Age of Death

by Michael

  “Something like that?” Nyree said with enough pride to fill an ocean. “I’m a priestess of our lord Ferrol.”

  “Yeah.” Suri nodded. “That’s what she said. She mentioned you felt betrayed when she didn’t follow your lead. She was sorry for that. Said she missed you.”

  Nyree glared. She looked mad, but Suri couldn’t understand why. Maybe she had hit on a nerve, so she tried a different approach. “Arion helped teach me Fhrey. I wasn’t good at first, but she was an excellent teacher, even if she could be a real pain. With her, it was always me this and I that, as if it mattered. After all, she knew what I meant.”

  “It does matter.” Nyree straightened her back. “Carelessness is unacceptable in any form.” She appraised Suri and added, “As is sloppiness.”

  Suri looked down at the oversized dress she’d gotten from Treya. The rag had never been nice and was now a disaster of stains and wrinkles. After being exhumed from the grave, Vasek had treated Suri unusually well. She received two meals a day, moved into her new room, and was afforded a good deal of privacy. The one thing she hadn’t received was new clothing.

  Suri took note of Nyree’s perfectly white asica. Not a fold out of place. “You take a bath every day, don’t you?”

  “Twice a day—as any civilized person does.”

  Suri nodded and held up her filthy rag. “You assume this is who I am because I’m a Rhune. Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that I am not allowed to bathe, was stripped of my nicer clothes, locked in a cage, and dragged here against my will. You might look like this if someone did that to you. Arion told me you were judgmental, and I can understand your contempt. But how could you hate your own daughter? Arion was as close to perfection as anyone I ever met, but she still wasn’t good enough for you.”

  Nyree glared.

  “She only wanted your approval. Arion told me about the last time the two of you spoke. How she wanted to smooth things over. She feared it would be the last time the two of you would ever see each other, and she was right. Don’t you have any regrets? Now that she’s gone, do you wish you could tell her you were sorry?”

  Nyree remained rigid, lips squeezed tight.

  If this is what having a mother is like, I’m glad I never got to know mine.

  “She couldn’t understand why you refused to accept her.”

  Nyree pivoted sharply and took one step toward the doorway, then stopped. She stood there with her back to Suri for several heartbeats before whirling around. Her face was red as an apple. “Arion betrayed me! I raised her properly, gave her everything. She was going to be the first female Umalyn High Priestess. I was going to see to that. She was intelligent, beautiful, charming, and capable. Arion could have been the greatest of our order. She could have been fane. The first Umalyn ruler of our people! Instead, she . . .”

  Nyree started to cry. She gritted her teeth and jerked away the tears. “Instead, my daughter,” she said with disgust, “to whom I devoted a lifetime, became a Miralyith.” She shook her head in anger. “I can’t do this. I can’t stay here.” Nyree took another step toward the exit.

  “She loved you,” Suri said.

  “Stop it! Just stop!” Nyree screamed so loudly that Suri jerked back, bumping against the wall.

  Tears ran down Nyree’s face too quickly to be wiped away.

  “All I said was—”

  “She didn’t love me. Never! It was I who loved her and was willing to devote all that I was, all that I had accomplished for her benefit! But she refused my help, rejected me and our tribe.”

  “No, that wasn’t it. She was just being who she was instead of who you wanted her to be.”

  “You know nothing! Nothing about me or my daughter. You are a heathen and a savage. Don’t you dare think you can educate me on Arion and what she was or wasn’t.”

  Nyree threw the bundle at Suri and fled the room.

  “Did Arion ever ask you to become a Miralyith? Would you have thought she had your best interests in mind if she had?” Suri shouted after her.

  She waited, but it was Vasek’s face that reemerged in the doorway. “That didn’t go so well,” he said.

  “I won’t tell you how to make dragons.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to.” He pointed to the bundle. “In her haste, Nyree neglected to properly give you her gift. It’s new clothes. Oh, and from now on, a bath will be prepared if you wish. All you have to do is ask.”

  “That won’t do the trick, either. It doesn’t matter how well you treat me.”

