Makareta stared at her, nodding, biting her lip. “Yes—exactly. My soul is missing, and I don’t know what to do about that. Imaly wants me to keep busy.” She gestured with irritation at the menagerie of clay animals. “But I have a hard time finding reasons to breathe, much less sculpt. I used to like it, but not anymore. It all feels so pointless now.”
Suri sat beside her, and both looked at the window that revealed Imaly’s private garden. “The face of a leaf is no place for a butterfly.”
“How’s that?”
“A caterpillar spends all its time crawling on leaves and eating, but such things no longer satisfy butterflies. The mistake, I think, is to focus on what was lost rather than what has been gained.”
“Nothing has been gained.”
“Loss always provides something—losing twenty legs to gain two wings—the past for the future.”
“What if the future holds nothing? What if there is no future?”
Suri looked at Makareta and smiled. “Then it’s up to us to make one.”
Makareta thought a moment, then nodded. “I like you, Suri.”
“I like you, too, but I knew that the moment I saw the slippers.”
Makareta looked down, then jumped up. “Clothes. Almost forgot.” She moved to a wooden wardrobe. Opening the doors, she revealed an assortment of garments, all made of the same shimmering material as those Arion had worn.
“Which one do you like?” Makareta asked.
Suri approached the wardrobe. She reached out and touched the blue one. She’d never seen material that color before, and this asica rippled like water.
Makareta grinned. “Good choice.”
She pulled it free and slipped it over Suri’s head. The garment was too large. Makareta had to wrap the belt, rather than cinch it. But the bigger problem was the length. Makareta went over to the table and shuffled through some small containers. She bent down and started pinning the fabric.
“We’ll have to cut and sew the hem, and then it will be the perfect length.”
While Makareta was on her knees, Suri studied the unfinished sculpture. “What is it?” She pointed to the clay.
Makareta pulled a few pins from her mouth and said, “Nothing at the moment.”
“Looks like it could be two people holding one another.” Suri could almost see it. A male and female intertwined in each other’s arms.
“It’s a dream, a fantasy that can never happen. I don’t care so much about everyone else, but . . .” She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I wish I could explain to him. You know? Tell him why I did it. Maybe then . . .” She sighed in defeat. “He thinks I’m dead, and I can never let him know otherwise. I can never ask forgiveness.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Imaly said. She was standing in the doorway, arms folded. Her eyes focused on the sculpture, and she nodded. “Maybe you should explain things. Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea.” Then, catching a glimpse of Suri, she frowned. “For Ferrol’s sake, is that my good asica?”
Chapter Sixteen
In the Hall of the Dwarven King
I did not know much about dwarfs: their society, traditions, or culture. There is a reason for that. His name is Gronbach. Mideon did nothing to change my opinion of what the Fhrey referred to as vile moles. — The Book of Brin
Running faster than she ever had, Brin could hardly see. Everything was a blur, and not just because of her tears. She was going faster than was possible, at least with legs. The serpent was gone, and the route to the bridge was clear. Everyone else was already crossing the stone span—everyone except Tesh.
Brin shot across the remaining distance. The closer she got to the castle, the higher the walls revealed themselves to be. This place wasn’t bound by the limitations of the living world. That stark reality announced itself while the roar of the army behind her was blotted out by explosions from in front. Out of dark recesses all along the fortress, deafening bursts emanated. Sparks erupted one by one in perfect synchronization from left to right as balls of fire shot out of holes in a bone-rattling succession of explosions. The flaming projectiles streaked overhead, trailing lines of smoke. When the sequence finished, the bombardment started all over again. This stunning series of rapid explosions wasn’t the most astounding thing Brin had witnessed, for in her last few strides, she could have sworn that a part of the impossibly high wall got up and moved.
