Age of Death

by Michael

  No one spoke or raised a hand.

  The god looked genuinely disappointed, even a bit hurt.

  “I can understand being frightened. You think I’m some sort of monster, don’t you?” Drome sounded unduly persecuted. “I can empathize. Especially after mentioning how terrible my sister is and revealing that we are twins. But I’m not cruel like her. You’re all so young. You have no idea what real fear is. You didn’t exist when Uberlin ruled the world with razor-sharp fingers and stone boots. His word was law, unbreakable and absolute. And his retribution was swift and brutal.”

  Drome sat back and chuckled. “The funny thing is, you and I are so much alike. You defy me, just as I once stood against Uberlin. During his reign, we—me, my brother, and sisters—were the heroes out to save the world from an evil tyrant. But Trilos was killed and in response Ferrol left. Being the first to break away, she inherited such lovely real estate.” He laughed, vibrating the stone.

  With great pride, Drome said, “I was the second to leave, and I took every artisan in Erebus with me. That didn’t go unnoticed, let me assure you.”

  “So, Erebus is a place?” Brin asked. Moya didn’t think Brin meant to ask the question. She spoke so softly that it was certain the Keeper of Ways was speaking to herself, but her excitement had gotten the better of her.

  Drome heard her and leaned forward again, looking down. He smiled at Brin like a friendly old man who was happy to discover a child had been paying attention. “You’re the Keeper, aren’t you?”

  Brin didn’t say anything, but she didn’t retreat, didn’t take her eyes off him. She would have had tea with a raow if it promised a good story, and this one had to be the best ever.

  “Oh, yes! Erebus was a city—no, that’s not right—it was the city, the birthplace of everyone. Well, okay, not everyone. The Typhons were already locked up by then, and their children were wandering around somewhere eating rocks or whatever. Eton didn’t care about them, I guess. But everyone else was in Erebus, such a beautiful place, a perfect place. Then Uberlin’s greed and arrogance ruined everything.”

  “What did he do?” Brin asked.

  Drome narrowed his bushy brows at her. “I’d bet you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? Not just about the great Rex Uberlin, but all of it—the whole story. Would you like to know how Eton and Elan gave birth to Light, Water, Time, the Four Winds, the three Typhons, and the most beloved of all, Alurya? Or should I tell you why Eton created the underworld and buried Erl, Toth, and Gar?

  “No, I think you’d rather I start with why Elan stole five of Eton’s teeth and what became of them. That’s where the tale really begins. That one explains how a family went to war against one another, leaving a mother bereft, barren, and estranged from her husband. And that, dear girl, is a very sad tale indeed.” Drome slapped the arms of his chair. “Uberlin was the first to make a throne. Did you know that? He invented it. Rex Uberlin—King Great One. I fought in the First War.

  “Oh, Brin, we can trade. You tell me how you opened my gate, and I’ll fill all the shadows with light. You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll tell you what you need. How does that sound?”

  “Sorry.” Moya shook her head. “There’s nothing we need to know. We just came to say thank you for the invitation to visit. It was nice meeting you. Please say goodbye to the Word of Drome for us when you see him. Oh, and don’t bother getting up. We can find our own way out.”

  Moya took a step but only one. Her feet stopped, and she nearly fell. Looking down, she saw she was standing ankle-deep in the stone of the floor. Gasps caused her to look back, and she found that all of the others were suffering from the same affliction, as if the marble had melted into a wading pool and then had instantly frozen solid.

  “Answer my questions!” Drome shouted this time, causing the room to shake.

  Moya could feel an imaginary heart beating in her non-existent ears, and the desire to offer up the key returned once more.

  “Does it concern the Golrok?” Drome asked.

  Continued silence—and of course, no one moved.

  Drome rubbed his beard, considering them. Then he got off his throne, walked down the steps, and stood before Rain. In an inexplicably calm manner, Rain watched the god as if Drome were putting on a not-too-entertaining show—the dwarf’s usual, ever-present expression. It took being trapped in the underworld when facing a glowing god of unfathomable power to make Moya realize how consistently out of place that expression had always been. Maybe this stone face was a dwarven virtue that Rain embodied to the fullest. It certainly explained why folks thought Dherg were descended from rocks.

  “I am your god, Rain. Tell me how you entered this realm.”

  Moya cringed. How can anyone refuse their own god?

  “Through the gate,” Rain said without pause. “Was open when I got to it.”

  Drome narrowed his eyes and studied the dwarf. “How was it opened?”

  They all watched Rain as the god took an intimidating step toward him. “How?”

  Moya couldn’t fault him if he broke. She wanted to do the same, and Drome wasn’t even her god. In many ways, she hoped Rain would tell, so it would be over. Just being in the god’s presence was becoming painful in the same way it would be to watch someone chew on a knife’s blade. It wasn’t her teeth, but she would still pray for it to stop.

  Go on, tell him already! Do it so we can—

  Wings fluttered overhead, and everyone looked up, including Drome.

