Overhead, the dark wings of seven vultures circled against a gray sky that was too big, too bare, too vacant.
“How can there be no trees?” Suri asked and let her arms clap her sides, issuing a burst of yellow dust.
“There’s a tree.” Raithe pointed at an ancient stump whose long-dead roots resembled the skeletal remains of a hand clutching a fistful of rocks.
“That’s not a tree.”
“Used to be a tree.”
Suri turned her head side to side, viewing the entire tabletop plain. “Is that what happened? People cut them all down?”
Raithe shook his head. “Don’t think there were many to start with.”
The two had left the Rhist early that morning. No plans had been made, no rendezvous agreed to. Suri had awakened with itchy feet, the sort of irritation that could only be calmed by a good solid walk over new ground. She found Raithe at the ford, standing on the bridge and looking down into the chasm where the river rushed. She, too, had paused to take a peek. Nothing was said, no greeting, not even a wave.
When Suri moved on, Raithe fell into step alongside her. That’s how it usually happened. Raithe likely felt it was coincidence, but armed with her new sight, Suri recognized more was at work. In terms of the Art—the Language of Elan—she saw it as a golden thread that connected the two of them, just as she felt linked to Arion. This heightened connection indicated a relationship of importance and the reason they so often found each other at just the right time. Suri imagined that she would have noticed a similar thread between her and Maeve had she known how to see it back then. What significance that thread indicated, Suri had no idea, but that was how the sight—as Arion sometimes referred to it—worked. In a way, they were puzzles, clues, bits and pieces of half-heard conversations. Suri liked mysteries, but all too often when put together these puzzles revealed unhappy pictures.
“How did you live here without—” Suri shook her head. “It’s not just the lack of trees; there’s so little life. No greenery, all rock.”
“Now you know why we crossed the Bern. Look.” Raithe pointed back west and slightly south where the land turned a lush green. “The Fhrey call it Avrlyn.”
“Green hills,” Suri translated.
“Yep.” He gestured longingly with his hands at the sight. “In my village I woke up every day, and there it was right across the river. Look at it—paradise rising up into the clouds. We weren’t allowed there. That was the land of gods.” He sighed and frowned as his sight returned to the rocky world around them. “This, we were told, was our place, our divinely prescribed lot. What we deserved.” Raithe scraped his boot on the face of the stone escarpment he stood on. “In a way they were right. This land suited us: dry, hard, barren, prone to extremes of hot and cold, but…” He looked at her. “I wonder how much of that came from living here? If we all lived where you did, would we have been different?”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Suri said. “Regardless where you’re born, the world has a way of finding you and ruining everything.”
Raithe looked surprised.
She shrugged. “Okay, not everything, and maybe not utter ruin, but nothing stays the same.”
She resumed their hike along the edge of the canyon, looking for routes down. During the cold of winter, all they could comfortably handle were short explorations of the city. Sometimes Tesh or Malcolm came along, but mostly it was just her and Raithe. They had tried crossing the ford months before, but the winds and snow of Dureya were brutal. The city, with its twisting narrow streets, was sheltered but complicated. Exploring it provided just enough adventure to keep her sane. After months of darkness trapped in stone, the fortress became an uncomfortable cage, but when she and Raithe teamed up and slipped out, they were—for a short time—free. The advent of spring felt like the end of a prison sentence. They were out, the day was hot, and Suri was intent on swimming. She just needed to find a way to descend the cliff.
“There’s no way down,” Raithe told her.
She frowned.
“Wouldn’t have been nice, anyway,” he continued. “Maybe down by the Crescent in high summer it’s a fine swim. Up here in spring, it’s ridiculously cold, and I know that from experience.”
She hadn’t told him what she planned. Until she mentioned the lack of trees, the two hadn’t spoken all morning. Still, he knew. Only once before had Suri experienced that degree of harmony, that sense of comfortable companionship that had no need for questions or answers. She couldn’t help feeling a little guilty.
“Rivers age as they go downstream,” Suri told Raithe while they looked at the disagreeable gorge. “That’s what Tura once told me. They start out as tiny trickles, then in their youth and adolescence are like this, boundless energy throwing themselves heedless against unmovable rocks. Then they usually fall. Sometimes it’s a series of tumbles and sometimes one great plummet, but hitting bottom usually takes the fight out of most rivers. After that, they mellow and learn to meander around the rocks they encounter, taking life slower, easier. They spread out and grow quiet until, at last, they flow into the sea, becoming one with something greater.”
Raithe’s eyes grew glassy, his lips squeezed shut, and a moment later he wiped away tears. For the first time she was baffled.
“Sorry,” he said. “I ah…It’s just that you remind me of my sister. She would have been about your age, and she used to talk like that.” He looked at his feet. “I don’t miss too many people, but I miss her. I remember laughing when she was around. She had a way of doing that, even on the cold nights when there was no food. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. And in all honesty, being with you sometimes makes me feel a little guilty, like I’m betraying her memory.” He waved a defensive hand. “I know that sounds stupid but—”
“Not so much,” Suri replied.
