The dwarfs looked at her more than skeptically—they shot her looks of irritation as if she’d made a joke at a funeral.
“Those are just pieces of stone, Brin,” Moya said.
“No they aren’t,” the girl said. “These are tablets. Just like I was making.” She held one up and positioned the gem below it so they could see chiseled markings on its surface. “These are words. This is a story. It’s marked down in the same language as the rol symbols. And…” She looked up excitedly. “I think I can understand some of it.”
The dwarfs, who had never lost their frowns, began to scowl and shake their heads in disgust.
What did they expect? Persephone thought. Gold, diamonds? Well, certainly not etched tablets.
“What do they say?” Roan asked, already working to add the feathers to her little spears. She made a split along the wood’s shaft and slid the straightest feathers through it.
“I’ve been trying to work that out.” The girl was all smiles. She pointed to the first tablet. “This one is actually a key.”
This caught Frost and Flood’s attention. “A key to what?” Frost said.
“To this language—like the one we’re speaking. These symbols are abstract ideas. This first tablet is a map to work out how to understand the others. Don’t you see? Whoever did this wanted the people who came after to understand. They were trying to communicate.”
Brin paused, seeing the blank stares, and sighed. “Whoever was sealed in here left a message that I can hear by using these tablets. Understand?”
Frost looked at Roan, then Arion, Brin, and finally Persephone. “Are all of you witches?”
“It’s not magic,” Brin said.
“You can hear the voice of someone who was here thousands of years ago using hunks of stone, and you don’t call that magic?” Flood said.
Brin started to answer when Arion stopped her. “Give up now. Explanations will only be a waste of time. Just accept that to them, it’s magic.”
The Keeper looked as if she was about to debate the point, but then something seemed to dawn on her. For a moment, she and Arion shared a revelation that left Brin wide-eyed. In that exchange, Persephone felt a twinge of envy. The girl had learned a cosmic truth—had gained a rare glimpse into the wondrous world of gods and had received some divine gift of understanding not meant for mere mortals.
“The one who was here…” Frost began, “was an Ancient. He predated the gods.” He reached out as if to touch the tablets but stopped short. “You’re saying these contain his words?”
Brin looked down at the tablet in her hand and nodded. “I suppose so.”
“What does it say?” Persephone asked.
“I’m still working that out, but I think it’s about the creation of the world. It speaks of Drome, Ferrol, and”—she looked at Persephone and smiled—“Mari.”
“Mari? Our Mari?”
“I think so.”
“What about that?” Suri asked, gesturing to the table.
The mystic and Brin moved toward it. “I’m guessing this is where the Old One made all the markings.”
The Dherg, weighed down by disappointment, sat on the stony floor. Moya took the pause to lie down and relax.
Everyone’s attention was elsewhere, which was why only Persephone noticed when Minna’s head came up off the floor and looked intently toward the entrance. An instant later Arion looked in the same direction.
“Suri,” Arion whispered.
Minna began to growl.
“Suri, it’s time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Gula-Rhunes
If all the stars had fallen from the sky and gathered into three groups, it would have mimicked the arrival of the Gula-Rhunes, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The rains had stopped. The chieftains’ meeting was held outside again, and Raithe was back. His entourage had grown, and behind his chair was Malcolm, his senior adviser; the boy Tesh, his Shield; and Nyphron, whose official capacity was explained as foreign affairs adviser.
Four people representing a clan of two. Raithe looked at the boy, who was still dressed in tattered clothes that were cinched tightly around his waist, revealing a starved body. Well, one and a half.
Raithe hadn’t planned to return to the council. He had no real idea what he intended to do after his dramatic exit. That was supposed to be his farewell to the world of politics, his final word on the subject of keenig. Most of what he’d said was addressed to Persephone, and she wasn’t there anymore.
They’ve gone to Belgreig, the land of the Dherg…With Arion along, they’ll be killed on sight.
Raithe stole a glance at the empty chair where Persephone should be sitting. None of the other chieftains had even asked where she was.
