Age of Empyre, page 21
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
“You can blow it and challenge Mawyndulë.”
“And you can go to Nifrel and rot,” Imaly told him.
“You are forgetting that a champion can be named to fight in place of the challenger. There’s no restriction; it doesn’t have to be a Fhrey. This Rhune knows the Art and can fight for you. If she wins, you’ll be fane.”
Imaly’s eyes shifted left then right before looking at Suri. “Would you do that?”
Tempting, Suri thought.
She’d long wished for Mawyndulë’s death for killing Arion, and she was frustrated by the protection that blowing the horn was providing him. But then she once more spied Makareta’s body—one part here, another over there—and realized she couldn’t believe anything either Fhrey told her. For all she knew, giving Imaly the horn might grant the Curator the same safeguard that Mawyndulë possessed. It could even be a trick that would cut her off from the Art the way the Orinfar had.
“No,” she replied. “Fhrey lie as frequently as Belgriclungreians.”
“If you don’t act as her champion,” Volhoric said, “Mawyndulë will rule. He’ll have a fleet of dragons at his command and will kill all your people.”
“If you support me now,” Imaly told her, “I’ll fulfill my promise and work to make peace between our peoples. That was always my plan.”
“She’s lying,” Mawyndulë said. “Imaly won’t stop the war any more than I will. She’s only telling you what you want to hear. You can’t trust her.”
Mawyndulë gathered power. He was doing it subtly, muttering softly, trying to catch her off guard. Suri had no idea what he planned this time, but it didn’t matter. With a word, she canceled his weave before he even raised his hands. He let out a grunt of anger and stamped his foot.
“Look,” Volhoric said. “I know you’re suspicious of Imaly, and with good reason. But it’s Mawyndulë or her. One person has blown the horn. If another Fhrey doesn’t do so before this time tomorrow, then Mawyndulë is fane by default, and he’ll rule for the next three thousand years. The Miralyith will continue to dominate the Fhrey people, and every last Rhune will be hunted to extinction. You know that as well as I do. With him, you know what you’re getting. With Imaly, you at least have a chance for peace.”
Imaly softened her gaze and added a little smile, a motherly expression. “Suri, you were a prisoner, and I freed you. You lived with me. I took care of you. Don’t you owe me this?”
“No—I don’t.” Suri shook her head.
“But I got you out! I took the collar off!”
“To be kind? Why did you wait so long to do this? How many gilarabrywns did Lothian make? And what would have happened to Makareta if your plan had worked?”
Suri looked again at the torn body of her friend, then narrowed her stare at the old Curator, who didn’t dare reply.
The four of them stood facing one another across the stained marble.
“Suri,” Imaly said after no one spoke up. This time she did so without the pleading or the false motherly tone. “You’re right. I didn’t tell you the whole truth, and you can’t trust me, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is still him or me. No one else will challenge because only a Miralyith can hope to win, and there are none within three days of here. You have to choose. Who do you want to be fane?”
Suri remembered Arion saying, “Suri, you can be the difference. You can change the future. It’s up to you.” And in that moment, everything made sense.
The future was hers to decide. The problem was she didn’t like her options.
No one moved or spoke for a long time.
Suri shifted her gaze from Mawyndulë to Imaly with occasional short trips to the still-smoldering body of the fane and the remains of Makareta. She also took notice of Lothian’s larger bodyguard, whose name she didn’t know, and Synne, who had gone unnoticed as she was almost totally buried beneath a fallen column.
Imaly’s plan had led to this. She didn’t care what happened to the people she manipulated. Would her rule bring further disasters?
On the other hand, Mawyndulë had killed Arion, and Suri had learned firsthand what sort of person he was during her time in a cage on her travels to Estramnadon.
As she stood and thought, Suri began to wonder if there might be a third option. She could wait until a day had passed—hold out until Mawyndulë became fane—and then kill him. The problem with that idea was that she wasn’t certain if the whole Protection of Ferrol thing would still remain in effect. She considered asking, but doubted she could trust their answers. That was the problem: She couldn’t rely on any of them.
