Age of Death

by Michael

  “You know I’m standing right here,” Fen said sardonically, folding her arms in mock insult.

  Brin held out her hands to the Fhrey. “This is Fane Fenelyus Mira, Arion’s beloved mentor. She was the ruler of the Fhrey before Lothian and the first Miralyith. She single-handedly created Mount Mador and the tower of Avempartha.”

  Fen smiled. “I think you’ll find things are a bit less formal here.”

  “I say we trust her.” Brin looked to Moya. “My official opinion as Keeper.”

  Moya licked her lips, then glanced down at her pair of legs. “Good enough for me.” She looked at Fenelyus. “And thanks for the help, by the way. So, what do we do?”

  Fenelyus smiled. “We travel fast. Starting right now, we are in a race.” She looked at the raging conflict below and then at Rain. “For once, I get to have some fun. At last, there might be a battle I’m able to win. Follow me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Point of No Return

  Artists can create things of great beauty. Suri often described becoming an Artist was like turning into a butterfly. So I have to wonder if Suri’s greatest creation was herself. — The Book of Brin

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Makareta told Imaly as they reached Vasek’s door.

  Imaly spotted the familiar look of distress on the girl’s face. Makareta had been a wide-eyed, skittish rabbit when Imaly had first taken her in. Over the intervening six years, the young Miralyith had calmed; depression was followed by a melancholy acceptance that had replaced panic. Now, the rabbit was back—but she was no harmless bunny.

  “I’ll kill him if I have to.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Imaly replied, trying to keep her voice low and even. Despite her outward calm, the Curator was terrified and not merely because she was about to introduce an outlaw she’d been harboring to the chief enforcer of laws. This was the moment of truth. She was about to cross the line, and there would be no turning back. “Just keep your hood up. It’s winter and cold, and no one will think that’s unusual. You leave Vasek to me. Don’t say a word or do anything. He’s expecting us.”

  “Don’t you mean you?”

  “No, I mean us. I told him I’d be bringing a Miralyith.”

  “But not me specifically, right?”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Says you.” Makareta began flexing her fingers, stretching them.

  Imaly sighed. “Look, Mak, this whole thing is tenuous enough as it is. Now, are you going to cooperate, or should we just go back home? You agreed to come, but your attitude isn’t making it easy.”

  Makareta said nothing, and Imaly took that as consent. She rapped lightly on the door to the Master of Secrets’ little home. He opened up an instant later and waved them in.

  He offered no greeting. Vasek was just as austere with his conversation as with his furnishings. “So, who is this?” he asked after closing the door behind them. “What’s with all the mystery?”

  Imaly had anticipated the question. This was the first of many life-threatening obstacles she would need to leap over before the day was done. Imaly had weighed her options, and insane as it sounded, she had decided to tell the truth. Lying to Vasek was too costly a gamble. If he wasn’t on her side, then none of it would work.

  “We are alone?” Imaly asked.

  Vasek nodded. “Except for the Rhune in my bedchamber.”

  “Pull back the hood,” Imaly instructed, and with obvious trepidation, Makareta complied.

  A gasp, a stagger, a shout of alarm—Imaly wouldn’t have been surprised by any of these reactions, but Vasek merely nodded.

  “I wondered what had become of the would-be assassin.” He studied Makareta intensely but addressed Imaly, “Has she been with you all this time?”

  The Miralyith glared right back. “None of your business.”

  Vasek’s eyes narrowed, his lips pulled tight.

  “Mak!” Imaly snapped, then pulled off her winter cloak. The garment was making her sweat.

  Yeah, sure, it’s the cloak that’s doing that.

  “Makareta is right. How she came to be here is none of your concern. I told you I was bringing a Miralyith, and here she is. After we leave, you can forget you ever saw her.”

  Vasek continued to stare hard at Makareta. “I will do my best.”

  “Let’s hope that’s enough.”

  “Imaly,” Vasek spoke to her in a slow, serious, decidedly ominous tone, “do you know how dangerous this is? If the Rhune really does possess the Art, then this might be the trap Nyphron planned all along: unleashing her in the heart of Estramnadon could destroy us all.”

