“May I have some water, as well?”

  Treya stared at her, dumbfounded.

  This is the difference between saying something you believe to be true and facing the truth of your words.

  “I—ah—yes. Yes, of course.” Treya left without taking the bowl.

  Suri took pity on the Fhrey and moved away, putting as much distance as possible between the bowl and herself.

  Treya returned with a waterskin. Without pause, she poured from it into the bowl.

  I suppose letting me drink directly from the container would be too much to hope for. I should be happy she didn’t pour it on the ground and expect me to lap it up.

  “Thank you again,” Suri told her. She went to the bowl and struggled to drink without spilling. She got most of it in her mouth. Treya gave her more, and Suri did better with the second helping. “I’m so cold that it’s hard to hold the bowl steady.” This at least was half true.

  “Oh!” Treya said and rushed off. She returned with a bundle of cloth. “Here.” She stuffed the wad through the bars. While not directly in front of Suri, it was nevertheless closer than she had set the bowl.

  In the bundle was a knee-length smock as well as a blanket.

  “That’s my spare dress,” Treya said, biting her lip as Suri lifted it.

  The garment was clean and showed creases from where it had been folded. “Are you sure you want to give me this?” Suri asked even as she pulled the dress over her head. The thing was too big and the wide neck hung off one shoulder, but it was warm. “He didn’t say you could give me clothes.”

  Treya looked in the direction Mawyndulë had walked. Suri expected to see fear, but what she saw instead was sadness. She wasn’t frightened about being yelled at or even angry about his lack of respect. She was hurt. Maybe they’re lovers? Suri was no expert on people or relationships, so she wasn’t sure, but there was something going on between them.

  “He’s not awful, you know,” Treya said. “He’s a prince—he has to be strong and self-confident because one day he will rule.”

  It seemed like Treya was trying to convince herself as well as Suri about that.

  Suri wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and pulled it tight to her neck. “You’ve been very kind to me. Why?”

  Treya looked surprised, then thoughtful, and then she shrugged. “I’ve never met a Rhune. I’ve heard all sorts of stories about big hairy brutes with sharp fangs that want to kill all of us, but you aren’t any of those things. You’re actually kind of pretty. I even like the markings.” She traced a finger on her own face. “Do they mean anything?”

  Suri nodded. “They mean me.”

  Treya looked puzzled for a moment then nodded as if she understood. “I wouldn’t want to see a dog treated the way you’ve been—and you’re not a dog.”

  “But I’m not Fhrey, either.”

  “No . . .” Treya said. “But not all Fhrey are treated the same. I’m not a Miralyith. I’m a Gwydry.”

  “I heard.”

  Treya nodded and again looked to the forest. “Sometimes I think they forget we’re Fhrey, too. That’s not good for a future fane.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me out of this cage?” Suri asked.

  Treya’s eyes grew wide at the thought.

  “I promise not to run away or bite your arm off or anything—honest. I—I just have a problem with being sealed up. It—it scares me. The walls, they—I need to be able to get out. It’s not a normal Rhune thing. It’s just me. I feel sort of sick. I don’t even like houses.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.” Treya was shaking her head. “I don’t—” Her lips betrayed a smile as she realized. “I don’t even have the key. I can’t let you out.”

  Suri didn’t know what a key was, although Arion had used the word often, and usually when referring to Suri. “Well, thank you for the food and clothes. It’s possible—no, likely—that you saved my life.” Suri looked at the forest. “He wouldn’t have given me anything.”

  Treya took the bowl back, nodding as she did. “Don’t hate him.”

  Oh, that milk was spilled when he killed Arion. If this collar weren’t around my neck, I’d turn that two-legged tick into a bloated pus-filled pimple and then pop him. Suri didn’t say any of that, either, but she also couldn’t lie, not to someone whom she suspected really might have saved her life. Instead, she simply nodded.

  “We’ll be in Estramnadon soon,” Treya said. “I’m certain they’ll let you out there.”

  Again, Suri nodded, but she wasn’t certain of anything anymore except that she did like Treya.

