Age of Death

by Michael

  Neither was Gifford. With that one word, he was forced to reconsider his assessment. She knows at least that much.

  “The door to paradise is locked to all except to the greatest of heroes,” said a bald, muscular man who sat with his feet up on an overturned barrel. “And these don’t look up to the task.”

  “I’m not asking you to unlock it for them,” Beatrice said. “I’m only requesting that you help them reach it. Ferrol will do everything she can to prevent them from crossing the bridge and reaching the gate. We must ensure she doesn’t succeed.”

  The bald man shook his head. “Fools are always certain they are left in the wrong realm. Oh, no! I’m supposed to be in the warriors’ paradise, they say, not realizing they already are. If none of us can pass, then there is no way they can.”

  “May I ask your name?” Moya inquired, and she did so far more politely than Gifford would have expected. But then she added, “I like to know who’s insulting me, in case it comes up later.”

  The bald man’s brows rose up in shock. “You don’t know me?”

  “Should I?”

  “The name’s Atella.”

  Gifford saw Brin falter and take an unconscious step backward.

  Moya saw it, too, and whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Brin? Talk to me.”

  This time, the Keeper spoke. “Atella is a myth, or was thought to be. A hero from an age long ago. The greatest of all warriors, he couldn’t be killed or even defeated on the field of battle—except by the one he loved most.”

  Moya narrowed her eyes. “Your lover killed you?”

  “Was an accident. She didn’t mean it. I fell to the ground, and in the confusion, she trampled me.”

  “How does one die from being stepped on?”

  “Her name was Yolan Og, a beautiful elephant,” Atella said.

  “What’s an elephant?” Moya asked.

  “I have no idea,” Brin replied. “I mean, the old stories described it as a giant beast, but the description made no sense—long nose, short tail, wrinkly skin, and huge ears.”

  “She sounds lovely,” Moya added.

  “Now who’s throwing insults? And for the record, I didn’t. If I want to offend you, believe me, there will be no question. I’m not a subtle man. What I said was a fact. There is no sense in fighting our way to the door because no one can open it.”

  Beatrice stepped back. Sweeping her arms, she gestured at all of them. “They can.”

  “How?” Mideon asked, leaning farther forward. He looked each of them over. “You’re not saying these are heroes, are you?”

  “I’m not saying anything.” Beatrice turned around and smiled mischievously at her father. “Like I said, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  Mideon raised and slammed the head of his great ax against the floor, shaking the room. “You can’t tell your own father?”

  “Truthfully? Next to Ferrol, you’re the last person I would tell.”

  The king straightened up. “You cut me, daughter.”

  Beatrice slammed hands on both hips and glared. “You killed hundreds of thousands of our people and destroyed Neith for a fruit salad!”

  Mideon looked angry. “Why are you—you’ve never acted like this before.”

  “All the more reason to listen then, isn’t it? Didn’t you just tell Rain that you wished you had? So heed your own counsel, Father. And as for all of you”—she whirled around to the figures on the shimmering bleachers, spraying a fan of that amazing hair, her eyes brighter than before and her voice ominous—“you need to do whatever you can to ensure that these six make it to Alysin, and the sooner the better. Believe this of me if you’ve ever accepted anything in life or death. I do not speak of matters that I do not know. I’m saying this on behalf of Alurya, of Elan, and Eton, and the Chaos that bore them. Heed me, all! Help these heroes before you suffer the consequences. Consequences that I assure you will be dire.”

  The king continued to glare at his daughter, who glared back in equal measure.

  Fenelyus broke the contest. “She was right about Rain being on the ridge.” She looked at the lady dwarf. “I guess I owe you a favor, Beatrice. Let’s hope it’s a sensible one.”

  The white-haired dwarf smiled. “You will consider it little more than a trifle.”

