Age of Empyre, page 25
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
She sat, feeling the heat warm her chest then settle into her stomach. Almost immediately the throbbing in her head eased. The cold that had shaken her body receded. The aches and pains that had stabbed her muscles faded a bit. Brin felt like a lantern whose wick had been lit once more. Tilting the bowl up, she took another swallow, and another, and then—
“The horn!”
Brin looked down at herself, but aside from the blanket she was naked. She looked at Muriel. She didn’t have the horn, either. Brin scanned the hut in a growing panic.
I lost it! It didn’t come out with me!
When she started to stand up, Muriel placed a hand on her shoulder, pressing down. “I have it. Relax.”
That wasn’t going to satisfy Brin, and Muriel appeared to know this. The woman got up and plucked the horn from atop Brin’s pile of wet clothes. “Is this what you were after? I thought you said you were going to save a friend.”
“We thought so, too.” Brin took the horn. Its surface was still slick, and a little water dribbled out, leaving a wet stain on her blanket. “Do you know what it is?”
“You mean other than a ram’s horn?”
“Yes.”
Muriel shook her head and returned to stirring the pot. “But I know it’s special.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you brought it out of Phyre.”
Muriel replaced the lid and pushed the pot back over the fire. The metal arm squeaked a bit with the effort.
Brin stared at the horn in her lap. In all the time she’d carried it, she hadn’t bothered to look. It seemed like nothing more than an old ram’s horn except . . . there were markings. She thumbed over the surface, feeling the indentations. Writing. The symbols were hers.
Gift am I, of Ferrol’s hand
these laws to halt the chaos be.
No king shall die, no tyrant cleaved
save by the perilous sound of me.
Cursed the silent hand that strikes,
forever to his brethren lost.
Doomed to darkness and bereft of light,
so be the tally and the cost.
Breathe upon my lips; and announce
the gauntlet loud so all may hear.
Thy challenge for the kingly seat,
so all may gather, and none need fear.
But once upon a thousand three
unless by death you hear me cry.
No challenge, no dispute proceeds
a generation left to die.
Upon the sound of Challenge cast
A battle of contenders will ensue,
Combat will begin and last
until there be but one of two.
A bond formed betwixt opponents
protected by Ferrol’s hand.
From all save the blade, the bone,
and skill of the other’s hand.
Should champion be called to fight,
evoked is the Hand of Ferrol.
Which protects the championed from all
and champion from all—save one—from peril.
Battle is the end for one;
for the other all shall sing.
For when the struggle at last is done,
the victor shall be king.
“It says the winner will be king,” Brin said. She looked at Muriel. “It doesn’t say fane. That’s what the leader of the Fhrey is called.”
Muriel shrugged. “Fane is actually a name—the first ruler of the Fhrey was Gylindora Fane, and all other leaders adopted her name. King is what the world’s first ruler called himself.”
“Yes,” Brin said, nodding. “He did. And the Fhrey couldn’t read this anyway, so I suppose it was never meant for them. This is a message for others, for people in the future.” She looked toward the windows again, at the slant of light, so sharp the sun had to be low. “Is it morning or evening?”
“Morning. Sun just came up.”
“I need to get going.” Brin pushed to her feet, surprised she could. That one bowl of stew had done wonders. “I need to run.”
“Seriously? That’s ambitious. What about the others? Won’t they be coming?”
Brin hesitated, wavering on her bare legs. She bit her lip as it began to quiver. “Maybe. I’m not sure, but I can’t wait for them. I left the key inside in case they make it.”
Muriel’s brows rose.
“It’s in safe hands, but it’ll only be there a short while. If no one gets back to the Rel Gate soon, it’ll be given to you.”
This made Muriel’s mouth drop. “Me?”
“Sorry to impose. You will keep it for Turin, won’t you?”
Muriel didn’t answer.
“The whole thing—it was harder than we thought.” Brin let out a sad little laugh at the absurdity of the statement. She looked again at the windows, at the light creeping across the floor. “I have to get back to the Dragon Camp before the sun sets tonight, or everything we went through will be for nothing. I have to get the horn to Nyphron.”
It hit her then, slapped her hard as she remembered the distance. The trip to the swamp was less than a day’s travel, but the trip through Ith had taken all night. She didn’t have that much time, and in her present state, she felt a rising panic. “I really do have to go.”
Brin grabbed her wet clothes, which were so soaked they dripped. They were as cold as ice. The soup—that miraculous meal—had helped, but she still felt tired and a bit dizzy. The idea of putting on those wet things, of wearing them out into the winter snow . . . Brin had forgotten the agony of living, but it came back with a crash. Clinging to the blanket, she couldn’t help it. She started crying. “In Phyre, I was so fast and strong, but here—it’s so cold and there’s snow. I have so far to go and—and then there is the swamp. I’ll have to wait for that tidal bridge or swim across and hope that thing doesn’t eat me. Oh, Grand Mother of All, give me strength.”
The tunic fell from her hands, and she heard it hit the floor with a sodden slap that sprayed her ankles.