  Not all Fhrey are bad, she remembered. Then she looked to where Mawyndulë had gone. But, like humans, a lot of them are.

  With food in her stomach and the blanket and smock warming her, Suri’s attention was drawn to the bars that trapped her. Once more, she began to tremble. Again, she found it hard to breathe.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Whispers in the Mist

  Sometimes our need to believe blinds us to reality, and sometimes seeing reality blinds us to what we need to believe. — The Book of Brin

  A parade of people came into view, moving between trees, marching through the swamp. Moya felt as if she were late to a cookout that had just ended and she was heading upstream through homeward-bound revelers. This strange host came at them in various-sized groups, but most often as individuals. Silent travelers on a watery road, they journeyed without splash or ripple. Disordered and staggered, the procession included all sorts. Moya spotted men, women, and children. Seeing little ones who were no more than five or six, whimpering as they plodded through the dark, made her want to cry. There were humans, dwarfs, and even a few Fhrey. Many of the men were dressed like soldiers, but others looked to be farmers fresh from their fields. Almost all the women were weeping; some wailed. As diverse as they were, the procession of souls shared a common miserable appearance, as if every step was an agony.

  A tearful woman holding a pile of bloody rags paused and looked at Moya. “Why?” she asked.

  Moya didn’t have an answer. She didn’t understand the question. The woman shook her head in disgust and walked on.

  Perhaps a hundred or more lost souls had passed them that night as they continued to wade. When the last of that most recent ghostly troop faded, swallowed by the dark, Moya looked at Gifford. “Definitely haunted.”

  Gifford didn’t reply, didn’t even look at her. His head was turned skyward, his eyes searching overhead.

  “Gifford?” Roan said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Listen,” Gifford told everyone.

  Crickets, frogs, mosquitoes, wind in the leaves—they all made noise, but the loudest thing Moya heard was her own breathing.

  “Listen to what?” Rain asked.

  “The voices.”

  “The ghosts?” Moya asked.

  Noticing her look, Gifford shook his head. “Not them. Something else is—is whispewing.”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Moya said. “Anyone else hear it? Tekchin, you have the best ears.”

  The Fhrey shook his head.

  “Giff?” Tressa asked ominously. “Are any of these voices telling you to kill the rest of us?”

  Gifford shook his head. “No. The voices not even talking to me—talking among themselves.”

  “More ghosts, then?” Moya asked. “Invisible ones?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What then?” Tekchin asked.

  “I think”—Gifford swished his lips side-to-side—“I think it’s the twees.”

  “The trees?” Moya said. “Are you serious?”

  “Suri talks to trees,” Roan said as she moved closer to Gifford and wrapped his arm in hers.

  “I kinda thought she made that up,” Moya said, “just like she pretended to have conversations with her wolf.”

  “I think maybe she could do both.” Roan looked up. “What are they saying?”

  “Talking about us,” Gifford said. “Wonde’ing what we doing.”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.” Moya said. She was openly shivering now that the night had turned steadily colder. “Are these voices—do you think they’re a problem? A threat to us?”

  Gifford shook his head. “No, just twees talking among themselves.”

  “What do we do, Moya?” Brin asked. The Keeper looked exhausted. Her eyes struggled to stay open, and she, too, shivered, her teeth chattering as she spoke.

  Persephone had sent Moya to safeguard and lead the party, but there was a problem with that. Other than the time she had commanded the archers in the Battle of Grandford, Moya had never really taken charge of anything. On that one occasion with the archers, it’d been easy. She was part of a bigger whole and tasked with something she was good at. All it took was courage, stupid mindless bravery. This required something else.

  They expected her to have answers, which she didn’t. They wanted her to be smart, which she wasn’t. Moya had plenty of bravery but no brains. She’d led them to the center of a horrid swamp filled with ghosts, snakes, and who knew what else, and she didn’t know where to go next. Worse than that, she didn’t know how to get out. For some time, she’d been concerned that all the water would mean no clear path to follow for the return trip. There was an excellent chance they could all die out here.