  Fenelyus focused on the king. “Whatever is going on, Mideon, Ferrol is committed. When was the last time she attacked you at home? There is a siege army outside your walls. She’ll bring everything she has to bear, and she won’t stop. Your walls are strong, but she’ll break them. That much is evident.” She raised a finger, and in the silence, they could all hear the faint booms of Mideon’s defenses still firing. “If these six remain within your walls, the queen will destroy the Bulwark. Your grand fortress will be rubble under her feet. This group is not worth the cost of holding onto.”

  “But why does Ferrol care so much?” the king asked. “What’s so special about these people?”

  “They are going to change the world,” Beatrice said. “What once was broken can finally be made whole.”

  Okay, this part is certainly made up, Gifford marveled at Beatrice. I could never pull off such a charade, especially in front of so many. What lies this person weaves! They won’t believe her. They can’t. No one could possibly mistake us for heroes. Moya, maybe, but—

  “Will the future be better?” Fenelyus asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.” Beatrice took a step toward the throne and spoke to the king. “I’m your daughter. I have only ever acted in your best interest. You can trust me. You know that I can see the future. How many times have I proven it? How many times have you ignored me and suffered? After the war with the Fhrey, you cried into my robes. You begged for forgiveness and said, ‘Never again.’ Well, here we are, Father. Here we are once more. If you won’t listen to me, listen to yourself. Or have you descended so low that you can’t even do that?”

  The hall was silent as Mideon brooded. He made an arched bridge with the fingers of both hands and rested his chin on them, watching the fires. Then he looked around and finally turned to Fenelyus. “It is a nice castle, isn’t it?”

  The onetime fane nodded with a pleasant smile. “The strongest in Nifrel. Be a shame if it fell.”

  “I was thinking that very same thing.”

  “I don’t give a bankor’s buttocks about the Bulwark,” Atella shouted and stood up. Then he smiled. “But cutting a path through the queen’s army to Paradise’s Door would be a joyous fight.”

  “Certainly would have the benefit of being different,” an unnamed man said. He wore what Gifford could have sworn was a Rhen-patterned cloth. “The queen won’t expect an attack, and her forces are already committed. We could cut a hole, find a weak spot, and push . . .”

  “You going to help?” Mideon asked Fenelyus.

  The Fhrey’s eyes twinkled as she fought back a smile. “I suppose I could have my arm twisted.”

  “If everyone is united”—Mideon nodded—“it might work.”

  Beatrice threw her hands up. “It will work. Honestly, old man! It’s like we’ve never met before.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Drink

  Everyone speculated on Persephone’s marriage to Nyphron. From the outside, it appeared hard, cold, and difficult to swallow, but so is an oyster, and in some of them pearls are found. — The Book of Brin

  “Is she in there?” The sound of Nyphron’s voice entered through the thin canvas walls of the tent.

  Persephone had just put Nolyn down for the night, tucking him into the little cot that had been made by Frost and Flood. Persephone had thanked them for the beautifully crafted bed, which the two had humbly excused as nothing more than an act of boredom.

  The tent flap drew back, revealing the flaming brazier just outside. Nyphron entered, wearing a thick cloak over his armor, the helmet tucked in the crook of his arm along with a bottle.

  “There you are,” he said, smiling at her.

>   “Shhh!” She placed a finger to her lips. “I just got Nolyn to sleep.” She cast a glance behind her at the cot, then taking Nyphron’s hand, she led him back outside.

  Habet was the only one there. Down on his knees, he attended the fire with intense care. Now that the weather had grown cold, his task was no longer trivial. The air was crisp, the fire warm, and overhead the stars shone brightly.

  “Where are the guards?” Nyphron asked. “There should be one on either side of this entrance.”

  “I don’t need any. When the weather was warm, I put up with them for your sake, but I won’t ask men to stand for hours in the cold when the nearest threat is miles away.” Persephone sat beside Habet on one of the big cushions. There were several around the pit because the fire had often been a meeting place. “So, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  Nyphron appeared surprised by the question. “Does a husband need a reason to see his wife?”

  “Apparently. You rarely do so.”

  “I’ve been busy,” he said while taking a seat beside her.

  “Really? I envy you. I wish I had something worthwhile to spend my hours on.”