“No?”
“You remind me of someone, too.”
“Who?”
Suri smiled. “My sister.”
Raithe looked at her; he was puzzled for a moment, then a smile came on his face, and he chuckled and nodded. “Must be the fur.” He reached up and ran a hand through his hair. “So, what do we do now? How about another game of Stones?”
“We could get rocks and juggle. You didn’t do so well last time. You could use the practice. Oh, and I’ve got my string! We could just bask on the ground over there, and I could show you how to do a four-handed—”
Suri had been pointing at a flat place on the plain, one of the few areas where there was grass. While she was thinking about how soft it would be to sit on, a blast of despair hit her.
“Suri?” Raithe said.
“Rocks,” she replied.
“Rocks?”
“Piles of rocks.”
“I don’t see any,” Raithe told her.
“Sadness here, terrible sadness and incredible loss.”
“That’s Dureya.”
Suri felt the sorrow welling up until she thought she might drown. That suffocating feeling rushed back, smothering her.
“Suri!” Raithe shouted as she collapsed to her knees and began sobbing.
“There’s so much anguish here,” she cried.
Raithe lifted her up and began carrying her back toward the bridge. “I think you’ve had enough fresh air for one day.”
“No, no!” Suri said. “I don’t want to go back yet.”
She squirmed and he let her down. Suri wiped her eyes and took a breath.
“You okay?”
“Better.” Suri took a few more calculated breaths, then started walking back toward the bridge. She felt a powerful need to get farther away from that grassy place.
“What happened?”
She shook her head. “Felt something awful.”
“This is an Art thing, isn’t it?”
She nodded but wasn’t entirel
y sure. Suri really didn’t know what had happened. It felt a bit like the sensation of cold she and Arion had experienced in the city. But this sensation had been far more powerful, and personal. It had felt so strong that she was surprised—
“You didn’t feel it?” she asked.
“Feel what?”
“Never mind. Maybe it was just my imagination.”
You need to recognize that your imagination is more accurate than other people’s sight.
Suri didn’t like that idea, not in this case. She wanted it to be a mistake, felt it had to be, but not so much that she’d turn around to test the idea. Suri was happy to leave the question unanswered because, just as with the sensation with Arion in the city, Suri had the impression she wasn’t sensing some awful event from the past. Whatever horrible thing Suri sensed had yet to happen.
Feeling a need to hide from the terrible in a bath of ordinary mindlessness, she veered off course toward the once-a-tree. “Maybe we should just sit over here for a bit.”
“Sure,” he said. Then she saw him glance back across the plain, and he asked, “Suri? Can you really…” He hesitated.
“What?”
“Can you really move mountains?”
She frowned. “Yeah, but it was sort of an accident.”
“Sort of an accident?”
“I was upset at the time.”
Raithe stopped abruptly. “You’re upset right now.” He put his arms up feigning fear. “Should I be worried?”
Suri smiled and moved her hands as if she were going to hex him. “Very.”
“Ooh,” he said, grinning. “Going to turn me into a frog?”
“No.” She walked toward the stump. “Frogs are no fun. What would you like to be?”
“I don’t know. Something that can fly, I guess.”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
* * *
—
Nyphron entered the High Hold, a large living space on the seventh floor of the Kype that most of the Instarya called the Shrine. The suite of rooms, decorated with tapestries, sculptures, mahogany chairs, and gold-rimmed chamber pots, was originally built as the living quarters for the lord of the Rhist. In reality, the seventh floor had only had one resident, and he’d used it for just a short time. Although nothing official had ever been declared, the quarters—although meticulously cleaned and maintained—had been left empty and unaltered since Fane Rhist died. That had been a few thousand years ago, before Nyphron was born. Legend held that not a thing had changed. A golden cup famously rested precariously on the stone molding near the grand open hearth, and it was believed that Rhist had placed his drink there just before rushing out to his death—his last act in that room. Nyphron had come in and looked at that cup many times, wondering what foolish little thing might be his last act that future generations of people would look back on with misplaced worship. He hoped it would be something grander than setting down a cup of wine.
“So, what is it that has you so jittery you want to speak in private?” Nyphron asked.
Sebek didn’t answer. He closed the door behind them.
Nyphron folded his arms. “Oh honestly—give it up. What’s this all about?”
“It’s Techylor.” Sebek spoke just above a whisper.
“The kid? What about him?”
Sebek proceeded to walk briskly around the Shrine, opening the doors to the side rooms and looking inside. Nyphron waited until he was done. Sebek had always been a little volatile, a little odd, but the truly talented always were a touch crazy.
Nyphron had known Sebek for a thousand years. He couldn’t say they were friends, but then friends meant different things to different people. In all honesty, Nyphron had never had what he would call a friend—someone like him, someone he could relate to, someone who loved him and whom he could unequivocally trust. Sebek was more his opposite. Cold and detached, the Fhrey loved only his swords and cared only that he was the best at killing, which he was. Sebek liked killing. He cared nothing for power, for advancement, or wealth, just had a thing for fresh blood. Sebek wasn’t an intellectual, not a thinker. Thoughts other than those associated with combat were a distraction, something to avoid. Sebek was as interesting as a dull rock, but he was a damn fine warrior.
