along the masterfully crafted leatherwork of green and brown, gently, as though it might break at any moment. Holding the scabbard in his left hand, he wrapped his right hand around the sword's grip and pulled the blade out five or six inches. He smiled as his eyes traced the intricate swirls that decorated the blade that had once belonged to his father – all that Calen had left of him. Calen slid the sword back into its scabbard and strapped the sword belt around his waist before bounding over to where his filthy clothes and leather armour still lay by one of the hay piles. Pushing his dirt-coated shirt aside, he dug his hands into the pocket of the trousers, a sigh of relief escaping him when he felt the soft unmistakable touch of the silk scarf. It looked as beautiful as it had the day he bought it. As red as the leaves that sat on the trees in The Glade, ready to fall at autumn's touch, with vines of gold and cream woven throughout it.

Standing back to his full height, Calen pulled one end of the silk scarf through a loop on his sword belt at his right hip, then tied it in a knot, before doing the same to the other end. It was a short scarf, so it didn't hang much, and that way he would not fear losing it. Either way, the idea of his mother sitting next to his father was a nice thought.

Taking a deep breath, Calen tilted his head back and let it out in a long puff. He made his way over to the barn door they had come in the night before, pushing it open just a crack before stepping out and closing it behind him.

Despite the glare of the morning sun, Calen most definitely felt winter's touch as the air swept over his skin, pushing through his thin shirt and causing every hair on his body to stand on end. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, letting the frosty air fill his lungs. Despite the cold, it was a welcome change from the thick, dusty air that hung in the tunnels. Another welcome change was the trill of morning birdsong that danced through the village, reminding him of home.

The sky above was clear, but a blanket of white coated the ground, the patrol routes of the village guard clearly marked out by carved paths of melted snow. The snowfall also covered every rooftop as far as Calen's eyes could see, with thick plumes of white and grey smoke drifting lazily from chimneys.

"It is a cold morning."

Calen almost leapt from his skin at the sound of Vaeril's voice. He turned to find the elf sitting cross-legged to the left of the barn door, still wearing his leather armour with his green cloak draped over his shoulders. His sword and white-wood bow were laid out in front of him. "Vaeril? What are you doing? You didn't stay out here all night, did you?"

Despite his legs being tangled together, the elf rose to his feet with a smoothness and a grace that Calen would never have been capable of imitating – even in his dreams.

"No, not all night. I spent some time walking the perimeter of the village. It is surrounded by forest on all sides but the north, with enough homes for four or five hundred. There seem to be guard patrols throughout the night. I spotted six separate groups of—"

"Vaeril, stop, stop. Why were you walking the perimeter of the village at night in the snow?"

"We needed to know where we are and what we might face. I couldn't do it during the day," Vaeril said with a shrug.

"I meant why were you doing it at all? Wait – what do you mean you couldn't do it during the day?"

Vaeril frowned. "My kind are not usually welcome in your lands. Belduar was different. They were used to us, but out here…"

Calen felt like an idiot. He had spent so long with Vaeril, Therin, and the other elves that the thought had not even come into his head. But he did remember Therin saying the same thing outside Camylin. "Vaeril, I'm sorry I didn't realise."

Vaeril shook his head and pulled his closed fist across his chest. "It is not something that requires an apology, Draleid. It simply is."

It was Calen's turn to frown. "I am still sorry. I should have thought. And please, call me Calen. I'm not sure how I feel about Draleid."

"As you wish," Vaeril said with a shrug.

Calen let out a sigh. At times, he forgot that the elves had sworn an oath to him. It wasn't something he was comfortable with. Ellisar had died honouring that oath. The images of the elf's headless body crashing to the floor still haunted Calen's dreams. He didn't want anyone following him out of obligation; he didn't want anyone else dying for him. There had been enough death already. "I'm going to practise my sword forms," Calen said, changing the subject. "I need to clear my mind. Would you like to join me?"

Vaeril shook his head. "Again, Calen," the name seemed to catch in Vaeril's throat, as though he had to force himself to say it, "I think it is best that while we are here, I keep my visibility low."

Calen could not help but allow a flicker of rage rise in chest. Vaeril had laid his life down more times than Calen could count. Calen would not leave him to sit in a freezing barn on his own. He would not allow the ignorance of fools to win the day. "Vaeril, practise with me."

