Age of Death

by Age of Death (retail) (epub)

  The fortresses, towers, outposts, and roads were not, however, the dominant feature of the land. Nor were the mountains, hills, valleys, or plateaus, of which there were many. The most abundant characteristic of the landscape was the fissures. Dark zigzagging scars broke the land with unnerving cracks that reminded Brin of a dry lakebed. They ran everywhere, necessitating numerous bridges, which required battlements and towers to control each of them.

  “Over there”—Beatrice pointed to the far left where the largest of the cracks formed a great canyon that was spanned by a lone and narrow bridge—“is the Mouth of the Abyss. And that bridge leads to the Alysin Door. As you can see, it’s on the top of that slender pinnacle of rock that rises out of the center of Nifrel. Some call it the Needle; others refer to it as the Tongue of the Abyss. Most just call it the Alysin Pillar.”

  “How far away is that?” Gifford asked.

  To Brin, it looked like it was days away.

  “In Phyre, distances are deceiving. Although, it might feel like an eternity to reach it.”

  Moya looked down at the raging siege. “How can we get past the armies?”

  “This is King Mideon’s castle, a Belgriclungreian citadel.” Beatrice smiled. “You may be aware that we have a bit of an obsession when it comes to digging. Beneath this fortress is a labyrinth of tunnels—roadways to all corners of this realm. The queen knows many of our routes, but not all. You’ll be going by the flyway, one of our most secret paths. It will pop you out over there by that roundish hill.”

  “That’s more than halfway,” Moya said excitedly. “We could run for it from there.”

  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Beatrice shook her head and frowned. “But you don’t know the queen like we do. She is the oldest in this realm—well, the oldest up here, at least. Her older brother Trilos and their uncles, the Typhons, are supposed to be below us in the Abyss, but no one has heard from them in eons. So up here, Ferrol reigns. She’s one of the Five, and their powers are beyond imagining.”

  “What are the Five?” Brin asked.

  “The Aesira.” Beatrice looked confused when she failed to see recognition. “You don’t know about them? But you were sent here by—” She stopped and again looked puzzled. Then a smile came to her face. “He didn’t tell you anything, did he?”

  “He?” Moya asked.

  Beatrice narrowed her eyes in thought, considering her words. “The one who sent you.”

  “You mean Malcolm.”

  Beatrice showed no sign of recognition, and after thinking for a moment, she shrugged. “Okay, but I’m right, aren’t I? He hardly explained anything to you.”

  “Explain what, exactly?”

  Beatrice grinned sheepishly. “I have to wonder why he didn’t. Maybe there’s a reason.” She looked away, her face straining in thought.

  “Maybe he forgot,” Moya said, a dash irritated. “Perhaps he didn’t have time. What’s your excuse?”

  “I’ve already explained that, and I don’t think he forgot,” Beatrice replied.

  “So, are you going to tell us?” Brin pressed.

  Beatrice squeezed her lips together, trying to decide. “Shouldn’t matter—he must have known how this would turn out. There’s no way you can get through all three realms and not learn the truth.” She muttered this mostly to herself, then nodded. “I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t close to everything, but obviously far more than you know now. But to do that, I’ll need tea.” She headed back toward the stairs.

  Moya and Gifford followed, but Brin lingered at the window, looking out at the war and the scarred land. Blackened, cracked, and barren—this was Nifrel, exactly as she might have envisioned it if her imagination had been clever enough.

  Are you out there, Tesh? If I think about you really hard, can you hear me? Can you somehow feel me?

  She placed her hands against the stone of Mideon’s walls, leaned out, closed her eyes, and focused on him.

  I know you’re here. I know you still exist. I want to thank you for saving me and for dying in the first place. I never told you how much that meant. I should have. I should have said a lot of things. I write words, but I never think to say them. I wish I knew where you are. I don’t know what I’d do—or if I could do anything for you. It would just mean so much to know you are all right.

  Just before she opened her eyes, in that momentary flash of light before she could focus, she thought she saw him crying out in pain.

