by Michael
“It’s better in some ways,” Delwin said. “We’ve sort of forgotten about it, but you’re right. The fear and worry are gone. You have a lot of time to rest, to talk, and to think.”
Brin got the impression her father was doing his best to sell a bad idea.
“And maybe that’s all Rel is for, a time to pause and reflect, to think about our lives, what we did wrong and what we could have done better.”
Sarah wiped clean hands on a spotless towel. “Our existence and the world wasn’t supposed to be like this. It’s broken, and we’ll continue this way until it’s fixed. At least that’s what people say. Everyone was supposed to live forever—up there.” She pointed at the ceiling.
“Brin?” Moya called from outside. “We need to go.”
For a moment, Brin almost thought it was years ago, and Moya was coming to invite her on an adventure, a hike down the river or a firefly-illuminated trip along the forest’s eaves—neither of which she had written about in her book, but perhaps she should have.
My book! I haven’t told them!
“I’m writing down all the events of our world!” she blurted out, then shook her head at her own stupidity. They couldn’t possibly understand. “I’m making marks on—”
“Brin!” Moya shouted in a tone that wasn’t the orphaned daughter staying with Brin’s family; this was the voice of the Shield of the Keenig calling.
“What’s wrong?” Brin cleared the doorway, surprised to discover most of the group outside.
“We need to get moving.” Moya gave a cautious look around before adding in a quieter voice, “We’re in trouble.” She tilted her head toward Rain. “There’s a rumor among the dwarfs that the ruler of this realm is looking for the ones who opened the gate he had ordered sealed.”
“Rel has a ruler?”
Moya nodded. “And apparently he’s not happy.”
“Where’s Tressa?” Brin asked.
“I was hoping she was with you.”
Brin shook her head. “You don’t suppose she was . . . I mean, do you think . . .”
“I don’t know, but we have to find her . . . and fast.”
Tressa had wandered back toward the gate. She wasn’t looking for someone, not really, and she was grateful that Konniger and her parents hadn’t shown up. She didn’t want to see any of them. Taking a seat in the grass, she pretended to fix a perfectly fine strap of her sandal to appear busy so no one would intrude. But perhaps it just made her look like an idiot who couldn’t fix whatever was wrong with such a complicated thing as a strap. Sitting there, she felt remarkably like the only kid at Wintertide who didn’t get a present. The embarrassment she felt didn’t come from not receiving something; it came from knowing that everyone else did.
Tressa knew what everyone who looked her way was thinking.
How did she get in here?
She doesn’t belong.
There’s another place for the likes of her.
The next place, she thought and puzzled over why she wasn’t already in Nifrel.
Tressa had no idea how she knew, maybe the same way she had known that Malcolm was a god, but she was positive that once she entered into the next realm of Phyre she would never leave. That was the place for her, Nif-Rel—below Rel—the bottom. She’d find plenty of friends there—friends and family.
How does it usually work? Do people destined for the other realms magically pop into Nifrel or Alysin when they cross through the Rel Gate? Maybe there is some sort of delay while spirits are sorted. Or perhaps someone will come and escort me to my final resting place.
Tressa didn’t think any of those ideas were right, and she considered whether the existence of the key was somehow interfering with the natural order. All she really knew for sure was that she wasn’t likely to work out the mystery. Maybe Roan could, but not her.
What happens if I just don’t go to Nifrel?
She could give the key to Moya and stay in Rel forever, cheat death—sort of. The problem was, it sounded too much like something Konniger would come up with. His plans never worked. Besides . . .
Malcolm sent me. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?
She wore the key. She still didn’t know why he had given it to her, or why the others hadn’t taken it. She wanted to believe it was her second chance, an opportunity to change things, but she also conceded that was just wishful thinking. Malcolm hadn’t said anything, never so much as dropped a hint in that direction. All she had was a feeling that stood back-to-back with the other one, the certainty that everything would end in Nifrel.
Is it either-or?
