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
