by Michael
So, what has changed?
It didn’t take long to puzzle it out. Suri wasn’t six anymore, and the time in the grave taught her to see fear for what it was—a child’s terror. Suri had evolved, and in doing so, she’d learned there were far greater horrors.
Compared with making a gilarabrywn, being buried alive is nothing.
With that realization came another: It’d been days since she’d had a good night’s sleep, and since she was lying down in the dark, she took a nap.
“How is she?” Imaly asked. The Curator of the Aquila was careful to keep her voice low and her eyes on the Garden Door.
“The same condition I suspect you would be in if imprisoned and denied food and water.” Vasek, the Master of Secrets, kept his customary even tone, the one carefully cultivated to offer no glimpse into his true feelings. “She’s seen better days, I am certain.”
The two sat side by side on one of the dozens of stone benches in the Garden that formed the center of the Fhrey city of Estramnadon. Imaly sat to the left, her arm on the rest, he to the far right—close enough to speak quietly, far enough to suggest they might not be together.
Autumn was giving way to winter. The normally lush arboretum had been stripped of its leaves, reduced to naked branches of drab browns, blacks, and grays. The cultural and religious center of the Fhrey universe had also been stripped of its visitors. This was good because it granted the two privacy, but it was bad since so many empty seats prompted the question: Why are they sharing a bench if they aren’t together? Still, that wasn’t an issue since only one other person was in sight.
Trilos sat in his usual place. He didn’t appear to care about the weather; nor did he seem to take any notice of them as they sat on the bench farthest from him.
“I’m not concerned about her physical condition,” Imaly whispered. “What about her attitude?”
“One holds hands with the other, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if I knew the answer. She’s a Rhune. I have no understanding of them.”
“I’m no expert, either.”
Imaly had been careful in choosing allies. Volhoric was necessary since he controlled access to the horn. Makareta was her secret weapon, but if Imaly could have picked only one associate, one partner in crime, it would have been Vasek, even though he was the greatest threat. Being intelligent and experienced, he was also the most likely to betray her.
“What are the chances of this Rhune relinquishing the secret of dragons?” Imaly asked.
“Low,” he replied confidently. “I seriously doubt she has that knowledge at all. It’d be beyond stupid to send a person who possesses the information we need the most, and my sources report that Nyphron is no idiot. The gift wrapping is a bit too perfect. I suspect a trap. She’s probably here on some sort of suicide mission. Her purpose is likely sabotage, information gathering, or maybe even an assassination attempt. Although I can’t see how that Rhune could pose a threat to anyone, let alone the fane. Still, it worries me that I haven’t been able to determine the nature of her threat.”
“But what if she does know?”
“Then she would try her best not to tell us.”
“Do you think you can force it out of her?”
Vasek hesitated. “This morning I would have said yes, but now, I’m not so certain.”
“Why? What happened?”
“We dug her up, expecting her to do anything to avoid being put in the coffin again, but—”
“You did what?” Imaly forgot about pretending they weren’t together and turned to stare directly at him. “You buried her? In the ground? Are you insane? She could have died!”
Still looking at the door, Vasek replied in his infuriatingly calm voice, “She was only down there for a few hours. The coffin had enough air for twice that long. I had been led to believe the Rhune was terrified of small places, but apparently not.”
“That was an incredibly risky gamble. How do you know how much air is in a coffin?”
“How I came by that knowledge is not something you want to know, trust me.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. It would appear the rumor was inaccurate. The Rhune took the opportunity to take a nap.”
“Thank Ferrol for that. She could be important after we . . . well, you know.” She looked around. They were well out of Trilos’s hearing range, but Imaly was uncomfortable speaking plainly in public.
Vasek appeared to agree and quietly replied, “How is the well-you-know coming?”
Imaly rubbed her palms together, warming them. “It’s a work in progress but showing great promise.”
“That means nothing,” Vasek said. “Show me results, and I’ll consider taking measures to support your success.”
“So, you would rather align yourself with Lothian? Do you believe he can win this war? You already admitted your doubts about the Rhune possessing the knowledge he seeks. And even if she has it, your powers of persuasion haven’t worked. Lothian is dangling from a thread that is the promise of dragons. Do you believe we can win this war without them?”
“No.” His answer was what she expected, but the speed at which he delivered it was not. He hadn’t even bothered to think. Vasek had already, perhaps long ago, come to this conclusion.
“No chance at all?” she asked.
“We don’t have enough Miralyith to guard all of Erivan. Eventually, Nyphron will realize this—or maybe he already has, but he’s just stubborn about crossing the Nidwalden. Eventually, he will send an army around our Miralyith. They might already be on their way. We have only minor defenses to our south, the east, and the far north. Our population shrinks while the Rhune are free to spread into Avrlyn and multiply.” He shook his head. “Short of Ferrol personally intervening on our behalf, I don’t think we have any chance at all.”
