Age of Death

by Michael

  “I think the key word there is claim. The existence of a Rhune Miralyith is hard enough to conceive, but how could one of her kind possess more knowledge than the fane—the son of the first Artist? On the other hand, Arion was a master of the Art, a teacher at the academy. She defeated Gryndal, and Fenelyus often referred to her as Cenzlyor. Isn’t she the more logical source of the dragon? But beyond the speculation about who knows how to make them, there is one indisputable fact.”

  “Which is what?”

  “There is only one. Why? Obviously, Arion’s death prevented her from supplying Nyphron with more. If this Rhune can do what she says, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. Dragons would have already darkened our skies and obliterated our race. Since we are still alive, how do you explain this?”

  Imaly shook her head. “I can’t, but that’s not the only thing I can’t figure out.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nyree mentioned a collar. Is there one?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean it prevents her from doing magic. I could claim the shoes I wear stop me from being able to fly, but it doesn’t make it so.”

  “Then why does she wear it? I was under the impression she traveled here in a cage. I see no need for a collar. Has it ever been used to restrain her in any way? Was she previously chained, and whoever released her forgot to remove it?”

  Vasek considered this for a moment, his eyes shifting side-to-side in thought. “Actually, as I think about it . . . the collar lacks a means of attaching a chain or rope—beyond a simple loop.”

  “And do you have the key?”

  “No, but I have no need for one.”

  “If there is no need to take it off, then there shouldn’t have been any reason to have put it on. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Vasek didn’t answer.

  “Does it have markings?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  Again, Imaly heard the disquieting voice of Trilos. What you’re missing is that you don’t have enough pieces on the board to achieve your goal. You’re going to need a second Miralyith, Imaly, or it isn’t going to work. What you are ignorant of, what you’re failing to realize, is that the Miralyith doesn’t need to be a Fhrey.

  If anyone other than Trilos had said those words, Imaly would have forgotten them. Now, they were all she could think about.

  Imaly noticed Vasek pondering. Unlike Nyree, even when he settled on an assumption, he never closed the door completely on any possibility, no matter how absurd. She got up from the stool and went to the window. The freezing rain continued to fall. Ice had begun to coat branches, and the street glistened.

  “What are you thinking?” Vasek asked.

  “That it is time I spoke with this Rhune.” Imaly nodded, making the decision, confirming it in her own head.

  “What are you hoping to discover?”

  “The truth.”

  The Fhrey were a quiet lot. Suri never heard their footsteps, although she knew someone was always standing guard. The door to her room was closed, but as far as she knew, it wasn’t bolted. Still, just having it shut was enough to bother her, even if it wasn’t in the same way it used to. Suri didn’t feel the gut-clenching fear anymore, but the memory lingered like the bad taste of something that had once made her ill. The space was comfortable, and sunlight entered through a window. Even so, there was no ignoring that she was a prisoner, and no one enjoyed being held captive.

  That afternoon the sun’s light was weak, muted by poor weather. She could hear the faint rattle of hail on the roof and glass panes. On a day such as this, she likely would have stayed inside anyway, but that would have been her choice. Having the option made all the difference.

  When the door opened, Suri expected to see Nyree again, or if not her then Vasek. Instead, a tall and stocky stranger with gray hair and a broad face fumbled with the door, her asica catching on the latch.

  Not at all swanlike.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Imaly,” she said in a voice that was loud and deep. “I am the Curator of the Aquila. I would like to speak with you. May I come in?”

  May you what? Suri blinked in confusion but nodded just the same.

  The Fhrey presented her a pleasant smile, then she did what no other Fhrey had. She walked across the room and extended a hand. “You’re called Suri. Is that correct?”

  Suri stared at the Curator’s open palm, a big meaty thing, wrinkled and discolored.

  “I’m told shaking hands is a Rhune custom,” Imaly explained. “Something about validating you aren’t hiding a weapon—a proof of trust.”