  “I would think the boy would be running you ragged.”

  Persephone shook her head. “Justine sees to most of his needs, and he’s getting older now. He doesn’t need me as much. No one seems to.” She gave him a lingering look, but subtle hints were lost on her husband, who had never been a perceptive person.

  She let it go. Persephone had long since accepted their arrangement. She wasn’t a blushing bride longing for a husband who cherished her. Those days were long behind her. She had spent the spring and summer of her life with Reglan, had a momentary autumn revival with Raithe, but now winter had come. She knew exactly what to expect from Nyphron—less a marriage and more a trade agreement.

  “What’s with the bottle?” She pointed.

  Nyphron looked to it as if shocked to find it in his arms. “Oh, right.” He placed the tall, dark container on the ground before them. The firelight made it sparkle and glow with a golden hue, as if filled with honey. “This is erivitie, a liquor made from a special blend of berries picked within a secret grove deep inside the Erivan forests. They are harvested at midnight and only during a full moon on Summersrule. That’s when the fruit is at its ripest. It’s highly sought after in Estramnadon and utterly impossible to obtain on this side of the Nidwalden.”

  “And yet you have a whole bottle?”

  “Half, actually. I’ve had this for several years. I was hoping you’d share a bit with me.”

  Persephone’s eyes widened, and she gave a glance to Habet, expecting he would recognize the oddity of her husband’s statement. The keeper of the flame only smiled as he always did. “You know, I’m not much of a drinker. The quality of that liquor would be wasted on me.”

  “Special occasion,” he said.

  “Really? What is it?”

  “It’s your birthday.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Nyphron appeared taken aback by this denial, and he, too, looked toward Habet for support, receiving the same pleasant but unhelpful smile. He thought again. “Our anniversary then.”

  “No, not that, either.”

  “Really? Hmm. Then it’s my birthday.”

  She stared at him dubiously until Nyphron shrugged. “Could be, I honestly have no idea. I’m actually stunned you remember yours. Talk about an insignificant event.”

  “Excuse me?” Persephone straightened up in protest, and she shot another look at Habet, this one soaked with indignation. The fire tender was busy poking logs, captivated by the sparks rising into the night sky.

  “Nothing personal,” Nyphron said. “Everyone’s birth is inconsequential. It’s what you do afterward that’s important.”

  Persephone studied him. The leader of the Galantians, commander of the Forces of the West, sat with arms balanced on bent knees, hands hanging. In a melancholy-filled pause, his eyes focused on the illuminated bottle.

  Nyphron wasn’t one to ruminate or brood. Reflection was as awkward for him as walking backward. The past was pointless. Only the future held value, so pondering what had happened was a waste of time. Knowing this, Persephone struggled to understand his newfound desire to commemorate an occasion. The only time she’d ever known him to was—

  “Oh,” she said as realization dawned. “This is your farewell bottle, isn’t it?”

  Nyphron nodded. “I bought it in Estramnadon when my father went to fight Lothian in the challenge for the Forest Throne. I had planned to celebrate his victory. Instead, he died, and I cracked it with the intent of drinking the whole thing. Turns out I only managed one swallow, which was dedicated to him.” His fingers found a stone, and he threw it into the fire. It set off a burst of sparks and drew a delighted clapping from Habet. “Since then, it has become something of a tradition. Next came Medak, then Sebek, Grygor, Vorath, Eres, and Anwir.”

  Persephone’s eyes narrowed on him. “Why is the bottle out now? And why share it with me?”

  “You were right about not having much to do these days. And we both hate sitting and waiting.” Nyphron took a slow breath and faced her. “The men you sent to the swamp to search for Moya and Tekchin’s party—I went with them. We just got back.”

  “And?”

  “Naraspur was tied near the edge of the swamp. We set up camp there and began our search. It’s not a big place, and we were quite thorough. All we found was a campsite on a spit of sand with a few items of theirs. Persephone, I—”

  “They drowned,” she said. “All of them. They’re dead.”

