Page 55 of The Truth

“We do.”

“It’s mostly me talking if we’re being honest.” Fane laughed at himself. “How many times have we talked on The Order? Argued until the sun rose? Do you remember, six years ago, you came to me and accused me of spreading lies about Alvira and The Order, about the council.”

Eltoar bit at his lip and nodded. He remembered that day as clearly as yesterday. “Accused is a strong word.”

“It is the correct word. I do not drag it up to burn you for it, but to ask you something – those things you thought I said … do you still think they were lies? Because before me I see a man with a darkness in his heart that is swallowing him whole. A man I admire and respect.” He paused. “A man whom I care for. And I believe that watching the world he loves tear itself apart is the darkness that devours him.”

Eltoar stared into Fane’s eyes as a flash of lightning ignited above them, and at their backs Helios lifted his head, a warning burning within him. “You tread on dangerous ground, Fane. Choose your next steps with care.”

Fane looked back at Helios, the rain hammering down over him. “I told you I would always be honest with you. And unlike some, my word means something to me.” Fane looked away from the black dragon and back to Eltoar. “I fear the council is corrupt. And that Alvira, in all her nobility, is being forced into a corner and made to be their whipping beast. Her honour binds her to heed the will of the council even if the council itself no longer stands for what we believe in. She will not listen to any challenge on this, she will not stray from her rigidity. And I fear, and it is my greatest fear, that we may never be able to open her eyes.”

Eltoar’s skin goosefleshed, and he moved closer. “I will not betray Alvira. To even suggest it…” Eltoar opened himself to the Spark, feeling Helios’s rage flare as the dragon pressed his forelimbs into the ground and rose from his curled position. Eltoar drew on threads of all the elemental strands, letting them swirl about him. The rain broke above him and Fane, held back by the sphere of threads that shifted and twisted. “She is my Archon.”

“I do not ask you to betray her,” Fane said, his voice as still as ice. “I ask you to do your duty as her First Sword. I ask you to protect her. The council cares nothing for the Draleid, nor for their Archon. Everything is coin and power. And they will gain it on the back of Alvira’s infamy. Do you still think it was me who spread those rumours those years ago?” Fane shook his head, eyes growing wide. “It was the council, Eltoar.”

“That cannot be true…”

“Think on it, Eltoar. Think hard. They spread rumours of Alvira’s weakness, of her bloodlust. Rumours that ripple through the citizens of Epheria like a plague – the leader of the legendary Draleid is nothing but a warmonger who must be kept under leash. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that with every passing year the council have not sought to take more control. Tell me they haven’t said that the Draleid must be controlled, must listen to the word of the council lest chaos ensue. And tell me that Alvira hasn’t repeated those same words, that she hasn’t been drawn into their trap. They swell their coffers, Eltoar, and all the while they tarnish the reputation of the Draleid across the continent. For all the darkest of deeds, who do they send first? Whose flames will live on in the stories of legend? In the world to come, who will be blamed?” Fane grabbed Eltoar’s shoulders. “From Vastillion, to Arathín, to Orinhale, and Lyona and every war in between, it has always been about wealth and power. Always. All I ask, brother, is that you come with me now and let me show you what I have seen. Let not words or whispers decide your mind, let it be your eyes and ears. Open your mind so that perhaps, if all this darkness that you fear has truly come to pass, you might be able to save Alvira from it.”

With his pulse thumping in his ears, Eltoar released his hold on the Spark, the rain once more sheeting over him. His chest rose and fell in heavy sweeps until eventually he nodded. “What is it you wish to show me?”

Fane led Eltoar back through city, past Tanovar’s Arena and towards the southern gates.

Eltoar stopped for a moment, placing a fist across his chest at the sight of Neron’s statue standing proud at the entrance of his temple.

“If ever we were in need of guidance,” Eltoar said when Fane raised an eyebrow.

“Guidance is needed to avoid disasters. It is less effective in the midst of one.” He smiled at first, but then his expression grew sombre. “Do they ever answer?” he asked. “When you pray, I mean.”

“This is not the day to mock me, Fane.”

“I do not mock.” Fane stared up at Neron. “I was simply not raised in the depth of belief that you were, and I ask the question in earnest for reasons you will soon see. Do they answer you, Eltoar?”

“Not in words.”

Fane gave a short nod but nothing else. “Come, we’re not far.”

He led Eltoar past the temple and to a home that stood amidst a hundred others. Inside, Fane brought him to a cellar door that opened to a stone staircase that led deep into the ground, beyond any glow of light from above.

“Where does this lead, Fane?”

“To answers.”

The staircase descended for some forty feet into the dark until Fane forged a small baldír that floated at his feet, bathing the cold white walls in even paler light. Before them stood a door with no handles and no visible lock. Just as with the main door to the home, Fane pulled on threads of Air and pushed them into the door, eliciting a series of clicks from within the wood. Which was no surprise to Eltoar. Fane’s hatred of keys was among one of his many quirks.

Fane pushed the door open, and the baldír went dark, replaced by the warm glow of oil lanterns from within.

A corridor lay before them; the lanterns sat in alcoves. It stretched some fifty feet, doors lining both sides, a chamber at its end. The air was damp and tinged with the scent of blood, char, and brimlock sap.

“What is this place, Fane?” Eltoar opened himself to the Spark as he followed Fane along the corridor. Through threads of Air he heard whispers coming from the rooms, hushed voices, scribbling pens, clinking, and the shifting of wood and iron.

“This is where we study,” Fane stead, his steps steady.

“We?”

“Myself and a collection of others who question as I do. Those who do not simply stand by and watch as the world sets itself aflame.”

Eltoar looked back at one of the wooden doors, the sounds of muffled screams coming from within. “And what do you study?”