  Suri had never shaken hands before but gave it a try. Imaly’s fingers wrapped around hers, softer and warmer than expected. The woman gave Suri’s hand a stout up-and-down motion before letting go. For two people who had never attempted the ritual before, Suri felt they did well.

  Imaly motioned to the bed. “May I sit?”

  Suri nodded, and the strange—but clearly polite—Fhrey settled herself at the foot of the bed, clasping her hands neatly in her lap. “Please, sit with me. This might take a while.”

  This? Suri wondered what this might be.

  “Before we begin, I have something for you.” She reached into the folds of her asica and withdrew a small but familiar bag. “Vasek says this was delivered with you. Jerydd must have thought it would be of use. It’s yours, yes?”

  Suri took it, nodding. Opening the mouth, she reached in and pulled out the small knit hat, which brought a smile to her lips.

  “First off, I want to apologize for how you’ve been mistreated. None of this was my doing, and when I heard, I took measures to correct the situation. I’m assuming this room is comfortable? Have your meals improved?”

  “Yes,” Suri replied, her fingers exploring the little holes amid the stitches in the yarn of Arion’s knit hat.

  “Good.” Imaly dipped her head and looked at her clasped hands for just a moment. Then, she raised her eyes and once more focused on Suri. “Now, as I understand it, you came to negotiate peace. This was a meeting previously agreed upon between your leader and mine via pigeons, but as it turned out, Lothian lied to you. The whole thing was a trap designed to obtain the secret to making dragons. Is that so?”

  A sense of cautious relief rose in Suri. First she asks permission to enter, and now this?

  “You are correct,” Suri said. “And the first one to admit it.”

  Imaly smiled. “That’s because I am in favor of peace between our people, and I’m hoping”—she shook her head and sighed as if disgusted to the core—“to salvage what I can from Lothian’s debacle.”

  Suri had only a vague idea what salvage meant and no clue about debacle, but she felt it was best not to admit her ignorance since this was the first Fhrey to treat her like a person.

  “The impediment to peace is Lothian. He won’t heed my advice, and he’ll never concede to a peaceful resolution. The fane will not accept anything but the complete annihilation of the Rhunes and the Instarya. As fane and a Miralyith, he sees himself as a god, and deities don’t compromise.” She lowered her voice. “It is just one of the reasons I, and several others, hope to remove him from power. Replace him. Unfortunately, that is not an easy thing to do.”

  “If you could remove this, I can help.” Suri pulled on the collar that remained snug to her neck—not tight enough to choke, but swallowing wasn’t easy.

  Imaly’s sight shifted to the collar. “What would you do if I did?”

  “You mean, would I blow apart these walls and rain fire on this city?”

  The friendly smile vanished, and the Curator of the Aquila straightened up, her eyes widening. She nodded very slowly. “Yes, that is exactly what I’m asking.”

  Suri looked past her at the freezing rain assaulting the window. She had more than thought about it. Suri had fantasized what it would be like to reconnect with the Art. How glorious it would be to pull in the power, let it build, and then release it in a sudden burst.

&nbs
p; That would get their attention, demand their respect. They would listen to me just as Gronbach had. Except . . .

  “I came here for a reason, and that’s not it.”

  Imaly studied her. “I wish I could believe you.”

  “I can say the same thing about you, and I have more reason to doubt your sincerity. You admitted that I was lied to and mistreated. I trusted your fane, and he betrayed me. If you truly wish to salvage things . . .” She pulled again on the collar. “Taking this off would be a good first step.”

  Imaly continued to stare at the metal ring and frowned. “That would be more difficult than you’d think.”

  “A chisel or a saw should do the trick.”

  Imaly smiled. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t speaking of the physical removal of . . .” She paused, and her brows narrowed as she stared at Suri’s neck. Something had caught her eye, something new. Imaly lifted a hand toward the collar, then paused. “May I?”

  Again with the polite manners.