Persephone had been gone for only a few days. Raithe didn’t know whether that was long enough to cross the Blue Sea. Walking from Dahl Rhen to Tirre had taken the refugees nearly a week. Crossing a sea seemed like a bigger feat.
Persephone said you refused to fight because Rhune weapons are rubbish, so she’s getting better ones from the dwarfs.
The whole idea of fighting the Fhrey was absurd. No Rhulyn clan had ever lived by the sword as fully as Dureya, and he and Tesh were all that remained. That should be more than enough evidence to anyone curious about the virtues of war. If his father hadn’t been stubborn, if he’d handed over his weapon when Shegon demanded it that day by the river, Raithe wouldn’t even be in Tirre. They could have left, then circled back after Shegon, Malcolm, and the other slave had left. Instead, his father had fought, and died, leaving Raithe adrift.
He looked at the other men seated in the circle. They all planned to fight, to go to war. Raithe was no genius, but he knew how that venture would turn out. The smart thing to do was disappear, walk away. In the turmoil of the conflict, the Fhrey wouldn’t be watching the frontier. It’d be easy to slip across the Bern and Urum rivers and vanish forever into the wilds of lush fields and abundant game. And yet…
Raithe glanced at Tesh, and then again at the empty chair and wondered where she was.
“I crushed your father’s warriors at the narrows near Greenpoint,” Tegan said in a raised voice to Harkon, who sat red-faced for reasons Raithe had missed.
“You weren’t even there!” Harkon shouted at him. “Sile Longhammer led that attack.”
“On my orders!” Tegan said in a raised voice “My wisdom succeeded in—”
“Getting your best and brightest killed?”
Lipit stood up. “This is foolishness. It’s obvious who the best keenig choice is.” He stared at Raithe.
“But he refuses,” Krugen said. “You still do, don’t you?”
Raithe nodded.
“There, you see? Instead of arguing among ourselves, why don’t we focus on how to convince him to serve?” Lipit stamped his foot in frustration. “Raithe must be keenig. He is the only one capable.”
“Not the only one,” Nyphron said from behind Raithe’s chair. This was the first time he’d spoken since the initial meeting, and once more he stepped inside the ring of chairs. “There’s another qualified and more capable choice. Someone who has vast experience leading warriors into battle. Someone who has never known defeat. Someone privy to the secrets of the Fhrey, their strengths and weaknesses, and who already has a perfect plan to defeat them.”
This got their attention and each leaned forward.
“And who is this secret savior?” Tegan asked.
“Me,” Nyphron said. “You’ll find no one better in a war against the might of Estramnadon, I can assure you. From birth, I was trained to lead skilled warriors. My father was the chieftain of Alon Rhist, the most powerful stronghold in all of Avrlyn. I have led battles against giants, goblins, witches, and dragons. My name, and that of my Galantians, are legends to my people. I could train you, teach your men to wield spears and javelins as we do, to fight in formation, to wheel and pivot. I’ll s
how you how to use terrain to your advantage, to make your enemy fight where and when you want. I can show you how to befuddle, divide, and conquer. I know every weak point, every back door that can be broken.”
Tegan opened his mouth to speak, but Nyphron went on. “I know you wonder why I would do such a thing. Why I would turn against my own kind. The answer is I’m not. Those in Estramnadon, the fane and his cohorts, are nothing like the Instarya. They are no longer even Fhrey. They have been taken over, seduced by magic that has worked as a poison to my people. I hope to cut out that toxin the only way I can…by removing it.
“My father tried. He fought for leadership of the Fhrey, battled in one-on-one combat with the ruling fane, and was killed. Not because he was weaker, but because the fane cheated in what should have been an honorable duel. I’ll lead you across the Nidwalden and we’ll take Estramnadon.”
“What about your law against killing your own kind?” Raithe asked.
