Age of War Page 29

  “Only Mari knows, and I suspect even she might not be certain.”

  Raithe was confused. “How far can a cripple go?”

  Padera smiled. “That, I think, is the question of the century.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Pile at Perdif

  I truly believe that hardship makes better people. Pain—assuming that it does not break us—provides the strength of knowing that such things can be endured and overcome. And I know of no one who suffered more than Gifford.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  There was no one there; just a pile on a hill.

  Didn’t take long for Gifford to figure out why. Cresting the mound, he spied the village of Perdif below, the remains of five charred huts circling a well. He counted the people, too. Wasn’t hard, only twelve—all dead. The bodies lay scattered—men, women, children, and two dogs. They lay twisted and splayed on the dirt, not a weapon visible.

  Gifford fell off Naraspur’s lathered back. No other way down. The ground was as hard as it looked, and he lay for a moment waiting for the pain to pass. The horse left him and walked slowly, wearily away. She’d be thirsty after their long morning race. Maybe she could smell water. Climbing to his feet and filling his lungs, Gifford called out. He waited, looked for movement below, listened, then called out again. No one answered.

  The only sound was the harsh, dry wind that blew unabated and the flap of vultures’ wings as they landed and fluttered from one body to the next.

  The sun was high, and Gifford hoped minutes didn’t count because he had no idea how to light the signal fire. They had sent him out with food, water, magic armor, and an amazing sword but nothing that could produce a flame. In that scorched land, he didn’t think it would take much, but he didn’t have much—he had nothing. No one expected the Fhrey would have visited Perdif first.

  Most villages had braziers. Given the trouble and time that went into making fire, they just kept one going. Such a thing, he could see, was a luxury in Dureya. Not a tree visible for miles. There wasn’t even much wood on the pile. Most of it looked to be sheep dung.

  How well can that burn?

  Persephone had likely ordered a mound of logs built last fall, but who could resist a giant pile of wood just up the hill from a village facing a cold winter?

  He hobbled toward the pile as best he could, which wasn’t good at all without his crutch. Giving up, he crawled. Within the ambitiously wide circle of stones, only three logs and a few dried dung patties remained. This wasn’t a signal fire; this was barely a campfire.

  Gifford lay on his back and let his body rest. His arms and legs ached, but he was alive. He’d done the impossible. Gifford had broken out of Alon Rhist and raced across Dureya in less than a day on the back of a horse. But now what?

  He sat up.

  What would Roan do?

  She’d manage something ingenious, something that harnessed the power of the hot winds. Looking at the pile, Gifford didn’t even see kindling. I don’t have so much as two sticks to rub together. Crawling around, he found plenty of rocks. Gifford had seen Habet create sparks by striking two stones against each other, and he tried reproducing the process. None of the rocks he found worked.

  I shouldn’t have gotten off the horse.

  He could have ridden farther. Perhaps there was another village nearby, one with a proper bow and kindling, or an eternal flame he could tap. Searching around, Gifford realized he couldn’t even see Naraspur, who had wandered off.

  How long does Alon Rhist have? How long does Roan? What a great hero I am, to come so far to fail because I can’t…

  Gifford focused on the little pile of logs and dung.

  What was it Arion had said? Something about holding a sunbaked rock, and…

  People who are creative are usually that way because they are more attuned to the power and forces of nature. They can hear the whispers of the world, and it helps guide them in the right direction.

  Gifford stared at the pile. He had no hope of lighting it, unless…

  I want you to do me a favor, Gifford. I want you to move your hands like this.

  He’d tried it many times since then, and it never worked. The attempts had always failed, but then he’d never needed it to succeed.

  Have you ever wanted something to happen and then it did?

  Gifford had never wanted anything more in his life than to light that fire.

  Imagine my hands turning black as ash.

  He stared at the pile and took a breath. Raising his hands, he made the plucking motions.

  Concentrate. Close your eyes if you need to.

  He did. He closed his eyes and imagined the pile bursting into flame: a loud woof followed by a burst of heat, the crackle of wood, and flame—lots and lots of flames.

  He opened his eyes.

  Nothing.

  The few logs and the heap of dung remained unchanged. It didn’t even smoke.

  She had lied. He didn’t know why but she had. Her and the mystic had—

  The armor—it’s covered in runes!

  Gifford threw off his helmet, and after finding the buckles, pulled off the rest of Roan’s gift. He concentrated once more, and as he focused, an idea pushed into his mind.

  Clap your hands.

  The thought came unbidden. Was it a memory? Something the mystic had said? Gifford wasn’t sure. Maybe she had, he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the thought had popped into his head, oddly clear, strangely certain. Fear and excitement gripped him then as he knew it would work. The answer to the puzzle was provided, and as so often was the case, it was obvious.

  Oftentimes we hear it as our own thoughts telling us to go left, or just a sense that going right is a bad idea. Some might call it intuition, or a gut feeling, but it is the world speaking in an ancient language that you can almost understand.

  The warm wind blew hard across his face.

  Roan would use the wind, he thought again.

  Gifford scanned the horizon. He knelt in that desolation, on the small knoll in the center of an endless plain.

