Age of Empyre, page 33
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
“No, it’s okay. It had to be that way. It made me what I am and helped me win my race.”
Gifford’s father put a hand on his shoulder, making a folded-lip face as he, too, cried, while nodding over and over, agreeing to a million unsaid truths. “I knew you’d do it, my boy. Never had a doubt. Not ever.”
“And I got married,” he told them. “She’s . . . she’s wonderful—and she’s waiting for me. Right now, Roan is probably torturing herself, thinking I’ll never return, so I have to go.”
“We know.”
“Good, but the bridge is gone. That’s why I’m here. We need help. Is there anything you can do?”
His parents smiled at each other in pride as if he’d just taken his first step. “You don’t need our help, my love. I heard about your ride and how you started the fire at Perdif with just the clap of your hands. And you managed that on Elan. On Elan! Anyone who can call forth the elements out there won’t be stopped by a missing bridge in here. There’s always been so much more to you than you’ve allowed yourself to believe.” She looked him over. “And I can see now that you recognize it, too. The Abyss apparently does that for people. Rinses them clean of any prior foolishness. You are not a cripple. You aren’t weak, helpless, feeble, or pathetic. You are my son, and a power to be reckoned with.”
She kissed him. “But you must hurry. Brin left the key in Rel for you, but only for a short time.”
“She did? Where?”
“She didn’t say exactly, just that it would be somewhere safe and in a place you could find it.”
Gifford swallowed hard. “I’m sorry we don’t have more time. I wish—”
“We’ll have eons to be together, but for now your place is still on Elan.”
Gifford frowned. “No, I won’t be coming back. When I die again, I’ll be staying with Roan. I suppose I can visit, but I can’t leave her.”
“Just bring her with you.”
“She can’t get in.”
“Of course she can.” Aria smiled. Reaching out, she took the hand of Gifford’s father. “Just hold her hand as you enter, and she will be as welcome as you are. Now go, son. We’ll be waiting. Go and continue to make us proud.”
Gifford had barely stepped back through the door when Roan embraced him.
“You came back!” she shouted. “You didn’t have to come back for me.”
“It’s fine, Roan,” he said. “My mother got my father into Alysin, and I can do the same for you. We’ll be together, but we can’t go there, not yet.”
“Gifford?” A voice floated toward them from across the Abyss.
“Is that Moya?” Gifford asked.
“Yes, she’s over there with Tekchin and Rain.”
Gifford looked past Roan’s shoulder at the three figures on the far side.
“Is there any way for you to get across?” Moya shouted. “We have to get out of here! We need to get to Rel. And the queen . . . she’s coming!”
Gifford looked at the broken bridge.
“You are not a cripple.”
Gifford saw the door to the White Tower opening. Drums beat and trumpets blared.
“Get behind me, Roan.”
Moya didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t sure she could do anything. Something was going on near the door to Alysin. Gifford had appeared, and as far as she could tell, he’d come out of the door itself.
“Did you see that?” Tekchin asked. “Where did he come from? Does that mean he has the key? I thought you said Brin had it.”
“That’s what Beatrice told me. Stupid Little Princess!”
Moya saw the door to the White Tower open.
“This isn’t good,” Tekchin said while retreating to the mainland and facing Ferrol’s forces. He put a hand to his sword as he rocked his head and stretched his back.
“You can’t fight all of them,” Moya told him.
“Of course I can. I’m a Galantian. I’m not guaranteeing I’ll win, but I’ll try.”
“All by yourself?”
“What are you talking about? You’ll help. And I have the Great Rain with me, and he’s got that sweet new sword.”
Rain looked like he might be sick.
“We should tell Gifford and Roan to go back.” Moya said. “If they can get into Alysin, they’ll be safer. We don’t need to—”
“Look!” Rain shouted as he pointed across the Abyss.
At first, Moya had no idea what she was seeing. Roan was behind Gifford, who had his hands out as if expecting to catch something. He and Roan were amazingly bright, illuminating their whole side. Looking at them was like trying to stare at twin stars, but it wasn’t their light that had caught Rain’s attention.
The stone is moving.
The whole of the bridge, and much of the pillar, looked to be melting, boiling, swirling, and rising up like a dark and terrible beast.
“What’s going on?” Moya asked. “Is it the queen?”
“No.” Rain said. “Run!”
Not waiting for her to listen, the dwarf grabbed hold of Moya’s wrist and hauled her away from the edge.
“What are you doing?”
“Remember Perdif?” Rain said as he continued to drag her away.
Moya jerked back, but as was always the case with dwarfs, they were a lot stronger than they looked. “What about it?”
“It’s not there anymore.”
“What are you—”
All three were thrown off their feet as an earthquake shook Nifrel, and stone exploded into the air.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What Do Butterflies Do?
I thought I had been sent to save Suri, but I left her in danger on the wrong side of the river. As it turned out, I was not supposed to save her at all. I also had not left her in danger. As for the river . . . — The Book of Brin
What do butterflies do?
The question had fluttered through Suri’s thoughts ever since she left Estramnadon. Nothing in particular had summoned the idea; there certainly weren’t any butterflies around, and no caterpillars, either. Winter had settled in, and the ancient forest was asleep beneath a blanket of snow and ice. Suri was retracing the route she’d traveled in the cage, but she was only faintly aware she’d been there before. Occasionally she would recognize a tree or a bend in the road, or she’d walk by a village and remember the curious pale frame of an oddly shaped window that looked like a winking eye. All of it was dreamlike and a little bit eerie, because it hadn’t been a pleasant dream. The time she had spent in the cage had been a nightmare, yet even in that screaming white-light-noise of pure panic trapped alone in a rolling box, she had learned something. Suri wasn’t a placid pond but a deep well. And in the bottom were those char-white embers, the same ones she had called upon when facing Trilos, the same coals she’d ignited for the first time in the Agave when she—
Minna bounded, darting into the woods, thrashing through the snow, pausing to sniff at the base of a tree, then under a tuft of dead leaves. She crisscrossed the road, leaving a dotted line of tracks in an almost perfect looping pattern. She hadn’t changed. She was still the same carefree wolf she’d always been. Some soft-spoken part of Suri’s mind suggested it wasn’t altogether normal for Minna to be alive. This tiny but sensible thought was shouted down.