“True, I can’t be out in front with a weapon, but that’s not what you need me for. You require someone who isn’t so much a warrior as a planner. Your commander doesn’t have to be on the battlefield. Your best choice is someone with the ability to achieve great things, a person with confidence in themselves and the people they lead, a strategist who can see what needs to be done, and who is able to put a plan into action to accomplish it. More than anything, your leader should be someone with conviction who is willing to sacrifice everything to succeed.”
“But we can’t appoint a Fhrey as keenig,” Lipit said.
“Of course you can!” Nyphron said. “Think about it. As a Fhrey I am outside the petty politics that you are mired in. We have no history or grudges. I will make my decisions fairly and without the prejudice that none of you can hope to avoid. My impartiality is just another reason why I’m so well suited to the task.”
“You don’t understand,” Harkon said. “We can’t have a Fhrey keenig.”
Nyphron slapped his side and spun. “I know it’s unusual, but if you really want to win this war…if you want to continue existing…you need to set aside your petty prejudices and realize I am the best one for the task.”
“Lord Nyphron,” Lipit said, “your offer is…very impressive…and appreciated.” He looked around, Harkon and Krugen at least nodded. “But making you keenig is impossible.”
“How is it impossible?” The Fhrey held up his hands. “You just declare me as keenig and it’s done. That doesn’t seem at all difficult.”
“My lord, what you are failing to see is that, in the same way that your law requires that Fhrey cannot kill Fhrey, ours demands that the keenig be from one of the Ten Clans. A Fhrey cannot be keenig. Your failure to know this underscores that you aren’t one of us, and displays exactly why you are fundamentally unsuited for the task.”
Nyphron stood silently, his jaw clenched tight. The Fhrey was difficult to read, but Raithe was certain the Galantian was fuming. Still, he did well to hide it, and without another word, Nyphron walked away.
As he left, a horn sounded—three crisp blasts, harsh and shrill in the morning air. Everyone around the circle looked to the walls where one man was waving his arm.
“What is it?” Lipit called.
“They’re coming!” the watchman shouted.
“The Fhrey?” Lipit said, his eyes fearful.
“No. The Gula.”
—
“I suppose that answers the question of whether they got the message,” Raithe said, reaching the top of the wall with the other chieftains. A horde was gathered at the top of the hill, and more could be seen on the hills behind that. If the entire expanse was filled with Gula-Rhunes, and there was no reason to think that wasn’t so, there had to be thousands.
At that distance, they didn’t look like men, but rather tiny things—an army of ants. The swarm of humanity spilled from the highlands, funneling into the valley much like a wash of dark water, the host so numerous it appeared to be a great flood, a deluge certain to drown.
“Couldn’t they just have sent emissaries?” Tegan asked, disgusted. The Warric chieftain sounded cavalier, but there was fear in his voice.
“They’ve brought all three clans,” Raithe said, spotting the tri-colored banners held high on poles. “Erling, Strom, and Dunn, they’re all here.” Then he added with a dry chuckle and a slight shake of his head, “Udgar and his banner men are out front. Nothing changes.”
“You know them well, do you?” Lipit asked. Their host stood with one hand on the guardrail as the other wiped sweat from his brow. The summer sun was warm, but not that warm.
Raithe shrugged. “I haven’t faced the Gula myself, but it was all my brothers ever talked about. My family made a career fighting them. Most Dureyans do…did,” he corrected himself. That one word—did—felt too final, as if he were lighting the pyre beneath his people. He’d found Tesh, there might be others. A fine line divided acceptance from giving up.
“You should speak to them,” Lipit said with an eager expression. His other hand came up to help the first in getting the sweat out of his eyes.
“Why me? This is your dahl.”
“I don’t know the Gula-Rhunes. None of us do, right?”
The other chieftains nodded—a long line of bobbing heads and hopeful faces.
Raithe’s father had had little respect for chieftains, and none for the leaders of the southern clans, who’d grown fat on green pastures. Their wealth is their wool, and like all sheep they fear being sheared, he used to say. Raithe had believed that his father, like all Dureyans, was jealous of the southerners. Plenty to be envious of as they had everything—everything except courage.
