Gideon nodded his understanding. “You still possess some of Malliath’s memories.” The old master took a breath. “I’m afraid there is little you can do at this point. Until they hatch, everything is instinct and a little messy. And your bond is immature, meaning there is little to no filter between you.”
“How long until they hatch?” Asher questioned, both eager and nervous to meet the being inside.
Gideon looked down at the scaled shell. “Once the outer layer has begun to crack, it can be anywhere from hours to days.”
Inara ran a delicate finger over one of the cracks. “Has she told you the name yet? The mother?”
Asher was so focused on not pulling the egg away that he didn’t grasp her question for another second. “Told me the name?”
Inara flashed a warm smile. “We may not know what lies within, but every dragon mother knows whether she has laid the egg of a son or daughter. Athis and Ilargo were both named by their mothers before they hatched. Of course, they were able to tell us themselves by the time we met.”
“Inara’s right,” Gideon agreed. “At some point that memory will be passed on to the hatchling. You will either experience it yourself or they will tell you.”
It all sounded so surreal to the ranger, as if he was hearing about someone else’s life. “I don’t know any name,” he admitted quietly, his eyes fixed on the bronze egg.
“There will be time,” Gideon reassured. “Come,” he bade, gesturing to the fire. “Let us rest some more before we take flight tonight. Tomorrow will bring tests of its own.”
Asher didn’t argue. His head felt heavy, as if he could feel his mind altering to make room for more memories that were not his own. He decided, however, that he would accept these new ones willingly. He cradled the egg by the fire and closed his eyes. Whatever was happening to him, the ranger knew he wouldn’t emerge the same.
And he was fine with that.
6
The Dawn of a New Day
Like every morning since that fateful night, Kassian Kantaris awoke with one thing on his mind: Clara. Waking up without the feel of her warm body beside him was agony, but he couldn’t deny the sting had lessened over the last two years.
It was said that time healed all and the Keeper hated it. He didn’t want to get used to life without his wife. He didn’t want the fury to seep from his veins. Yet here he was, perched on the edge of his bed with an old feeling returned to his heart.
Hope…
He hadn’t seen so much as a flicker of hope since his days in Valatos, with Clara in his life. But he could feel it, growing bit by bit as the days stretched on. Hope that they would defeat their enemy, and not just because that enemy was Alijah Galfrey, but because there was evil holding reign over the land. Hope that Vighon would be king again and bring a new age of peace to the realm. Hope that Inara and Asher would return with Gideon and Ilargo. Hope that their allies had claimed victory on Qamnaran because the world needed dwarves and elves.
And then there was the hope he held deep down for his fellow Keepers. Besides those who accompanied him, they were scattered across Illian, each possessing the knowledge and experience of a seasoned mage. Their talents were being wasted in hiding and there were potentially hundreds, if not thousands, of people out there with a sensitivity to magic who needed guidance.
That last hope meant a lot to him, its origins from a place in his heart where Clara still existed. More and more, in fact, he found himself wondering what she would think of his day-to-day actions. He knew his wife wouldn’t have condoned half the things he did, but the world was broken - at least that’s what he told himself.
Already exhausted by his first thoughts of the day, Kassian pressed his hands into the bed and pushed himself up. He winced and chastised himself, forgetting that his hand was still injured. He inspected the bandage, dismayed to see flecks of blood that had come through. He knew he needed to set time aside to heal the stump where his little finger had been, as well as garner the magic to perform the spell.
But there was a constant reminder that every ounce of his magic would be required soon.
Opening the window, the sound of Reavers beating their armour flooded his room. Kassian sighed. He wondered if the morning would ever come when he could get up, enjoy his pipe, and drink a hot cup of Velian tea. He hoped not. That all sounded rather dull, in truth. The Keeper had no plans on resting until his bones demanded it.
That in mind, he dressed in his usual attire, including his long coat, enchanted sword and bracer, and his wand holster. He held the wand itself in his hand for a moment. The texture and weight felt wrong, even down to the quantity of Demetrium in its core. It had, obviously, been perfect for young Fin, who had wielded it with honour until his dying breath outside The Dragon Keep. And so he holstered it on his right thigh and made to leave the inn that had been kind enough to give him free lodging.
Stepping out into the lower town, he was greeted by the pervasive chill of the north. Having grown up in Velia, Kassian preferred a warmer climate where one’s breath didn’t attempt to cloud the view every few seconds. The people, however, he found to be far more hospitable than the rest of the world gave them credit for. Approaching his fellow Keepers, several Namdhorians reached out to thank him for his efforts in the recent battle, as well as offer him supplies. He refused them all and ushered them up the city slope, there to
