Age of Death

by Michael

  Moya was about to ask what exactly Brin’s mother drew from this waterless well when she heard the ringing once more.

  “Someone has died,” Gifford announced. “I hear ringing.”

  “I think we all do,” Moya added.

  Even Tekchin and Rain appeared to hear it this time, and Moya felt certain that wasn’t a good sign.

  “Who do you think it is?” Brin’s face displayed a devastated expression.

  “It’s not Suri,” Moya insisted. “It’s not. And we aren’t going back to look. We have a job to do, and we’ve wasted too much time already. C’mon.”

  They walked along the bricks in silence after that, each lost in thought. Moya had a pretty good idea what was on their minds. She didn’t want to know who was climbing up the riverbank at Rel’s Great Gate. Whoever it was, there was nothing Moya could do for them. Suri, if she was still alive, was another matter. They had died for the mission that Malcolm and Tressa had cooked up, and her only path was forward.

  You are brave, Muriel had told her. I can tell that just from the short time I’ve known you. Your fortitude is the sort of thing that will be important in Phyre.

  Moya was disturbed by the silence that was more than a lack of noise. It was the absence of life. While alive, even when isolated in a room, she couldn’t block out the din of a living world: Wind rustled thatch; voices carried, and birdsongs wafted in through windows. When she had been in Neith—deep underground—there was still her beating heart and the sound of breathing. She’d never noticed them before, but now their absence was maddening. After climbing the last steep hill, Moya should have been panting for air. She wasn’t even out of breath.

  She broke the stifling silence. “Is anyone else having problems getting used to this whole not-breathing thing?”

  “I feel like I am; breathing that is,” Tekchin said.

  “But you don’t have to.” Moya turned so that she was walking backward and spread out her arms, inviting them to view how far they had come. “Look at that. See how high we’ve climbed. Is anyone tired? Anyone sore? It’s creepy—creepy, I tell you.”

  They never once strayed from the white road, and it never faltered. As they rose higher, the brick lane serpentined ever upward. Despite the switchbacks, they covered the distance between the Rel Gate and the mountains in a short time—or so Moya thought. Without a moving sun, a need for sleep or rest—or the beating of a heart—time became impossible to judge. Covering the distance might have taken hours, days, or weeks. Moya had no way to make a determination except by remembering various milestones they had passed. All she was certain of is they had come far, and they were high above the valley, plains, and hills. Ahead, jagged walls of gray stone were covered in snow.

  Villages continued to come and go, but they were tiny things now, and not at all like those back in the valley. In the highlands, humans were shorter and hairier, and their crude huts consisted of stretched animal skins and bent tree branches. The Fhrey’s ears were less pointed, and they wore modest cloth wraps and lived in simple mud-brick structures. The Dherg, who were oddly tall, sought shelter in caves. And there was another group, a strange-looking race with large eyes and long arms. They wore robes of red. All of these people glared with angry eyes as they chipped rocks and shaved sticks. Then for a long time there were no more villages, no more people. The higher altitudes brought with them a world of pure, uninhabited wilderness.

  As they entered the mountains, the road narrowed. Once wide enough for five to walk abreast, they now had to go single file, making their way through twisted gaps and along cliff ledges that provided fabulous views of the valley.

  What happens if I fall? Moya wondered. Will I plummet thousands of feet, hit the ground, and then what? Bounce and get up? Will I just have to start over?

  As they climbed higher, Moya saw snow on the ground. She looked up at the pale sky.

  Did that snow fall? Or has it always been here?

  Clearing one more switchback, a great fortress came into sight. Made entirely of stone, the building wasn’t cut into the mountain like Neith, nor was it raised up the way Avempartha was said to have been. Castle Rel was the mountain itself. More than twice the size of Mador, the stronghold extended into clouds that, until that moment, Moya hadn’t known were there. Made of obsidian and alabaster, the castle was a forest of white and black spires that pierced and defied the gray sky with undeniable insult. The perfect spear-like towers appeared to be weapons thrusting at the very nature of the underworld. Rage was at the heart of the design, a bristling symbol of defiance. In a place of peaceful surrender, Castle Rel was an expletive in stone. And Moya had to admit it was beautiful. Lines were straighter than any she’d seen before. Curves were exact, and the construction bore a balance so perfect that it made Moya smile against her will. She’d never seen anything so delightful and so disturbing at the same time—a beautiful flower made entirely of thorns.