“Vasek, when Lothian was off to Alon Rhist, I received an overture from the Rhunes, sent by a bird. It proposed peace between our peoples. If—and granted it’s a big assumption—but if we manage to succeed in our plan, we will still have a war to deal with, one you admit we can’t win. On the outside chance we impress ourselves and succeed, I’d like to be on better terms with this Rhune. So, might I suggest treating her better?”
“You want me to defy the fane’s order?”
She sighed. “No, the fane told you to extract the secret of dragons, but you don’t believe she knows it. You can’t obtain what doesn’t exist. But if we can’t win without dragons, wouldn’t it make sense to consider a peaceful resolution with the Rhunes? If Lothian questions you, tell him you are trying a new tactic because the last one failed. Explain that sometimes kindness can obtain what cruelty cannot.”
“What do you suggest? I have her to tea?”
“It’d be a good start, but why don’t you stop treating her as an enemy and welcome her as a guest? You could arrange for food, a bath, better clothes, and a comfortable place to stay.”
Vasek frowned. “Like where?”
“I don’t know. You’re the Master of Secrets.”
Vasek leaned back on the bench to ponder this. “I suppose I could arrange for a better room at the palace.”
Imaly sat up suddenly, her back coming free of the rear of the bench. She covered the act by pretending to brush something off her lap, as if a late autumn bee had landed on her. “No,” she said forcefully. “Not there. Let’s keep her away from Lothian, for Ferrol’s sake.”
“You want to take her in?”
“Absolutely not.” Imaly was horrified at the thought of trying to house both the Rhune and Makareta—whom she had yet to tell Vasek about. “Given that she is under your charge, why not give her a guest room at your house?”
“Mine?”
“You live alone. It’d be perfect. And what better way to mend a broken fence than to accept her into your own home?”
“I don’t—”
“We’ll all need to make sacrifices, Vasek.”
“And wh
at will you be sacrificing?”
Makareta’s trusting face popped into Imaly’s head, saddening her. But years in the body politic kept her expression neutral.
“My life, I suspect, which will end in an extremely painful way. If I fail to remove Lothian from office, all fingers will point my way. And we both know how publicly Lothian likes to execute traitors. But that is not my greatest concern.”
“No? What is?”
“That you are wrong, and this Rhune really does know how to create dragons. What do you think will happen if that is the case?”
“Well, assuming I can’t charm the secret out of her, Lothian will take measures into his own hands. He’ll use his own powers of persuasion, and she’ll tell him what she knows. Then Lothian will win this war, become a new hero to his people just as Fenelyus did, and that will eliminate your opportunity to remove the Miralyith from power.”
Imaly nodded. “And given that, we should find out for certain what she does or doesn’t know.”
“Buried in a coffin! Is she dead?” Volhoric asked Imaly. “Did that fool Vasek kill her?”
The high priest had been waiting outside the Garden, pretending to prune the hedges that surrounded it. He had a small pile of twigs at his feet and a tiny saw that he waved and jabbed to articulate his comments.
“No, she’s fine,” Imaly replied, pulling back. She was concerned Volhoric might accidentally hit her with his pruner.
“Seriously? How could anyone be all right after that! We need her on our side—or at least sympathetic to our cause. She’s our only path to peace. Did you explain that?”
“I did.”
Volhoric lowered the garden tool and sighed. “What’s Vasek going to do now, start chopping off fingers?”
“That might have been his next approach, but I persuaded him to try a different course. We can’t have her hating us.”
He looked at the saw with remorse. “I think that tree has already fallen.”
“I’m sure it has, but the good news is that any animosity she possesses is with Lothian, and that could work to our favor. But that’s not our immediate concern.”
“What is?”
Imaly bent down and picked up a handful of little branches that the priest had been cutting. She held them pointedly. “We need to stand that tree up again, which is where you come in.”
“Me?” He stared at the twigs. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re the head of the Umalyn tribe. I need the cooperation of one of your disciples—a priestess of Ferrol. I need her to speak to the Rhune and make her feel at ease.”
“I take it you have someone in mind?”
“Yes.” She clapped the branches against her open palm. “I suspect Nyree is the only one in Estramnadon whom the Rhune might be willing to trust.”
Volhoric’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Why?”
He dragged a hand over his face. “Because I can think of no one more ill-suited to the task.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s as zealous as they come, utterly unyielding, and as cold as the frozen Shinara River in the depths of winter. Even if I could convince her that making friends with a Rhune would save Erivan, I doubt she could manage it. She’s a terrible liar.”
“Oh, no! She can’t lie.” Imaly dropped the twigs and held up both hands. “This Rhune has already suffered from several deceptions. She’ll be expecting that. We need Nyree to be authentic, so don’t give her any instructions other than that she is to follow Vasek’s directions.”
Volhoric stared at Imaly, dumbfounded. He shook his head, his saw arm limp at his side. “How is that going to end in anything other than disaster?”
“It’s been said that this Rhune had been close friends with Arion—she was there when the Miralyith died. I’m hoping that their shared loss of a loved one will generate a common bond and shared pain.”
“Only one problem with that,” Volhoric said, as he brushed at the hedge, dusting off the remaining dead leaves. “Nyree hated Arion.”