"I—"

Calen fixed his gaze on Vaeril's, not allowing it to waver for even a moment. "Before the battle, Gaeleron was teaching me a new form. One used by the elves and later by The Order. Fellensír. I would like you to continue his teachings, please."

Calen thought he saw an acknowledgement in Vaeril's eyes as the elf gave a cautious nod. "Fellensír, the lonely mountain. It is a good balance to svidarya. I will do as you ask."

"Du haryn myia vrai." You have my thanks. That was one of the first pieces of the Old Tongue Therin had taught him.

Vaeril gave him a soft smile and laughed a little. "Din vrai é atuya sin'vala. You are coming along very well. Even among my people, the Old Tongue is not as prominent as it once was. The Common Tongue is simply more practical. I will teach you some more if you like."

Calen thought he recognised the phrase, but he wasn't sure. Din vrai é atuya sin'vala. It sounded like 'you are welcome', but the way Vaeril spoke the words was slightly different to Therin's pronunciation. "I would like that very much. But first?" Calen nodded to the open area of snow in front of the barn.

Vaeril nodded, snatching up his sword and bow.

Looking at the thick layer of snow that sat about a foot off the ground, Calen reached for the Spark. He took a look around him, making sure that nobody was near. It was early enough that most people would still be fast asleep in their beds, but it was still best to keep his use of the Spark to a minimum.

He pulled threads of Fire into himself. The heat of the Fire flowed through him from head to toe, seeping into every crack and crevice in his mind. In an instant, the chill that had buried itself into his bones was gone, cast away as though it had never existed. Calen pushed himself to focus. Of all the elemental strands, Fire always felt the most seductive. Calen knew that if he were not careful when drawing on threads of Fire, he would easily lose himself.

With a deep exhale, he pushed delicate threads of Fire into the snow before him. At the same time, he drew on threads of Water. He weaved the two threads together, using the Fire to melt the snow and the Water to funnel it outward. In moments, a large rectangle of grass was clearly visible just in front of Calen, the edges slightly frayed where the outgoing water had melted some of the surrounding snow. As soon as he released his hold on the threads of Fire, a shiver ran through Calen's body, the threads no longer holding the cold at bay.

He looked over the new practice space he had just created, not moving to stop the proud smile that touched his face. What's more, he had barely felt the drain at all. Therin was right, the Spark was like a muscle; the more Calen used it, the stronger he got.

"Very well done," Vaeril said, stepping out onto the newly exposed grass. "The primary limit to the Spark is your mind. Next time, try to use only threads of Fire. Push a little bit more in and turn the snow to vapour. It will rise into the air and drift away. Fire does not take as much strength from you as the other elements do – I can feel it. And weaving two elements together always takes more strength than one. You must always think, for in battle, the Spark can be the difference between life or death."

Calen nodded, stepping out onto the grass and pulling his sword from its scabbard, but he couldn't help but let a frown show on his face. "I will try as you say."

Vaeril pulled his green cloak from around his shoulders before removing his sword from its scabbard and placing both the cloak and scabbard down at the edge of the grass. "The fellensír," he said, moving to stand beside Calen, "is a defensive movement. It comprises fifteen major forms around which other minor forms can flow. The first major form is one you know well." Vaeril opened his stance, spreading his feet just over shoulder width apart, moving into the Crouching Bear. "It is a movement that requires the utmost discipline, and it takes a long time to truly master." Vaeril looked over at Calen, who watched him with unblinking focus. "Let us begin."

For a little over an hour, Vaeril and Calen moved through the fifteen major forms of the fellensír. Calen recognised some from the training with Gaeleron, Aeson, and his father, though their names seemed to vary depending on the teacher.

Even in the sharp morning air, sweat dripped down Calen's brow and tacked his shirt to his chest and back. But he didn't mind it, not even in the slightest. There was nothing that calmed his mind like practising sword forms. If he had closed his eyes, he would have imagined himself in The Glade, the sun cresting over Wolfpine Ridge, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his wooden practice sword, and Faenir sitting by the wall of the house, watching him. A melancholy sank into his heart. Those days were gone, and they would never return. He was no longer in The Glade. The sun still rose from the east, but it rose over a different mountain.

"Are you well?" Vaeril pulled himself to his full standing position, looking at Calen with an expression of concern.

"I'm all right," Calen said, letting out a deep sigh. He dropped himself to the ground, thankful for the release the soft grass provided his legs. "Just thinking of home."

