by Ryan Cahill
CHAPTER 32
The Hand
“We have heard all we need to hear.”
That was all Pulroan said. Nobody else spoke after that, which suited Calen. He didn’t think he would have been able to say anything else.
They were brought back to the Heart and shown their chambers. Both Aeson and Arthur came to see him that night, but all he did was roar at them and send them away. He had never been so angry in all his life. He felt it in Valerys too. It burned in the back of his mind like smouldering coals. Aeson flat-out refused to leave until Valerys snapped at him. Had the dragon tried a bit harder, he would have taken Aeson’s hand.
Calen sat on the edge of his bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He knew if he pushed everything down, it would eventually come back up. He just hadn’t expected it to come back at a time like that. He felt like a fool. He had roared at kings and queens, lost his temper. He made an idiot of himself. But that was not what hurt him.
When he lost his temper in the chamber, something switched in the back of his mind. It was the first time that he allowed himself to accept the truth. He couldn’t hide from it anymore; he couldn’t lie to himself. His family was gone.
His heart felt like it had been ripped free of his chest. He would never lay eyes on his mother again. Never feel the warmth of her hand against his cheek. Never hear his father’s voice. Ella had always believed in him, always kept his chin up, and she was always there to show him the right way. At least they would be with Haem now. He didn’t move to stop the tears from flowing. It would be like a bandage on a broken arm.
He could still save Rist. He would save Rist.
For that night, though, he needed to feel everything. He lay back and let himself sob, shaking. Valerys lay at the door, ensuring nobody came in, but Calen felt him. The sadness and the comfort.
Calen lay his scabbard down against the wooden rail of the practice yard, sliding his sword free as he did. He let out a puff of air, spinning the blade around to loosen his arms.
He did not look forward to facing Gaeleron’s stony stare when he returned to Belduar. The elf was regimental when it came to Calen’s practice with the sword. He would not be happy when he discovered that Calen had refused to spar with Aeson.
He still practiced his forms, at least. It was all that kept him sane while they waited. Four days had passed without a word from the dwarves. Therin had said that the dwarves of the Freehold could take a lifetime to reach a decision, such was the nature of four kingdoms attempting to work as one. Each had their own agendas. Each tried to make sure their own needs were met. That didn’t help the sickly feeling that sat in Calen’s stomach, though.
He had not spoken to Aeson or Arthur either. They had tried, but he simply walked away. He didn’t want to talk to them. They had put him in that situation. They knew what he was walking into, and they just threw him like a sheep to wolves. They used him. But it was his own fault for not noticing it sooner.
The Heart had its own practice yard. It was meant to be for the royal guard only, but every morning, when Calen practiced his forms, a crowd gathered – as it did now. They may not have known who he was when he first arrived, but word had spread that a Draleid was in Durakdur. He heard many things when he had wandered the city streets during the day. Everybody had a different theory as to why the Draleid had come to Durakdur. Everybody seemed to know more than he did.
Calen took a deep breath in as he dropped into Crouching Bear form. Don’t think. Just move.
He released control as he flowed through the forms that were part of a movement that Gaeleron had been teaching him; the svidarya. Burning Winds. There was something about the fluidity of the movement that settled Calen’s mind.
The first morning he practiced his forms in the yard, it was just fifteen or twenty servants, trying to pretend that they weren’t watching. They walked a little slower or just stopped for a moment, pretending to catch their breath. Calen wasn’t sure if it was his practice or the opportunity to gawk at Valerys, but by the fourth morning, the yard was crammed with as many as three hundred people. They didn’t even pretend to busy themselves. They gathered in groups, leaned over walls or fences, and some stopped and sat on the ground, watching. There was no fear of the royal guard moving them on either, for the guard made up at least a fifth of their number.
There were easily a few hundred watching him now, as sweat glistened on his face, and his shirt clung to his chest. He brought the blade through in sweeping motions, allowing each swing to carry into the next. The svidarya was a movement of aggression; it involved taking the fight to the enemy. A barrage of powerful, sweeping strikes that would push your opponent onto their back foot. It was exactly what Calen needed.