  Vasek thought about this for a moment. Then he cast a glance in the direction that Nyree had fled. “I’m not sure how you misconstrued a visit from Nyree as an indication of me being nice. If I were you, I would suspect this had been a well-calculated torture, and although you likely won’t believe me, I’ll state for the record that wasn’t our intention. Perhaps Volhoric was too naïve. He doesn’t have my years of experience in studying how people like Nyree react.”

  He shook his head and offered a sad sigh. “Like most of Nyree’s tribe, the Umalyn are rigid in their thinking. Once she believes something, no amount of argument, or even proof, can change her mind. Just as you saw, the more you press the more defensive and deaf she becomes. A closed mind is like a door that can’t be opened—it might as well be a wall.” He turned to leave, then paused. “You might consider that while walls are made to keep people out and to protect, these barriers also isolate, making them an impediment to a lasting peace.”

  Chapter Six

  The Invitation

  It is strange how some things are exactly how you imagined, and others are not. Odder still are those that are both. — The Book of Brin

  The crowd gathering at the Great Gate of Rel was massive. At first, Moya feared there had been a huge battle and many were arriving at once. But she hadn’t heard a series of rings, and intuition whispered that there had been only a single death, and the throng was an indication that someone important had died.

  Having discovered that the ruler of Rel had people looking for Moya’s party, she considered using the distraction to slip away. One thing that stopped her was the knowledge she’d gained from the shepherd’s community of Dahl Rhen. Everyone knew that when a wolf pack hunted a particular area, it was the foolish, and soon to be dead, sheep that separated itself from the flock.

  And then there were her curiosity and trepidation. She wanted to learn who had passed, but she was also terrified to find out. Moya hadn’t been the only one who had heard the signal, and that provided a clue. Brin, Gifford, Tressa, and Roan had heard it, too. Rain and Tekchin had not, making the list of possibilities short, and none of them good.

  “It’s Suri, isn’t it? We’ve failed.” Brin’s voice was filled with concern as they all huddled together, trying to blend in with the rest of the crowd.

  “We don’t know that,” Moya said while silently thinking, It could be Persephone, and I don’t know which would be worse.

  Moya directed them to wait near the rear to avoid getting penned in. They only needed to know who had arrived. Afterward, they could disperse with the rest of the crowd and just keep going. She wasn’t certain exactly where to head but thought following the road would be a good place to start.

  “She’s told them the secret, and they’ve killed her.”

  “Calm down, Brin. We don’t—”

  Moya spotted Tura waiting in the crowd, and her reserve of hope shrank. Looking over the waves of faces, she recognized Cobb, Bergin, Filson, Tope Highland and his sons, and the whole Killian family—minus the still-living Brigham. The Bakers, the Whipples, Holiman Hunt, and most of the Wedons were there. He was out front with a handsome young man Moya didn’t recognize.

  Holiman doesn’t know Suri. So it has to be Persephone.

  With that knowledge, she realized that there had been a worse option, and the gods had chosen it.

  Just then, several of those who had gathered noticed her. Shock was followed by bewilderment and even a dash of irritatio
n, as if Moya had done something shameful by dying.

  “Moya?”

  She turned to see Arion. The Fhrey looked exactly as she always had, still wearing the asica she’d been buried in. “Are you here because Suri has—”

  “That’s them.” The mauled-to-death fellow they’d met outside the gate was talking to a small group of people dressed in flowing gray robes. He pointed toward Moya, then added, “The gate opened after they arrived.”

  The six robed figures headed directly their way. They weren’t Fhrey, but they moved with the same elegance and grace. All were clean-shaven and tall, so they weren’t Dherg, either, but they bore the same stony stare and granite jawlines. These were something else. Something Moya had never seen before.

  The ruler of Rel has people looking for us.

  Tekchin moved close as one of the six stepped forward. The man—as that’s what Moya decided he most resembled—had the same green eyes as Muriel. His hair was straight, slick, and black, as if he had dipped it in a vat of Brin’s ink. The man’s skin was alabaster white, and his gray robes billowed despite the lack of a breeze.

