Age of War Page 32

  “Arion and Suri were in that tower,” the old woman said as they hustled across the courtyard. A small cluster of men stood outside the Frozen Tower peering in at the open door. Roan and Padera pushed past those at the entrance. Then Padera stopped and grimaced at the steep stairs. “Go on, I’ll wait here.”

  Roan climbed the shattered remains of the spiral steps. She only had to go a short way before finding both Suri and Arion, lying together.

  “Arion? Suri?” Padera shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “Are they dead?”

  “Well, they look…bad,” Roan replied. She drew closer and bent down. “Suri is still breathing. Arion isn’t. Yes, Arion is…Arion is…” She didn’t want to say it.

  “How is Suri?”

  Roan shook the mystic’s shoulder. “Suri?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “No wounds but she’s not waking up.”

  “Damn her,” the old woman cursed. “She’s tried it again.”

  “Tried what?” But Roan wasn’t really paying attention to Padera anymore. She stared at Arion as she lay on her back, awkwardly bent, her eyes still open, staring up at the sky where the top of the tower had been. The Fhrey was thousands of years old, bald, and absolutely the most beautiful thing Roan had ever seen. Even in death, in that awkward position, she was still lovely. Roan reached over and closed Arion’s eyes. That was better. Now she looks like she’s sleeping.

  “You there!” Padera shouted in her ragged voice. “Go up and carry them down. Bring them to the smithy.”

  “Is it safe?” someone asked.

  “Safer than not doing what I tell you! Both of ya, get up there!”

  Roan recognized the two men who came up. She thought their names were Glen, and Hobart, or Hubert. They were from Clan Menahan, as was obvious by the pattern of their rich blue, green, and yellow leigh mors. They approached the two Artists, looking terrified.

  “Just pick her up! She won’t bite,” Padera shouted as if she could see them.

  The two men looked at Roan with pleading eyes, searching for assurance or at least sympathy.

  She nodded whatever approval she could give.

  Suri and Arion were both tiny things, and the two men had no problem carrying them down, clutching the two like babies, heads slumped against their chests. By the time they were out of the tower and crossing the courtyard toward the smithy, the bells were ringing again. Day two of the war was about to start.

  * * *

  —

  Once more, Persephone cursed her lacerated stomach, the bed, the raow, and anything else she could think of as she struggled to sit up and suffered for it. Stabbing pains jolted her from gut to toes.

  “We don’t know exactly,” the young man said. His name was Aland, a soldier from the Third Spear—Harkon’s Clan Melen battle group. Short, young, and thin, he had been assigned runner duties and become the official voice of the war for Persephone. “I got reports of flashes of light near the north tower, explosions, and….”

  “And what?”

  “The top has been ripped away, gone like the Spyrok.”

  “How many hurt? How many dead?”

  “Ah—two I think, one Fhrey female and a Rhune girl.”

  Persephone, Moya, and Brin looked at each other.

  “Well, which is it? Hurt or dead? Are you saying Suri and Arion are…are they all right?”

  “I don’t know their names, but one is dead and the other can’t be woken up.”

  Tears were filling Brin’s eyes, while Moya stood stiff, her jaw clenched.

  “Anything else?” Persephone asked the young man standing at attention at the foot of her bed.

  “Just that the men have formed up inside the gates, and the archers were ordered to the walls. Lord Nyphron has decided not to engage them today.”

  “And the Fhrey army?”

  “Lined up on the far side of the ford, but they aren’t advancing yet.”

  “Fine. Get me details on the two who were hurt in the north tower.”

  The young man started toward the door then paused. “Do you want me to tell Lord Nyphron you wish to see him?”

  “Nyphron?” Persephone shook her head. “No.”

  Brin crossed the room. In her hands, she still held the cup of water that Persephone had asked her to get before Aland had come in. Brin’s hands were trembling, making the water jiggle. “Suri and Arion?” She looked down at the cup as Persephone took it from her. “What do you think happened?”