“Well?” Nyphron asked, taking a seat on the gold-framed, red-cushioned couch as Sebek walked back to him.
“I think Techylor knows.”
“Knows what?”
There was a knock on the door, and Sebek reached for his swords.
“Who is it?” Nyphron called out. Sebek’s nervousness had him concerned. When the best warrior in the world was checking doors, whispering mysterious warnings, and reaching for metal at the slightest sound, only a fool would be relaxed.
“Your humble servant,” came the reply.
Nyphron looked at Sebek. “Is Malcolm allowed in?”
Sebek answered by opening the door. “Anyone see you come up?”
“Maybe, but who would care?”
Malcolm walked in, still dressed in his absurd Rhune outfit of wool despite the change in weather. He also wore a confused look similar to the one on Nyphron’s face. “What’s going on?”
Sebek checked the hall before closing the door.
“I was hoping you knew,” Nyphron admitted.
“Sebek asked me up,” Malcolm said.
Sebek closed the door again. “Techylor is from Dureya.”
Malcolm glanced at Nyphron with a smirk. “Yeah—we know. Is this news to you?”
“He was there.”
Nyphron leaned forward. “What do you mean by there?”
Sebek walked away from the door, making the wooden floor boards creak with his weight. Alon Rhist had likely made the same sound. Probably he made that noise when he walked to the stone molding and set his wine cup down.
“The kid was in one of the little villages we burned. He lived there.”
Nyphron shook his head. “Not possible. We checked. No one survived those raids.” He pointed again at Sebek. “You—you were charged with making certain there were no witnesses.”
Sebek stopped short of where the famous cup rested, gathering dust. “He must have been hiding.”
“He saw you?” Malcolm said, glancing back and forth between them. “That’s…”
“He didn’t see us,” Nyphron said, willing it to be so. There were times he felt he was genuinely capable of such things. During battles, or in general, sheer determination and willpower were all that was needed. If he wanted anything bad enough, he could make it happen. This was often a warning sign of Miralyith talent. As nothing could be more repugnant to him, he also willed that not to be so. “What makes you think he did?”
“Raithe and Tesh are the only surviving Dureyans,” Sebek said. “Raithe lived because he was in the wilderness with Malcolm, but Techylor was a kid. Why would a kid be away from home by himself?”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“And when I asked him where he was, how he avoided death, he didn’t answer. He ran off and wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Tesh would have said something by now,” Nyphron said. “If he really was there, he would have seen us kill his family, his whole clan. If that were true, do you really think he’d be training with you?”
“He wants revenge,” Malcolm said thoughtfully, as if thinking out loud. The skinny man sat down on one of the three fancy footstools. “When we first met him, Tesh asked to be called Fhreyhyndia.”
Sebek’s eyes widened. “That explains the dedication. He’s learning to kill us.” He walked the length of the room, then turned around and stared at Nyphron. “I’m guessing he’ll start with you.”
“This is all…” Nyphron shook his head. Sebek wasn’t as quick with his brain as with his swords. “Has he told anyone? Has he actually said he saw
us?”
“No,” Sebek said.
Nyphron shifted his sight to Malcolm.
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t even know about this until now. If he was going to tell anyone, it would be Raithe. They’re both Dureyan, and Raithe is his chieftain.”
“Did he tell him?”
Malcolm shrugged. “It’s not like we’re always together. They’ve had plenty of opportunities to chat without me around.”
“All the more reason to keep Raithe away from Persephone. If she were to hear of this…” Nyphron made a peak with his hands and rested his face in them, his fingertips pressing the bridge of his nose.
“Do you think she’d believe him?” Malcolm asked. “Things have come so far. You’ve built so much trust and credibility over the—”
“She’s still a human,” he snapped. “They aren’t rational.”
Malcolm raised both eyebrows and tilted his head slightly to one side. “Excuse me?”
“You know what I mean. Besides, you’re practically Fhrey.”
Malcolm smirked. “I’ll choose to interpret that as a compliment.”
“Even if he hasn’t told anyone else, Techylor is still a threat,” Sebek insisted as he continued to pace. That was another problem with Sebek; he always needed to be moving. Moving, fighting, killing. The Fhrey’s nightmare must be dying and being brought back to life by the gods as a still pond. “He’s only sixteen years old—sixteen. What will he be like in another ten years?”
“This kid is that good?”
Sebek raised his brows. “How good were you at sixteen years? Not sixteen hundred, not fifty—sixteen!”
Nyphron hadn’t touched a weapon of any kind at such a young age. Like most Instarya, his first century was considered childhood, his first decade was looked on as infancy, a time for unencumbered frivolity and discovery. “It’s not the same with them as with us.”
Age of War Page 16
