“Makareta, please. You can’t.”
Again, she laughed. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. We don’t need to fear the wrath of Ferrol. Not us, not the Miralyith. The laws of one god can’t apply to other gods. And that’s what we are now. I know it doesn’t feel that way just yet, but wait until we have our own worshippers. Then it will all make sense.”
Worshippers?
Mawyndulë couldn’t think anymore. His brain locked up and he just sat down.
“The fane is coming!” someone from the gallery called and Mawyndulë thought it sounded like Aiden.
“Have to go,” Makareta said. Then she paused, pivoted on her left heel, and bent down to pat his hand. “We understand if you don’t want to join us for this part.”
With that, she left him on the bench beneath the dome where Gylindora Fane and Caratacus stared down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Challenge
The Gula-Rhunes are a lot like rattlesnakes. Both enjoy lying in the sun, and both make a lot of noise before a fight. The difference is that the Gula are bigger, they are meaner, and sometimes you can reason with a snake.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
“What now?” Malcolm asked, as he climbed the ladder that creaked under his slight weight.
“I wish people would stop asking me that,” Raithe replied. He leaned over the wall, his elbows resting on the stone slab that teetered to whichever side he placed the most weight. “I’m not the keenig.”
“You’re Dureyan. Troublemakers in times of peace become heroes in times of trouble.”
“I’m not a hero.”
Malcolm shrugged and looked out over the wall to the north. “Too bad. Looks like we could use one.”
In the dark, the Gula-Rhunes’ campfires covered the hills, making the countryside look as though it were plagued with a swarm of fireflies. And the northerners had a fondness for drums. Raithe’s father and brothers began all their stories with them. We were woken by the beat of the Gula’s drums; the night before the battle we slept to the rhythm of the drums; we charged into battle to the pounding of their war drums. Raithe had never fought the Gula-Rhunes. Despite what Udgar thought, Raithe was just too young. He would have gone to the High Spear the next time the Fhrey called for troops, but that time never came. The sum total of Raithe’s combat experience came from fighting his brothers and fellow Dureyans, which—in a land where food was scarce and spears plentiful—provided him a sound education. War would be different. He wasn’t certain how, just a gut feeling—and the stories.
“Do you think it’s the same guys?” Malcolm asked. “I mean, do the drummers take turns? They have to switch, right? The same set of people can’t keep beating them like that all night.”
“Seriously, there are times I’m amazed by how your mind works.”
“What? I think it’s a perfectly reasonable question. I mean the drumming never stops.”
Raithe sighed. “At least Persephone isn’t here.”
“She’ll be back.” The statement was said with so much confidence that it made Raithe wonder if Malcolm had heard some news about the negotiations with the Dherg.
“If she’s smart, she’ll stay away.”
Malcolm was shaking his head in that same self-assured manner, his Fhrey-look. “Persephone lives for her people. I would have thought you understood that by now. They mean more to her than anything. She’ll never abandon them. Not out of fear of war, nor the love of a man. Kind of tragic, actually. You two are like a pair of ill-fated lovers in the tales of old.”
Raithe gave him a sour look. “You don’t know anything about me, so don’t pretend you do. You lived a pampered life in Alon Rhist, like a prized pig. I lived—”
“In Dureya, I know,” Malcolm said. “An arid, windblown plateau of rock, dirt, and thin grass where there was little food and even less compassion. You hated your father, while somehow still managing to maintain an unwavering respect for the man. You also hated your three older brothers and didn’t particularly care for your clansmen, either, I suspect. The only ones you ever really loved were your mother and sister, and now Persephone. I think the reason you fell for her, fell so quickly and so completely, is because she reminds you of your sister or mother…maybe both.” Malcolm held his spear, Narsirabad, with two hands, tip up as if he planned to churn butter. Neither man looked at the other, both simply staring out at the multitude of campfires. “You never told me how they died, your mother and sister.”
