by Michael
“Right again. You’re pretty good at this.”
Nyphron frowned. “Did you come up here to make me feel worse? To revel in my pain?”
Malcolm sighed. “I hate it when people don’t hear me. No, I suppose they hear, they just don’t listen. Look, I told you I came to help, but lying to you wouldn’t accomplish that.”
Malcolm looked around for a place to sit, but found nothing and frowned. “So yes, the outcome of this war is teetering, and as hard as it may be for you to do, I think you need to relax and let matters run their course. I don’t need any further meddling from you.”
“Meddling? What makes you think I’m planning on doing anything?”
“Because you’re Nyphron, not Petragar. And because I know that you sent Elysan north on a secret mission.”
“Not so secret if you know about it.”
Malcolm gave him that disturbing stare that wasn’t quite human—because humans wouldn’t dare look at him so boldly. Doing so required a lack of mortal fear that men didn’t possess.
“I tried to build a bridge,” Nyphron said. “That didn’t work. Persephone suggested a tunnel, but the Dherg nixed that idea. They said they’d prefer to be buried by their own people rather than the Miralyith. Can’t say I blame them.”
“Yes, and you also sent a contingent south toward the base of the falls, looking for a ford across the river. See? Meddling. As a result, there will be more unnecessary deaths as neither of the parties will survive.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Ghazel to the south and giants to the north. Both have a fondness for human meat, and they’ve been known to eat a Fhrey or two.”
“I sent a lot of men—half of the Second Legion, in fact.”
“Won’t matter.”
“Well then, I will place my hope on Elysan. You see, my problem isn’t the river, but the water itself. Can’t put Dherg runes on water—this has become the mantra of all those I send to the Harwood. But what if I got rid of the water?”
Malcolm shook his head. “He won’t be able to recruit giants to dam the river in the north.”
“Dam it, divert it, drink it—I don’t care what they do just as long as it stops flowing long enough for me to get troops to the Estramnadon side. Furgenrok has some truly huge relatives. Not that he, himself, isn’t large, but some of his uncles—the ones who have been asleep for centuries—could cut off the water by cupping it with their hands. If Elysan can convince them, they could shut off the flow, the Nidwalden would run dry, at least for a time, and the Techylors could spearhead the attack by slaughtering the Miralyith in Avempartha. Then the army can pour across the empty riverbed and flood Erivan.”
“And you hope to do this before Lothian starts making dragons.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Odds of success?”
“Dismal. The giants of Hentlyn hate us. They have no reason to help. So, I told Elysan to promise them anything.”
“Anything?”
Nyphron shrugged. “What do we care? If they stop the water, I’ll wipe out the only force on Elan that can threaten me. And after the fane dies, the giants will be yoked into slavery, or if subjugation proves too troublesome, they will be erased.”
“And did Persephone agree to this plan?”
Despite aiding Nyphron’s cause with the idea of an opportunistic marriage with Persephone, Nyphron knew that Malcolm preferred her to him. He displayed a little smile. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“You don’t think she might want to weigh in on the erasure of a race, since that is what the Fhrey are trying to do to her people?”
“I don’t think her knowing will be necessary, since the war with the giants won’t start until well after she’s dead.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. “You aren’t saying—”
Nyphron laughed, and it felt surprisingly good. Seeing Malcolm knocked off-balance was the most fun he’d had in months. “I’m not planning on killing the woman. She’s my wife, you know.”
“Men have killed their wives before and over lesser offenses than sending their only hope into the hands of the enemy.”
“I’m not a man.”
Malcolm said nothing. He continued to stare, unconvinced.
Nyphron rolled his eyes. “Truthfully, I like Persephone. She’s been a good wife and mother.”
“What about keenig?”
He nodded. “That too.”
“Because she leaves the military decisions to you?”
“As is sensible. While I hate to admit it, the pairing has been a good one. She has no ego to butt against, no desire for glory. If I had to ally myself with a man, or even an Instarya like Sikar or Tekchin, we would have come to blows by now. Persephone is wiser than I first imagined. No, what I meant is that the Grenmorian problem will likely not be addressed for another fifty or sixty years, and by then, I doubt Persephone will still be with us.”