  “His Most Immaculate, Serene, and Renowned Majesty of Rel has decided to favor you with an audience. You will accompany us to his wondrous presence.”

  “How nice,” Moya said. “But we’re busy at the moment. Please tell His Majesty that we’ll have to meet some other time.”

  The man’s brows rose in surprise, then his eyes narrowed in seriousness. “It’s not a request.”

  “Not overly polite, either,” Moya added, and she enjoyed seeing his brows rise once more.

  “Watch your words. His Majesty reigns supreme here.” The man in gray swept his arm forward, indicating they should walk back up the brick road toward the village.

  “Good for him.” Moya stayed where she was.

  The others did likewise.

  Moya felt everyone’s eyes on her. She was upstaging the main event with this unexpected warm-up act. A long moment lingered. Maybe it was only the length of a heartbeat, but Moya no longer had that meter to judge by.

  “You will obey your lord,” the ink-headed, alabaster man declared with insulting certainty.

  Moya knew she wasn’t smart. Her mother had reminded her of that little fact from the time she was born. She wasn’t creative or physically strong, and she couldn’t make a dress, shear a sheep, or cook a decent meal. Until discovering the bow, she hadn’t been good, or even adequate, at anything—except causing trouble. She didn’t mean to be difficult and most of the time regretted her actions, but something in her refused to bend. No one owned Moya. No man, no woman, no Fhrey or Dherg, and no ruler of the afterlife was going to make her bow.

  “Tell your lord that if he wishes the privilege of our company, he will ask nicely. I’m accustomed to being courted with a please and thank you.”

  The creepy, pale man—although he might have just looked pale because his face was framed in that intensely black hair—stared in confusion. “You will follow me now,” Ink-Head demanded and turned his back.

  “Kiss my ass,” Moya said.

  Brin’s hand touched Moya’s back. The Keeper of Ways was only lightly patting, but in hand-language, her fingers were screaming.

  The man whipped back around and glared at Moya with enough intensity that she almost reached for an arrow. Tekchin shifted his stance, hand rising to the pommel of his sword.

  “What does your master want with them?” Arion asked.

  “None of your business, Fhrey,” Ink-Head replied without looking at her.

  Moya knew that because they were dead the rules were different, but it was still shocking to see anyone speak to Arion with such disregard. Perhaps in death she was no longer the terrifying Miralyith she’d once been, or maybe they merely didn’t know her well enough.

  “These are friends of mine, which is why I’m making it my business,” Arion explained, using her ridiculously even tone that proclaimed refinement and grace. “And besides, when I first arrived, I didn’t receive an invitation to bask in the grace of his wondrous presence, so I’m feeling a bit snubbed.”

  “They will obey His Majesty’s command,” Ink-Head insisted.

  “Or what?” Arion asked. She’d spoken the words matter-of-factly, but their meaning was clear. The shocked expression on the gray-clad half dozen revealed that perhaps they did know Arion, at least by reputation.

  “His Majesty will not appreciate your interference, Fhrey.”

  “Ezerton, we’ve been over this. I prefer to be called Arion, and if Drome has a problem with my actions, he can bring it up with me personally. I don’t conduct conversations through intermediaries.”

  “Did you say Drome?” Rain asked. “You don’t mean . . .”

  Arion nodded. “God of the Belgriclungreians—yes.”

  Rain, who was usually as steadfast as a hundred-year-old elm, staggered.

  Ezerton glared at Arion. “Our ruler will punish you for this interference.”

  Arion smiled back. Had Moya been too far away to hear their words and forced to interpret their exchange only through body language, she would swear they were holding two different conversations. “Ezerton, you are aware there is nothing remotely true in that statement. He’s not my ruler, and I honestly don’t believe he’ll risk losing his best skib partner over something as inconsequential as this.”

  “This is not trivial, and you will address me as the Word of Drome.”

  Arion rolled her eyes. “Run along and find someone else to bother. Can’t you see we are waiting to greet a loved one?”