“And I don’t plan to.”
“You were with them, weren’t you? They died, but you lived. Traumatic, I would think. And so fitting with the corollary of the stories of old. I’m guessing you suffer feelings of guilt.”
The ex-slave had a terrible way of irritating Raithe with conversation. He’d never met anyone who liked to babble as much as Malcolm. “Talk about something else.”
“I’m just making the point that, for you, Persephone is some sort of second chance. That’s why you keep asking her to come away. To save her because you couldn’t save your mother and sister.”
“Looks like that won’t be an option.”
“I told you, she’s coming back,” Malcolm assured.
“Well, if she does, I hope it’s after this is over. They’re going to kill us, you know.”
Malcolm didn’t say anything for a while, then shifted the grip on his spear and sighed. “They haven’t attacked yet.”
“They will.”
“The chieftains’ messengers got out. Help will be coming.”
“They won’t arrive in time.”
Malcolm clapped the butt of his spear on the stone walkway. “Quit being such a damned optimist.”
Raithe looked over. They exchanged a smile that was one-part smirk and two-parts truce.
“What if something’s happened to her?” Raithe asked.
“Oh, well, you mean like being besieged by thousands of angry warriors? Something awful like that?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Wherever she is, I can’t imagine it could be worse than being here.”
Raithe nodded. “There is that.”
“And does it help? Knowing that you drove her away in time to miss all this fun?” Malcolm had an impish look on his face, as if he’d just performed some magician’s trick.
“Actually it does.”
“Then can you answer my question about what we should do now?”
Raithe nodded. “We wait.”
—
In the dark, Gifford inched his way along the wall, his right hand feeling the stacked stones. He wondered how the people of Tirre got so many and how long it took to place them. He held his other hand against his chest, fingers splayed as if he were taking an oath. Oddly, his ribs hurt less when pressing on them. Just breathing caused stabs of pain, little jolts that caused him to suck in more air, which in turn caused another pang. Gifford was usually a believer in the adage: If doing that hurts, don’t do it anymore, but if ever there were an exception to a rule, this had to be it.
“Where are you off to?” Padera asked, her voice coming out of the dark like some ghostly spirit. The old farmer’s widow had returned to camp faster than he’d expected. Gifford could never determine if it was a testament to her youthful vigor or his crooked back that made Padera his rival in the slowest hundred-yard sprint. “Hurts to breathe don’t it? You shouldn’t be on your feet for a week at least.”
“I’m looking fo’ my cwutch,” Gifford said.
Padera waddled out of the gloom to the path that hugged the wall. In recent weeks, it had become the main thoroughfare for all things Clan Rhen. Much of the trail lay under the wool, but this section was between East and West Puddle—no-man’s-land.
The ancient woman carried a bundle of wool on her back. Both she and Gifford were hunched over—a pair of ugly trolls meeting in the dark. “Crutch? You’re looking for the wooden stick? Or the one who made it? The latter is gone.”
“What do you
mean gone?”
“They went across the sea to the land of the Dherg.”
“Woan’s gone?” He had to ask because the old woman had stopped making sense. The trip to senility was one race he didn’t mind losing to her. “Woan went on the sea?”
Padera nodded. “So there’s no reason to be out dancing the way you are.”
Dancing? Maybe Padera had won that particular race already. “What makes you think Woan went anyplace?”
Padera gave him one of her famous squints—her way of letting him know she didn’t like having her word questioned. With god-like knowledge came god-like irritation when doubted. “Persephone went with the three Dherg to get weapons from their people, and Moya tagged along to protect her. Moya took Roan so she didn’t get into any more trouble.”