  Suri responded with a shrug.

  Imaly touched the collar. Suri felt it move very slightly and heard metal click. For a moment, Suri wondered if she had unclasped it, but the ring didn’t loosen. Nothing changed.

  “How strange,” Imaly said after drawing her hand back. “The lock holding your collar closed has no keyhole.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it can’t be taken off, short of, well . . . as you mentioned, cutting it.”

  Imaly pressed her lips together, concerned about something.

  Suri couldn’t guess what it was and figured Imaly wasn’t prepared to say, so she waited.

  Imaly’s face calmed—a decision made or postponed. Then she glanced at the door and asked, “Suri, why did Nyphron send you? He isn’t stupid, and letting someone come here who knows how to make dragons is a massive tactical blunder. Why would he risk someone so valuable?”

  Suri snorted. “Nyphron didn’t send me, and he’s never thought of me as valuable. For years, he’s called me worthless because I’ve refused to make any more gilarabrywns. That’s what you call dragons. In many ways, he and your fane are alike. Neither one is interested in peace. But Arion was, and Persephone is, and she’s the one who sent me. Well, sent probably isn’t the right word. She asked and I said yes. I agreed because that is what Arion wished.”

  “Who is Persephone?”

  “She is the leader of our people. We call her the keenig, which is similar to your fane. Nyphron is the commander of her army.”

  Imaly struggled to remain indifferent to this, but Suri saw surprise. The elderly Fhrey paused a long time before continuing. “Still, wasn’t this Persephone person afraid that you—that we would force you to tell us the secret of dragons?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. She only seemed worried about me being killed, but I had the Art, so neither of us was too afraid. I suppose the hope of saving lives and finally living in peace was too great a prize to pass up out of fear. Of course, neither one of us expected this collar. And the secret to dragons—as you call them—isn’t as valuable as you might think. Creating one comes at a terrible price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A sacrifice. Not of a lamb or goat, but the life of an innocent person, a good person. Someone you care about.”

  Imaly’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that every time the fane makes a dragon, it would necessitate him sacrificing—a Fhrey? An innocent Fhrey?”

  “I would think so.” Suri nodded. “I doubt Lothian cares about Rhunes or dwarfs.”

  Imaly looked suddenly winded. She sucked in a breath, then her eyes searched the corners of the room as if seeing things previously hidden. “Suri, when I came in here, I was afraid of two things. The first was that you didn’t know how to create dragons and that Lothian would kill you while trying to extract information you didn’t possess.”

  “And the second?”

  “That you did know the secret, Lothian would get it out of you, and he would use that knowledge to destroy your people.”

  “I can see why that would be bad for us, but why is that a problem for you?”

  “Because this conflict, this war, provides an excellent opportunity to remove Lothian from the throne. If it ends with him victorious, we will have missed our chance to replace him. He is a curse upon our race because he elevates his tribe over the rest of the Fhrey. This is not Ferrol’s will. Since long before you arrived—even before the war—I’ve searched for a means of deposing him and restoring our civilization, but I had one insurmountable problem, and I think you just solved it. If Lothian kills innocent Fhrey, he will provide me with justification to remove him. Once he is gone, we can have peace. All you need to do is give Lothian the secret he desires, and his own lust for power, his arrogance, will fix everything.”

  “So you say.” Suri frowned. “But I feel like a squirrel who doesn’t believe the wolf when he insists his mouth is a nice, safe place to sleep.”

  “But I’m offering what you came here for. Peace.”

  Suri smiled, but shook her head. “Me too, but you are getting peace and the ability to conquer us. If I’m trading a bowlful of strawberries, I won’t accept a few acorns in return.”

  “So, what would you suggest?”

  Suri shrugged. “Dragons would give Lothian the power to rule over the Rhunes. I would need something like that—something that would provide me the same power over the Fhrey.”

  Imaly thought a moment. “There is something, but . . .” She sighed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can give you what you ask for, but it would still require you giving the fane what he desires first.”