She sighed and frowned. Probably one, then the other. That made more sense. Malcolm needed her, and when she was done, he’d toss her aside like a picked-clean chicken bone.
No one’s fault but my own.
She thought of many reasons why that wasn’t true, but she was also aware that she was attempting to fool herself. And while Tressa was many things, she wasn’t an idiot. People always provided justifications for their actions and found their behavior acceptable, even if they hated others for doing the same things. But that sort of deception had become too hard to maintain. Everything had been so clear when she stepped into the pool in the swamp, but her perception was growing fuzzy again. New thoughts, fresh doubts, had had time to creep in.
If Malcolm is a god and knows everything, why does he let things get so messed up in the first place? Why do good people have to die? Why, for instance, did he kill—
“Tressa?” She heard the voice, stood up, and turned.
Gelston stood a few feet away, staring at her. He looked exactly as he used to whenever she showed up at Hopeless House. She would knock, but he wouldn’t answer. Then she’d let herself in. When he saw her, he would stand there, his face blank, no one home. On good days, he’d remember her name, but usually, that was all he recalled. On bad days, he wouldn’t know her at all, and he’d yell and scream, telling her to leave his house. That last part had always baffled her since it wasn’t.
Tressa braced herself for the worst because Gelston wore his confused face, the one that had always preceded the yelling. But that didn’t happen this time. Instead, he did something unexpected and so totally bewildering that it left Tressa at a loss.
He cried.
Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks. The man didn’t try to stop, didn’t so much as wipe at them. He just stood there until she, too, started to tear up. Then without warning, Gelston came over and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tight. He was tall, and her face was pressed into his chest. She felt his big hand on the back of her head, cradling it. His body spasmed with sobs, his arms holding her close, embracing her like he . . .
“Thank you, Tressa,” Gelston managed to whisper when he was able to suck in and hold a breath—a breath he clearly didn’t need. “I tried . . . I wanted . . . I wanted to tell you that for so very long.” He gasped again. “Oh Grand Mother, thank you for letting me catch her. I can never express how—I can’t ever thank you enough for what you did. I was so frightened that you might run right through Rel on your way to the Door, and I wouldn’t get the chance to tell you.”
He let go, and she lifted her head to meet his eyes.
“You know?”
“I was with you when Malcolm explained everything, remember?” Gelston said in a shaking voice. “I was there, but I couldn’t say anything. Ever since my accident, I felt so alone. It was beyond frightening. Then you came. And I was so horrible to you. I couldn’t control what my body was doing. I yelled, screamed, and threw things. I even hit you, didn’t I? No.” He shook his head. “It was worse than that. I beat you. Oh, I did. I remember a time when you could barely open your eyes. You came back the next day, and you could hardly see.” Horror filled his face.
Tressa wiped her eyes, sniffled, and nodded. “It wasn’t your fault. You were scared and thought I was an intruder. You—you thought I was a crazy woman breaking into your home. Of course you did; why wo
uldn’t you?”
Gelston shook his head as tears slipped free again, running fast now that the riverbeds were established. “I’m so sorry. Oh, Tressa. And you never told anyone.”
She shrugged. “No one listens to me, and besides, it was nobody’s business but our own. It wasn’t really you. I knew that.”
“And you came back—day after day. I was so afraid you wouldn’t. But you always did, no exceptions. You were my one light in an ocean of darkness. Tressa . . .” He took her face in his hands. “I love you, Tressa.”
He hugged her again, and as he did, she realized they weren’t alone anymore.
She drew back to see them all. Roan, Gifford, Brin, Tekchin, Rain, and Moya were watching.
“And there it goes,” Moya told her. “Years of carefully cultivated bitchiness—gone—wiped out by a simple act of kindness.”
“Kiss my ass, Moya!”
It was then that she heard a ringing, a sound in her ears that made it difficult to hear anything else. From the looks on the faces of the others, they heard it, too.
Someone they knew had died and was at the gate.