"I, too, think of home."

"Do you miss it?"

"I do. But I know I am doing what is right. I follow my oath."

Calen shifted uneasily. "Why did you swear that oath, Vaeril? You did not know me. You did not know who I was. Even now, you still do not truly know me."

Vaeril gave Calen a look that he had seen his parents give him many a time. It was a look of amusement suggesting they believed Calen missed something that was apparently obvious. "Even if Therin Eiltris and Aeson Virandr had not stood by your side, I would have sworn that oath, and I would swear it again today."

"But why?" The question was one Calen had asked himself a thousand times.

"Why would I still have sworn it? Because my people needed hope, and you represented hope. Why would I swear it again? Because I now know the kind of man you are."

Calen brought his hand up, digging his nails into the skin at the back of his neck. His throat constricted, and he felt a weight compressing his chest. He didn't even know what kind of man he was. "So many have died because of me, for me. My family, Arthur, Ellisar, all the soldiers who died at Belduar. Men, dwarves, elves… their blood is on my hands."

"You would have died to save those men in the Wind Runner Courtyard," Vaeril cut across, leaning forward. "You almost did. Which would not have been smart, but it was admirable. I have watched you risk your life for others, time and time again. I have seen you lead when you would have rathered follow, just so others had a beacon to look to. This was coming. The empire has sat still for too long, growing fat on the spoils of the last war. They were never going to leave my people alone in the Aravell. They would have come eventually. Just as they are now coming back to the South in force. You might have been the trigger, Calen. But you are not the cause. I am proud to follow someone who would lay down their life for those who stand beside them."

Calen didn't respond. In truth, he didn't know what to say. Would they have come? It was impossible to know. All he knew was that they did come, and they came because of him.

Calen and Vaeril sat there for a while, the cool touch of the morning air prickling their skin. Calen was happy for the silence. He leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows and letting his head drop, then closed his eyes. Without even realising he had done it, he reached out to the Spark, pulling threads of Spirit and Air into himself. Just as he had done in the tunnels, he let the threads drift through the air, picking up the sounds and vibrations, before funneling them back towards his ears.

With his hearing amplified, Calen realised this was so very different from the silence in the caves. The soft susurration of the trees around him as they stood against the morning breeze, the chirps and tweets of the birds, the burbling of the nearby river, the murmur of conversation as the village began to wake – he heard all of it, and again, it sounded like home. How many mornings had he sat on the wall of the market square, listening to The Glade as the village woke? He would have sat there for hours if Vaeril had not spoken.

"You truly have a gift with the Spark."

Reluctantly, Calen released his hold on the threads and opened his eyes. "I have nothing. I can only touch the Spark because of my link with Valerys."

Calen could feel Valerys even then as the dragon sat curled up in the barn. The only time he could not feel Valerys was when he was asleep. But it was not an irritation, not at all. The touch of Valerys's consciousness was the most comforting sensation Calen could ever remember. It was as though Valerys had always been there. A piece of him that not only belonged, but was essential to the very essence of Calen's existence.

"That may be true," Vaeril said, plucking a blade of grass. "But that does not change that what you can do, for one who is so new to the Spark, is nothing short of incredible. Bringing down those buildings in Belduar was not a common strength."

"I failed, Vaeril. I failed and men died. I would not call that a strength." In his mind, Calen watched as the Lorian soldiers tore through the Kingsguard, slicing them to pieces as they fled. A knot coiled in his stomach, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Ever since he had been bound to Valerys, so many had looked to him as though he were a warrior of legend; as though he were truly a Draleid. Tarmon and Vaeril, warriors with far more experience than he, deferred to his word. But he didn't deserve that title. He had not earned it.

"I have seen galdrín train for years before they could work stone so it crumbled like that. And even then, they could not do it on a piece of rock any bigger than your head. Galdrín who can bring down entire buildings like you did are rare. In our learnings, it says there used to be entire regiments of galdrín who would man the walls of cities during a siege just to keep enemies from bringing them down. I think I saw some at the battle in Belduar, but I cannot be certain."

It had taken Calen a moment to place the word 'galdrín'. He thought he remembered it as being the rough translation for 'mage' in the Old Tongue, but then he remembered Therin going off on a tangent about the direct translation and how it wasn't precise – so he wasn't entirely sure. Either way, the topic of the warriors who died in Belduar was not one Calen wanted to continue with. "Vaeril, after the kerathlin attacked, you should not have been able to move the way you did with the injury you had. I could feel you drawing from the Spark, weaving threads of Spirit into yourself. What was that?"