  “Whoa.” Tekchin craned his neck, trying to see the top. “Now, that’s something.”

  Rain gaped as he moved to the front of their little troop. “It’s perfect.”

  “It’s scary,” Brin said.

  “I’m with you on this one,” Gifford added.

  “There’s the Nifrel Gate.” Roan pointed to where the road ended.

  Directly across from the castle’s entrance, a great arched gateway stood, supporting what looked to be a sheet of black glass. In front of it, a small contingent of gray-clad beings blocked its access.

  “Probably wishing you hadn’t insulted Ezerton right now, huh?” Tressa asked her.

  “Oh, like you would have done any different.”

  “You’re taking pride in being as stupid as me, now?”

  Moya opened her mouth, but realized she had nothing to say.

  “What do we do?” Brin asked.

  “Looks like, what? Twenty? Thirty?” Moya asked.

  “How many arrows you got?” Tekchin inquired.

  “Eight.”

  “And they’ve got weapons now,” Gifford said.

  The men at the gate formed up in straight lines and began to walk in their direction. No running, no rush; they moved slowly and in perfect formation.

  Moya frowned, turned back to Tekchin, and sighed. “Arion said Drome was usually good-natured, right?”

  “She did.”

  “And we don’t know why he wanted to see us, so it might not be anything bad.”

  “That’s true.”

  As the soldiers came closer, Moya saw it was Ezerton approaching. Just as Gifford had said, this time he wore a sword.

  “You will follow me, now,” he ordered and turned toward the castle.

  The group of men split, forming two lines. Ezerton walked between them.

  Moya took Tekchin’s hand. “Stay close to me.”

  “Like a tick on a hound’s ear.”

  She looked over.

  Tekchin shrugged. “It’s what I used to tell Nyphron. Sounded better with him.”

  As the party approached the castle, the soldiers reformed and followed from behind. Looking at the entrance, seeing the open archway like a wide mouth ready to swallow everyone whole, Moya realized three things. A lot of people had called the Fhrey gods. A few Miralyith thought themselves to be gods. But when a Fhrey Miralyith dwelling in the afterlife said someone was a god, you should listen. Moya squeezed Tekchin’s hand as they stepped over the threshold and went in.

  Chapter Seven

  End of an Era

  If I had been Nyphron, I would have chosen a tree. A tree does not strike fear into the hearts of one’s enemies, nor does it inspire anything besides peace and growth, so I am guessing that is why he went with a dragon. — The Book of Brin

  A thin veil of snow dusted the ground, except for the mound of freshly turned soil that was a dark scar upon the land. The barrow before Persephone was one of many that had transformed a flat field into a mounded plain, as if it had suffered a terrible pox. She supposed it had. So many years
of war had raised an abundant, bitter crop.

  “Cold,” Nolyn complained. He pulled on her finger.

  “Hush, little man,” Justine said from behind them.

  Little man? Is that new?

  Persephone couldn’t remember having heard it before. She approved.

  It’s good he’s reminded. Someday he might forget.

  “Shall I take him back, ma’am?” Justine asked.

  Persephone looked at her son. His cheeks and ears were red from the wind, a stream glistening under his nose, his mouth pulled down in a miserable frown. Nolyn had suffered through the farewell, and he’d cast his handful of dirt into the hole. His duty was done. Keeping him there was selfish, but holding his hand had helped.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She felt him let go, heard her son trotting away.

  “Don’t stay too long, ma’am,” Justine said. “Getting cold.”

  “Yes,” Persephone replied without turning. “It is.”