As Suri struggled to find a solution, an annoying sound pestered her—a nearby scratching noise.
Suri looked at each of them. Imaly wasn’t moving, neither was Volhoric or Mawyndulë.
The sound came from right in front of Suri. Looking down, she noticed small scratches appearing on the marble floor. Suri took a step closer.
Imaly looked at her. “What are you doing?”
Suri shook her head. “Nothing.”
Imaly faced Mawyndulë, who was also watching the scratches as they appeared in front of Suri. “Is it you?”
Mawyndulë shook his head.
“It’s not the Art,” Suri declared.
“Well, someone has to be doing it!” Imaly exclaimed, growing more agitated as she stared at the ground.
Suri looked at Minna.
First, I broke my toe, then it rained, then . . .
Big events have an attractive, cumulative quality. Suri reflected on this and quickly modified her statement. Maybe it’s more like an intersection, a crossroad where things meet.
This could be the moment Arion foresaw—an event so important that it could be seen from a distance.
Minna is here. I’m here. Mawyndulë is as well, and now there is a scratching without a source. Nothing is accidental. Nothing.
Suri crouched down to study the scratches. They were making a series of pictures. The first was the unmistakable shape of the horn that Suri held. The second appeared to be that of a spear. The butt end started at the horn and the tip was aimed at the last image. It began as a rectangle, taller than wide. As more scratches were added, Suri could see it was a drawing of a door, and not just any entryway.
Suri understood the message but had no idea who was giving it to her or why.
“Who are you?” Suri called out.
More scratches appeared, forming in a new place to the side of the old images. Everyone watched the progress as they appeared.
This time it drew the unmistakable image of an eye. Then another spear was drawn with the point going up away from the eye. The scratches stopped, and after a few minutes Suri said, “Is that all? I don’t understand.”
That’s when Minna yipped.
The wolf trotted to Suri’s side and looked up.
“You know what this is all about, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.”
The wolf yipped again.
“I hope someone knows what’s going on,” Volhoric said.
“Out with it, Minna. What does this drawing mean?”
In reply, the wolf looked up again.
“That’s not an answer,” Suri said.
The wolf came over and sniffed the markings, then looked up.
Suri continued to watch, puzzled. Finally, Minna threw her head back and howled. The sound echoed loudly under the dome. The noise startled Imaly, who flinched. Volhoric took a step backward. Mawyndulë raised his hands, but a glance from Suri stopped him.
Minna continued her wail. Howling had always been something the two did for fun—both would throw back their heads and harmonize. This hardly seemed the time or place for forest songs, but little had made sense so far, and the only one in that room Suri trusted was Minna. If Suri’s sister felt the need to sing, who was she to argue with the world’s wisest wolf?
Suri threw her head back and—
That’s when she saw it. High above them was the ceiling of the Airenthenon. The underside of the dome was painted to look like the sky with two people looking down from intertwined wooden chairs. One was a rather homely female Fhrey, but the other . . .
“Who is that up there?” Suri asked.
“My great-grandmother, Gylindora Fane,” Imaly answered. “She was the first ruler of our people.”
“Not her. The other one.”
“Oh. That’s Caratacus. He was her closest adviser.”
Suri looked up again. “We call him Malcolm.”
Suri was still looking up when she felt a tug on the horn. No one had moved, and at first, she thought it might have been Minna, but the wolf had gone toward the door. Being held by the strap Suri had looped over her head and under one arm, the horn wasn’t being taken from her, but it was most definitely moving. Suri didn’t sense any use of the Art. Minna gave another yip from where she waited. Then Suri felt more movement from the horn, a light pull, a gentle tugging in the direction Minna wanted to go.
Yip! Minna scratched at the door.
Suri glanced back at the scratches. “I think I know what to do,” she told the others. Then, with a flick of one finger, the door opened. She glanced at the prince, but this time, Mawyndulë made no effort to stop her.