  “Makareta is a Miralyith—and a powerful one at that. I’m certain she can handle any unforeseen consequences. Besides, I’m out of options. Destruction is the destination we’re already heading to; which route we take is immaterial. If you have a better suggestion, let’s hear it.”

  Vasek didn’t, and he stepped aside.

  Imaly turned to the girl. “Mak, are you ready?”

  Makareta nodded, her eyes still on Vasek.

  “All right, then. Let’s do this, and may Ferrol protect us all.”

  Suri was dozing on Vasek’s bed when the door opened. Two female Fhrey entered. Imaly came in first. The second one she didn’t recognize.

  “Suri, this is Makareta,” Imaly said. “She is a Miralyith.”

  The two stared at each other.

  “Try saying hello, Mak,” Imaly urged.

  “Hello,” Makareta said stiffly.

  “Hello,” Suri replied. “Nice to meet you.”

  Makareta’s eyes widened, and Imaly wiped a hand across her exasperated face. “Why are you so surprised? I told you she’s a Miralyith—or at least the Rhune version. Suri was a student of Arion Cenzlyor, just like you. And we believe she can conjure dragons—something that remains beyond the ability of the fane himself. But you’re shocked she has mastered the Fhrey language?”

  “It’s just . . .” Makareta looked at Imaly and frowned. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t tell me, tell her. She’s the one you insulted.”

  Suri had trouble reading this new Miralyith. She wasn’t anything like Arion, Jerydd, Lothian, or Mawyndulë. She didn’t sound mean or cruel, but she hadn’t said much. Without the Art, Suri had little to judge by.

  Makareta looked back at Suri. “I didn’t mean . . .” She tilted her head toward Imaly. “She doesn’t tell me anything, but expects me to know everything.” The young Fhrey’s expression shifted back to curiosity as her sight settled on the collar. “So, normally you can weave? You can touch the chords, but that is stopping you?”

  Suri nodded.

  Makareta studied the metal band, then glanced at Imaly. “There’s a seal-weave on it. No way you could have cut through it. The spell is oddly complex though. It’s only on the outside, like it’s painted on.”

  “Orinfar markings are on the underside,” Suri said.

  “That explains it.” Makareta nodded. Then a look of sympathy arose. “What’s it like having that on?”

  “Like being blind, deaf, and numb,” Suri said. Then she added, “And it’s hard to swallow.”

  “Can you get it off?” Imaly asked.

  “Easily. Once I remove the weave, I can open the lock and the collar will separate.”

  “What about the Orinfar?” Imaly asked. “Is there a weave to get rid of them?”

  Makareta shook her head. “No. The Orinfar both blocks and is impervious to the Art.” She turned to Suri and pointed at the collar. “May I?”

  Suri nodded.

  Makareta came over and examined the collar. “Just bronze; the markings are probably etched. That also explains why it’s on so snugly, to make tampering difficult. But once the collar is off and open, it won’t be too hard to neutralize the Orinfar. We don’t have to get rid of all of the symbols, just deface a few. Vasek likely has a chisel or something. It should only take a few minutes to make the necessary adjustments. Then I can p
ut it back on and restore the seal, and no one will be able to tell the difference. Except . . .”

  “Except what?” Imaly asked.

  Makareta nodded and made a circular motion with her hand at Suri. “Right now—artistically speaking—there’s a dead space where she is. A void created by the Orinfar. Once we negate the markings, that will disappear.”

  “That’s not good,” Imaly said. “No one can know that we—”

  Makareta held up a hand. “With the right blocking weave, she can create the same kind of void. With it, Lothian, or any other Miralyith for that matter, won’t be able to sense her Artistic abilities. I can teach her how, if Arion hasn’t already.”

  Imaly took a breath that appeared part relief and part concern. “Suri, I meant what I said during our last conversation, every word of it. I’m going to take the same leap of faith that you have. I’m putting my life in your hands for the sake of peace. I’m going to trust you.” She took a deep breath. “Mak is going to remove that collar. When she does, do you promise you won’t harm me, Mak, or anyone else in Estramnadon?”