A bluish-green glow washed over Calen’s skin as he ran his fingers along the edge of the luminescent leaf that sat in a glassless lantern mounted atop the low parapet of the walkway. He had taken to walking the maze-like walkways and streets of Durakdur most evenings. He knew them no better than he did the first day. But he wasn’t walking them to learn. He was walking them to escape. To get out of his own head.
Calen pulled his hood tighter around his face as two dwarves walked behind him.
“You should have seen him train earlier. I reckon the Draleid could fight a Depth Stalker on his own! And his dragon… Lorik said it will grow bigger than the mountain itself. And he knows things. I’m going back to the yard to watch again in the morning,” one of the dwarves said.
“A Depth Stalker? Not a chance. Although, I may join you in the morning. See for myself.”
Calen waited until the two dwarves had passed before he continued walking. He took in the wonders of the dwarven architecture. Domes of shimmering gold. Archways that stretched hundreds of feet. Strange machines of which Calen fostered no understanding carried goods and people up and down the outer walls. He hadn’t noticed it before, but every piece of hewn stone was sharp and angular, even the archways. There was order in everything. The only exceptions were the magnificent domes atop the larger buildings, reflecting the other-worldly glow of the flowers in a goldish shimmer.
After taking a walk around the city, Calen sat atop a low wall that overlooked the interwoven walkways below. He chose it because it had a perfect view of the waterfall and because it was the quietest spot he could find. The noise of the city was too much. He sat there, his mother’s scarf between his fingers, gazing out over the breath-taking cityscape, dotted with the glow of bluish green lanterns. He listened to the ever-present crashing of the water as it cascaded down the inner mountain wall. It drowned out everything else.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Leave me alone, Arthur.” Calen kept his eyes fixed on a point across the cavernous opening, where the light from the flowers glittered through the cascading water.
Arthur sighed. “Calen, I’m sorry. I promise you; I did not know that Kira would attack you like that.”
“Save your apologies. She was right. Just because you heard it in some prophecy or read it in some book. I’m not what you’ve waited for. It should have been someone else. I’m sorry.”
“Prophecy?” There was indignation in Arthur’s voice. “You think I pushed you down here and threw you in front of those dwarves because I heard a prophecy?”
Calen didn’t know how to respond. “That’s how it always is in the stories. Therin—”
“That’s where prophecies belong, Calen. In stories and fairy tales. Prophecies and fate are words that are used by kings and queens to send young men and women to their death with smiles on their faces, dreaming of becoming heroes. Fate is fluid. Your destiny is in your own hands – nobody else’s. Yes, when I saw that someone had been bound, that someone had become a Draleid, my heart skipped a beat. I dared not dream it would happen. I brought you here because Draleids used to symbolise hope. Because if there was anything that would stir the dwarves from their slumber, it would be a Draleid. But Calen, what you said in that chamber, the way you spoke…
You are more than we could ever have hoped for. I’m not here talking to you because you are a Draleid. I’m here talking to you because I believe in who you are.”
Calen wanted to speak, but he didn’t. He stared out over the edge, letting the waterfall fill the silence.
Arthur’s footsteps echoed off the walls. “I’m going back up to Belduar for the night. Ihvon has sent word that Daymon has fallen ill. My wife – may she find rest – would never forgive me if I did not check on him. I will be back in the morning.” The only response was the sound of the crashing water. “And Calen, I’m not the only one.”
Calen tossed in his bed, like he had done all night. He should have said something to Arthur. He had been unfair. What happened in the council chamber had unleashed a lot inside his head, and he had taken it out on Arthur and Aeson. However angry he was at them, they were good men, and they had done right by him, for the most part. He needed to apologise to them both – Arthur, in particular.