  Persephone shook her head. She’d learned through painful trial and error not to shrug.

  “I should go,” Moya said.

  Persephone nodded.

  “I’ll send someone to watch the door again.”

  “Okay.”

  Moya lingered a moment longer, looking at her. “It doesn’t end. It just doesn’t end, does it?” Then the beautiful woman with the big eyes and the longbow named Audrey left.

  * * *

  —

  “You killed her?” the fane asked for a second time.

  Mawyndulë nodded, disappointed his father had put so much emphasis on the word you.

  “Are you sure? How can you know?”

  “I saw her.”

  “Saw her?” His father was still in his tent, standing in the light of three freestanding candelabras as two servants strapped on his armor. The sun was rising, but too weak and too slow to illuminate the tent’s interior. “How could you have seen her?”

  Tell him the truth. He won’t believe a lie, and he’ll find out eventually anyway.

  “Kel Jerydd helped me. He’s using Avempartha.”

  Since the start of the battle, Synne had been constantly searching for danger, but now she paused to stare at him. Even the servants stopped their work to look over. Both of Lothian’s brows rose.

  “He taught me how to talk with him before we left.”

  “You’re in communication with Jerydd?” his father asked.

  “Yes.”

  The fane continued to stare at Mawyndulë for several seconds, trying to digest this. Then he began walking around the tent in thought. The servants followed, struggling to finish their tasks. Sile, who was in his path, was forced to take a step back, pressing his massive size against the canvas. Another step and he might have brought the whole place down. “So that explosion was Jerydd channeling Avempartha’s power through you?”

  Mawyndulë nodded but was quick to add, “Yes, and I nearly died.”

  His father continued to walk in a circle, trailing his servants, showing no sign of having heard him. He stopped. “Ask Jerydd if he can do more.”

  I can do whatever my fane wishes.

  “Yes, he can,” Mawyndulë replied.

  “Good—excellent. Come with me.” The fane walked out of the tent.

  The captains of the Shahdi—the Erivan military—had assembled around a bare patch of exposed stone where a small fire burned. Each was outfitted in full battle gear of bronze armor, blue capes, and helmets with bristled crests of horse hair, color coded to their regiment. Some were tall, some short, most old.

  “My fane!” they all shouted, snapping to attention at his approach and clearing room around the fire for his father’s entourage. Several eyes glanced at Synne. Most of them had been introduced to her in the usual fashion. As a result, none of them made sudden moves in the presence of the fane.

  “Assemble the troops but don’t advance,” his father ordered. “We’re going to do things a little differently today.”

  Tell him about the other one, about the Rhune.

  “They have another Artist. She’s still alive,” Mawyndulë said. His father looked at him, confused. Mawyndulë found it nice that his father finally listened when he spoke, listened with real interest, but he felt it wasn’t his words so much as Jeryd
d’s he was listening for. “There’s a Rhune Artist in Alon Rhist.”

  His father looked puzzled. “Did you say a Rhune?”

  “We think she’s freakishly powerful.” He used the word we preemptively, knowing that his father would ignore any speculation of his.

  She’s not that powerful. I was just caught off guard. Now that I know she’s there, things will be different.

  “A Rhune? How is that possible?”

  Mawyndulë shrugged for both of them.

  “Does Jerydd think he can beat her?”

  Not a problem.

  Mawyndulë nodded.

  “Well”—the fane began finishing the buckle on his breastplate himself—“tell Jerydd to warm up the tower. We’re going to do some damage today.”

  * * *

  —

  Moya reached the parapet above the front gate. It was lined with her archers, Tesh among them.

  “Are you supposed to be here?” she asked.

  “Raithe didn’t say I couldn’t.”

  “You didn’t ask, either.”

  “You don’t know that,” the kid said, adjusting the tube packed with arrows that was slung over his back.