  She held Audrey wrapped in her arms and horizontal to keep the bow from touching the water. She glanced up, hoping to see stars, but all Moya found was darkness. Seven tired, scared, wet people looked to her for answers or at least a direction to travel. She had neither.

  “It’s late; we have to rest. I guess we’ll take turns on the log over there.”

  “It’s not big enough to sleep on,” Tressa said.

  “If you’re tired enough,” Tesh said, “you’d be surprised where you can drop off.”

  “Even if we doze a bit, the bigger question is, what then?” The woman had a face that invited a punch. She wore a perpetual frown, the sort that said she was always judging and finding fault. Even her rare smiles appeared sinister.

  “We came because of you,” Moya told her. “You and your Cult of Malcolm. Well, we’re here. Do you have any ideas?”

  Tressa thought a moment, and Moya figured she was thinking up a good insult, but when she finally replied, it was unexpected. Tressa looked down the log at Gifford. “Why not ask the trees?”

  “Oh, sure, great idea,” Moya said. “Why not ask the snakes while we’re at it?”

  “Persephone asked Magda questions,” Brin said, “and Suri heard the answers. Remember her telling us that in Roan’s roundhouse?”

  Moya stared at Brin for a moment. She couldn’t actually recall the conversation, but she did think there had been one. Which is why Brin is the Keeper and I’m not. “Can you do that, Gifford?”

  “Maybe. I can give it a twy.”

  Gifford tilted his head back as if addressing Eton. He took a moment to clear his throat and then said, “Ah—hello, I’m Gif-fud. If it isn’t too much twouble, we would be most happy if you could suggest someplace we might sleep.”

  “Dry land,” Roan added.

  “Yes”—Gifford nodded—“someplace that isn’t wet.”

  Brin, Rain, and Roan all nodded their agreement to that last part in particular. Then everyone stood still and silent, waiting. Some looked up at the darkness; others studied Gifford for a sign. Moya struggled to hear.

  If their situation weren’t so dire, Moya might have laughed. They were two men, four women, a Fhrey, and a dwarf, all standing knee-deep in filthy, cold water, desperately hoping the trees would tell them where to go to take a nap. In any other circumstance, Moya would pray the trees didn’t talk to her.

  Several minutes passed, and then a faint breeze blew. Moya couldn’t feel it, but she could hear the rustle overhead. Then even Moya thought she heard something. She looked at Gifford and saw him nodding.

  “Can you help us, please?” Gifford asked.

  There was a pause.

  “We seek to find the witch—the Tetlin Witch.”

  Another pause.

  “Can you help us?”

  Moya couldn’t tell if Gifford was holding a conversation or just shouting out at the night and hoping for a reply.

  A handful of leaves began to fall. No one noticed anything strange about that at first. Then Roan, who always had a bizarre fascination with the trivial world, said, “Leaves are falling.”

  “Yes, Roan,” Moya said. “That happens in autumn.”

  “Not in a straight line it doesn’t.”

  Moya looked. They all did. Just as Roan said, floating on the surface of the still water lay a row of leaves. “Will this take us to dry land or the witch?”

  Gifford was less than helpful as he looked back and shrugged.

  “Ask.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Gifford’s face flushed, and he lowered his head, embarrassed.

  Roan spoke for him. “He can’t say dry and he certainly can’t say or.”

  Gifford looked to Roan. “You help me—help me speak.”

  She nodded but looked scared. Roan had difficulty talking to the likes of Padera, and Gifford wanted her to have a chat with creepy swamp trees?

  Gifford looked up. “Excuse me again, but do these leaves lead to the witch . . .” He pointed to Roan.

  “Or to dry . . .” Roan added.

  “Land,” Gifford finished.

  They waited, and as they did, Gifford smiled proudly at Roan as if she’d just done a backflip. His wife covered a modest smile.

  It’s as if neither of you realizes where you are, Moya thought, amazed.

  More leaves fell, filling in the gaps and creating a distinct and very long single line across the water.

  “Well?” Moya asked.