That wasn’t the only thing that plagued his mind and stood in the way of his dreams. Had his outburst cost Belduar the support of the dwarves? The last four nights, scenes of Belduar burning had clouded his dreams. Imperial soldiers storming through the streets, laying waste to everything in their path. The inner circle being overrun while trebuchets rained destruction down upon the tightly packed houses of the outer circles. All of it, his fault.
Despite his need for sleep, those were not dreams he wished to return to. Still, he shuffled his hips into the mattress in an attempt to form the right groove. He fluffed the pillow, turning from one side to another.
Every time he stopped moving, the tick-tock from the ornate, wrought iron clock on the wall seemed to rise to a crescendo, until it was a battering ram beating at his mind. There weren’t many clocks in The Glade. They were expensive and hard to come by. In Durakdur, there were clocks in every room. He had to admit, it was the only thing that gave him any sense of night or day in a city where the sun never rose or set. But now, he wanted to tear it from the wall and smash it against the stone floor.
Tick-tock.
Calen’s eyes snapped open as he heard a creaking sound coming from the door. He had locked that door. His heart beat almost as loud as the clock now. He had left his sword in its scabbard, about two feet away, on top of the writing desk.
He heard another creak. This time, it was a floorboard. He was sure of it. Somebody was in the room.
Valerys was still asleep. That was the only time they couldn’t feel everything, as if the dream world gave them both time apart. Calen cursed in his head, breathing as quietly as he could.
Another creak. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.
Stilling his fear, he threw his sheets off and leapt the short distance between the bed and the desk. Calen pulled his blade from its scabbard in one sweeping motion and turned to face the intruder.
In the dark, his eyes had barely focused on the intruder’s outline when threads of Air cannoned into his chest. They lifted him from his feet and launched him into the wardrobe against the far wall, shattering it to pieces.
Calen shook his head. It was spinning, and he needed to clear his eyes. His hands were empty. The impact made him drop his sword.
A short, gruff laugh drew his attention. His attacker stood over him, a sword pointed towards his chest. All Calen could make out was his silhouette. His eyes still hadn’t adjusted.
“Just a child.” The man’s voice was deep and coarse. “I’ll make it quick.”
Calen closed his eyes. He reached out for the Spark. Drawing on threads of Fire, Air and Spirit, he formed a baldír as bright as he could, as if it were the sun itself. Once he heard the man gasp in pain, he snuffed it out.
The man stumbled backwards, with his free hand clasped over his eyes. “You bastard! My fucking eyes!”
His howls were cut short as Valerys leapt up across his shoulder. The dragon sank his teeth into the man’s neck and tore at his back with his claws. The pair of them collapsed onto the bed in a tangle. As they fumbled, Calen caught sight of a second man lurking in the doorway.
In case one wasn’t enough.
Calen didn’t need a moment to think. He could see the threads of Fire as the man pulled them towards his hand. Calen was quicker. He reached out with the Spark, wrapping threads of Air around a thick splinter of wood. He sent it straight through the man’s heart. A brief flash, and the man dropped to his knees without a whisper, then collapsed on his side. A rumble of satisfaction let Calen know that Valerys’s opponent was no longer an issue either.
Calen could already feel the drain from the Spark seeping into his muscles. In his panic, he hadn’t controlled the flow as much as he should have. His heart thumped. He heard shouts coming from the hallway outside, but it was only when he made to follow them he realised he was still in his smallclothes. He buttoned up his shirt, dragged a pair of trousers up his legs, and stamped his feet into his boots.
Bounding from the room, he crashed straight into a stone wall. When he looked up, he realised that wall, was Asius. Aeson was with him, and both had splatters of blood on their clothes. It wasn’t their blood.
“Someone—” Calen didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.
“We know,” Aeson said. “They were in our chambers too. They must have snuck into the city.”
“They’re—”
“Mages. We know.”
Calen frowned as he was cut off again.