  He had twenty, maybe twenty-five in there—a bristling bouquet of white, black, and gray feathers. The other archers had a similar number. Moya remembered how she had fought a demon with only six, back when arrows had stone tips, and arrow meant a tiny spear with a row of markings. Now everyone had unmarked iron-headed shafts with three feathers placed to align properly with the notched end, and no one had any idea where the term arrow came from. Maybe one day if someone else learned to read Brin’s writing, they would know.

  Out across the ford, she could see the Fhrey army. Such straight lines.

  “Don’t let fly until I tell you,” she shouted, and the order was repeated up and down the line. “Wait for my signal.”

  “How’s Brin?” Tesh asked.

  “You know, if you weren’t here with me, you could go up to the Kype and ask her yourself.”

  “But then I wouldn’t be able to kill elves.”

  Moya bent her bow, hooked the loop of the bowstring, then looked over at the kid. “You hate them, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you? They slaughtered my family, my whole village, the entire clan. I just want to return the favor.”

  “We live with them, you know. I’m even—sort of—with one.” She didn’t know how else to put it. “Don’t repeat that, by the way—not even to him.”

  “Tekchin?”

  “Yeah, the ugly one.” She tested the weight of the draw. “Not all of them are bad.”

  She caught a glimpse from Tesh that wasn’t the look of a child. Too cold, too hard, too ruthless to be the eyes of innocence.

  “C’mon, even you have to agree with that—you saved Nyphron’s life.”

  That look again. He wiped it away and didn’t answer, but in his eyes, she spotted something he sought to hide, something dark—an awful, pitiless hunger that had no place in the face of a man much less a boy. For that brief instant, Moya was reminded of the raow. They all had the same famished look, and for the first time, Moya felt frightened of this barely ex-child whom she’d taught to kill from a distance.

  She was still staring at him when the world began to shake.

  * * *

  —

  They had Suri on the cot, a blanket pulled up to her neck. Padera listened to the mystic’s heartbeat while willow bark stewed on the furnace. At first, it was just Roan and Padera. The little men waited outside with the rest but came back in when Roan asked them to stoke the fire. Tressa came with them. She was the one who had filled the bucket with water for boiling the bark.

  Roan had grown up three houses away from Tressa. Her primary memory of the woman was the parties held at Tressa’s home; at least they sounded like parties. She had listened to singing and laughter late into the night and would lie awake imagining what it might be like to laugh like that. Roan was never invited. Tressa hadn’t been the sort to mingle with the slave of a woodcarver the way Moya, Padera, Brin, or Gifford had. Roan always wondered why—not why Tressa had refused to acknowledge her existence, but why Moya, Padera, Brin, and Gifford hadn’t.

  Everyone hated Tressa because her husband, in his ambition to become chieftain, had killed Reglan, and he’d tried to kill Persephone, too. Tressa had steadfastly denied knowing about her husband’s plans, but no one believed her. Moya despised Tressa. Brin hated her, too, and as a result, Roan felt she should as well; but she didn’t. Roan understood what it was like to be the outcast, to be the one who didn’t count. As a result, Roan smiled even while Padera scowled at Tressa.

  Tressa drew back. “What are you grinning at?”

  “Thank you for the water.”

  “I didn’t bring it for you. I brought it for her.” Tressa pointed at Suri.

  “Since when do you do anything for anyone other than yourself?” Padera asked.

  “Why do you care? Needed the water, right? Need it to make your witch’s brew, so there, you got it.”

  “Fine,” Padera said. “Now leave.”

  Tressa frowned and turned toward the door.

  “She doesn’t have to go,” Roan said.

  “She doesn’t have to stay, either.” Padera rinsed a folded cloth in the bucket.

  “This is my smithy.” Roan spoke with unaccustomed firmness.

  This brought a sidelong squint from Padera and an incredulous look from Tressa.

  “This isn’t your smithy,” Tressa said. “All of this belongs to the Fhrey.”

  “Which right now belongs to Persephone.” Padera placed the cloth on Suri’s forehead. “You remember Persephone, don’t you, Tressa? The one you and your husband—”

  “I don’t care whose smithy it is,” Roan said in a raised voice. “She! Can! Stay!”

