Page 25 of The Truth

“Unlucky to be visiting during the attack?”

“Something like that.” Fane laughed, shaking his head. “Can you keep a secret?”

“No.”

“Hah. I’ll just have to trust you.” Fane turned to his satchel and pulled a book from its depths. It was bound in worn green leather, a bit battered but otherwise in good condition. The name ‘D.L. Linold’ was stamped into the front. But it held no title that Eltoar could see.

The man handed Eltoar the book.

“The original, handbound notes of Duran Lyonel Linold that would become ‘Druids, a Magic Lost’. As rare a find as a red moon.”

“This is why you were in Arathín?”

“Among other things.”

Eltoar ran his fingers across the smooth leather before opening the front flap and reading the inscription within.

The ramblings, musings, and otherwise academic documentation of a study of druidic ancestry, bloodlines, magics and talents. Within these pages I shall record the lost histories of the druids – where they came from, what made them, and what happened to them. At least, that is my hope.

If lost and found, please return this journal to the hands of Duran Lyonel Linold, Ark-Mage and historian of the Univeristy of Kalthis.

“This must have cost you a small fortune,” Eltoar mused, brushing his fingers over the pages. “I’m surprised it’s still intact.”

“It cost someone a fortune, that’s for sure. And it’s a good thing old Duran recorded even his ramblings on the finest of archival paper with the finest of inks.”

Eltoar shifted in place, eyeing Fane askance. “You stole this?”

The man raised a finger. “Liberated is my preference. I do believe the library to which it belonged is now ash. So perhaps, technically speaking, I saved it.”

Eltoar closed the book and tapped his finger on the leather case. Had it been a different day, he might have dragged the man to the council himself. Arcarian or no. But not this day. This day was for mourning and lamenting. Just as he made to hand the book back to Fane, a realisation flared in his mind. “You knew my name.”

“Everyone knows your name.” Fane turned his gaze from the fire and looked at Eltoar, a stare so intense Eltoar shifted in place.

“But few seek me out by the fire after a city has been razed. That is what you did. You sought me out. This wasn’t happenstance.”

“No,” Fane agreed. “No, it wasn’t.”

In that moment, everything shifted, even the fire seeming to settle. And Eltoar could feel Helios lifting his head on the opposite side of the camp. The dragon’s wings ached as he pressed his forelimbs into the ground and made to rise.

Rest. Please.

A rumble of defiance resonated through the bond, an uncertainty within the dragon. Were it not for his wounds, Helios would already be at Eltoar’s side. Trust was a commodity that was accumulated, slowly, and with great care. And this man held none in Helios’s heart.

But as it was, the aches in Helios’s bones forced him to trust Eltoar, if not the man beside him.

Fane replaced the book inside the satchel almost tenderly, as though cradling a newborn babe. He sat straight, pushing back his cloak and once more revealing the sickle at his belt.

“That blade is Karvosi. A Matarr boneblade. You fought in the city.”

Fane nodded. “You didn’t.”

Eltoar tensed at that, shaking his head.

“I believe it is best that I give you full honesty, Eltoar Daethana. As I was dragging injured elves from the burning corpse of Arathín, evading capture from Karvosi hunters, I saw the Black Sun in the sky, saw his rage and fury. And I thought ‘finally, they have come’. And then I watched Helios burn the corpses of the dragons that had fallen and retreat back to this camp. A camp where more than a score of Draleid and their soulkin stood by and watched the city burn as though it were all a theatre act put on for their pleasure.”

The entire time Fane spoke, his gaze did not leave Eltoar. And so ashamed was Eltoar that not once could he return that gaze. The dancing flames cradled his stare, the crackling wood and drifting sparks.

“I assume it was the council who gave the command?”