  Suri considered this, then replied, “So long as you uphold your side of the bargain . . . yes.”

  “And you will tell Lothian the secret to making dragons?”

  “I will, but only if you also promise to”—she hesitated. The tension on Imaly’s face and the fact that she had avoided detailing their agreement suggested Makareta might not be in her confidence—“do your part before the fane is able to advance his army across the Nidwalden River. I won’t allow my people to be attacked.”

  Even with the removal of the collar, the deal was still one-sided. Suri would have to give up her part of the trade first, putting her at a disadvantage. But Suri knew something that neither Imaly nor the fane did. Gilarabrywns had a limited range. She guessed the first few dragons would be created in the city. Even if they were made on the riverbank near the tower, none of those creations would be able to travel beyond the Harwood. The Dragon Camp wouldn’t be within range, and any troops in the area could retreat to there. If Imaly failed to deliver what she had promised, Suri would have time to correct the situation. After all . . . she’d have the Art again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Descent Into Darkness

  In the raging bonfire that is Ferrol’s realm, faith, love, and hope are three delicate snowflakes looking for a safe place to land, but no such refuge exists. — The Book of Brin

  The tiny path they took was filled with switchbacks and lined with sudden drops. Jagged rocks, bony roots, tangles of branches, and dim light required vigilance. Much of the trip was illuminated indirectly by the distant but ample fires of the war in the valley. Tesh had never seen such a sight before. Standing on the wall above the gate of Alon Rhist, he’d witnessed the Battle of Grandford when more than a thousand elves and giants clashed with the combined Rhulyn and Gula armies. In the collective memory, that battle had grown in size and significance until he, too, remembered it as if every living thing had engaged in a contest of wills to determine the fate of the world. But the Battle of Grandford was a tussle among village children compared with what was happening in that valley.

  From the trail, he couldn’t see the war anymore because the trail—if the two-foot-wide ledge could be called such—wound back around crags and squeezed through niches along the face of a gargantuan stone cliff. Only the glow of the many fires bathing the rock proved the battle continued. This was a good thing. The sight of so many fiery plumes rising hundreds of feet, massive apparatuses of war, and a sky so filled with flying beasts that they could have been schools of fish could only serve to distract him. That battle was warfare on a scale impossible to imagine, absurd to believe even while being near it. Given the width of the trail and the length of the drop, it was best his view was blocked.

  Fenelyus led them, strolling the treacherous path as if they walked along a beach around a tranquil lake. She often turned and answered questions while still walking—backward. Tesh kept a hand on the wall and shuffled rather than stepped. The whole process was difficult as he discovered the stone was exceedingly rough and pockmarked with holes. Touching the rock was not only unpleasant but painful.

  For the first time, Brin and Rain were at the head of their march while he and Tressa lagged at the back. As in the Swamp of Ith, Tesh once more regretted letting Brin get so far ahead, but there was no fixing it, no way for him to catch up. He didn’t dare pass Tressa, who was having her own struggles to put one foot in front of the other. When he could spare a glance, Tesh was surprised to see Brin walking with arms swinging at her sides. Rain appeared equally at ease, and Tesh let out a gasp when both of them went so far as to leap a gap in the trail.

  Tesh couldn’t understand his fear. He’d fought Sebek, hunted deadly Fhrey archers, and drowned himself in a pool of slime. He thought nothing could have been worse than that. Even so, this ledge terrified him.

  How is this possible? I’m dead. What am I scared of?

  For him, Phyre had turned out to be a place of confusion—nothing was as he had been led to believe. Great warriors were supposed to go to Alysin, a beautiful land of green fields. Instead, he had entered a dull, gray world where he’d seen the ghosts of his parents. After proudly telling them he’d avenged their death by waging a war against Nyphron’s Galantians, he had expected his father’s thanks. He hadn’t gotten that, and Tesh was confused by his father’s reply, “If I had one wish, it would have been that you had died with the rest of us that day. If that were the case, we’d still have you. Now, she will.”