Minna rushed out.
“If you take the horn,” Imaly said. “Mawyndulë will be fane.”
When it came to choosing who to listen to, Imaly or a recently resurrected Minna, the decision was easy. Suri had no idea how any of it was possible. She didn’t know why her dead sister had returned and appeared in Estramnadon of all places, but she also had no idea how fish breathed or birds flew. Mysteries didn’t bother her. Seeing Malcolm’s face was answer enough, and without another word, she chased after Minna.
No one made an attempt to stop them. The crowd of Fhrey that had gathered at the entrance and down the stairs pushed and shoved to give the pair room to pass. Minna led the way, trotting down to the plaza and then straight for the Garden. As Suri ran to keep up, she noticed a flicker of light, a faint twinkling that appeared to follow closely behind Minna.
Suri heard yelling. The noise didn’t come from behind her. It didn’t originate from the Airenthenon. Such a disturbance would have been expected. Suri assumed that once she abandoned Imaly and Volhoric, Mawyndulë would exact his revenge. He would do something to make them shriek in pain, but no such commotion rose. Instead, the yelling came from in front of her.
As she approached the Garden, Suri discovered another crowd. This one was only a dozen or so Fhrey, but their shouts were drawing more.
“The Door!” someone cried. “The Door has been opened!”
Those who had gathered stared in wonder, but no one ventured near. Suri noticed wolf tracks in the snow. The ones she followed and an identical set going in the opposite direction. “So this is where you came from, Minna? Is this how you got here?”
The crowd of Fhrey in their flapping winter cloaks backed up as Suri and Minna approached. The wolf trotted past them without a glance, and Suri followed her lead. Once more, she noticed a flicker of light, but now it was more of a shimmer.
Approaching the Garden Door, Suri noticed it stood open about two feet, a little hump of snow pushed up by it. A larger set of tracks led in, but without pause, Minna entered. What was good for Minna was fine with Suri, so she followed. Once inside, the shimmering light took on a more defined form, and Suri realized that what she had been seeing was the ghostly figure of a woman.
Behind the door was a sizable room. At its center was a grand but deceased tree. In the darkened interior, the shimmer was more readily seen: a young woman draped in a Rhen-patterned breckon mor, who watched Suri with eager eyes.
“Brin?” Suri said.
“You can see me?” Brin’s voice was strange, distorted as if she spoke from the opposite end of a long, hollow log. “Can you hear me, too?”
Suri nodded. “But . . . what . . . how . . .” Suri couldn’t figure out a way to frame the question. There was too much to ask and too few words.
“I’m dead,” Brin replied, and then quickly added, “at the moment, at least. Hopefully it’s only temporary. I must look like a ghost to you—I can’t see it myself, but I suspect to you I’m all glowy and see-through. Is that right?”
Suri nodded again.
“You can see me now because we’re near an entrance to Phyre where the barrier between the worlds is thin. They blend a little. Normally you can’t—at least you couldn’t when Minna and I first found you up on those steps. I can’t believe I was reduced to drawing pictures with the key. Hope I didn’t damage it. You really should have learned how to read, you know.” Brin frowned and waved her hands in frustration. “Never mind all that. It doesn’t matter. I’ll explain later. The real point is that we came to save you. But . . .” Again, frustration washed her face. “You didn’t need saving, and—and as it turned out—your salvation wasn’t the goal after all. Malcolm sent me to get that horn.”
Suri had no idea how someone could be temporarily dead. All she knew was that this was indeed Brin. And that left her wondering if she ought to feel sad or not.
“I know this doesn’t make sense. I know it all sounds crazy, but it’s true. I need to take that horn back with me to the Dragon Camp so Nyphron can blow it. He’ll be the one to make the challenge.”
“It won’t work.” Suri frowned. “It has to be blown by tomorrow.”