  Tesh never lost consciousness, but he discovered there was a maximum threshold to pain, a point of diminished return where it just didn’t matter anymore. Neither did time, which he was certain had stopped at a really inopportune moment. He also discovered that without a mouth, throat, or lungs, he could scream forever.

  Forever mercifully came to an end. The pain stopped, time resumed, and Tesh lay on the white bone floor of Nifrel’s throne room, an exposed nerve waiting for what came next.

  “I don’t know, maybe,” someone said. The voice reached him from far away.

  “Only six left, how hard can that be?”

  “What would you do?”

  “Besieged like they are? I’d use the tunnels.”

  “Which one? That’s the problem with Belgriclungreians, they have a network down there. A nest of rats is what they are.”

  “Can we cave them in? The surface layer here is of your making, right? The real rock is below. If the Dherg can dig, then we can collapse.”

  “Such a thing would—I honestly don’t know what it would do—and I don’t think the situation is that dire.” This was the queen’s voice. Tesh had no trouble recognizing it but guessed he’d have a great deal of difficulty trying to forget. “I’d rather not reshuffle this deck to such an extreme degree. As you said, there’s only six left, and we know where they’re going.”

  “A trap, then? Before, or perhaps on, the bridge itself? We know they have to cross it. There’s no way to tunnel the gap, and their forces will need to converge. It’s not very wide.”

  “Before, then. I don’t want them getting that close. I don’t want to risk losing my prize to the depths.” This was the queen again; her words felt once more like pinpricks of ice. “We’ll take them on the slate between the monoliths.”

  Tesh opened his eyes. The light—her light—was away from him, off in the distance. A circle of dark figures was revealed by the pale pool of illumination—not a warm or life-giving brilliance, but an empty, cold light, the soul-warping gleam of glittering gems.

  “I’ll have the Grenmorians make a line. Alon Rhist can lead the Galantians in a flank attack.”

  “We’ll need to worry about Fenelyus. She’ll be in it this time.”

  “We have Gryndal to counter her.”

  “Inerus can make the push, lock them up, and drive the ambush. When they reach the narrows, they’ll have to reduce the width of their ranks. That’ll make their defenses vulnerable.”

  “That ought to be more than enough.”

  “I’m not interested in what ought to be,” the queen said. “I won’t lose that key. Now, if we only knew which one carried it, that would be a help. And that fool Mideon will make it harder. He’s making plans in the Bulwark—but what kind?”

  Tesh felt her look at him. It hurt enough to make him wince.

  “Are you sure he’s not telling the truth?” she asked Konniger.

  “Tressa and I are a pair, so much alike,” he said. “Would you give me the key?”

  “Very well, he’s not going to give it up. Put him in the hole.”

  “But you promised me,” Sebek said.

  The queen laughed. So did a few of the others. “You can never trust what I say, child. Only what I do. Throw him in the pit. We have our own planning to do.”

  Tesh heard footsteps approach and saw the unmistakable outline of Sebek coming his way.

  Tucked safely in Beatrice’s chambers with tea in hand, the princess sat on a soft stool in front of them. She looked very much like a chi
ld, a young girl huddled before a hearth, gripping the white cup with both hands, the base resting on her knees. A sparkle was in her eye, the hint of a smile on her lips. Both made Brin feel certain this was going to be a good story. She hoped so. She needed one.

  “What do you know about how the world began?” the princess asked.

  Roan, Tressa, and Rain hadn’t yet returned from the workshop. Moya and Gifford looked at Brin.

  “Brin is our Keeper of Ways,” Moya explained. “She holds the stories of our people’s past.”

  Beatrice looked at Brin expectantly.

  Brin felt embarrassed. “Actually, I’m a little confused on a few points.”

  Moya seemed surprised.

  “Well, you see, there is what Maeve told me about Chaos, Eton, and Elan. And then there’s what I learned in Neith—but now after listening to Drome . . . I just don’t know anymore.”

  “What did this Maeve tell you?” Beatrice asked.