“He’s right.” Tegan stepped forward and threw an arm around Raithe’s shoulders. The action was probably meant as a fatherly gesture, or what passed for one in places like Warric and Tirre. Tegan had no clue the sort of gestures Dureyan fathers extended to their sons. Hugging wasn’t among them. “This meeting is dangerous.” Tegan looked out at the army descending on them. “It has to be handled carefully. The slightest misstep and we could be facing disaster.”
Raithe laughed.
The others looked at him, shocked, but he couldn’t help it. The irony was too much to bear. Somewhere the spirits of tens of thousands of Dureyans were laughing along with him. “You want a Dureyan to speak as your ambassador because you don’t want trouble?”
Tegan pulled his arm back and scowled enough to show teeth. That was the sort of fatherly gesture Raithe knew well. “Who would you suggest?” Tegan asked, his tone reproachful—another Dureyan father–son tradition. Tegan was finally hitting all the right notes if his intention was to appear Dureyan-paternal. All he lacked was a solid cuff across the side of Raithe’s head.
“Lipit?” Tegan answered his own question. “It is his house, but forgive me, dear host, you are far too civilized to deal with their lot. The Gula-Rhunes will sense weakness and see an opportunity for a winter home by the sea.”
Lipit’s eyes went wide as his head began to shake. “Oh, no. No, we don’t want that.”
“Indeed not,” Tegan said. “And what about Harkon here? Melen is known for poets and musicians, and if the Gula were the sort to be impressed with a ballad, I’d be the first to shove him onto the field. As for Krugen…he could…well, he could try to bribe them, but it’s impossible to entice a thief with jewels he can take for himself.”
“You’re right,” Krugen said, rubbing his rings. “Nothing I could offer would appease them.”
“There’s always Alward,” Tegan went on, casting a hand out to the new leader of Nadak. They all turned their attention to the willowy man in rags who blinked back at them as his mouth formed an appalled and fearful O. “Perhaps not,” Tegan agreed.
“You seem capable enough,” Raithe told him. “Smart, even.”
“You’re right; I’m very smart, smart enough to know I’m not the man for this. I’ve never seen a Gula-Rhune until this moment. My ignorance could be our undoing, but
the little I do know about these northern men is that they are fighters, and the one thing that a warrior respects is another warrior.”
Raithe squared himself in front of the Warric chieftain, fixing Tegan with a steady stare. “I’m not the keenig.”
Tegan sighed. “I don’t care, not right now. Look out there!” He waved his arm at the ant army creeping down the hill. “You don’t have to be keenig, but if you don’t make them think twice about marching on these walls, we won’t need one.”
This brought a small moan from Lipit, who by then had resorted to mopping his head with a sleeve.
Once more, Raithe noted the three banners rising above the approaching horde: Erling, Strom, and Dunn. These were the three Gula clans, violent sons of continual warfare. Raithe had more in common with them than with those beside him on the wall. That’s what Tegan was saying, but Raithe wondered if the chieftain of Warric knew that.
“Okay,” Raithe said. “I’ll go, but I want to point out, it was your idea to send me. Whatever happens is your fault, not mine.”
“What could be worse than them attacking?” Tegan said, prompting another chirp from Lipit.
Raithe shrugged. “Who knows? But I once met a Fhrey named Shegon, and look where we are now.”
This raised Tegan’s brows, and he nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll go with you.”
—
At midafternoon, Raithe walked uphill through the tall meadow grass. The waist-high shoots, with green tops and straw-brown stems, had gone to seed. The whole of the field lay over, brushed to a permanent western lean by a tireless ocean wind. True to his word, Tegan walked alongside. Malcolm joined them as well, along with Tesh, who was treating his responsibility as Shield with the excessive seriousness of a boy tasked with his first adult duty. None of them wore weapons. This was Raithe’s decision. He’d heard his father speak of battlefield meetings, and how weapons were left behind to indicate a peaceful talk. He hoped this practice would be honored and wasn’t just one of Herkimer’s tall tales.
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