Vaeril gave him a half-grin. "There are rules to using the Spark. But like anything, there are ways to bend what cannot be broken. It is true, a person cannot heal themselves. To even try often results in death, as the toll taken on the healer is twice what is given. Spirit is… unique. It is said that one of the greatest limits of the Spark, apart from a person's raw power, is that person's own mind. You cannot do what you believe you cannot do. You are limited by your own imagination. This is true even more so for Spirit. Spirit can be used not only for its own purposes, but also to amplify the power of other threads and to augment the galdrín who uses it. I used threads of Spirit to still my pain so I could push through, though even that has its own risks. If we had not found the Portal Heart, I most certainly would have died. It is an ancient practice that has mostly been lost to the human world in favour of more direct uses for the Spark. Your people often do not understand what they cannot see."

Calen just sat there, his head spinning. With each passing day he realised more and more that everything he thought he understood about the Spark paled in comparison to the vast ocean of what he did not. "Can you teach me?"

Vaeril fixed a serious stare on Calen. "You must learn to walk before you can fly. You are powerful, even now, but there are many things you must learn before you can wield the Spark in such a way. But yes, I will teach you, if only until we find Therin again. My knowledge in the Spark is that of a child's next to his."

Calen couldn't help but smile. "We have a deal."

"That we do, Draleid."

Calen gave Vaeril a flat look, the corner of his lips turning to a frown.

"Calen," he corrected himself.

Calen laughed, pushing himself to his feet. "Come, we need to find the others. They will most likely still be in their beds." He reached out his hand, pulling Vaeril to his feet.

"I believe you are right," Vaeril said, slinging his bow over his shoulder and clipping his sword belt around his waist. "In truth, I am surprised you rose this morning before the sun."

"I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to miss the sunrise for another day. What of you?"

Vaeril shrugged. "Elves do not sleep very much. Three, perhaps four hours each night is more than enough."

Calen hadn't thought about it before, but that explained why Therin had always nominated himself for first watch yet never seemed to be tired. Except for the time they found him outside of Camylin, which Calen now knew was due to the Spark.

The common room of The Brazen Boar was empty when Calen and Vaeril pushed open the door. A strong smell of ale, soap, and some form of roasted vegetables hung in the air, while two serving girls ambled about, sweeping the floor and wiping down the long tables.

"How can I help you?" A heavy-set man with a thick beard and a grease-stained apron stepped out from a door behind the bar that must have led to the kitchen. He had a crooked nose and a reddish face marred by pockmarks. His deep belly and thick chest were covered with what looked like heavy muscle under a layer of fat. The man came out from behind the bar, rubbing his greasy hands in a thick cloth. His eyes narrowed as he approached Calen and Vaeril. "Your friend is gonna have to wait outside."

"Excuse me?" Calen couldn't hide the surprise in his voice.

"The elf. Outside. I can't be seen to be having dealings with his kind."

Even before Calen's hands clenched into fists by his side, he felt Valerys roaring through his mind. Though the dragon lay in the barn, he felt everything Calen felt – and Valerys's rage only amplified Calen's own. "I'm going to give you another chance to choose your words more carefully."

"It is all right, I will wait outside."

Calen took a step closer to the man, trying his utmost to calm his own anger and keep Valerys's burning rage to the back of his mind. "We're looking for some friends. They stayed here last night."

"I'll not be speaking to you while your little pet stands in my inn. Them pointy-eared bastards bring trouble with them wherever they go. The empire shoulda killed them all."

Calen stepped up to the innkeeper, so close he could smell the stench of day-old ale on the man's breath. He stared into the man's eyes, reaching out to the Spark. He didn't even think; the act was almost as natural as breathing. Calen wasn't sure what he intended to do, but he pulled on threads of Earth, feeling the rough grate scratch through the back of his mind. The sounds around him yielded to a low thrum that seemed to fill his ears, and he felt the thumping of his heart as it beat against his ribs. His anger, amplified by Valerys's, burned through him like a white-hot flame. This greasy innkeeper had no right to speak to Vaeril that way.

"Everything all right?"

Calen hadn't heard the door swing open. The sounds of the inn came rushing back as he let go of the Spark, startled at the sound of Alleron's voice.