Brin entered the slender gray gate that emitted a sliver of warm yellow light into which the others had already disappeared. Gifford, Tressa, and Roan lay in the courtyard, collapsed from exhaustion or fear, probably both. Fenelyus was nowhere to be seen as men, women, Fhrey, Belgriclungreians, and Grenmorians rushed past. Most headed up steps to stone parapets to peer out narrow windows at the war raging outside. Brin didn’t care about the battle. She stood just inside the gate, taking deep, unnecessary breaths that nonetheless felt crucial, as if the in-and-out movement of her chest was keeping her anchored. Everything was a blur of sight and a drone of sound. The only thing Brin could think about was the sight of a javelin punching through Tesh’s body. Over and over she saw that with perfect clarity, right down to the teardrops of blood sprayed on his chin.
“Where’s Tesh?” Moya asked, rushing to her.
The Keeper didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
“Brin?” Moya took her hands, her tone slipping into dread as the gate closed.
Brin didn’t even try to speak. She shook her head, and the look on her face seemed to be enough for Moya. She felt a hand squeeze hers.
Finally, the words burst out in a gush, joined by a flood of tears. “He stepped in front of a javelin. That’s the second time he’s died for me.”
Moya grabbed her in a hug just as Brin felt the strength of her legs give way. Moya’s arms tightened, holding her up—keeping them both vertical. “He can’t die again; he’s already dead. Remember that. It’s not over for him . . . or Tekchin.”
“Tressa, are you all right?” Gifford asked. After he set her down, she hadn’t moved.
Overhead, the uninterrupted pounding continued, hammering in rapid succession and only slightly muffled. Gifford and Roan were at Tressa’s side. He had hold of one hand and she the other.
Tressa brought her head up and nodded. “Better now. Less weight. Felt like I was being crushed out there. Kept getting worse, like the air was filling up, getting heavier.” She let go of them and slid her palms across the ground around her. “Look at that, grass.”
“Stars, too,” Roan said, pointing up.
Everyone tilted their heads to see the sky that normally held little interest, but in that place, its existence was a marvel.
“Not real,” Tressa said, still exploring the grass with her fingers. “Feels good, though.”
A dwarf approached. Although clearly an adult, he was the smallest Belgriclungreian whom Gifford had ever seen. A dwarf’s dwarf, no bigger than a five-year-old, he had awkwardly short arms and stubby legs, but his head was oversized, so much so that it looked certain to topple him over. He’d emerged out of the maelstrom of activity that whirled around them.
He spotted Rain, who was dusting off his clothes. Gifford wasn’t sure what had become of the great worm that Fenelyus had called an ariface. He only knew that Rain had started digging and the beast had done likewise. The two had disappeared for a time. Then Rain had entered the gate just behind Brin, looking as if he’d been plowing a dusty field.
The dwarf’s dwarf addressed Rain directly, “What are your names so that I may properly introduce you to His Majesty?”
“Ah . . .” Rain looked to Moya.
“Go ahead,” she told him. “You’re the one with the clout here.”
Rain presented each of them, and in return, the little dwarf introduced himself. Gifford didn’t catch all of it—something long and complicated, making him wonder at the Belgriclungreian’s propensity for creating words that were a great deal longer than necessary.
“His Majesty King Mide
on wishes to see you immediately.”
“Fine,” Rain said.
“Excellent,” the dwarf’s dwarf responded and beckoned for them to follow.
“You all right?” Moya asked Brin.
“No,” the Keeper replied, her voice straining to get the word out. “But I can walk. I wasn’t the one hit by the javelin—just feels that way.”
Moya nodded—not a casual or indifferent tilt, but a knowing bob. She had hold of Brin’s hand, and she appeared determined not to let go.
Only then did Gifford realize Tesh wasn’t among them.
As they left the courtyard, Brin looked back at the gate, perhaps hoping to see him there. Gifford did, too. He tried to imagine Tesh limping through the big doors, miraculously following them the way he had at the entryway to Nifrel. But the doors remained shut. No one was there.