Muriel came to her with a sympathetic frown and pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry. The world is an ugly place. Trust me, I know. A perfect piece of glorious fruit that has since turned black with rot.”
“But I’m supposed to make it better. We went to change things. That’s what Malcolm—that’s why Turin sent us. He’s trying to fix things, and sending us through Phyre was a step in that direction.”
“Turin isn’t interested in fixing the world. Your mistake was putting faith in him. But then, a lot of people made that error. He is evil.”
Brin shook her head. “No—you’re wrong about him.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are. I know you are.” She sounded like an impetuous child even to herself. How foolish she must sound to Muriel. Still, Brin knew she was right, but she couldn’t adequately explain. Some things were just beyond the realm of words and gestures. Some truths, the most basic ones, refused to be denied.
“You’ve known him for what? A few years?” Muriel said. “Turin is my father, I’ve known him—well, almost since time began. He’s cruel, self-centered, unrelenting—”
“He’s changed.” Brin cut off what she thought might be a long list, all of which was irrelevant. “He’s trying to make amends. I know he is. He wants to be good, and he can be.”
“Yeah, right. When trees walk and stones talk.”
Brin pulled back and stared at Muriel. “What did you say?”
Muriel didn’t register her surprise. The woman was dug in, still focused on Turin and working at proving her point. “I just meant it’s not possible. Turin is—”
“No. That’s not what you said.” Brin held Muriel at arm’s length, watching her face and searching it for answers. She was looking for verification. “You said, ‘When trees walk and stones talk.’” Brin reached up and carefully drew Muriel’s hair back from her left ear, revealing a large freckle.
The woman brushed her hand away, annoyed. “What are you doing?”
“The freckle is there. I knew it would be. And you have a space between your teeth. I’m betting you can whistle through it. Can you?” Brin was starting to bounce on the balls of her feet as the energy of excitement grew.
Muriel stared at her. “How do you know that?”
“Because you’re Muriel,” Brin said.
“I know who I am. And so do you.”
“Yes, but I’m in such a hurry—if I didn’t hear you say that thing about stones and trees—I would have forgotten to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“He called you Reely. Muriel,” Brin said, listening to how the word sounded. “Mur-Reel—Reely. It’s a nickname. Your nickname.”
Muriel stepped away from Brin. She staggered backward, threatening to overturn the stool behind her. She didn’t respond at first; she didn’t have to. Everything was on her face.
“How do you know all this?” she finally asked.
“I’ve read about you.”
“You did what?”
“It’s a long story. There are tablets in the Agave, carved thousands of years ago, and I know what they say. Many of them are all about you. Trilos made them.”
Muriel’s arms fell limply to her sides. She took another step back, and the stool finally toppled with a clack. “Did—did you say—Trilos?” Muriel remained staring at her. In her eyes, Brin could read the entire story as easily as she had read the tablets.
“Yes, and that’s not all. I met him.”
Muriel bent down, righted the stool, and sat. She was breathing hard. No longer looking at Brin, she studied the floorboards with great interest. “You—you actually saw him? You spoke to Trilos in Phyre?”
“No, not there. I saw him in Estramnadon.”
Muriel looked up. “No.” She shook her head. “That’s not possible. He died and went to Phyre. Everyone—”
“He escaped,” Brin told her. “Trilos was in Phyre. He was in the Abyss of Nifrel, but he managed to escape. It happened long, long ago.”
Muriel was still shaking her head. “No.” She stood up defiantly. “He couldn’t have. No one can leave Phyre. Not without the key. And if he did, he would have . . . the first thing he would have done is . . . no—no!” She kicked a basket of stones, scattering them across the floor. “Trilos is still in Phyre. He’s trapped there. He can’t get out. He has to be. He has to be!”
Muriel’s brow was furrowed. Her gaze shifted around the room as if searching for something. Then she turned sharply, and with an angry, accusing tone, she asked, “If he escaped, why hasn’t he come to me? I’m not hard to find—even you found me!”
Brin felt devastated. The answer was unspeakable. If their situations were reversed, Brin thought how debilitating it would be to learn such a thing about Tesh. How many times worse must it be for Muriel? The person known as the Tetlin Witch hadn’t found her way to this spot in the swamp by accident. She was like Aunt Needa’s dog, Apple, curled up and waiting for the one person she cared for the most—waiting through eternity.
“You know,” Muriel said, her eyes narrowing. “Tell me.”
Brin hated doing it, and this time the idea of lying did cross her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She had no experience, no skill at deception, but more than that, the idea repulsed her. Brin was a Keeper, trained to speak the truth and taught to believe in the sacred value of honesty. She could no more deceive than she could fly.
Brin took a breath. “He’s forgotten you.”
Muriel blinked. “Forgotten me?”
“Yes.” Brin began slowly, trying to be as kind as she could, but there was no way to soften this blow. “Trilos sacrificed the one thing he had left, his love for you. He gave up his memories, killing his only joy. The pain, the anguish of that sacrifice gave him the power to punch a hole between the worlds, but it erased you.”
Muriel continued to stare at her, and Brin had no idea if Muriel believed her or not. Then the tears slipped down the woman’s cheeks.