“Calen, listen to me. They are the Hand. The empire’s assassins. If they came for us, then they are after the Council as well. We need to get to them. You and Valerys go to Queen Kira. Her chambers are only five minutes from here, down the western corridor. You’ll know it by the vermilion doors inlaid with the symbol of Durakdur. Asius and I will see to the others. We will meet again at the Wind Tunnels. Calen, if they are here, making this move out in the open, they are doing the same in Belduar. I have sent Oleg to the Wind Runners Guild hall to fetch Falmin. Make sure the queen is okay and get to the tunnels.”
“I—”
“Don’t argue! Go!”
Calen thought about doing just that. He thought about shouting and telling Aeson that he would go where he chose and not where he was told. He didn’t. He furrowed his brow, turned on his heels, and ran. As quick as his legs would take him, he ran towards the queen’s chambers. Valerys bounded along beside him. As much as he hated to even think it, let alone admit it, Aeson was right. Everything else could wait.
Calen reached out for the Spark as he approached the large, vermilion double doors, inlaid with the symbol of Durakdur, that marked the queen’s chambers. Two dwarves in heavy plate armour and thick crimson cloaks, which marked them as Queensguard, lay rigid on the floor. Calen didn’t check their bodies. Their blood stained the smooth stone.
He crashed through the doors of the queen’s chambers, ramming them open with his dropped shoulder. Drawing on thick threads of Air, he used a barrage of wind to send the hooded man spiralling across the room, shattering the window to pieces. The man fell, screaming, into the endless depths on the other side.
He moved to parry the blow from the second man, stopping mid-air as Valerys crashed into the assassin’s chest, rending his leather armour like soft butter. Calen shuddered at the shrieks of pain.
In his mad rush, he hadn’t noticed Kira standing in nothing but the skin she was born in. She held a long, thin axe in her right hand. Even in the heat of the moment, his chest heaving and the blood pumping through his veins, Calen’s cheeks coloured. He took perhaps a moment too long to shield his gaze.
“Now is not the time for modesty, Draleid.” Despite the fact that she stood there in her bare flesh, moments from an assassin’s blade, her voice was still steel.
Calen couldn’t bring himself to raise his eyes. A dark shade of crimson painted his cheeks. “Your Majesty, there are more assassins in the city. Aeson and Asius have gone to check on the other members of the council, but we must go to Belduar. If they are here,
then the king is in danger too.” Half of him wanted to take a second look, but the other half of him refused to tear his gaze from the stone floor. “Will you be all right?”
“Yes, boy. I will be fine. Go!”
Calen didn’t need to hear anymore. With a grunt, he dashed from the room, his eyes never rising above knee-level. It was not right for him to see her like that. She was a queen. Even if she were not, it would not be right.
He cursed himself as he weaved his way through the labyrinth of streets and walkways. Every second turn was the wrong turn. He would die of old age before he reached the Wind Tunnels. The streets were quiet. He had not seen nor heard a trace of any more of the Hand. That could only be a good thing.
“Fuck!” he shouted when he realised he had just spent two minutes running to a dead end.
“Calen?”
Calen did not think that there would be a point for the rest of his life where he would be happier to hear Oleg Marilyn’s voice. Falmin was with him. Sweat dripped down both of their rouged faces and Falmin’s shirt clung to his chest, revealing the lean muscle that hid on his wiry frame.
“Oleg, by the gods, your timing couldn’t be any better! We need to get to the Wind Tunnels.” Calen couldn’t help but sigh in relief. Five more minutes trying to escape that maze, and he would have descended into madness.
“This way, Calen. We’re close.”
By the time they reached the Wind Tunnels, Oleg’s chest heaved. He bent over double, trying to drag air into his lungs. Calen couldn’t help but be impressed. The rotund man had matched both himself and Falmin for pace. Although, he was paying the price for it. “Falmin—”
“Give me five minutes, and she’ll be good to go, Mister Bryer.”
The gangly man leapt up onto the platform of the Crested Wave. Calen had resigned himself to the fact that he would not get to finish a sentence that night. He tapped his foot on the stone platform. Aeson and Asius should be here already.