To this, Malcolm merely nodded.
“But you don’t think Elysan will be successful,” Nyphron said.
“The Fhrey, and in particular the Instarya, don’t have a good reputation in the north.”
“And what about the army we sent south?” Nyphron asked. “We merely ordered them to establish a secure route across the lower river, then scout a way to scale the cliff on the far side. What makes you think that won’t succeed?”
Malcolm turned to face east, as if he could see something in the flurries that Nyphron could not. “The world to the southeast—the Broken Lands and isles—are the scarred and flooded remains of the ancient shattered lands. They belong to the Uber-Ran. They always have.”
“Uber-Ran?”
“Your people call them Moklins—the Blind Ones; humans named them goblins; the Belgriclungreians dubbed them ghazel. But they call themselves Uber-ran—Ones of Uber, the Faithful Children of Uberlin, the Great Ones. They are the loyal, the devout, the only followers who didn’t abandon the first ruler of Elan.”
“Who was that?”
“Rex Uberlin.”
Nyphron smirked. “Children of an evil god they may be, but they’re still just goblins, primitive and unruly.”
“Like everyone, they were different once. Loyal to their king, but he didn’t return their faith in kind. Abandoned and leaderless, they were twisted by the selfish and cruel example left to them. Given enough time, sediment settles to the bottom of any cup.” Malcolm continued to stare east for a moment, then he turned back with an apologetic smile. “Call them what you will, but the party you sent will be eaten. You can count on that.”
“We’ll see.”
The wind picked up and howled across the plain. Snow thickened and danced among the rocks. Nyphron looked once more toward the forest. “I can’t see the river. Waiting for a signal from the Techylors is maddening.”
“Why not go there yourself?”
Nyphron shook his head and frowned. “I don’t dare. Running a war from the rear is”—he sighed—“so very frustrating. Far more so than I ever would have believed. But if I were on the bank and the water did stop . . .” He laid a hand on his sword, and in doing so, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d drawn it.
“That Law of Ferrol’s is a problem, isn’t it?” Malcolm said with a smug smile. “But you shouldn’t worry too much. As I promised, you will be the ruler of the world. We have a deal, remember?”
“Are you ever going to tell me what you want?”
“I’ll let you know soon. Just remember that I was right then, and nothing has changed with regards to you becoming emperor.”
“I’ll be what?”
“You aren’t familiar with the term empyre? Probably not, it comes from the Eilywin tribe and has nothing to do with conquest. It means ‘to join together, to build, to unify.’ The Eilywin are all about living in balance. It’s their word for creating an environment in which people can live together in harmony with nature, the gods, and with one another. That’s what I want to create. You w
ill help me build an empyre for everyone.”
“You want to create?” Nyphron said.
Malcolm ignored him. “Just consider what could be done if wars were a thing of the past and everyone worked together.”
“Sounds boring.” He stared at Malcolm, sizing him up once more. The tall, lanky not-a-man lacked fear, but displayed no attributes to explain why. Disturbing is what he was, like a fish that talked. Such things weren’t supposed to be possible, yet there he stood—the talking fish promising to fulfill Nyphron’s greatest dreams . . . for a price. “Why do I get the impression there’s something you aren’t telling me? You’re like one of those demons that grant wishes, but not the way one would expect. If you ask to never grow old—they kill you. Is that it?”
Malcolm raised his hood and smiled, not a happy expression but one of endured regret. “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t for the best. Remember that, too. It might help.” He looked up at the sky. “No . . . it probably won’t. There’s no sense in the demon explaining why death is better than immortality. That’s something that has to be experienced to be understood.”
Chapter Eight
Unanswered Questions
I now understand that Aesira is another word for god. There are five, which oddly feels like both too few and too many. — The Book of Brin
Entering the home of Drome, Moya was greeted by two rows of five massive pillars. To either side, broad marble staircases curved like two giants’ arms hugging the grand entry hall. From the checkered-tile floor to the soaring walls and arches, everything was either black or white. Even the torches didn’t flicker with the familiar yellow of fire. Instead, they radiated an unwavering pale brilliance that reminded Moya of how snow reflected a winter’s gray sky. For all her mother’s tales of woe about Phyre, Audrey had failed to mention that the underworld was run by a tyrannical black-and-white-loving overlord. Not that it mattered because Moya wouldn’t have believed the stories, but in retrospect, she would have appreciated the warning.