The castle of King Mideon was a cavern, wondrous and massive, but a cave nonetheless. Scale dominated the experience. Passing through doors, chambers, and halls, Gifford couldn’t understand the need for ceilings so high that lantern light couldn’t reveal them, nor rooms so vast that massive doors on the far side appeared to be elaborate mouse holes. They walked on and on, seemingly without end, crossing polished floors, climbing steps, and passing through corridors lined with statues of ironically giant dwarfs. Before long, Gifford was hopelessly lost.
When they finally stopped, it was in a dimly lit anteroom. The dwarf’s dwarf indicated they should wait, then he slipped through another impossibly huge pair of stone doors. He failed to close them completely, and a long slant of light escaped, cutting a brilliant shaft across the dark of the anteroom.
“What did you do to that big snake?” Roan whispered to Rain as they waited.
“Nothing,” the dwarf replied. “We’re both diggers.”
“What’s that mean?” Tressa asked. “You two in some sort of club?” Her recovery seemed to be complete. The woman was back to her old feisty self.
Rain nodded. “Something like that. Really rare to meet another digger—a real one, not merely one who digs. Doesn’t matter who, or even what they are, there’s a familiarity, a brotherhood if you will. Hard to explain. I suppose it would be like meeting another bird if you could fly. I would think there’s a shared language of flight the way there is for those who dig.”
“I suppose it’s like the story about Rhen and the Lion,” Gifford said. “In his travels before building the dahl, Chieftain Rhen once granted a lion a hero’s funeral because he respected how bravely it fought. Isn’t that right, Brin?”
She didn’t answer. She and Moya remained together, still clutching hands.
“So, what? You’re like brothers with this thing now, Rain?” Tressa asked, but before he could answer, the big double doors opened.
The sight was overwhelming. The hall of the dwarven king was revealed in all its sumptuous splendor. From its impossibly high ceiling of gilded adornments and brooding statues of enormous size, to the cornucopia of precious metals and various gems that decorated nearly every surface, the room proclaimed that Mideon didn’t shy away from opulence. His favorite color seemed to be gold, his favorite texture, shiny. The king was also fond of fire. Scattered throughout the hall, burning pools of flammable liquids threw up plumes of flame, making all of the surfaces dance with light.
Mideon sat on a raised throne made in the design of a sunburst. The chair was so enormous that Gifford had trouble finding the monarch on it. He actually saw the ax first. Mideon held the handle of the largest weapon the potter had ever seen. The double-bladed head rested on the floor. Gifford was fairly certain that no man, Fhrey, or Belgriclungreian could possibly budge it.
Mideon himself was huge—a good twelve feet high.
This is a Belgriclungreian?
Gifford was puzzled for a moment, then he realized that Mideon likely saw himself differently in death than he had been in life. In the king’s own mind, he was a giant. His braided beard was three times as long as he was tall. He wore a shirt woven out of—what else—shiny gold. And on his back, a mantle was draped. It moved of its own accord, a massive red cloak trimmed in fur.
He wasn’t alone. Gifford spotted Fenelyus and many others sitting on shimmering bleachers. Next to Arion’s tutor was a person who stood out from the rest, a beautiful Belgriclungreian with long white hair. As they entered, she watched them with an eager smile.
“Welcome to the Hall of Mideon.” The dwarf’s dwarf said with a deep bow.
“Thanks,” Moya told him, and she led their procession of clacking feet across the polished floor. They stood in a single row before the throne. Behind them, fires crackled, and the light lent everything an ominous atmosphere. “Hello.”
“Hello?” the king said and laughed. “Hello! Did you hear her?”
The room was filled with politely suppressed chuckles. The dwarf’s dwarf cringed with sympathetic embarrassment.
His head still bobbing from laughter, the king said, “Not the sort given to courtly extravagance, are you?”
“Doubt it,” Moya replied. “Even if I knew what that was.”
“Ha-ha!” The king exploded in laughter again. He slapped his thigh as if Moya were grand entertainment.
She didn’t laugh, nor did she look amused. Gifford had grown to know that expression. Like a pot set on a flame, she was starting to steam.