  “Chaos existed as a void.” Brin said, repeating the words Maeve had taught her. “Then from her came Eton the sky and Elan the world. From the union of Eton and Elan came their first children: Light, Water, and Time. From the union of Light and Time came their sons, the Sun and the Moon. From Time and Water came their daughter, the Sea. From the Sun and the Moon came their children, Day and Night. The Sea’s children are the Four Winds, and they each had one child: Winter, Summer, Spring, and Fall.” Brin hesitated. “Then in the Agave, I read about Ferrol, Drome, and Mari on tablets, and I know I made some mistakes. For instance, I thought Erebus was a person, but Drome said it was a place, a city.”

  “You read?”

  “Yes, I created markings that represent sounds.”

  “And you found tablets in the Agave? Ones with marks you could understand?”

  Brin smiled sheepishly. “Yes, but the one who sent us here, the guy we know as Malcolm but whom others have referred to as Turin, told me that the person who wrote those tablets did so using the symbols I invented. That seems impossible because the tablets were created long before I was born.”

  “The name Turin and the word impossible have no business being together,” Beatrice assured her.

  “Okay. Well anyway, it was easy for me to understand them.”

  The princess nodded, then her eyes widened. “Oh! So, you’re that one. Okay. That makes sense, I suppose.”

  That one?

  “Well, you were doing well up through the seasons,” Beatrice said. “I’m actually impressed. It’s quite an accomplishment that you kept it that straight through so many generations. I don’t think your people ever had the whole story. Let’s back up just a bit.” Beatrice set her cup on a little table near the stool so her hands were free.

  A good sign. All the best storytellers use their hands.

  “First, you need to understand that Eton is infinite—in other words, he goes on forever. When you look at the sky, you can see this. Elan is not. She ends, sort of. She’s a circle. So, everything that comes from her also expires. But everything that comes from Eton is immortal. Eton and Elan gave birth to a daughter named Alurya. She was beautiful, and Elan loved her above all else—even Eton. The two were inseparable, and Eton grew jealous of Alurya. But like all things of Elan, Alurya was destined to die. When she did, Elan was so heartbroken she refused to speak to her husband. She wouldn’t talk to anyone. This was a time of great depression, when the North Wind and his son Winter kept watch over Elan as she wept.

  “After seeing Elan’s sorrow, Eton relented and granted immortality, allowing Elan to breathe life into Alurya once more. But each year, Alurya had to die for the span of three months. During this time, Eton would have time alone with Elan. Alurya went on to become the mother of life, of the plants and animals.”

  “I never heard that before,” Brin said.

  “That’s because this is where the story turns dark,” Beatrice replied. “People like to forget terrible things.”

  She took a sip from her cup, set it back down, and started again. “Once more, Eton united with Elan, and from this union came the three Typhons.” Beatrice paused as if waiting for them to react. No one did, so she went on. “These triplets were named Erl, Toth, and Gar.”

  “Not Goll?” Brin asked, and the others nodded their approval of the question.

  “No, Goll isn’t a Typhon. Goll is Gar’s son—but that’s another story, one that leads to the birth of the Grenmorians. Our tale goes elsewhere. You see, once again, Elan loved her sons too much for Eton’s liking. Worse yet, Elan spoiled the Typhons, which made Eton hate them. He despised his new sons so much that he pushed them back into Elan’s womb and imprisoned them there.” Beatrice extended her hands palms-up and indicated the walls around them. “In here—inside Elan, in the place known as Phyre.”

  Beatrice took another sip, wiped her lips, and went on, “Elan was bereft once more, but this time Eton wouldn’t relent. He also refused to join with her again, for he didn’t want to see the creation of more immortals. Furious and lonely, Elan plotted against her husband. While Eton slept, Elan stole five of his teeth and sowed them in her soil. From them, the Aesira were born: Turin, Trilos, Ferrol, Drome, and Mari. When Eton learned of the Aesira, he was angry, and Elan pleaded with him not to send her new children to the Abyss. Luckily for them—and us—he didn’t. Not at first. Eton found that the Five were not at all like the Typhons. Perhaps advised by their mother, the Aesira showed Eton respect and thoughtfulness, but this only got them so far. Eton still wouldn’t budge on his vow that no other immortals would come between him and his wife. A deal was reached. Elan expanded Phyre, making a pleasant home for her children. What was made of Elan would live happily with her until their time was over, and what was made of Eton was sent to dwell in Phyre, a prison with a lock and a key that he kept. Such was the plan, but as with all intentions, this one went astray. The problem began when Turin, the eldest of the Aesira, took ill. His time to die, his time to move on to Phyre, had come and—”