  Tesh had asked whom his father meant, who she was, but his mother had begun crying just then and ran off along the white brick road. With tears in his eyes, and without another word, his father had followed her.

  None of that makes sense, but at least I found Brin.

  Learning from multiple people that she had traveled deeper into Rel along the white brick road, he’d set out and arrived at the gate to Nifrel in the aftermath of a calamity. An incredible stone fortress had been destroyed by an attack of some kind. Rubble spilled out of the entrance. Fearing Brin was inside, he’d cautiously entered. He’d found no one except Moya, whose leg had been trapped by a giant slab of marble. She’d explained that Tekchin was buried beneath the other stones, and the rest of them had escaped through the portal into Nifrel. Years of battle had hardened Tesh to the necessity of severing limbs. Seeing no other option, he’d drawn his sword. When his stroke freed her, Moya hadn’t made a sound. Maybe she’d been in shock. But whatever the reason, Tesh had found the lack of a scream welcome since he didn’t want to alert anyone to their presence. He’d scooped her up and carried her out of the ruined castle and through the portal. It was only after they’d reached the other side that the screaming had begun.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Tressa said, stopping when she reached the missing section of the path.

  “It’s not that far,” Gifford told her while looking back from the other side and putting an added emphasis on the last word as he continued to delight in his ability to pronounce the rrr sound properly.

  Tressa got on her knees, then on her stomach to look over the edge. “There’s no bottom. There’s no culling bottom!”

  “Don’t look down,” Roan offered. She, too, had stopped and peered over Gifford’s shoulder, offering support.

  “Are you crazy? You want me to jump with my eyes closed? How in Mari’s name am I supposed to cross . . . to cross . . . I can’t do this.”

  “Of course you can,” Gifford said dismissively, even bewildered. He had a smile on his face as if he found Tressa’s protests to be some sort of joke.

  “No, she’s right. That’s insane,” Tesh agreed. “There has to be another way.”

  “Thank you!” Tressa said.

  Gifford glanced at Roan, shocked. “But . . . it’s just a tiny gap. You can practically step across. Here . . .”

  To Tesh’s horror, Gifford hopped back. “See? And don’t forget, I’m a
cripple.”

  Pivoting in place, he hopped over again then turned around and beckoned them with his hands. “Now you.”

  Tressa and Tesh gaped at each other. If there had ever been any doubt to the legend that Gifford was a man of bewildering bravery, it was erased at that moment. He also was clearly a bit crazed. Tesh’s stomach had crawled up into his throat at the mere anticipation. Tressa had backed into him, and he honestly wasn’t sure which of them he felt trembling.

  “It’s easier than it looks,” Roan said. Her tone was far more serious, more sympathetic, but obviously she was as crazy as her husband.

  “Nothing to lose. Nothing to lose. Nothing to lose,” Tressa recited, in a manner completely at odds with the sentiment. She continued to repeat the three words as she backed up on uncertain legs. Then she shifted to, “Malcolm give me strength.”

  She ran forward and jumped.

  Tesh held his breath as she flew through the air and landed safely on the far side, where Gifford wrapped his arms around her. The woman shook and cried. Gifford looked at him. “C’mon, Tesh, you don’t bat an eye when elves shoot arrows your way. What’s a little hop across a crack in a stone?”

  A crack? Is he serious?

  Gifford wasn’t brave—not in the least—the man was insane.

  But Tressa jumped it. She’s not very athletic, but she made it across. So why is this hard for me?

  “What’s wrong?” Moya called back from the front.

  “Waiting on Tesh to jump the crevice,” Gifford said.

  “You mean that little gap?” Brin asked.

  Little gap? Has everyone lost their minds?

  Gifford once more did the impossible and stepped around Tressa who, now that she was turned loose, hugged the cliff wall.

  Gifford reached out his arms. “I’ll catch you, just like I did with Tressa.”

  Tesh shook his head. “If I come over, if I make the jump, I might knock you off.”

  Gifford smirked. “I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”