They found no one inside. The vast and imposing entrance was empty of anything except stone. The soldiers remained in the vestibule while Ezerton continued to lead the way up the stairs. As it happened, both sets circled to the same balcony and met at a single archway. Before it, the polished floor was made up of geometric patterns of a copper-colored stone, at the center of which lay a design like the sun. Rays sprayed out in a way that was similar to the art Moya had seen in Neith. To either side, statues soared. On the left, a man held a short sword in one hand and a torch in the other. The opposing figure was the same man, but this time he held a triangular tool in one hand and a hammer in the other. A bright light emanated from the chamber within.
While the climb hadn’t been far, Moya felt exhausted. “Anyone else winded?”
“I feel . . . heavy,” Tekchin said. “Tired, even.”
The others nodded.
“We don’t have bodies, so how can we be fatigued? Roan? What’s going on?”
“Don’t know.”
“It’s like the rules are changing on us,” Moya said.
“What’s that light, do you suppose?” Gifford asked, squinting at the archway.
“Well, we don’t have eyes,” Roan said. “So it’s something we are interpreting. Power maybe?”
“It’s the presence of Drome,” Rain concluded.
“Seriously? He gives off his own light?” Moya rolled her eyes.
“Why not? He is a god, after all.”
“Malcolm doesn’t glow.” Moya glanced at Tressa, taunting her, but she didn’t bother to reply.
Ezerton stopped at the archway. “Behold, Lord God Drome of Rel.” He beckoned them to enter.
Feeling less sure of herself than she ever had, Moya took slow steps forward. The interior brilliance was blinding, and she put up a hand in defense. Peering through spread fingers, she determined they were entering a white-marbled throne room. Instead of pillars, the roof—if there was one—was held up by statues of giants. Their arms strained to keep the sky in place. Rivers of liquid gold and silver spilled from indescribable heights, falling in cascades and splashing their way down sculptured walls. In the center of everything, a grand chair was placed on a dais at the top of yet another set of stairs.
Upon it sat Drome.
Grand, grinning, and terrifying, he looked to be so solid, broad, and heavy that he might have been another statue—if not for the energy he radiated. High cheekbones held up by cheerful anticipation, wide-set eyes, and a flat nose were all wreathed by a bristling mane. His hair was gold with streaks of silver that suggested the graying of age, yet while Moya was certain this being was old, the color of his hair and beard had nothing to do with that impression.
“What shades of Elan have entered my home?” the god asked.
That could have been worse, Moya thought. He hasn’t snuffed us out of existence. Maybe I misjudged Ink-Head’s intentions. Perhaps I should stop thinking of him as Ink-Head, or possibly stop thinking altogether.
Nothing else was said for quite some time, and Moya stood there, listening to the splash of the precious-metal falls.
Drome shifted his feet, drawing his heels in toward the base of his throne, and he leaned forward so that the long braids of his beard made a coil on the floor. He pointed at each as he counted them off. “Moya, Tekchin, Brin . . .” He hesitated. “Ah—Roan! Yes, Roan and Gifford.” His eyes settled on Tressa, and they narrowed. “Hmm, who are—oh, yes, Konniger’s wife.” His sight slid off her in an instant as something caught his eye. “And of course, Rain!” His gaze remained on the dwarf for a time, and his smile grew brighter. “Nice to see one of my own.”
The god sat back and crossed his legs, revealing a pair of stocky, hairy, muscled calves beneath purple, gold, and silver robes. “Normally, I would welcome you to my realm, but of course you aren’t—welcome, that is. You are intruders, trespassers, troublemakers—rabble-rousers up to no good and no doubt here for nefarious purposes. Never before have I shut the Rel Gate, but when my sister warned me of your coming, I took her advice. As twins, we have divided all that makes us what we are. She hoarded the shrewdness, and I got everything else.” He focused on Rain again. “You know what I mean.”