  Rediscovering how to speak our native tongue, how to tap and use that power in meaningful ways, is what we call the Art.

  He was alone. No one could see or hear him. He closed his eyes again and this time he hummed. The wind came once more, a soft fluttering kiss that moved his hair. He held up his hands and let the air move through his fingers.

  Nothing happened, nothing magical, except…clay.

  Like the idea of clapping, this new thought came to him. He didn’t know if it arrived from without or within. The effect, however, was powerful. Another puzzle piece fell into place and he was starting to see the bigger picture. The air—the air was clay. The way it felt passing between his fingers, the way it seeped and spewed. This was how he shaped his cups and pots and vases. This is how he created.

  Gifford’s stomach fluttered in excitement. Something was there, something that hadn’t been before, something real; he was making a connection. This wasn’t make-believe. This was a genuine thing. The Fhrey and the mystic hadn’t lied. He’d found something, and it was inside him.

  Clay. The wind, the air, the sun, the ground, it was all clay, and he could shape it.

  He reached out and felt the wind as a malleable thing. His fingers felt something else, something strong, warm, and deep. He drew it back as he often did with the clay, squeezing, bending it to his will. Dirt and water spinning beneath his fingers became miracles of art. That’s all he had to do—make art.

  He formed fists and felt the heat build. The air swirled faster and faster, gusting his hair, pushing side to side, throwing up pebbles in a tiny storm. But when he opened his eyes, the pile was no different. There was no fire, no heat, no smoke.

  Failure. Another in a long, long line.

  Gifford’s sh
oulders slumped.

  Only this time, this failure…He thought of Roan dying or being made a slave again. He didn’t just cry, he sobbed hard and loud. What difference did the wailing anguish of a cripple matter to the world or to the gods?

  Clap.

  Gifford’s hands were still bent in two tight fists of rage and sorrow. He hated himself, the world, the gods, the vultures, the village, and most especially that awful pile of dung he knelt before.

  “I love you, Woan.” He spoke the words as a prayer, with tears spilling down his cheeks. Then, with all his might, he spread his arms and slapped his palms together.

  The pile didn’t catch fire.

  Most of Perdif exploded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Inside the Kype

  Some moments we see clearly. We know they are important; births and deaths are just such times. Others sneak up on us, invisible from the front, but always, always obvious from behind.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The sun was setting when Raithe knocked on the door to the Kype. He wasn’t alone this time. Moya and Malcolm stood with him as the little window in the door slid back. The same pair of eyes shifted, registering each face. The eyes didn’t look happy.

  “Open up, Por,” Moya ordered.

  The eyes focused on Raithe. “I, ah…”

  “You’re ah gonna open that door,” Moya told him. “Or I’ll put an arrow through that skull of yours.”

  The eyes blinked. The window in the door shut, then the big bronze door opened.

  Poric was a surprisingly small Fhrey with white-blond hair who appeared to live in the nearby little room filled with dirty bowls, empty cups, and a pile of wood shavings. Twenty or thirty tiny animal carvings lined the shelves and tables. Poric watched Raithe enter with what looked like a mix of fear and anger.

  “It will be fine,” Malcolm assured him. “Raithe has a broken arm. Makes it hard to properly strangle a person that way.”

  “Hard,” Raithe said, “but not impossible.”

  Poric’s eyes widened, and a hand fluttered to his throat. This might have made Raithe smile if he hadn’t been in such a foul mood. He didn’t have anything against Poric. The Fhrey was only doing his job. Apparently, someone had told him not to let the Dureyan in except for official meetings. Raithe had enlisted the help of Moya rather than Suri or Arion. Suri, who didn’t appear to care for Nyphron any more than he did, would have jumped at the chance for a little fun, but Raithe didn’t want to cause that much trouble until he knew what was going on. Moya was the obvious choice. As Shield, no one could stop her from escorting him to the keenig. If Nyphron tried to, then Raithe might have a talk with Suri.

  Moya led the way up the stairs. “Careful, the second one is crumbling. I usually just jump it.”

  Moya had denied any nefarious attempts on Nyphron’s part to keep Raithe and Persephone apart, but Moya also said she had no idea why the keenig would refuse to see him. Under normal circumstances, she might have asked Persephone first before letting him in, but nothing was normal that day. The war had begun, Raithe was wounded, and Persephone had nearly died the night before. Time felt in short supply, and when Raithe had added, “How would you feel if you learned Tekchin was wounded, nearly died, and they wouldn’t let you see him?” That was all it took.

  They climbed seven flights to what Raithe realized was the top of the Kype. Just as sparse and cold as the rest of the fortress, the Kype made a poor home. While Alon Rhist exhibited power and elegance, this building was colder and more barren than Dureya. Despite the lack of food and the relentless winds, Raithe’s people had songs, dances, and the laughter of children. The Kype was silent, their steps echoing.

  “We have her in the Shrine,” Moya explained. “Used to be the private chambers of Alon Rhist—the guy this place is named after. He was the only fane from the Instarya tribe, so they sort of worship him. Ruled for only five years before dying in some fight. They kept his rooms exactly the way he left them.” She stopped and looked back. “You might not want to touch things. The Fhrey get a little sensitive about stuff like that.”