  Into the room of polished stone and flowing precious-metal waterfalls, a bird flew. A crow. Its wingbeats thumped and echoed as loudly and ominously as drums. It circled the perimeter once, then landed on the throne. It eyed them in the creepy, sidelong manner that birds sometimes use, then it let out a caw! The sound was shrill, reflecting off the harsh, unyielding stone.

  Drome regarded the bird for a moment, then scowled.

  “Fine,” he said and looked back at those mired in the black-and-white stone floor. “I’m in no rush, but I think you might be.” Moya wasn’t certain whether he spoke to them or the bird.

  Drome smiled. “I have eternity on my side. Stay here for as long as you like. I don’t mind the wait. But you won’t leave until you tell me what neither you”—he turned and looked at the crow—“nor apparently my sister, wants me to know.”

  He clapped his hands. Out of the floor, sheets of stone rose, walling them off, closing them in. After reaching a height twice theirs, they came together in a ceiling that formed a dome. A tiny window formed on one side. Too small to put a fist through, it allowed a single shaft of light to shine directly on Moya’s face. She didn’t think its placement was coincidental.

  “When you are ready to answer my questions, just tell Goll, he’ll let me know.”

  Goll? Is that the bird? Ink-Head’s first or last name? Someone else?

  Moya stood with feet still trapped, forced to face the throne of Drome for what could very well be eternity.

  How long has it been since we’ve died? How much time is left before Suri tells the fane the secret of dragons or is killed? When will our bodies in the muck of the swamp decay? How long before we’re really and permanently dead?

  From outside the prison, the crow squawked again.

  Chapter Nine

  An Equal Trade

  For many, telling the truth is a given; for the rest, conversations are a quest for lies and hidden meanings. — The Book of Brin

  The door opened, and Nyree entered for the second time. She was alone and still dressed in that snow-white asica, but she wore a different expression. She kept her head down, casting furtive glances at Suri the way a guilty child might approach an angry parent.

  “I, ah . . .” she began, hesitated, then closed the door. Whatever she was going to say this time, she wanted privacy. Then Nyree took three steps inside. “The last time I was here, I ah . . .” Nyree continued to struggle. Her face shifted from one awkward grimace to the next. “You caught me off guard, and I re
acted badly.” Her tone was one of an apology, and it sounded sincere.

  Nyree took three more steps, two more than on her previous visit. “You, ah . . . you look better,” Nyree finally said.

  Suri glanced down at herself. Vasek had made good on his promise of a bath, which Suri accepted both because she was filthy beyond even her own standards and because she still hoped to make a good impression on the Fhrey. The new clothes—which were supposed to appear as a gift from Nyree but clearly came from Vasek—were simple linen. While they fit poorly, they were clean and comfortable.

  “I suppose you are wondering why I am back?” Nyree asked.

  Suri wasn’t, but she was grateful for another conversation. Despite everything, she still had hope for Arion’s plan, and she thought Nyree was her most likely candidate.

  The Fhrey weaved her fingers together, holding her hands to her chest. “I came because I want to know why Arion betrayed us. It’s a question I’ve never been able to answer for myself, and perhaps you can. Why did she forsake her heritage and Ferrol? How could she join the Rhunes and become a traitor to her people? You were right about me being upset that she chose to be a Miralyith. That was reprehensible, but I can understand her decision. They are the ruling class now, and Arion always wanted power and prestige.”

  “I don’t think we are talking about the same person,” Suri said. “Arion never wanted those things. She liked string games, baths, and a good cup of tea. And she didn’t become a Miralyith to side with those in control, she did so because that’s who she was. She was the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. I wish you had known her the way I did.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why she turned against her own people. Why did she do that?”

  “She didn’t.”

  Nyree’s open, inviting demeanor vanished in a flash of fury. “Of course she did! She killed hundreds of her own people!”

  Suri shook her head. “No. That’s not so.”

  Nyree threw out an arm, pointing violently at one of the walls, making her sleeve ride up to the elbow. “She made a dragon that slaughtered our army and nearly killed the fane!”

  Again, Suri shook her head. “No. Arion would never do such a thing, even if she could. As it happens, she didn’t know how.”

  Nyree opened her mouth and just left it that way for a moment. Then she folded her arms and stared at Suri for a long while.

  Suri hesitated to say anything. She didn’t want to risk upsetting Nyree further. Still, she had to take the risk. This silence might be her only chance. “When your daughter came to Rhulyn, she discovered an amazing secret,” Suri began gently. “You see, just like you—just like everyone here—she believed Rhunes were like animals or something. She learned she was wrong, that we were people who had thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, and fears. That was a surprise to her. But what really shocked Arion was that we, too, could use the Art.”

  Nyree narrowed her eyes, a little frown forming. “You mean like a Miralyith?”

  “Yes, just like that. Arion tutored me, but I already knew some things before she arrived.” Suri ran her fingers through her hair and made a lopsided grin. “She wanted me to shave my head, too, but I refused. Bathing was sacrifice enough.”

  Nyree looked skeptical.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “No, I do not. If you could use magic, then why would you allow yourself to be held as a prisoner?”