  As Justine led Nolyn away, Persephone was the last one standing in the field. Few had been there at all. Persephone had long believed that when Padera finally died, her funeral would be massive, but she had outlived everyone. With her death went an era. The old woman had been the last true remnant of the past—that time of stone weapons and gods across the river.

  Farmer Wedon’s two boys, Brent and Oscar, who were now men, and Viv Baker’s daughter, Hest, who was betrothed to the last of the Killian boys, had all attended the funeral. And of course, there was Habet, who remained a comforting constant in the universe. All of them had been born in Dahl Rhen, but they were young, too young to remember how it was. They had only one foot in the old world. Most of their weight was on their other leg. The days of gathering in the lodge in winter to listen as Maeve told the stories of Gath of Odeon were over. No longer did anyone sit shoulder to shoulder in the flickering light with friends and neighbors, sharing roast lamb. And the innocence of knowing that tomorrow would be the same as today would never come again.

  They are all gone.

  Persephone dropped to her knees, clutching the fabric of her breckon mor tightly to her neck.

  Padera, Reglan, Mahn, Maeve, Sarah, Delwin, Gelston, Aria, and . . . no, not them!

  Persephone shook her head. She still had hope that those who’d gone to the swamp could come back because Malcolm told her they might. This strange proclamation gave her an extremely tenuous thread to hold on to. And as absurd as it sounded, and as impossible as it might seem, Persephone clutched it as if that hope alone stood between herself and the brink of insanity. But with each passing day, even that hope wavered, the thread frayed.

  Persephone looked back at the camp and sighed.

  Why—in a camp filled with people—do I feel so alone?

  She loved Nolyn, was blessed with Justine, and comforted by Habet. They kept her going, but the people she had loved the most, the ones she’d fought and bled with, were gone. Without them, she felt weak and naked.

  Winter had arrived, and even old Padera had abandoned her. That’s when Persephone realized the truth of it.

  Padera isn’t the last of the era—I am. Without Brin and her book, everything I once knew and loved will be forgotten. After I die, the days of Dahl Rhen will be an age of myth.

  “How are they doing, Padera?” Persephone asked the dirt. “Tell them to hurry, won’t you? Tell them they must come back because I need them. I need them all.”

  Persephone began to cry, but she wasn’t sure who the tears were for.

  Nyphron walked the empty, open plain between what had become known as the Dragon Camp and the forest.

  A dragon. That should be my symbol, my standard.

  He’d had nothing to do with the beast. He hadn’t conjured it, nor asked for it to be summoned. If he’d known such things were possible, he would have ordered twenty. They only had the one, but that singular winged beast had saved everyone at Alon Rhist and kept the Dragon Camp safe through many years of war. People saw it as a symbol of strength and protection.

  Nyphron frowned. They’re supposed to see me that way.

  That had been the plan, but Nyphron’s plans hadn’t been working out so well.

  He paused his meandering stroll through the field when he caught sight of bone. A hand—or what had been one—lay mostly covered in grass and a dusting of snow. Only the fingertips poked up, as if the skeletal owner were trapped and trying to claw his way to the surface. This was the site of the last of the open battles where the fane’s forces had foolishly attempted to stop them from entering the trees. As they always had done in the fields, his chariots ruled, and he had won the day.

  But not the war.

  “Who were you, I wonder?” he asked the hand. “Rhune or Fhrey? Friend or foe?”

  Whoever it had been, Nyphron felt a kinship—the buried person’s plans hadn’t worked out, either.

  Returning to his chariot, he leaned against the wheel, looking east at the forest. He had come out there to be alone, to think, not about dragons—not anymore. What had once been his possible salvation would now be his undoing. The fane would have dragons—of that, he had no doubt—but he didn’t have them yet. That was also a certainty. Lothian wouldn’t waste even a moment sending his new weapon across the river—and he would ask for as many as he wished and get them. As the sky was clear of everything except snow, Nyphron knew there was still time . . . but for what?

  What should I do next?

  The flurries lent a hazy gray to the world. Not a real snow yet, only a ghostly preview of the season to come. And while he could see the trees, he saw nothing else.