“I know.” Brin nodded. “I heard. But I’m pretty sure I can make it in time. Distances are shorter in Phyre than on Elan, and I can get there through this pool. In the afterlife, I’m very fast. You really ought to see me. Since I’m traveling east to west I might have some extra time. I’m not sure how much, but it could help. Roan probably would know better, but she’s lost in the Abyss.” Brin threw her head back and clenched her fists in frustration. “Oh, Grand Mother, I know I’m messing this up, I know none of what I’m saying makes any sense, but there is too much to explain, and I have so little time that I can’t—”
Suri held out the horn. “Here. Take it.”
“You sure?”
At the sound of those two words, Suri felt tears rise. Sometimes the Art was magical in the way it wove its patterns. Some were powerful, some complex, but some were just plain beautiful. Suri nodded. “Pretty sure.”
As Brin took the horn, Minna yipped.
They weren’t alone. Standing by the tree, within the tangle of its bony roots, stood a person.
“You again?” Suri said, recognizing the fellow she’d met in the Garden when visiting Arion’s home.
“I’ve waited a long, long time,” he replied, and she noted sadness in his voice, and that Minna had positioned herself between them.
The man wiped his face; he had been crying.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he said, and ran a hand over the trunk of the dead tree. “He killed her. Maybe he didn’t create this prison, but make no mistake: Her death is on his hands.” The man sounded devastated, bereft. “We all loved her. I didn’t think him capable of . . . she gave him immortality. She saved him.” He took a step toward the ghost of Brin. “You know where he is, don’t you?”
“I don’t know who you are talking about. Nor do I know who you are.”
“I’m looking for my brother,” he said with disgust. “I’m Trilos. Second son of Elan and Eton. First to die. First to be murdered. First victim of Turin. And I’ll see him punished for his crimes.”
“Your brother has changed,” Brin said. “He’s trying to make up for his mistakes. He’s working to fix the world.”
“This,” he shouted and pointed at the tree, “is how Turin fixes things!”
Brin moved a step back.
“But Elan herself told me so.”
“She’s his mother! After I destroy him, she’ll still love me, too. She’ll say she’s disappointed, but she’ll still love me. She’ll have hope that I, too, can change. But Turin won’t. He can’t. He is evil and must be destroyed. That’s what the Golrok is for. The Last Battle of the First War will see the death of Turin, and I plan to bring it about.”
“But he’s immortal. He cannot die.”
“Then there’s no reason not to tell me where he is.” Trilos took another step forward.
“I don’t actually know. It’s been many years since I’ve seen him.”
Trilos stared at the ghost of Brin for a moment. “Fine. It wouldn’t matter if you told me. He can see the future and will know to disappear. But I’ll take the key he gave you.” Trilos held out his hand.
The moment he did, Brin retreated back a step.
“It doesn’t belong to you, and it shouldn’t belong to him. Give it to me.”
Suri had no idea what they were talking about, but she didn’t like the sound of Trilos’s voice. More important, neither did Minna. The wolf hunched her shoulders, fur raised, a deep growl issuing through bared teeth as she slowly crept forward.
This got Trilos’s attention. He turned, stunned. “You, Gilarabrywn? You would stop me? Are you aware your name has become synonymous with beasts of destruction? Ironic, don’t you think? More than anyone—how can you defend Turin?”
Minna’s growl only grew louder.
Trilos gritted his teeth and raised a stick he held in his hand as the two faced off.
Unsure what Trilos and Brin were talking about, Suri was certain of one thing: If Trilos fought Minna, he was going to face her, too. Suri guessed he wouldn’t be as easy to subdue as Mawyndulë. He wasn’t normal. Nothing about him made sense—but there was power within. Hidden and restrained like that of a seed, but there was no mistaking his ability. Suri reached out, searching for a source of her own, but in that place she found none. The tree was dead, the grass gone. A small trickle of strength seeped in through the still-open door. The wind was calm, but people were still gathering outside. Their source was weak and to fight him, she would need more power.
There’s another source, she realized then. There always has been.
She felt it rise within her, and she blew across old coals, watching them start to glow, the heat rising within her.