Padera smacked her mushed-melon mouth, looked at his hand pressing against his ribs, and she said, “So what’s your plan? Hop down to the dock while trying not to pass out? Then fight your way onto a Dherg ship? Force their captain to take you to Caric where you’ll track her down by sense of smell? Or no. Love, that’s what you’ll use. Yes, that’s it. Somehow, love will direct your twisted feet, and you’ll find her. Of course you will, because that’s how the world works, you know? She’ll be in some pit just about to be eaten by a wild animal. You’ll batter the beast to death with your crutch, assuming I’m kind enough to fetch it for you, which I’m not. And you’ll save her. Then you’ll take her up in your arms, lifting her with your mangled excuse for a back, and return home, walking across the surface of the sea, no doubt.”
Being beaten unconscious by the Fhrey didn’t hurt half so much as her words. Gifford hesitated a moment then took a deep breath, letting the pain rack him. For once, it felt good. “Why do you hate me?” he asked. “You always nice to ev-we-body but me. You the long-lost mommy to all the people in the clan. Why—” His voice hitched, and he stopped himself, taking another breath. “Why do you have to be such a witch to me?”
The old woman stared hard at him with both eyes—both eyes. That had to be a first. She rumpled up her mouth like a poorly rolled rug, her frown reaching new lows. Not a happy face. Not a friendly face, either. Very slowly, she began to speak, “You know the story about how you were born, yes?”
He nodded. “My ma died giving me life.”
“That’s right. Aria was…” Padera chewed her lips and dragged in a breath. “She was courageous. Always had been. People talk about her like they knew, but they didn’t. Few did. Now I’m the only one alive who remembers.”
“Memba what?”
The old woman fumbled with her lower lip as it began to tremble. “She knew.” Padera backed up and leaned her shoulder against the stone wall of Dahl Tirre, easing the weight of her bundle, or just needing help to stand while she said the words—words that seemed too heavy for her. “It’s common for young mothers to seek out the mystic to ask the future of the children they carry. When Tura cast bones, most of the prophecies were what you’d expect: Your daughter will be beautiful and marry well; your son will be a great hunter. Though some were surprising. The prophecy she gave your mother was one of those. You had a great destiny she said, but it would come at a price. The cost would be Aria’s life.”
Gifford’s eyes widened.
“Yes, she knew.” The old woman sucked her lower lip tight, but still it shook. “She could have stopped it. Stopped you. I knew how. But your mother…she…” The old lips folded again, quivering and chewing. “We loved Aria, the whole dahl, because she was special. Everyone knew it. She was smarter, kinder, braver and just plain better than the rest of us. We cherished her.” Padera sucked in a breath. “And when you came out, it was too much to bear. Aria had sacrificed everything for you because you were going to…going to…”
“What? What did the mystic say about me?”
Padera peered at him. She was back to one eye, but that eye could have cut stone. “She said you would run faster and farther than any man ever had, and that the fate of our people would rest on the outcome of you winning that race.”
Gifford felt as if she’d hit him, and not lightly, but a good stiff fist in the gut. He really had killed his mother.
“Seeing you come with that twisted back and shriveled leg, we knew Tura was wrong. Your father refused to accept that Aria had died for nothing, and he took care of you. Maybe he was willing himself to believe you’d get better, because he couldn’t bear the truth. He died brokenhearted. So I raised you.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Didn’t I?” Padera gave him a wicked grin that wasn’t at all wholesome. “I made your life a living pit of despair every chance I could. When you were six, who do you think put the burr under those boys’ belts to pelt you with stones? Who do you think urged them to beat you bloody when you were twelve? Who gave them the idea to call you “the goblin”? And who made certain Myrtis hated you?”
Gifford couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Padera, the kindest woman in Rhen, the one who made pies and cookies for the kids, and who selflessly healed the sick, was the Tetlin Witch in disguise. Though as he thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t much of a façade. “Why would you do that? Punishment? Vengeance? You’ve been vicious to me my whole life because my ma wouldn’t kill me and live—”
“Don’t be stupid. Of course not!” She scowled, and, being better equipped for it than anyone, Padera did it well.
“Why then?”