"Lord Alleron, I was just telling this child here that his pet needs to wait outside."

"You will apologise, Ulfrik. These men are my guests and guests of my father here in Drifaien."

The heavy-set man's eyes darted between Calen, Vaeril, and Alleron. "But he's a fucking—"

"That's the last I'll hear of it, Ulfrik, or we will no longer be so lenient with your taxes." Alleron's voice had a hard edge to it, stern and unyielding. He glared at the innkeeper, daring him to continue his challenge. "Now, we would like a table and some food. If I remember right, their friends are in rooms six and ten. Could you send one of the girls to wake them, please?"

Calen could see the fury on the man's face as it twisted between irritation and disbelief. "I…" A large huff escaped the innkeeper's throat as he took a step back from Calen. "The drawing room is free. Close the curtains, and I'll bring you food."

Calen tried his best to calm himself, slowing his breathing and unclenching his fists as the innkeeper stormed off, muttering.

"I'm sorry about him," Alleron said, gesturing for Calen and Vaeril to follow him towards the drawing room.

The drawing room itself was set at the far side of the bar. A large doorless frame sat in the wall with a rail at its top lip that held a heavy green curtain. The room was about twenty feet across and thirty from side to side. A couch, upholstered with the same fabric as the curtain, was set into both the far wall and the wall that ran along the right side of the room, while the wall on the left-hand side held a lacquered bookcase that stretched from floor to ceiling. A sickly feeling set into Calen's stomach at the sight of the bookcase. He couldn't help it. Even the smell of the books reminded him of Rist.

"The empire has done a good job of sowing the hate for elves in these lands. Many believe it was the elves who cursed the weather here, that named it the Eversnow. Either way, the empire needed someone to blame for the hardship," Alleron said as he stood in the doorway, gesturing for Calen and Vaeril to step into the drawing room. He clasped his hand on Vaeril's shoulder as the elf passed. "It is easy to hate what is different. I am sorry."

"It is all right. There are many of my kind who feel the same way about humans. They do not speak for us all."

Alleron let out a sigh, a grim look sitting on his face.

They were not sitting there long before a short serving girl with wild brown hair dropped off a large teapot and three clay mugs. Calen recognised the smell immediately: Arlen root tea. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let out a laugh as he reached for the nearest mug.

"What is it?" Alleron said, grasping the teapot by the handle.

"Nothing." Calen watched, allowing a smile to creep across his face as Alleron filled his mug to the brim with the pungent brown liquid. "Just reminds me of home." Calen took a deep draught from the mug, as though it were filled with mead from The Gilded Dragon. He would be lying if he said it tasted any better than it had half a year ago, but it tasted familiar, and he needed familiar.

Erik and Tarmon were the first to step through the door frame. They both wore fresh shirts and trousers that Alleron must have left for them. It was more than a little strange to see Tarmon out of his plate armour. The man looked as alert as ever, his eyes searching every corner of the room as though a Fade might leap from the shadows. He never seemed to let himself rest.

Erik, on the other hand, had a dour look on his face and dark purple rings under his eyes. He held his hand at the back of his head as though he had been hit from behind with a hammer. It looked like he had celebrated their escape from the tunnels a little too hard.

"Calen," Tarmon said, nodding in Calen's direction before greeting Alleron and Vaeril.

Erik didn't speak. He threw a weak glance in Calen's direction, accompanied by a regretful sigh, then took a seat beside Vaeril.

The two dwarves weren't far behind, and neither Korik nor Lopir looked much better off than Erik. They hung their heads as they trudged into the drawing room, collapsing on the two chairs that sat in front of the bookcase.

Falmin was the last to arrive. His hair was slicked back over his head, and his fresh cotton shirt dangled from his gangly frame. "Really? I was hopin' to sleep for at least… ten more hours? What is it with you military types an' early mornins?"

"It wasn't me," Tarmon said, leaning back into the couch with a laugh.

"You?" Falmin asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Calen. "I didn't think you'd be awake till the sun set again. Though, tis good t'see ya up 'n about. How's the dragon?"

Tarmon and Alleron frowned at the same time.

"Probably best we don't talk about Valerys out in the open," Calen said, running his hand along the back of his neck.

"Oh, right. That'd make sense. Sorry." The sincerity of Falmin's words was cast into doubt by the languid shrug he gave as he spoke.