  Padera and Tressa and even the three dwarfs looked over, surprised.

  The old woman went back to mopping up Suri’s face without another word. Tressa continued to stare a moment longer. She ran her tongue along the full width of her teeth, then sucked like she had something stuck between them. Finally, she drew in a breath through her nose and gave a little nod. “Thanks.”

  Right about then Roan felt a little lightheaded—she got dizzy sometimes from not eating or when she went too long without sleep—but when she noticed ripples in the bucket resting on the ground, she realized the feeling wasn’t coming from her. A moment later, the tools hanging from the overhead crossbeams began to clank against one another. Dust spilled down, and the shaking got worse.

  Malcolm came running in. He looked at Suri, then at the rest of them. “We need to wake her, and fast.”

  * * *

  —

  Raithe was lying on his cot in the barracks when the rumblings began. He’d heard the bell, watched the others scramble, but didn’t even pull back his blanket. No one stopped or asked why. He was wounded and wouldn’t be expected to fight unless the Fhrey breached the gate. Only that wasn’t why. At least, it wasn’t the wound they knew about that kept him in bed.

  It would take a man like Gath. Someone renowned, someone who everyone could agree was the bravest, strongest warrior among them. Someone who all the chieftains could kneel to and not lose the respect of their people. It would take a hero.

  That’s what Persephone wanted. Used to be him—now it was Nyphron.

  When he closed his eyes, he could still see Persephone as she once was, climbing the creaking ladder to the top of Dahl Rhen’s wall, wearing her black dress. That’s how he best remembered her, how she used to be. The wind was in her hair on the night the Fhrey had arrived, the day after Konniger tried to kill her and they had all jumped off the waterfall. She was so lovely, and she had needed him. He had been her protector against the Fhrey, against Konniger. He had be
en her hero.

  I wish I hadn’t asked her to leave with me.

  That had been a mistake—a huge one. Back then his mind was possessed by the lush fields that he and his father had found across the two rivers. He couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t want to go. Her own chieftain hated her, and the Fhrey had invaded. His idea to find a better place should have been embraced with repeated thank-yous. But he hadn’t understood Persephone’s devotion to her people.

  Lying on the cot, he stared at the ceiling. He could picture the two of them across the Urum, up on that hill. He saw a beautiful log house with an actual door, a field of wheat growing next to a field of rye, and a split-log corral filled with grazing sheep. The two of them happy and safe, far from the beat of drums, the claws of raow, the peal of bells, and the—

  A crack ripped up the side of the stone wall of the barracks. Pieces of stone chipped and spat across the room, skipping off the wood floor. The ceiling rattled, and the floor shook so hard, Raithe no longer needed to get out of bed. The bed did the work for him.

  Standing up, he found the shaking more noticeable, more alarming—as if he were in a little boat rolling over waves. He grabbed his sword belt and jogged for the door. He arrived in the courtyard just in time to see the remainder of the Frozen Tower collapse.

  * * *

  —

  “Get off the wall!” Moya shouted as everyone watched the north tower crumble.

  The massive stones came straight down, imploding and giving birth to a massive cloud of dust, dirt, and crushed rock. Below her, spider-web-thin cracks spread through the stone. Soon, the whole front wall of Alon Rhist began to waver, and Moya screamed.

  Whether the archers had heard her or not, they ran for the stairs. Then the tower collapsed. It didn’t implode; it toppled. Listing to one side, the stone staggered, then keeled over and fell across the upper courtyard, crushing the barracks and the kitchens, narrowly missing the smithy.

  Moya was shoved from behind. She bounced off Filson’s back and lost her footing on the steps. She would have fallen if there had been room. Too many bodies prevented her from going all the way down. A hand caught her by the wrist and drew her out of the crush. She pressed against the outer wall, letting the others run by, which they did without a glance. The stone she leaned on was shivering.