Rain showed no indication of anything other than perhaps having voluntarily turned to stone.
“Now, let’s get to the point of this visit.” Drome leaned forward once more, this time placing both of his large squarish hands on the sturdy throne’s arms, pushing himself to a more upright position. “How did you get in?”
Drome waited, but no one said a word.
“Did someone help you? Someone on the inside? Arion perhaps?” As Drome’s voice rose, so did Moya’s fear.
She recalled Arion’s words, Drome is the undisputed ruler here . . . he is an Aesira, and I don’t take it as a good sign that he’s interested in you.
What’s an Aesira? Moya wondered, and why do I feel that it’s bad?
Just looking at Drome, at the light he radiated, which according to Roan might be an expression of his power, made Moya suspect that letting him build up to a frenzy wasn’t a good idea.
Her first impulse was to tell him. More than just a thought, it was a compulsion, an almost undeniable desire. Giving him what he asked for would save them—all of them. So strong was the need to grant him his wish that Moya’s mouth opened. But her propensity for standing up when she was told to sit down, for saying no when everyone else said yes, stopped her.
Despite her reputation, Moya hadn’t slept with all the boys in Dahl Rhen. She’d said yes to Heath Coswall but only that one time. Moya had felt sorry for the boy because he’d cried while begging on his knees. He’d proclaimed his love and said that the pain of not being with her was too great. Being young and stupid, she’d picked poorly, and Heath turned out to be a bastard and then some. He spread rumors of her seducing him because there was no way he was going to tell the truth about that night. Moya was angry,
but her mother was furious. Seeing how much it pained Audrey, Moya didn’t dispute the rumors, which grew like crabgrass in a garden. It wasn’t long before everyone was sure she had said yes to anyone who had asked, but she hadn’t. After Heath’s lie, she said no hundreds of times. Each one brought stunned looks that she enjoyed seeing. Saying no—refusing to obey, go along, or appease—became ingrained in her and helped to erase in her own mind that one foolish mistake. Over time, it became part of her character. Defiance was one of the pillars of who she was. Being dead hadn’t changed that.
For all his power and glory, Drome was one more male asking, Will you? No—he was demanding that she obey. God or not, Moya’s mouth twisted into her usual wry smile. “Rel is where people go when they die. We died. Being a god and all, I assumed you knew how that worked.”
Drome narrowed his gaze, but rather than explode, he settled back, and the hint of a smile graced his lips. “Few people are able to stand before my light, much less sass me. You know full well what I’m asking. I locked the gate. How did you open it?”
Moya batted her eyes. “Maybe it didn’t latch all that well because it opened when I pushed. But now that you bring it up, why did you seal it? I heard you’re the undisputed ruler here. It seems odd that you would take orders from your sister.”
“It wasn’t an order, just a comment.” The god studied her for a long time, and with remarkable calm, he said, “You are an only child, Moya, daughter of Audrey. You can’t begin to understand what it’s like to have a sister, much less an evil twin. Ferrol is—well, let’s put it out there, shall we? She’s awful—a hideous, horrible, detestable, vicious, cruel being. But she is smart. She was the first one to leave Erebus, and she took all the other brilliant minds with her. But she’s not as smart as she thinks she is. Ferrol thought her exodus would mortally wound Uberlin.” Drome broke into a smile that burst into a laugh. He slapped a thigh, and the noise shook the room and made Moya stagger. “We almost didn’t know she’d left! All those great intellects—we didn’t need a one of them.” He continued to laugh, rocking in his chair. Then he calmed down, twisted his lips, and looked at them once more. “But she does have her moments, times of wisdom and insight. So no, little Rhune, I didn’t take orders, but I was intrigued by her request. If she wanted you, there must be a good reason. But I’m the one who has the prize . . . something you should be grateful for. Now I am faced with two curiosities: Why does my sister seek you, and how did you open a sealed gate? Who would like to help me solve these puzzles?” Drome looked at each of them, waiting for a volunteer.