  If I find they’ve treated her badly, I’ll do more than touch things.

  They found familiar faces standing guard out in front of the chamber door. Grygor, Eres, and Tekchin all smiled at their approach. They were playing a game of Stones. Tekchin had the biggest stack.

  “I asked you to watch her door,” Moya admonished Tekchin.

  The Fhrey shrugged. “I get bored easily. Not into wood carving like Poric. Left alone, I’d end up nibbling the ends of my fingers or something.”

  “Any change would be an improvement,” Grygor said.

  “Thanks.” Moya expressed the one word with weight to all of them, then leaned in and kissed Tekchin. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Embarrassed, Tekchin turned to Raithe, pointed at his arm, and said, “Got a scratch, eh?”

  “Had a disagreement with a giant,” Raithe replied, glancing at Grygor, whose head nearly touched the high ceiling.

  “They’re animals,” Grygor said. “Never trust one to keep a secret, or not bite the head off a Rhune just to make a point.”

  Eres and Tekchin nodded gravely, which made Raithe wonder—not for the first time—if the Galantians were joking.

  Moya opened the door and Raithe walked inside alone.

  The Shrine was a suite of rooms decorated with tapestries depicting battles and containing sculptures of half-naked Fhrey wielding spears or javelins, their muscles straining. Dark wood chairs with red-cushioned seats and gold vases and candelabras filled the space with an aura of opulence. This was by far the greatest assemblage of wealth Raithe had ever seen. To think such splendor existed across the river from the dung-brick home he was born in was shocking. Did any of the Dureyans ever have a clue? Did they even know such things were possible?

  If we win the war, how can we ever return to lives lived in dirt? What will become of us if we’re victorious? What will happen to the world?

  And yet this room, too, while lavish, felt lifeless. Everything was so clean, so ordered. This wasn’t a home to the living. It felt like a tomb, and he didn’t like the idea that they had put Persephone in such a place.

  He moved gingerly, creeping across carpets like an intruder. A door to another part of the suite opened, and Brin came out. She smiled and pointed at him with a hairbrush that she was holding. “You’re in luck. She just woke up.” Brin gestured at the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Raithe stood in the center of the Shrine, watching Brin leave, then he looked back at the door.

  Why am I so nervous? It’s just Persephone.

  He reached out for the latch and hesitated. For a moment, he thought to turn around, to just leave.

  Maybe this is a mistake. If Moya says she’s okay, then she is. If she were in trouble, Brin would have said something; Padera would have said something; Moya would have done something. They love Persephone, too. I’m being stupid.

  Raithe knew Nyphron wasn’t keeping Persephone a prisoner. He’d known it all along. He just didn’t want to face the truth. He still didn’t. Raithe turned away to leave.

  “Raithe?” he heard her call. “Raithe?”

  Too late.

  He opened the door slowly and poked his head in.

  Persephone lay on a huge canopy bed adorned with thick embroidered blankets and pillows of shiny cloth. There was no window, and the only light came from three oil lamps that filled the air with a sooty stench. There were other smells, too, unpleasant and unknown.

  “I thought I heard Brin talking to someone.”

  “She, ah…Brin just left.”

  “Come in,” she said.

  Persephone looked beautiful; her face did anyway. The rest of her was covered by quilts. Knowing that a raow had attacked her, Raithe had been worried about what he’d
find. As it turned out, she was pale, but other than that, she looked well.

  He moved in slowly, noting his surroundings. Several tables were littered with bowls and glasses, pestles and mortars. Jars were filled with different powders—the source of some of the smells. Raithe crept up until he stood at the edge of the bed. “I heard about the attack. You all right?”

  “I will be.” She made a clawing motion to her stomach. “Some pretty deep cuts make it just about impossible to move, so I’m stuck here while everyone else fights. I feel terrible about that. I’m supposed to be the keenig, and sure, I didn’t expect to be leading the attacks like Reglan did, but I thought I would be able to see them.”

  “I think your job was getting us here. Giving us this chance. Now we have to succeed.”

  She focused on his arm, and her face wrinkled with sympathetic pain. “Was it awful?”

  “I guess that depends on who you talk to. According to everyone who watched, it was wonderful.” He frowned. “Farmer Wedon was killed. So was Kurt, Tope’s youngest, and Hanson Killian.”

  He saw the names’ impact on her features and stopped himself. “Several others, too. I just don’t know their names,” he lied. “But it could have been so much worse.” Filled with guilt at having falsely accused Nyphron, he added, “I hate to say it, but Nyphron’s plan of putting those runes on the armor and having Moya’s archers attack the Miralyith was…brilliant.”

  “Why do you hate to say it?”

  He came closer, touched the covers on the bed with three outstretched fingers. “Because he’s my rival.”

  “Rival?”

  “Isn’t he?”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes searched the bedspread for one.

  “I had it in my head that the reason I wasn’t allowed into the Kype to see you was because of him, that he had given orders to keep me away. But he didn’t, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Persephone started to push herself up and cringed in pain.