  Gifford shrugged once more.

  “Thank the Grand Mother we got that settled.” Moya sighed. “All roads lead forward, right?” She didn’t wait for anyone to answer and began following the trail.

  The walk was surprisingly short, and to Moya’s shock it ended at a beach. The sand was black, and there were plenty of jagged rocks, but it was undoubtedly a shore. She heard waves but didn’t see them. In the dark, all Moya saw was a flat emptiness, but the crash and roll she recognized from the trip to Neith. The water’s edge was nothing more than a wide sandbar where sea met swamp, grass met sand, and neither held sway. But it was dry, clear, and generally flat—exactly what an exhausted person could hope for.

  “The rest of you sleep,” Moya said. “Audrey and I will take the first watch.”

  Moya wanted to turn in just as much as anyone. She even made a case in her own head that because of the stress related to leadership, she was more deserving than the others, but . . . Persephone would stay up. Moya figured that since she wasn’t as smart as the keenig, she should at least try to emulate her.

  No one protested. They didn’t even speak. Most hardly bothered to lay out a blanket before laying their heads down, and in moments they were asleep.

  Tekchin was the last to turn in. “You wake me the moment your eyes begin to droop,” he told her.

  She didn’t bother mentioning that had been two hours ago. They kissed, and he curled up beside her.

  Moya had picked a spot near a big, black, water-smoothed rock, and once Tekchin was asleep, she peeled off both boots and sat with her legs stretched out on the sand, giving her feet to the air.

  Grand Mother, it feels good to get out of the water!

  A damp chill blew in. She shivered. Reaching into her pack, Moya dug out a blanket. Miraculously, the wool was dry. She wrapped it around her shoulders, leaned back against the rock, and relaxed.

  Bad idea. I’m too comfortable. I should stand up. I should at least take off the . . .

  Her eyes closed, and her head drooped. Her chin bobbed against her chest, and she jerked awake.

  Tetlin’s ass!

  Hating herself and that damn swamp, Moya stood up and walked around, making a small ring of footprints that soon became a little trench. She left her boots off. Not even a raow could force her to put those back on. Feeling a little dizzy, she stopped her spiraling trek. Still standing, Moya dug her toes into the sand and looked out at the endless night. Behind her were vague irregular shapes of varying shades of black-on-black—trees, bushes, and tall grass, but peering into the wind the other way, she saw nothing.

  Just a void out there. This could be it—the edge of the world. Five more steps that way, and off I’d go.

  Moya had no idea where she was with regard to the wider world. Growing up in Dahl Rhen, she’d assumed that Elan was made up of just the Crescent Forest and a few outer villages. When she got older, she realized Rhulyn was bigger than that after hearing stories of the land of the Gula to the north. She knew Alon Rhist was out there, too—which she had always believed was the land of the Fhrey—and that the Dherg lived south across something called the Blue Sea. She had lived with this mental map that was bounded by distinct edges for decades; now the edges had grown fuzzy. She’d crossed the Blue Sea and found that the world went on, and she’d traveled to Alon Rhist and discovered no end or edge. Rhulyn, it seemed, was small—the world of her youth insignificant. How much farther did the land go? Maybe no one knew, but perhaps she had finally found an edge.

  What would happen if I stepped off? Would I die? Or would I just keep falling?

  Moya looked across the little dune isle at the others. Tekchin slept on his back the way he always did. He’d start snoring in a little while. Gifford and Roan fit together so perfectly that they made a single person. Rain had dug a little nest in the sand to keep the wind at bay. Brin curled up with Tesh, drawing him around her like a blanket.

  Tesh did it. The idea that had fluttered around her head finally landed. Regardless of Tesh’s denial and Tekchin’s assertions, she knew Tesh had murdered the Galantians.

  Anwir, Eres, and Sebek—he was with each one, or close enough to have killed him. No one knew where he was in the last Battle of Grandford. He showed up late to Persephone’s room, covered in blood. Eres was his commander in the First Battle of the Harwood, and Tesh had personally requested Anwir to be his tracker.

 

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