Of Blood And Fire by Ryan Cahill (best classic books of all time .txt) 📕

Dann shivered involuntarily. He had only drunk Wyrm Blood once before. It wasn’t actually the blood of a wyrm. It was a concoction created from a mix of pure grape spirit and botanicals that had a vivid green colouring. Lasch had imported some for The Gilded Dragon from Valtara two summers back, and Dann distinctly remembered struggling to use his legs afterwards.

Dahlen passed a small cup of the sharp green liquid to Dann. “Thank you for sharing your wine with me. To friends and family.”

“To friends and family.” Dann winced as the spirit burned its way down his throat.

Dahlen slammed his small cup down on the table, his face contorted in pain from the spirit. “Shall we get drunk?”

“That had been my only intention for tonight,” Dann laughed, as he called Elaiya over again. She was quite beautiful. I wonder if she would join us for a drink.

“Have I ever told you about the time that I saw a horse with a horn growing from its head?”

CHAPTER 32

The Hand

“We have heard all we need to hear.”

That was all Pulroan said. Nobody else spoke after that, which suited Calen. He didn’t think he would have been able to say anything else.

They were brought back to the Heart and shown their chambers. Both Aeson and Arthur came to see him that night, but all he did was roar at them and send them away. He had never been so angry in all his life. He felt it in Valerys too. It burned in the back of his mind like smouldering coals. Aeson flat-out refused to leave until Valerys snapped at him. Had the dragon tried a bit harder, he would have taken Aeson’s hand.

Calen sat on the edge of his bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He knew if he pushed everything down, it would eventually come back up. He just hadn’t expected it to come back at a time like that. He felt like a fool. He had roared at kings and queens, lost his temper. He made an idiot of himself. But that was not what hurt him.

When he lost his temper in the chamber, something switched in the back of his mind. It was the first time that he allowed himself to accept the truth. He couldn’t hide from it anymore; he couldn’t lie to himself. His family was gone.

His heart felt like it had been ripped free of his chest. He would never lay eyes on his mother again. Never feel the warmth of her hand against his cheek. Never hear his father’s voice. Ella had always believed in him, always kept his chin up, and she was always there to show him the right way. At least they would be with Haem now. He didn’t move to stop the tears from flowing. It would be like a bandage on a broken arm.

He could still save Rist. He would save Rist.

For that night, though, he needed to feel everything. He lay back and let himself sob, shaking. Valerys lay at the door, ensuring nobody came in, but Calen felt him. The sadness and the comfort.

Calen lay his scabbard down against the wooden rail of the practice yard, sliding his sword free as he did. He let out a puff of air, spinning the blade around to loosen his arms.

He did not look forward to facing Gaeleron’s stony stare when he returned to Belduar. The elf was regimental when it came to Calen’s practice with the sword. He would not be happy when he discovered that Calen had refused to spar with Aeson.

He still practiced his forms, at least. It was all that kept him sane while they waited. Four days had passed without a word from the dwarves. Therin had said that the dwarves of the Freehold could take a lifetime to reach a decision, such was the nature of four kingdoms attempting to work as one. Each had their own agendas. Each tried to make sure their own needs were met. That didn’t help the sickly feeling that sat in Calen’s stomach, though.

He had not spoken to Aeson or Arthur either. They had tried, but he simply walked away. He didn’t want to talk to them. They had put him in that situation. They knew what he was walking into, and they just threw him like a sheep to wolves. They used him. But it was his own fault for not noticing it sooner.

The Heart had its own practice yard. It was meant to be for the royal guard only, but every morning, when Calen practiced his forms, a crowd gathered – as it did now. They may not have known who he was when he first arrived, but word had spread that a Draleid was in Durakdur. He heard many things when he had wandered the city streets during the day. Everybody had a different theory as to why the Draleid had come to Durakdur. Everybody seemed to know more than he did.

Calen took a deep breath in as he dropped into Crouching Bear form. Don’t think. Just move.

He released control as he flowed through the forms that were part of a movement that Gaeleron had been teaching him; the svidarya. Burning Winds. There was something about the fluidity of the movement that settled Calen’s mind.

The first morning he practiced his forms in the yard, it was just fifteen or twenty servants, trying to pretend that they weren’t watching. They walked a little slower or just stopped for a moment, pretending to catch their breath. Calen wasn’t sure if it was his practice or the opportunity to gawk at Valerys, but by the fourth morning, the yard was crammed with as many as three hundred people. They didn’t even pretend to busy themselves. They gathered in groups, leaned over walls or fences, and some stopped and sat on the ground, watching. There was no fear of the royal guard