Feeling like she’d stabbed a friend, Brin reached out for her, but Muriel retreated, raising her hands to ward off the Keeper. Her shoulders rose as her entire body cringed.
“But he saved you, too,” Brin offered as a sort of consolation. “He preserved his memories.”
Muriel’s face remained a mask of despair and bewilderment.
“He wrote everything down, carved it in stone.” Brin showed her a smile, but it wasn’t much of one. Brin didn’t have much to give, but she gave what she had to show Muriel that all might not be lost. “He left himself a record of everything he knew or felt about you, just like I wanted to do with my parents. I did it so future generations would know them as I had. But Trilos—I think Trilos left the memories for himself. He stacked them neatly in Phyre where they would never be touched. That’s where I found them. That’s how I learned about the two of you. He wrote down how he met you, how you two fell in love. I know everything he felt. Trilos worked at capturing all the little details, pouring all he knew, all he remembered of you into those words. I think he put them there so one day he might somehow reclaim what he lost. But . . .”
“What?” Muriel took a step back toward her.
“I’m not sure he even knows the tablets exist or realizes their importance.”
“You said you read them?” Muriel grabbed her arms. “What does that mean?”
Brin nodded. “It’s a form of communication. Something I invented. Well, Trilos helped, too. It’s difficult to explain, but it lets me know everything he thought and felt.”
“And you’re a Keeper—you can remember it all, can’t you?”
Brin thought a moment and recalled the golden field on a spring morning. “Yes. Yes, I can.”
“And you met him, so you know what he looks like and where he is. You can find him again and give back his memories.” Muriel crossed the small distance between them and grabbed hold of the blanket, tugging Brin close. “Oh please, Brin. Please. I beg you. Please do this for me.”
Outside, a wind whipped up. It whistled, then howled. Snow flew past the windows, making them dark, then light, then dark again. Muriel took no notice of the sudden storm. Her eyes were fixed on Brin’s. Then she seemed to stretch, to grow taller. As she did, the little door began to rattle.
The Tetlin Witch.
“There’s something else,” Brin said.
“What is it?”
“When trees walk and stones talk, is a message your father sent me as a reminder. He wanted me to let you know that Trilos is no longer trapped in Phyre. To give you hope that the two of you can be reunited. I’m right about him trying to fix things. He knew I would be in a hurry and would have rushed right out of here without telling you. But that didn’t happen because he went to so much trouble to plant that phrase of yours in my head. Your father lived with us for many years, but when he found out that someone escaped from the Agave, he left. He must have been looking for proof that it was Trilos, and when he found out, he sent that message to me in Phyre.”
“No.” Muriel shook her head. Her face was harsh, cold, and as close to the proverbial Tetlin Witch as any woman could hope to achieve.
Flash! White light burst through the windows as lightning streaked across a winter sky. Thunder cracked, and Brin screamed. Seeing Muriel that way was terrifying.
“You don’t know my father,” Muriel said through clenched teeth. “I do. He’s beyond manipulative and extremely clever. He shouldn’t use people like you. You’re a nice girl, Brin. And he . . . but, of course, that’s why he picked you.”
“Malcolm didn’t pick me, I—”
“Don’t be naïve. Of course he chose you! Nothing happens by coincidence around my father. He controls everything. I thought he was done trying to control me.”
The wind blew so hard outside that some thatch peeled off the roof, letting puffs of snow spill in. The front door rattled louder. Outside, Brin could hear trees creaking; some cracked. Again, lightning flashed and once more thunder followed.
Brin continued to pour out all she could to stifle the wildfire she had ignited. “I spoke to Elan. She wants Turin to fix the world, to repair the damage he’s done, and she thinks he can—she believes he will. And she’s known him even longer than you.”
“You spoke to her, too?” Once more Muriel studied Brin, this time less out of skepticism and more from awe.
“She told me everything. She believes Turin has changed, or is trying to. He knows how much pain he caused, and that everyone hates him. Especially you.” Brin’s eyes widened then as the thought struck her. Both sensible and poetic, the beauty shook her. “Muriel, Turin gave us a key of great worth, but it wasn’t the one that unlocked Phyre. It’s you. You’re the key. You’ll decide everything. None of this was ever about Suri, or a horn, or even Trilos. It’s about you. That’s why he sent me. He wanted us to have this conversation. It’s why he sent me the message in Phyre. He sent me to unlock the key.”
Muriel stared at Brin. The woman’s breathing slowed, and she began to nod. As she did, the wind stopped rattling the door. “He chose very well when he picked you.”
Sunlight reappeared, flickering in through the windows. “I’m not saying I believe everything you said, and as much as I hate doing exactly what my father wants me to, I can’t deny that our paths travel in the same direction, which means getting that horn to Nyphron in time. And I can help with that. Pick up your clothes.”
Brin bent down and grabbed the pile. Her tunic and cloak were dry—dry and warm.
“I can’t do anything about the distance you must run between Ith and where you came from, that’s a struggle you’ll face on your own, but you needn’t fear the swamp; it will be your friend and aid you in your travel.”
“Thank you.”