  With a harrumph, Ezerton, or the Word of Drome, turned and led his retinue up the brick road, moving at a brisk pace.

  Arion watched them retreat, then faced Moya with a frown. “That might not have been wise.”

  Moya huffed. “Don’t like people assuming they can tell me what to do.”

  “You know what bothers me?” Tekchin asked.

  Roan, who hadn’t said anything since returning from her visit with Reanna, volunteered an answer. “The fact that all of them have an odd number of ties down the front of their left boots but an even number on their right ones?”

  Everyone turned so suddenly to look at her that Roan shrank back. “That wasn’t it?”

  “No—ah—I wasn’t thinking that,” Tekchin replied. “I was going to say that none of them was carrying any weapons—no weapons, no armor.”

  “Everyone is already dead, and Sarah said you don’t feel pain here,” Moya reminded them. “So why bother? It’s not like they can harm us.”

  Tekchin grinned. “Which goes both ways, I suspect. If things turned ugly, I was planning on severing heads. That might not be permanent, but I figure it would slow them down, right?”

  “What’s wrong with you people?” Arion asked, aghast.

  “Raised badly,” Moya said. “That’s my excuse, at least.” She paused to smile at Roan. “You know, I completely missed that about the bootlaces.”

  “Really?” Roan said in disbelief. “It was all I could think about. It’s still driving me crazy. Why would anyone design them that way?”

  “Moya, I know I appeared flippant just now with Ezerton, but you really need to be careful,” Arion said. “Drome is the undisputed ruler here. Usually, he’s a good-natured administrator and spends most of his time entertaining himself in his castle, but he is an Aesira, and I don’t take it as a good sign that he’s interested in you.”

  Moya wasn’t suitably impressed. “Who cares? If he doesn’t like my attitude, he can kill me—oh wait—no, he can’t. I’m already dead.”

  “Well, actually . . .” Arion said and hesitated.

  Moya didn’t like the sound of those two words. “Actually, what?”

  “Death in Rel isn’t so bad. You are reunited with those you love, there is no fear of pain or growing old, but there are dangers in Phyre. Permanent ones.”

  “Such as?”

  “You can stop being.”

  “How’s t
hat?” Gifford asked.

  “We exist only as long as we believe we do, but without faith, you can fade.”

  “How could anyone not believe they exist?” Moya asked.

  “It’s easier than you might think.” Arion’s tone dropped, and Moya didn’t like the change. The Fhrey had sounded so pleasant up until then. Her new manner felt like an unexpected cold wind. “When living, little annoyances such as hunger or a need for sleep are reminders that you’re alive. But Rel doesn’t have such irritants, so it’s possible to doubt you exist at all. Here, we are reminded of our existence through interaction with others. If you take that away, it’s easy to lose your sense of self.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tressa said.

  Moya ignored her. “But that’s not something Drome can do to us, right?”

  Arion shrugged. “Not really. Truth is, Drome isn’t so terrible. He’s not crazy like his sister. He’s scared of her, I think. Drome likes his realm quiet and stable, but you’re new here and already causing trouble. I’m just saying that it’s not smart to poke a bear while you’re in his cave.”

  “That’s fine. We don’t plan on staying.” Moya grinned at her. “We are heading on to Nifrel.” Arion didn’t appear surprised to learn this, and Moya wondered why. “You don’t happen to know where the entrance is, do you?”

  “Everyone does. Well, anyone who has been here for any period of time.” She pointed toward the retreating figures in gray. “That road ends at it. Running from one side of Rel to the other, it links the two. In fact . . . the Nifrel Gate is right next to Drome’s castle.”

  Moya lost her grin.

  “There she is!” The shout came from the front of those assembled, and it drew all of their attentions. Kid Gorgeous—the young fellow standing out front next to Holiman Hunt—had made the outburst as he pointed toward the river.

  Moya pushed forward until she reached the front and saw the recently deceased come out of the dark water. There was no mistaking who it was, and while she felt saddened, she was also relieved that it wasn’t Persephone or Suri.