Chapter Five
The Swan Priestess
Suri and Arion had complicated relationships with their mothers. Maybe that was part of their bond. The mystic had only spent a few hours with hers, and the Miralyith wished she could have said the same. — The Book of Brin
Suri’s new room, where she had been moved to after her brief stint as a seed planted in the forest, was the nicest accommodations she’d been provided so far. She liked that it wasn’t as grandiose as her chambers in the tower of Avempartha. This room had a pleasant, lived-in quality. The comfortable bed comprised a mattress, wooden headboard, and a quilt with a diamond pattern in brown and white. The floor was wood, its finish worn, revealing a path that led from the door to the bed. The walls were constructed of beams and plaster, the windows a single thick pane of glass. A table and some shelves completed the furnishings, but they were bare. Suri had noticed areas free of dust that told a story of personal items hastily removed. She would have been happier with a bed of grass and a ceiling of stars, but her days of panic were behind her.
She found some string left on a shelf and made a loop. It had been years since she’d played the game, and it was enjoyable to sit on the bed and create various patterns with her fingers. Her diversion was interrupted when the door opened, and Vasek and a woman entered.
Suri thought the stranger was small, even for a Fhrey. Her long neck, delicate features, and graceful movements were like a swan in the same way Arion’s had been. Looking closely, Suri noticed that the similarity didn’t stop there. She had the same small nose, thin lips, expressive eyes, and high cheekbones. The only significant departure was the hair. Arion had kept her head bald, but this visitor’s hair was long and pure white.
Definitely a swan.
This echo of Arion entered the room carrying a bundle wrapped in twine and accompanied by Vasek, who appeared huge and clumsy when standing beside her. Suri got off the bed and stood. She hoped it would be taken as a sign of respect, the first step in carrying out Arion’s plan.
“This is Nyree,” Vasek said. As always, his tone was neither friendly nor cold, merely a polite indifference. This was a job to him, a task of many. Perhaps he was the jailer to hundreds. “The leader of our religious tribe thought you might like to meet her. She’s Arion’s mother.”
Nyree looked at Vasek, confused. “It can’t understand you. It’s a Rhune.”
Arion’s what?
On a few occasions, Suri and Arion had talked about their mothers, expressing regrets and sharing tales. Arion had said that she and Nyree were . . . distant.
Suri was surprised that while Nyree’s voice was identical to Arion’s, her tone was the exact opposite. Where Arion had been warm and approachable, Nyree laced her words with frosty superiority. The Fhrey was annoyed to be there, and she wanted Vasek to know about her displeasure.
Distant.
“I assure you she can speak Fhrey, but find out for yourself.” Vasek gestured in Suri’s direction.
Nyree looked aghast. “Surely, you don’t expect me to speak to it?”
“I do.”
Nyree’s brows shot up, and her mouth made a little pretentious O. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not going to pretend to hold a conversation with an animal!”
Suri spoke then, “I’m not an animal, although I’ve had conversations with many of them, and most are quite pleasant. Sure, every now and then you come across a badger that is in a foul mood, or a squirrel who is too busy to chat. But for the most part, I find them to be quite cordial.”
Nyree stepped backward.
Seeing the Fhrey’s stunned expression, Suri indulged in a rare smile. She realized Vasek was trying to manipulate her. He was trying to coax Suri into talking, and she was willing to oblige. The reason wasn’t to shock Nyree, nor because Suri had been alone for so long. She did it because communicating with the Fhrey was what Arion had wanted. Persephone had asked her to act as a vehicle for peace, but Arion had foreseen a greater purpose. She had believed that Suri could change minds; that she could destroy misconceptions that had been born of ignorance. Even if Persephone won the war, or if a grudging peace were reached, the hatred between Rhunes and Fhrey would still exist; it might even intensify. The Fhrey would merely endure the truce. They wouldn’t embrace it because they didn’t see humans as equals. The first step to real understanding between their two peoples was to show them how wrong they were. Nyree looked to be an ideal opportunity. Arion’s distant mother was a perfect example of the real war, the one that perhaps only Suri and Arion could see.
“I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted.” Vasek paused at the threshold and reached out to close the door behind him.