“Tura is dead. Your mother is dead, and so is your father. All the people who knew about that prophecy are gone. Everyone sees you as a cripple who makes pretty cups. But I still remember the promise Tura made to Aria. I may be a fool, but I still believe. I have to. Your mother was special, and you’re supposed to be special, too. And by the Grand Mother, you’re going to be or I’ll kill you in the process. The day is going to come when you have to run a race. And you won’t win it by being weak. I’ve made you take beatings so you’ll know how to endure pain. And I’ve taught you to fight. To fight when every single person around you would walk away. I’ve taught you to strive for the impossible because that’s what you’ll have to do. You’ll have to accomplish the inconceivable, Gifford. One day you’ll have to run faster and farther than anyone has because that is the only thing that will save our people. It’s why your mother died, and I won’t let her death be in vain.”
Padera hoisted her bundle to sit more centered on her back, turned, and walked away.
Gifford could barely remain standing. He leaned against the wall, staring into the dark. He was halfway between East and West Puddle, feeling as lost as if he were in the darkest of forests. Across the water, he could see the lights of the Gula-Rhunes, scattered on the hillsides. War was coming. Being outside the walls, he and the rest of Rhen would be the first to die. All he wanted that night was to find Roan, to tell her he was all right. He knew she would be upset, that she would blame herself for his beating. Gifford didn’t want to die without first having absolved her of the crime she didn’t commit. And he wanted to clear his own conscience for having hurt her, for not having been strong enough to take the beating and still return and explain that it was okay, that it was his choice, that she didn’t do anything wrong.
As it turned out, he was a long way from a clean conscience, from absolution.
Gifford placed his back against the wall and let himself slide down until he was sitting.
“I’m sow-wee,” he said to the night, because he couldn’t say it to the ones he loved.
—
Nyphron entered the lodge with Sebek at his side. He had no right to be there, but judging from the look on his face, Raithe knew he wasn’t going to be stopped, and Lipit’s men wouldn’t try. The Galantian leader crossed the length of the room and stood before the council, who were once more seated in their ring of chairs—one chair still empty.
“What’s going on?” Nyphron demanded. “What did the Gula messenger say?”
“The Gula-Rhunes have chosen Udgar to be keenig o
f the north,” Tegan said. “He’s challenging the keenig of the south to battle. The victor will be the ruler of the Ten Clans.”
“So they aren’t going to attack?” Nyphron asked, surprised.
Tegan shook his head. “Maybe they realize that reducing our numbers with infighting would weaken our ranks and hamper our ability to defeat your people. The Gula apparently have more confidence in the cause than we do, but they won’t have Raithe as keenig. Making the challenge is their way to ensure that. It seems they hate him…his whole family.”
Nyphron exchanged a look with Raithe.
“They expect we’ll put forth Raithe and are confident Udgar will kill him.”
“He would. Udgar killed my brother,” Raithe explained. “And Didan was bigger and a more experienced fighter than me.”
“What did you say in return?” Nyphron asked.
“We asked for two days to choose our champion, and we sent runners to the nearest Rhulyn villages,” Lipit replied.
“And what will happen in two days?”
“That’s what we’re trying to decide.” Tegan folded his arms. “We don’t have enough men to offer a serious challenge. The Gula-Rhunes have close to twenty thousand. Twenty thousand! Who knew there were so many?”
“I did,” Nyphron said. “And that’s just a fraction of the number who still wait in the High Spear Valley.”
Tegan frowned. “And did you also know they would bring so many to the meeting? Lipit’s warriors number only three hundred. Rhen brought only two hundred able men. We might boost our numbers another four or five hundred from the nearby villages. We have walls, but not everyone can fit inside the dahl. And our runners will take too long to return, assuming they get through at all.”
“I say we accept the challenge,” Harkon said. “This might be the best way to solve the problem. The old ways are best.”
“Yes, we should let the gods decide,” Lipit said.
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