"It's all right," Calen said, taking another mouthful of the Arlen root tea, letting the horrible taste settle his mind. "Can you close the curtain?"

Falmin nodded before pulling the green curtain along its rail, covering the entrance. He moved to the side and leaned his shoulder against the wall, looking as unperturbed as ever. "So, what's this all 'bout?"

Calen glanced at Vaeril, who lifted his eyebrow as a question. "Can you cast a ward?"

The elf nodded, and immediately Calen felt him reach for the Spark, pulling on threads of Earth, Spirit, Air, and Fire. The complicated weaving of the strands together set a dizziness in Calen's head. No matter how much he thought he was learning, his understanding was nothing more than a seed in a great forest. He could feel the ward as soon as it was erected. It was the same sensation he had felt Therin cast one in the mountain pass, but he had not understood it then. It was a low thrum that resonated through the air, only slight, but enough that anyone who held the Spark would notice.

Without waiting any longer, Calen turned to look at Alleron, who nodded. "Alleron's father is Lothal Helmund."

"Lothal Helmund," Falmin spat, spraying Arlen root tea from his mouth. Calen had not even seen him take the cup, that should have been Vaeril's, from the table. "As in Lothal Helmund, High Lord of Drifaien? Lothal Helmund the Wyrm Slayer? The Wolf of the Eversnow?"

"The very same," Alleron said with an unreadable expression. "Though he is not the man he once was."

"What does that mean for us?" Tarmon asked, sitting forward, his eyebrows raised.

"It means Alleron can arrange a ship that can take us back to the Lodhar Mountains, back to the Freehold, and back to the Belduaran people." Calen bit his lip as he finished his sentence. "We need to leave tonight."

"Tonight?" A look of incredulity spread across Falmin's face. "Give us a break. Can we not stay at least one more day? I had planned on drinkin' a lot more o' that whiskey tonight."

Calen gave a slight shrug. "You don't have to come with us, Falmin. I'd like it if you did, but it's your choice. We can't stay here. Valerys can't stay in that barn, and if the wrong eyes see of him here, there's no telling how quickly the empire will catch wind of where we are. We need to be a lot more careful than we have been."

"I'm with you," Tarmon said, giving a slight nod towards Calen.

"You know I am too." Erik shrugged. "I'm just happy to be out of those tunnels, and the fresh air might knock this ache out of my head."

Calen smiled. He turned towards the two dwarves, who lay half-comatose in the chairs beside the bookshelf, raising his eyebrow.

"Aye, we are with you, Draleid. Home is where we are headed."

"Det være myia haydria," Vaeril said, tilting his head slightly. It would be my honour.

"What did he say?" Falmin leaned forward from the wall, sagging his shoulder back. "Aw, fuck it. It doesn't matter. Can I at least get some whiskey to bring with us?"

Rist sat with his back against the trunk of an enormous oak tree. One of many that provided shade to the embassy's gardens. The skies above were clear and blue, with the marigold sun hanging at its midway point. He had been reading there for hours while the other apprentices relaxed in the sun, embracing their reprieve from training.

Rist had stood in shock when Brother Garramon had taken him to the embassy's library a few days ago. Never in his life had he seen so many books amassed in one place. It had always taken Rist at least a month or so to work up the coin to simply buy a single book from a trader back in the villages. And now more knowledge than he could ever comprehend waited at the touch of his fingertips.

Neera and the others had to, quite literally, drag him from the library's candlelit halls. Not that he minded too much. He had gotten through two books by the time the sun had moved a quarter way through the sky – The Sea of Stone, a Tale of Gods and The Rise of the Righteous, a book on the rise of the empire and the fall of The Order. Both books were fascinating and shocking in equal measure. Rist found he had to take everything he read in their pages with a 'grain of salt', as his grandfather used to say. The differences in history that arose across the continent were incredible. Most of the people in the villages regaled the Draleid and The Order as heroes, the last line of defence against tyranny and death. In the North, it appeared that The Order themselves were the tyrants and the Draleid their puppets. Though, which tales to believe, he was not sure.

But what shocked Rist most was that in the North, Efialtír was not 'The Traitor', he was 'The Saviour'. The concept of religion had never particularly interested Rist. It did not matter which god oversaw which aspect of life, or which god was 'good' or 'evil'. He had not seen evidence that any god so much as lifted a finger to influence events in the tangible world. But what did interest him was the influence these gods had over people. He had made the mistake of mentioning Efialtír as 'The Traitor' when in conversation with Tommin the other morning, and the usually pleasant young man wound up on the cusp of a swelling rage that only subsided once Neera calmed him down.