  “I’ve had lousy luck of late,” he said. Then speaking to the white bony fingers, he added, “You can understand that, can’t you? For you, it was what? A sword? An arrow? For me, it’ll likely be the teeth of a dragon.”

  Yes, he thought again, my symbol should have been a dragon.

  He should have thought of it years ago. His emblem of leadership needed to proclaim strength and power. Lions and bears were typical, but he was supposed to be the ruler of kings and fanes. His symbol had to be greater, and what was more powerful than a dragon? And if the Rhunes chose to bestow the adoration he deserved on a conjured beast, that was fine. Just as he had acquired power over the Ten Clans by marrying Persephone, so, too, would he have gained the reverence he desired by linking himself to a dragon. In a few centuries, no one would have known the difference. Nyphron the Dragon, the defender of the people: The two titles would be the same. From what he knew of the Rhunes, it might only take a few decades. They were a forgetful lot.

  Nyphron caught movement coming from the camp. A figure in a hooded cloak walked toward him. The person was alone—and it was a man. He could tell that much by the awkward gait.

  “Sorry to intrude,” Malcolm called when closer. Then he paused, threw back his hood, and created a massive cloud of fog as he struggled to catch his breath.

  No, not a man after all.

  He honestly had no idea what Malcolm was. He looked like a Rhune, moved like one, but he wasn’t. What he actually was remained a mystery. The only reason Nyphron hadn’t banished the not-a-man was that he had disappeared on his own.

  “I thought you’d left.”

  “Came back for the funeral and . . . other things.”

  Malcolm took notice of the skeletal hand. “Friend of yours?”

  Nyphron wasn’t amused. “So, why aren’t you at the ceremony?”

  “I was. It’s over.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that you left for all those years, and it was the death of an old woman that brought you back?”

  “Her name was Padera,” Malcolm reminded him. “But as I said, I’m here for other reasons as well.” He glanced down at the bony fingers. “You know, lend a hand where I can. Check on things, make any necessary adjustments.”

  “You’re not going to ask me to make another vow, are you? Because I traded that for a promise that’s not looking lik
e it’ll come to fruition.”

  Malcolm shook his head and offered a sad smile. “No, it’s not that. Would you find it odd if I said I’m concerned about you?”

  Despite his depression, that made Nyphron laugh.

  “Think what you will,” Malcolm said. “But your welfare and success are very important to me.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since your father died.” Malcolm stared at the bony hand with an unsettled expression that puzzled Nyphron.

  How can he appear so prissy? So human?

  “Are you saying I risk suffering his same fate? Because that’s not exactly news to me. The war is going badly, and it’s only a matter of time before Lothian repeats the denigration of my father on me. Now if you don’t mind, I came up here to be away from people. And that includes you, whatever you are.”

  Malcolm turned his attention to Nyphron. “You came up here to think. I came to help you do that.”

  “I’m certain I am capable of doing that on my own.”

  “You’re disillusioned, disappointed, and depressed because you suspect everything is lost. But worst of all, you’re losing faith in me.”

  “I never had any faith in you.”

  Malcolm raised his arms and then let them fall with a sigh. “See—this has always been my problem. Why can’t the world be filled with Tressas?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. The point is, I promised that you would be ruler of Elan, and you will.”

  “You’ve been gone, so you might not know this, but Suri is going to give Lothian dragons.”

  “No, Suri’s capture is not news to me. I’ve known about it for a long time. Before it happened, in fact.”

  Nyphron was sure Malcolm was just babbling nonsense now. But his implicit agreement about Lothian obtaining dragons was a surprise. He had expected an argument. The lack of debate left him confused, and he lost track of his thoughts for a moment.

  He likes to keep me off-balance, but why?

  Nyphron had learned from experience never to trust anyone, or more accurately, to trust them only as far as was safe. That distance could only be accomplished by knowing the person. While Malcolm had been around during Nyphron’s early years, he knew nothing of his father’s servant. He caught the thread of his thoughts again. “We have no defense against dragons, and without Suri, we can’t hope to survive.”