Page 11 of The Truth

For the first time since leaving the chamber, her attention left the floor. She stared at him now, her mouth hanging open, gaze piercing into his heart.

“I…” Eltoar stopped beside her, and for a brief moment, it was as though each could see into the other’s soul, laid bare, and he saw the pain that raged within her. She didn’t simply carry the weight of Maquil and Carasín’s deaths, she burned herself with it, let it devour her.

He would have stood there, staring into her eyes for far longer if the council was not awaiting them. He pulled his gaze away and inclined his head down the corridor, a choice made in that moment.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, passing many of the city guard and Praetorians in their burnished golden plate and crimson tabards. He would have given almost anything at that moment to just be left to sit in a chair in a dark room with a bottle of Caelduin wine and his thoughts. Thoughts he needed to drown, extinguish. But instead, he pushed his shoulders back, gave brittle smiles and inclined his head towards every soul that greeted them. That was as much a part of being Draleid as anything else.

As they drew closer to the council chamber, he found himself staring down at the deep crimson carpet that ran along the centre of the white stone hall. Images flitted through his mind’s eye, the carpet shifting to a river of blood and back again. That river flowed towards Carasín’s broken body, her bones twisted and splintered from the fall.

And nestled into the dragon’s body, beneath a protective wing, was Maquil – or what was left of him. Alvira had told Tivar that Maquil had died a Draleid, that he had died a guardian of others. Both of those things were true, but they ignored the fact that he died horrifically, his body ripped in half, flesh torn apart, bones pulled from sockets or broken entirely. He had been little more than a boy. And that boy had died for no reason Eltoar could understand other than Eltoar’s own arrogance.

A cough pulled Eltoar from the visions of death, and he lifted his gaze to find himself approaching the staircase that led to the great bridge. Farda awaited them at the top, his hands clasped at his front, his armour bloodied as theirs was. He nodded at Eltoar and Alvira, falling in beside them as they stepped through the enormous gold-plated doors and out onto the walkway beyond.

The storm battered them, wind howling and rain sheeting. Before them lay the Tower of Faith, built from monstrous slabs of white stone, white banners emblazoned with the symbol of The Order flapping in the gale. It was atop that tower, beneath the massive white dome that capped its top, that the council chamber resided.

“Tivar came to see you?” Farda asked over the storm, water rolling down his face.

The sombreness of Eltoar’s nod seemed to be enough of an answer as Farda said nothing further, instead turning his gaze towards the great oak doors that marked the entrance to the chamber on the opposite side of the walkway.

The sound of the storm was swallowed by the enormity of the great chamber as Eltoar and the others stepped through the wicket gate, the battering rain and wind muffled by the thick stone and replaced by echoing voices.

Two figures stood atop the black symbol of The Order set into the middle of the white stone and gold of the central atrium. The eight members of the council were spread out, each standing in the spaces between the colonnade of white stone that ringed the Atrium, the statues of the gods looming behind them.

Eltoar smiled at that. This was how the council always conducted their meetings. Elevated ever so slightly upon the dais at the base of the colonnade, to project a sense of power. Spread out around the central atrium, so that whoever had been granted an audience would always have to turn to find the voice addressing them. To Eltoar it was clear that even the statues of the gods had not been placed there for worship but to convey the sense that the council were an extension of the Enkara themselves.

A few steps into the chamber, Eltoar bowed his head, not towards the council members but towards the gods.

“To be worthy is my only wish,” Eltoar whispered. In the back of his mind, he could feel Helios’ scorn towards his devotion to the gods that had allowed so much pain into the world. Gods that had allowed Maquil and Carasín to die so needlessly, gods that had set dragon against dragon. Eltoar did not challenge his soulkin. Grief was a cruel thing, and all hearts grieved differently.

As they approached the centre of the chamber, the two figures turned to face them. A Jotnar with long white hair in silken robes of black and gold, and an elf with a long, curved blade at her hip.

Eltoar, Farda, and Alvira each dropped to a knee. “Archon.”

Thalumas, son of Jakír, had served four terms as Archon of the Draleid. Four terms of prosperity and peace. Eltoar would have followed the Jotnar into the void itself.

Thalumas’ First Sword, Vahar Landuinín, was a legend. Eldest daughter to the king of Mythavelion, Warmaster of her father’s armies, she had seen almost sixty summers before she’d heard the Calling. He had never known of another who had heard the Calling after so many years. Though for all her legends and all the arrogance with which she moved, she could not match Eltoar in the blade. A fact of which she was well aware.

“Rise, Eltoar Daethana, son of Lohîran Daethana. Alvira Serris, daughter of Tamira Serris. And Farda Kyrana, son of Korden Kyrana.” Thalumas inclined his head and waved away the Highguard who had escorted them. The Jotnar grasped Eltoar’s forearm as he rose. He stared into Eltoar’s eyes for a moment and said, “Rhe må l’uva senthe hydar na elwyn lamye?”

Is it that I may ask something that concerns the heart?

“Ír,” Eltoar said with a solemn shake of his head. “Laël sanyin, myia Archon.”

No. I am sorry, my Archon.

Vahar made to step forward, but Thalumas waved her away without looking. “Du é uvrínil, myi’akar.”

You are forgiven, my brother.

His gaze lingering on Eltoar a moment longer, Thalumas then greeted Alvira and Farda with the same warmth.

“Archon,” a voice called from amidst the council members. “Time is a resource best not wasted.”

“As is respect,” Thalumas answered, giving Eltoar and Alvira a wry smile, a smile that faded quickly as he inclined his head. He leaned in closer. “They want blood. The blame for Vastillion is being laid at The Order’s feet. Tread carefully. I have said my piece and will hold my tongue. Come, let us be done with this.”

Eltoar, Farda, and Alvira followed the Archon and the First Sword as they moved to stand on the symbol of The Order at the chamber’s centre.

The council had no ‘elder’ as such, but across the years there were always those who rose above the others, a first among equals. In this iteration of the council, that was Loik Hass, the only human amongst the eight. He stood at the centre with his arms folded, the statue of The Father at his back.