  The door to Beatrice’s chambers opened, and Mideon entered, followed by a parade of people carrying armloads of armor, including Roan, Tressa, and Rain, whom Brin hardly recognized. They were bedecked from helm to boot in leaf-style bronze so polished it glowed. None of it appeared sensible. Tesh had taught Brin that armor needed to be smooth and clear of lines and creases to avoid giving a sword’s point a place to catch, but these suits were beyond extravagant. Roan’s helm was adorned with a long crimson feather that came from no bird Brin had ever seen. It extended several feet above Roan’s head. Rain’s chest was covered in overlapping scales in teardrop shapes. Both Roan’s and Rain’s boots came up to their knees and looked as if gold-colored ivy reached up out of the ground, wrapping their legs. Both of them were bigger. The normally tiny Roan was two feet taller, and that didn’t include the helm or the feather. Even her hands—now encased in brilliant metal gauntlets—seemed twice the size of Brin’s. The shy woman with a tendency to chew on her hair and talk to herself had been transformed into a hero of epic proportions.

  But that’s the point, isn’t it? The armor doesn’t protect the flesh. There is none. The armor builds the spirit. Its purpose is to scream, “I am here, but don’t even think of messing with me!”

  Alberich Berling, Brin realized as she gaped at them, was truly a genius and a master.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wars Within a War

  All too often, that which we are most certain of is that which we are the most wrong about; and that which we are wrong about can change everything. — The Book of Brin

  “Holy mother of Ferrol!” Imaly exclaimed. She threw her cloak at the stone bench and missed. It crumpled into a pile on the floor.

  “This is no time to blaspheme the name of our lord,” Volhoric said. He paused for a moment, staring at the discarded cloak with a grimace so disgusting that he might have been viewing a corpse.

  “I wasn’t,” she said. “I was blaspheming Ferrol’s mother.”

  “Ferrol
doesn’t have one,” the High Priest snapped back.

  Imaly made a show of dusting off her hands. “No harm done, then.”

  She went to the sarcophagus of Gylindora Fane, leaned over, and bowed her head. Volhoric likely thought she was praying to her great ancestor or some other such nonsense. Imaly just needed to catch her breath. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, and old Gylindora just happened to be there.

  Good ole Great-Grandmama, lending support in my time of need. Maybe I am praying to her.

  Nanagal came in next, looking pale, his hands nested together, the left squeezing the right. “I thought he was going to kill us right then and there.”

  Imaly had stressed the importance of not marching directly from the palace to the crypt. Chances of an observer reporting them were unlikely. Still, she didn’t want a line of ducks waddling into the old tomb. The idea of meeting there was to avoid attention, and all of them gathering at once in broad daylight would be impossible to miss. Imaly had been forced to pick her co-conspirators based on their positions of influence, not their skill at subterfuge. She wondered if she would come to regret that, but she took solace in the notion that if she did, everyone else would, too.

  Nanagal removed, neatly folded, and carefully laid his cloak on the bench. “Is anyone else sweating? My clothes are soaked. Another hour in that room with the fane and I swear I would have melted into my shoes. I kept thinking of Zephyron, you know?”

  Imaly didn’t nod, but she had most certainly been thinking of Lothian’s prior challenger, not to mention the Gray Cloaks who’d had the misfortune of surviving their uprising.

  “I doubt any serious effort went into cleaning that spot in the Carfreign Arena,” Nanagal said. “I think Lothian wants it to remain. Wants us—wants everyone—to see it.”

  Hermon arrived next. He paused for a second near the entrance, halfway between the light of day and the darkness inside. He stared at them as if waiting for permission to enter.