  Suri pulled on her collar. “This is marked with symbols called the Orinfar. They create a barrier between me and the Art. As long as this is on, I can’t create weaves. I agreed to this collar because it was the only way I could get an audience with your fane. Arion thought if Lothian could see us, see me, that he would realize that Rhunes have just as much right to live as the Fhrey. I came here in good faith to talk about stopping the war. I risked my life to make peace between our peoples because that is what your daughter wanted.”

  Nyree shook her head. “No. No—that can’t be. She fought against our people. She broke Ferrol’s Law! She killed hundreds of the fane’s men at Alon Rhist by creating that dragon.”

  “She didn’t. The thing you call a dragon was made by me. Arion never took a life, Fhrey or otherwise. Yes, she helped defend the Rhunes, but she never attacked. Never. I can’t say the same about Lothian and his son. I was there when your daughter died. She pushed me aside and saved my life. Mawyndulë attacked and killed her.”

  “The prince? He was the one—”

  Suri nodded. “Killed her as a traitor—but she never was. All Arion ever sought was peace.”

  Nyree studied Suri for a long moment, then inched closer and peered at the collar.

  “So . . . if that thing was taken off?” She pointed at the restraint on Suri’s neck. “What would happen?”

  Suri smiled. “Things would be much different.”

  Imaly sat on the stool nearest the hearth, trying to lose the chill that came from walking to Vasek’s house in the freezing rain, while she listened to Nyree give her account of her latest meeting with Suri. The Master of Secrets’ home—a tiny, humble residence for such an important figure—was located a full half mile from the central square. Imaly imagined the frustration Vasek experienced when forced to hike to the palace to supply the fane with his daily reports.

  Most people might have suspected that Vasek’s poor opinion of the fane had been the direct result of Lothian burning him, but Imaly guessed it was actually the result of a thousand little cuts delivered over the course of centuries that had severed his leash. Whatever the case, she was glad that Vasek was siding with her, at least for now.

  The house was austere, lacking mementos as one would expect from a Master of Secrets, but that didn’t explain everything. Not only did it lack knickknacks, paintings, and pillows, but there were also no plants and only a few pieces of furniture. The stool Imaly perched on was the only seat. There was no table and only a tiny shelf upon which rested a single empty cup. Vasek lived like a man prepared to disappear at a moment’s notice—a tree with no roots.

  By contrast, Nyree was a different species altogether. She was all roots. The priestess continued to live in the same small village where she’d been born, rarely ever leaving it. Imaly hadn’t seen Nyree in more than a century, but it didn’t matter. The priestess was one of those people who never changed. Fhrey were blessed with lives that lasted thousands of years, yet few did much with all that time. Even Vasek, who seemed untethered from his role, hadn’t altered course. People found comfortable corners, and unless something forced them to move, they settled in and stayed put. Nyree was an extreme example. She’d found success early in the Umalyn tribe, and her childhood beliefs merged so neatly into adult life that her career choice could have been—and certainly was, in Nyree’s mind—divine destiny. When a glove fit that well, there was no need to look further. Certainty inevitably followed. In Nyree’s colorless house of drawn drapes and locked doors, the world remained comfortably black and white.

  Once the priestess had finished her report, Vasek said, “Thank you, Nyree. We appreciate your assistance in this matter, and we will tell Volhoric how helpful you have been. I don’t think you’ll need to come back.”

  Imaly was surprised by this but wanted to show a united front. She nodded. “Yes. Go on home. We can take matters from here.”

  They waited for Nyree, who hesitated to leave. The priestess ran her tongue along the edge of her front teeth.

  “Something else?” Vasek asked.

  “Ah . . . just one thing more. Suri said that Arion . . .” A pause followed in which doubt appeared to replace two thousand years of certainty.

  Suri? That’s the first time Nyree has used the Rhune’s name.

  The priestess continued, “Well, she said Arion only defended herself from attacks. According to her, my daughter never broke Ferrol’s Law. That means she wasn’t a traitor. If that’s so, can the fane make a public statement to clear my daughter’s name?”

  And remove th
e stain she put on you and your reputation? Imaly thought.

  “We’ll take it under advisement. Again, thank you for your time. Goodbye, Nyree,” Vasek said.

  Once she was gone and the door closed, Imaly faced Vasek. “Why did you send her home?”

  “Because Lothian’s patience wears thin. I’ve not been able to show him any progress, and he’ll soon be taking matters into his own hands.”

  “That would be most unfortunate, especially since we now know the Rhune came here seeking peace.”

  “Do we? What makes you think the Rhune is telling the truth? I don’t believe a word of it, and I see no reason you should, either.”

  “But she confirmed what Lothian said. She admitted that she can make dragons.”

  “Which means absolutely nothing, other than she maintains the lie she came here with. I see no reason to change my opinion on the matter.”

  “I confess I’ve never known whom to believe. You’ve made valid points to the contrary, but Lothian and Mawyndulë have long supported that it was a Rhune, not Arion, who made the dragon. And the Rhune that we have in custody—the very one credited with that feat—has substantiated the claim.”