“Don’t!” Nyree and Suri said in unison, then they looked at each other in surprise. Nyree stared at Suri, appalled, as if by joining her in that one-word protest, Suri had somehow sullied Nyree’s reputation.
Suri hadn’t protested because of her fear, but because the room was stiflingly warm and that pleasant breeze that had entered with Nyree would be snuffed out.
Nyree, Suri suspected, had other reasons. The woman inched back toward the exit. “You will not lock me in here alone with this thing! It’s disgusting—perverse! A perfect example of what comes from having a godless Miralyith for a fane.”
Vasek frowned at her. “Volhoric is the one who ordered you here. Shall I fetch him so he can remind you of the vows you’ve made?”
Nyree stopped inching. She squeezed the bundle as a deep scowl crossed her lips.
“Stay here. Talk to her,” Vasek demanded.
“What do you want me to say? And why me? I don’t know anything about their kind. I’m a priestess, not an interrogator. I don’t know what you want from me. This is insane.”
“It’s very simple, Nyree.” Vasek spoke in a patient tone. “I want you to talk to her. Speak words. Converse. You understand the concept, yes? I want you to get to know each other.”
“It’s a Rhune! A Rhune! What could possibly come from talking to it?”
“She was a friend of your daughter’s. Volhoric thought you could be a bridge. Why don’t you ask her about Arion?”
“You can’t be serious.” Nyree looked at Vasek as if she might be sick. She shook her head.
He offered a sympathetic smile. “It’s your duty. Do it for Ferrol.”
“Don’t presume to know the will of our lord, you ignorant little worm!”
The insult bounced off Vasek’s bulwark of a façade. “Volhoric and other senior members of the Aquila feel this is important, so you will do as they ask. Do it for your fane, for your people, for Erivan, for Volhoric. I honestly don’t care where you find the strength, but you will do it. It’s not like we are asking you to get her to divulge secrets. We’re only asking for you to become acquainted with each other. Be civil. Consider yourself a representative of our people. Be nice.”
>
“How long must I stay?”
“As long as it takes.”
Nyree stood rigid, still holding the bundle to her chest, staring at Suri with nervous eyes.
Vasek had long since left, but the Fhrey hadn’t moved or spoken. Suri didn’t press. Nyree reminded her of a cornered rabbit, and it was best to wait for her to get as comfortable as possible.
Suri was impressed that Vasek had heeded their wishes and left the door open. She saw it as a sign of trust. Maybe it wasn’t a huge leap of faith, and he might be waiting just out of sight. But she wouldn’t step foot near the exit. Trying to escape would be seen as a breach of his goodwill, and she wanted to prove herself worthy of his gesture.
Nyree had looked at the door enough times that Suri thought the Fhrey would be the one to take flight.
Wouldn’t that be ironic? Suri smiled.
“What are you grinning at?” Nyree scolded, as if smiling were a crime.
“Just thinking that most people would expect me to be the one wanting to escape.”
Nyree’s scowl morphed into a suspicious study. “It’s some kind of magic, isn’t it?” She looked around at the ceiling and the walls. Nyree leaned out, trying to see around Suri without moving her feet from her spot. “It’s Miralyith trickery. They’re around here somewhere, making it seem like you can speak.”
“Miralyith don’t use trickery. And it isn’t magic. It’s called the Art, although I don’t know of any weave that can make a person talk. Still, Artists can do many things: raise mountains, control weather, reroute rivers. Oh, did you know Arion did that once? Yes, she told me that she fell off a horse into a stream, and it made her so angry that she couldn’t help herself. I think you are confusing Artists with magicians, who do use trickery and call what they do magic.”
Nyree’s head tilted. Her eyes narrowed. “You sound like—” She stopped herself, uncertainty creeping into her eyes.
“Arion spoke about you. She said you two didn’t get along because she left the Umalyn to become a Miralyith. She mentioned you’re a leader in your tribe. She said it’s your job to talk to Ferrol or something like that.”