  “You knew?”

  She nodded. “Malcolm told me some time ago, but I had to be sure.”

  “Malcolm,” Nyphron spoke the word as if it were a curse. “So, you’ve talked to him, too? He’s maddening. Without warning, the man disappears for years, then he returns to remind me I owe him a favor, but he still won’t tell me what he wants. What did he say to you?”

  Persephone pushed out her lower lip as she looked up at the stars. “That my friends had died, but there was a chance they could come back.” She looked at him and rolled her shoulders. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  Nyphron stared at her for a long moment. Then he reached for the bottle.

  “Not even a comment?” Persephone asked.

  Nyphron shook his head. “At this point? No. And it doesn’t change anything. Tekchin is dead. They all are now, my Galantians and yours.”

  “I don’t have Galantians.”

  Nyphron gripped the cork and tugged it out with a deep, resonating pop! “Sure you do. Moya, Suri, Roan, Arion, Brin, Gifford, and Padera are your elite band of adventurers, your friends.”

  “Suri isn’t dead . . . not that we know of.” Persephone looked at the glistening bottle. “Maybe I will have that drink.”

  Nyphron handed her the container.

  “To the heroes I loved.” Persephone put the rim to her lips. The liquid was warm and sweet and unlike anything she’d ever tasted. It ran down her throat like sunlight on a cloudy day. “Good that this is rare, or I might develop a fondness for it.”

  Nyphron took the bottle, then lifted it high over his head. “Farewell, Tekchin. Until we meet again, my friend, in the green fields of Alysin.” Then he, too, drank deeply.

  Together, they stared at the fire, silently watching the flames jump and dance. Sparks blew toward the stars before fading all too soon in the vast, cold darkness.

  “Those are them,” Persephone finally said. She pointed at individual sparks. “That’s Moya, and there’s Gifford, Roan, and Brin. Their souls are flying to the stars. Suri is probably in there, too. We’ll all be ash soon.”

  “You were right about not being much of a drinker,” Nyphron said.

  “What? Why do you say that?” She looked at him and noticed that when her head shifted, the world rocked a bit.

  He smiled at her with an amused expression. “Erivitie is extraordinarily
strong and known to hit with shocking quickness, especially if you haven’t eaten.”

  “I ate today. I think. But it was only a biscuit.” Persephone moved her head again, marveling at the way the firelight blurred. “How about you? I suppose being an expert at drinking, you don’t feel anything at all.”

  “Wouldn’t say that. There’s another reason there’s so much still in that bottle. One pull makes you dizzy, two makes you crawl.”

  “And three?”

  “Don’t know. Anyone who’s ever tried hasn’t lived.”

  “Did you just make a joke?”

  “Apparently not a very good one if you had to ask.”

  They resumed watching the fire in silence. Persephone had never before realized how fascinating blazes could be, how complex, how magical. More sparks flew, and she couldn’t help wondering if more souls were taking flight.

  “What do you think of Malcolm?” she asked.

  “I try not to.”

  “Why?”

  “He annoys me.”

  “I find him a comfort. Sometimes when I’m up at . . . when I’m feeling blue, he comes to me. He thinks you don’t spend enough time with your son.”

  “Good example.”

  “You know, after he told me all my friends were dead, Malcolm mentioned he was sending them help. That same night Padera died. Do you think that was a coincidence?”

  “You suspect he killed her?”

  Persephone rubbed her face. It felt hot, and she wasn’t sure if it was flushed with the fire’s heat or the liquor. “I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

  “Watch this.” Nyphron tipped the bottle. Catching a drop of liquid on the tip of his finger, he flicked it into the fire. Instantly, a bright blue flame exploded.

  Habet’s smile turned into a huge grin, and he clapped his approval.

  “And we drank that?” Persephone said, shocked.

  “It helps that we were sitting at the time.”

  She leaned back, hoping to cool the heat of her skin. “Why don’t you visit your son more? Are you . . . are you repulsed by him? Because he’s half Rhune? Do you wish—”