Laughing, Rist licked the pad of his index finger, then turned the page of his current read – Druids, a Magic Lost. They had been told not to remove the books from the library, but he had not been given much choice. The others were adamant that he join them in the garden, and he was adamant that he was busy reading. Bringing the book outside had seemed the natural compromise. He would slip it back in its place later

Arching his back, Rist tilted his neck to the side and rolled it around, eliciting a cascade of cracks as he did. The half-trodden grass and the trunk of the oak tree were not as comfortable as the leather chairs in the library. He let out a sigh, shaking his head as he retraced his words back to the start of the page, as he had done several times in the past hour. The book was interesting enough, but his mind wasn't truly there.

Over the past few weeks, he had sent more than twenty letters addressed to Calen and Dann. Some went to The Glade, others to the guards' quarters at Camylin and Midhaven. He had heard nothing back. Not that he had truly thought he would, but he had hoped that maybe, with luck, he might have been able to reach them.

Reports had been flooding into the embassy of how the Dragonguard had reduced Belduar to nothing more than a charred tomb. Rist had to believe that Calen and Dann were all right. He had to.

"You're still reading that book, I see." Rist had been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't heard Neera approach, Tommin and Lena beside her.

"He's always reading," Tommin said, dropping himself down on the grass across from Rist. Tommin was a tall young man from the city of Khergan who had been sponsored by Sister Danwar of the Healers. He had seen about as many summers as Rist. His hair was raven-black, and his blue eyes were often accompanied by a broad, unrelenting smile. "What is it this time?" Tommin reached over, lifting the back of Rist's book so he could see the title. "Druids, a Magic Lost. I've not read that one, any good?"

"You've not read any of the books in the library, Tommin," Lena said, a mocking smile on her face. She picked up the edges of her brown robes as she sat down, careful not to dirty them. She had been sponsored by Brother Halmak of the Consuls. She frowned, raising her eyebrows as she looked at Tommin. "I doubt you've read any books at all."

"I have too."

"Letters from your mother don't count."

"What about letters from your mother?"

As Lena and Tommin exchanged smart remarks, Neera kept her eyes locked on Rist's as she sat down beside him, resting her arms on her knees and pushing her back up against the trunk of the tree.

Rist gulped. He wasn't sure what it was about Neera, but whenever she looked at him, she always seemed to be… examining him? He folded over the corner of his page and shoved the book into the cloth bag that rested on the grass at his side and gave a shrug, trying his best to seem unperturbed by Neera's fixed gaze. "I've never seen so many books in one place. It's hard not to get lost in them."

Neera didn't respond, but a grin spread across her face. Rist couldn't stop his pulse from quickening. He found Neera irritating beyond measure, but her mind was sharp, and her wit was quick – both qualities Rist had recently discovered he found attractive, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

"Have you heard any new reports?" Rist asked, attempting to change the subject.

Neera gave a shrug. "More Urak attacks. I overheard two of the couriers talking this morning. They said most of the villages along the base of Mar Dorul have been evacuated, and fewer than half of the caravans travelling past Dead Rocks Hold are arriving at Kerghan."

Rist nodded. "I'll be happy if I never see another Urak again as long as I live." A shiver ran up his spine as he thought back to that day in Ölm Forest. "What of the South?"

Suddenly, Neera's eyes seemed razor-sharp. She twisted, turning her body towards him with a sceptical look on her face. "You have seen an Urak? Aren't you from some little farming village?"

There you go again, ruining it. "I have, and it's not a farming village."

"Okay, okay. No need to get all defensive. I was only asking. I won't dig any deeper." Neera put both her hands up in the air as if she were attempting to prove her innocence, but Rist heard her whispering to herself, "Men are always so sensitive." He had a feeling she had said it just loud enough for him to hear on purpose.

He tried his best to ignore her. She always seemed to have news of what went on outside the walls of the embassy, so he decided it was best to keep her happy. "If you tell me what you know about the South, I'll tell you what happened with the Urak. Deal?"

Neera's face lit up. "Deal." She turned back towards him with one eyebrow raised. "I've heard rumours the Draleid set fire to Belduar's walls himself to cover his escape."