“But Arion was her daughter,” Imaly said incredulously.
Volhoric nodded. “As cold as the Shinara, I tell you.”
Chapter Four
Loved Ones Lost and Found
In that world beyond the veil of death, we found that those we had thought to be lost forever had only been misplaced. — The Book of Brin
Moya was thirty-two when she died, and while that certainly wasn’t young for an unmarried, childless woman, it wasn’t get-your-things-in-order old. As a result, the afterlife wasn’t a topic Moya had given much thought to. Still, she’d heard the stories. Great warriors went to Alysin, the afterlife’s paradise; everyone else was divided between Rel and Nifrel. The good went to the former, the bad to the latter. Nifrel was rumored to be a place of retribution, endless torture, and anguish. Moya never thought Rel would be much better, especially given it had been described to her as a sunless existence filled with sadness and regret. Moya heard all of this from her mother, and as Audrey had a reputation for poor judgment as well as a negative view of everyone’s future, Moya guessed that her mother’s descriptions were probably wrong. Death could just as easily be a wondrous place flowing with abundant food and drink. She honestly had no idea what to expect, no preconceived notion of what the afterlife would be like—dark probably, hazy perhaps, cold certainly. Everyone knew Phyre was underground, and Moya’s visit to Neith suggested all three.
The light shining through the gate surprised her, but passing through it was like entering an illuminated house on a dark night. From the outside and at a distance, the interior looked as bright as a star. Once inside, it wasn’t nearly so brilliant, but the outside changed into a dark opaque of utter black.
Rel, as it happened, was not a dark, cold cavern; nor was it like living in an orchard with apples on every tree and fountains filled with foaming beer. In her youth, Moya had never thought much of their neighbor, the Crescent Forest. But having left Dahl Rhen and seeing a wider world of barren, dusty plains, Moya had discovered a fondness for trees, a nostalgia that had fermented from childhood bitter to adulthood sweet. These trees were different from those in Rhen. Moya found their massive height and aged appearance as comforting as an old cloak rediscovered at the start of a long journey.
Aside from the forests, the land was hilly, but not unbearably so. A pleasant stream meandered through, snaking around the rocks and hills. In the distance, mountains rose and were unlike anything Moya had ever seen. Huge, snow-swept stony teeth made a wall, as if Mount Mador had given birth to a brood of equal-height children. Above it all was a sky of sorts, but Moya saw no sun nor any hint of blue. Diffused white light illuminated everything such that there were no shadows and no warmth. Moya’s mother had been right about that much: The afterlife appeared to be sunless.
“Huh,” mused Rain as they all took their first look at the eternal world.
Only a single utterance, and perhaps not even a word at all, but Moya felt it summed up what she, too, was feeling.
“I was expecting a bit more,” Tekchin said, sounding disappointed, his eyes peering off into the distant heights.
“I was expecting less,” Tressa admitted with a tone of relief. “Or perhaps, more of something else.”
“I think it’s grand,” Gifford declared, beaming a perfectly straight smile.
“No sun . . . so what makes the light?” Roan asked softly, presumably to herself.
Brin had nothing to say, but her head shifted, and her eyes darted, struggling to take it all in.
On the far side of the gate began a road, a fine street made of white bricks—chalk or perhaps alabaster. Along its edges waited another crowd. This one was larger than those previously trapped outside. Moya’s first thought was that they were trying to get out, but she soon realized that wasn’t the case. The moment the gate opened, the newly dead poured in and were swarmed by mothers, fathers, grandparents, and children. Shocked recognitio
n was followed by hugs and tears—a series of grand reunions. Introductions were the next order of business. In the vast crowd of pushing bodies, Moya didn’t so much see as hear them.
“This is your great-grandfather, Cobalt Sire! You never met him. He’s who you were named after. Died a’fore you were born.”
“I’m your mother. I died giving you life. Seems like it was only yesterday, and now look at you!”
Moya’s initial fears that someone might have seen Tressa using the key had vanished. In those precious moments of reunion, everything else had been forgotten.
“Brin! Brin!” a familiar voice yelled. “Brin!”
Before Moya knew what was happening, Brin had bolted forward into the arms of a familiar man and woman. Moya had mentally accepted that she was in Rel and that this was the afterlife, but not until that instant did it sink to her gut. Watching Delwin and Sarah hug their daughter, Moya felt punched in the stomach.
This is real. We truly are dead.
Sarah and Delwin weren’t alone. A familiar black-and-white dog bounded up, happily barking. Moya remembered a sad old sheepdog who had lived a life of leisure after growing too old to herd. This Darby wasn’t that one. This dog was young and spirited, but Sarah and Delwin looked exactly the same as when they had died. Moya knew she was missing something—many somethings, she guessed—and she suspected the dog was a clue. Gifford’s ability to speak normally might be one, too.
I’m terrible at riddles.
A handsome Fhrey in white robes approached Tekchin and clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “Tekchinry!” He grinned.
“Prylo?” Shocked, Tekchin stared at the Fhrey. Then he said to Moya, “This is my father. He died in the Dherg War.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