  Suri frowned.

  “I’m sorry, but it must be done in that order,” Imaly said. “It’s the only way this will work.”

  “You sound like Jerydd just before he put this collar on me.”

  Imaly scowled and straightened up. She replied with what appeared to be genuine offense, “I am not Jerydd.”

  “I don’t know who you are.” Suri once more let her fingers run over the woven yarn of Arion’s hat. “We’ve just met. But what I do know is that you’re asking me for power in return for a promise, and your people have already betrayed me twice. Either you see me as an ignorant Rhune who can be easily tricked, or you think I have a terrible memory. How can I possibly believe you?”

  Once more, Imaly’s eyes returned to the collar. “What if I took that off? What if I removed it before you gave up the secret? Doing so would restore your magic, correct? Make you as powerful as a Miralyith? You could strike me dead if you wanted, right? I’d be doing what you did. I’d be putting my life in jeopardy for the hope of peace. Would that provide enough proof for you to trust me?”

  Suri hesitated, but just for show. What Imaly didn’t know—perhaps couldn’t imagine—was that if the collar were removed, Suri could ensure the bargain was honored. The balance of power would shift: They would have the promise of dragons to come, but she would be the dragon on their doorstep—a doorstep currently bereft of Miralyith. Each would have the ability to destroy the other.

  “Yes, that would work. Remove this collar, and we can make a trade. So, what is it that you offer?”

  “Did Arion ever mention something called the Horn of Gylindora?”

  Chapter Ten

  Goll

  It had been scary but thrilling, unpleasant but endurable, difficult but manageable. Then, well . . . then everything changed. Now, all I remember is the screams and the tears. — The Book of Brin

  In her head, Brin struggled to repeat everything Drome had said. There had been so much of it that she feared losing something. Repetition was a technique Maeve had taught her to strengthen memory.

  Same as lifting heavy bales of hay: The more you do it, the easier it gets.

  She had just witnessed a conversation with Drome, god of the Belgriclungreians and the ruler of Rel.

  A real god! Erebus was a city—a city! The origina
l home of mankind—of every kind.

  All of it shocked and overwhelmed her. Initially, she hadn’t believed a word, but that had only been pride, her own stubbornness to let go of centuries of false tradition. When she finally did, the pieces came together.

  Some think the Fhrey, Rhune, and Dherg are all related. Malcolm had said this years ago in Roan’s roundhouse, back when everyone thought he was nothing but an awkward ex-slave with a big appetite.

  The children of Erebus revolted and fought against their own father. That was one of Brin’s translations from the Agave tablets. Originally, she had equated Erebus and father with an actual person rather than the place they had come from, the home where they were born. Brin reeled with the knowledge.

  If Erebus is a place, is it possible to find it? It would be in the far east. All legends spoke of people coming from there, fleeing some ancient evil. The first keenig, Gath of Odeon, was said to have led all the human clans across the sea to Rhulyn during a time of great danger.

  Brin was terrified of forgetting what she’d learned because she knew Drome’s casually spoken words were more than an accounting of the past. She feared they might well be an insight into the present and likely a warning for the future. Without pen and pages, she relied on the old ways.

  It’s all about organization, Maeve had told her. The mind of a Keeper is a series of rooms, and the walls in each are lined with little drawers. To remember any single thing, you must put it in a particular place. The trick is to use groups. Individual words can be combined into a sentence; a group of sentences tells a story. Context comes from placement, and where you put something is crucial. Anything can be found if you know where to look.

  “Rain?” Roan asked. “What are you thinking?”

  The digger was staring at his feet trapped in the stone. “Ya said it was possible to alter this place if ya believed ya could, right?”

  “Rain,” Moya said, “I saw you cut through a wall of stone in Neith in less than a few minutes.”

  “This isn’t the same thing,” Rain replied. He scratched his beard and ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip as he continued to evaluate the state of his feet.