“Most people who stand before this throne kneel and address me as Exalted One!” the king admonished her. “Or, they say, ‘Hail and well met, Your Grand and Wondrous Royal Majesty.’ You might do well to reconsider your approach, little girl.”
“Uh-huh.” Moya nodded. She set a hand on a shifted hip and delivered her reply with an irreverent smirk. “You know, if you’re so fond of getting your ass kissed, maybe you shouldn’t sit in such a high chair.”
The room went silent. No one laughed, and a few sucked in air.
King Mideon glared at Moya, his bushy brows tilting down, shadowing his eyes. A thick lower lip rose in a judgmental frown. He leaned forward on the handle of his great ax to study them better, and then he took a moment to scratch his bearded chin. “Hmmm,” he mused. He shot a glance at the white-haired female. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I always am,” she replied, hotly.
The king continued to stare, his gaze shifting from one to the next. “And you’re sure these are the ones, Fen?”
“They were in the forest heights not far from the Rel Gate. Right where Beatrice predicted.”
The white-haired Belgriclungreian lady slipped off her perch. She was not gigantic, but she made an impression nonetheless. Her eyes were so deep and bright that they glowed like moonlight reflecting off a still pond. Her hair was just as luminous. Not white with age, but her locks were silken and the color of stars. She circled around, walking directly to Rain. Standing before him, she put both hands over her mouth and looked to be on the verge of tears.
“This is him then, Beatrice?” the king asked.
“Yes,” she said with an overabundance of admiration. “This is the Great Rain.”
“I’m not great,” Rain said, barely audible in the vast hall.
“Don’t argue with my daughter, lad,” Mideon told him. “Beatrice has the gift. If she tells you something, listen to her. Believe her. I wish I had done that when she told me not to war with the Fhrey.” Mideon glanced toward Fenelyus. “What a waste of time and effort that was.”
“Speaking of wasting time,” Moya said. “Is no one concerned about the attack outside? In case you didn’t notice, there’s a rather big army trying to get in.”
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” Mideon licked his lips. “I like that.”
“Beatrice,” Fenelyus said, “shouldn’t you explain?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, distracted. Her eyes were still locked on Rain.
“Why did we have to run such a heavy-handed gauntlet? What would make the queen upend her entire realm to hunt this group? Why is a siege army outside your father
’s walls? There’s something important going on.” Fenelyus pointed at Brin. “Look at that one. She stands out like blood on snow.”
“Beatrice?” The king looked to his white-haired daughter.
“What?” she replied innocently, never taking her eyes off Rain.
“Don’t give me that! You know everything.”
“Not always.”
“You know about this. You’ve spoken about this day for so long that I can’t recall a time when you didn’t.”
“You never cared before.” Beatrice spoke with a petulant disregard as she continued to fawn over Rain.
“Before now, it was just a story. But the time has arrived, and your ramblings have come to pass. You know what’s going on—tell us!” He slapped the arm of his grand chair and the sound echoed.
“Yes,” she told him. “I know.”
Gifford considered the little white-haired beauty. She was slight, elegant, radiant, and entirely taken with Rain, whom she stared at as if he were a window through which she could see for miles.
What does she know?
“Well?” the king pressed.
“Well, what?”
“Tell us!”
Beatrice huffed and finally turned to face her father. “No, I’m not going to.” She looked up at the rest of those assembled in the hall. “I won’t tell any of you what’s going on, except to say that Fenelyus, as usual, is correct.” She took a moment to present a complimentary nod to the Fhrey. “Something is going on . . . something most important.”
“How important?” Fenelyus asked.
Beatrice paused. She clasped the palms of her hands together, then said, “I could say everything depends on the group you see before you—the future of Elan, all of our souls, and even the outcome of the Golrok. And if I did say that, you wouldn’t believe me. You’d think I was overstating the matter. But honestly, that wouldn’t be the half of it. You’re going to have to trust me because I’ll say no more, other than to insist that these people are given safe passage.”
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