Without another word, Doran took the first jagged stone from the cart and laid it beside his brother. He was shortly followed by a handful of dwarves who joined him in the silent work. While they piled stone upon stone, the cleric stepped in and began to offer up dwarven prayers in their native tongue.
It was a lengthy process to entomb the king and Doran was flushed and sweating by the end of it. Still, with bleeding fingers, he had laid one stone after the other until his brother was hidden from the world and returned to Grarfath and Yamnomora.
Inara had never met Dakmund, and so the tears welling in her eyes were for Doran and his kin. She could feel their collective grief and would have been lying if she denied the effect it was having on her.
There was something more to it, though, something that gripped Inara’s heart. Looking at Doran, she saw someone who was burying their brother. It conjured up thoughts and memories of Alijah, feelings and events that she could never forget. For Doran, there was never going to be a second chance, another opportunity to speak to his brother. They had shared all the days they were ever going to.
That was her future. For two years she had sharpened her resolve to a deadly point, one she intended to unleash upon Alijah. And then, when it was done, he would be gone forever.
Inara shut her eyes tightly and took a steadying breath. No, she told herself; he was already gone. Her kind and caring brother, who had always found a way to make her laugh, had died years ago inside the very place he now resided. As hard as that was to believe, she knew it to be true. It had to be, for how else would she find the courage to kill him?
Doran took the place of the cleric, bringing Inara back to the present. The son of Dorain puffed out his chest and raised his chin. “Tonight, we grieve,” he instructed. “Tonight, we mourn our loss an’ not jus’ that o’ King Dakmund, but all who ’ave fallen to this scourge. Every king o’ Dhenaheim. Every warrior who now dines with the Father. But tomorrow, we celebrate! We celebrate their lives! Their achievements in life! We will drink to their bones that they might enrich Grarfath’s soil an’ better His world! An’ then, with steel an’ wrath, we march on our enemy!”
Every dwarf gave a short sharp roar into the air. What followed was a quiet dispersal as the various elves, dwarves, and humans found fires to huddle around and swap stories and share food. Those of the council naturally came together in the royal tent. Doran was sure to keep his mother close and within the comfort of his arm.
“Tell me everythin’,” Doran said, eager, perhaps, to think of something other than his brother.
Between them all, they recounted recent events for the War Mason, filling in the details from their different perspectives and quests. Inara remained relatively quiet for the most part, only speaking of her time in Vangarth. When it finally came to Gideon, Galanör, and Aenwyn, who had travelled further than them all, Inara subtly removed herself from the tent. Vighon had squeezed her hand and shot her a questioning look, but she had calmed him with a look before leaving.
In the cold night air, Inara reached out to Athis and quickly discovered he was deep in conversation with Avandriell and Ilargo. Deciding to leave them to it, the Guardian settled for a stroll through the camp, pausing briefly to look upon Dakmund’s tomb. She envisioned herself doing this years from now, only it was Alijah’s tomb she visited.
What would she say in that instance? She knew of no real god to offer a prayer to and she didn’t believe in the dwarven religion. Where was Alijah going after death? Would he ever know peace? Did he even deserve it? Inara had none of the answers, though she wondered if her future self would be plagued with regret.
After leaving Dakmund’s tomb, it wasn’t long before the fire light of the camp was behind her and she was standing in the gloom, surrounded by trees. Despite the tranquility of the environment, she just wanted to scream. Her human emotions collided with each other, leaving the Guardian unsure of how she felt about anything.
That wasn’t true.
She was angry. Of all her emotions, anger fought its way to the forefront and dominated her. Inara was angry at Athis for ever dampening her human side. Then there was her mother, who was willing to forget everything Alijah had done if it meant saving him. And Gideon. He had been imprisoned by Alijah for years, tortured even, and yet he was trying to save him.
Of course, as much as her anger was aimed at others, it always came back on her. She was angry with herself for ever altering the bond with Athis and inflicting these human emotions on her life. And she hated herself for being cross with her mother, who only wanted to save her son from death. And then there was Gideon, who had been trying to save everyone since before she was born. Being angry with her old master, a man she had looked up to for most of her life, was hard.
A snapping twig turned Inara on her heel. She recognised Gideon by his silhouette, though he was easily identified when the golden dragon’s claw that formed Mournblade’s pommel caught the distant light.
“We need to talk,” he said determinedly.
Gideon’s words immediately got Inara’s back up and her emotional defences rose into place. “What is there to talk about?” she asked, her heart hardening once more to the approaching task. “You’ve already made your move and it appears you have the backing of the council.”
Gideon stepped forward. “Is that how you see