Is it altogether normal for me to have sacrificed her? Is it altogether normal for Arion to have been killed by Mawyndulë? Is it altogether normal for milk to turn into butter if you shake it?
Normal, she concluded, was an altogether silly notion. Normal was only what usually happened. People didn’t usually die, but sometimes they did. People didn’t usually come back from death, but obviously, that rule turned out to be more flexible than she’d first guessed. Suri had seen a raow eaten by a manifestation of the Art, which was created by the binding of natural energy held fast by the power of her own grief. In comparison, Minna bounding through the snow wasn’t strange at all.
Minna isn’t her real name.
It was the name Suri had given her when they both were young. Gilarabrywn was her true name. That was also the name Trilos knew her by, but how could Trilos know her at all?
How many lives does it take to become the world’s wisest wolf?
Maybe wolves were like cats, or perhaps death didn’t work the way Suri thought—the way Tura had suggested. Suri had never paid death much mind before, but seeing Brin—or rather, seeing Brin’s ghost—made her wonder if being dead wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
What exactly was it?
Either way, it was clear Minna had a whole other life that she had never shared with Suri.
Probably more than one.
Suri didn’t begrudge the wolf’s mysterious past. The notion only made Minna more interesting, more amazing, but there was a lingering concern. “Minna?” Suri said, and the wolf stopped to look back. “Would you like it better if I called you Gilarabrywn?”
The wolf whimpered.
“You like Minna better?”
Yip. The wolf’s head jerked up with enough force that her front paws came off the ground.
Suri shrugged and smiled. “Minna it is.”
The wolf started off again, then stopped when she noticed Suri wasn’t following. Suri stood in the road, her arms held tight around her, each breath making little white puffs. The wolf walked back.
“Minna,” Suri said, her voice quiet, nearly a whisper that carried clear in the sleeping bedroom of the forest. “Do you forgive me?”
The wolf leapt up. Her paws landed on Suri’s shoulders. A big tongue washed her face. It was warm and slick.
“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing. “I love you, too.” Suri ruffled the fur on Minna’s head and scratched behind her ears. “But next time, I get to be the sacrifice, okay?”
Minna trotted forward again, and Suri didn’t think she had actually agreed.
The trip to the river had been a long, quiet walk. Suri hadn’t met anyone on the road. She was alone with Minna, much the way they used to travel together in the Crescent. In many ways, it felt similar, but not the same. Not the same forest—not the same Suri or Minna. Things were more difficult back then. Harder to find food, harder to stay warm. Now Suri had the Art, and nothing was difficult. That bothered her.
What do butterflies do?
Caterpillars constantly ate and labored to crawl, struggled to avoid being eaten. But butterflies never appeared to do anything, never seemed to have any problems at all. They simply fluttered.
Arion had wanted Suri to go to Estramnadon and stop the war, which would save both the humans and the Fhrey, and she had done that, at least she thought so.
But what now?
Suri was certain of one thing: She was going home. She had wanted to return for so long, and now she was determined to get there. She also knew it wouldn’t be the end of her journey. After all, butterflies couldn’t return to being caterpillars. They had to be something else. But . . .
What do butterflies do?
On that early morning on the third day, Suri reached the end of the forest and spotted the spires of Avempartha. She could also hear the falls making its low growl. As she came out of the trees onto the riverbank, the Nidwalden looked to be made of black, rippled glass cutting between white banks. Large chunks of ice floated by, having broken off from someplace farther upstream. They drifted lazily, then picked up speed as they bobbed toward the drop, which that morning appeared as a wall of white mist set on fire by the early rays of a new sun.
No bridge led from her side to the tower, and of course, no bridge extended from the tower to the western side. The road merely ended at the riverbank. A tall, youngish-looking Fhrey walked toward her. He stopped the moment he got a clear view and stared at her in shock.
“Hello,” she said and waved. Minna trotted up and sat beside Suri, and together the two smiled innocently.
The Fhrey continued to stare, his face filled with concern and laced with confusion. He didn’t appear to know what to do with his hands, and he opted to wring them.
Suri hadn’t planned what to do when she got to this point. She knew the river was lined with Miralyith, and now they had dragons, too. No longer wearing the collar, she was less concerned about the Miralyith than the dragons—one of which was just up the bank. The beast crouched on its haunches, its wings folded up, its head down, its eyes closed, its whole body covered in new snow. She looked back at the Fhrey, who was still staring. She guessed the dragon was his.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Who was it?”
The Fhrey’s eyes widened, then softened. “A friend.”
Suri nodded.
“Is it true?” he asked. “Is the war over? I heard the horn blasts. Jerydd said Fane Lothian is dead, and that Mawyndulë will fight Nyphron for the throne and the war.”
Brin made it.
Again, Suri nodded. “I think so.”
“And when Mawyndulë defeats Nyphron, will your side really stop fighting?”
“If he wins.”
The Fhrey began shaking his head, and tears spilled down his cheeks. His eyes went to the dragon. “I killed her for nothing, then?”
“Where do you think you’re going?” A familiar voice whispered in Suri’s head.
Jerydd.
Suri looked up at the tower. Clouds muted most of the sun’s light now, and she couldn’t see him. There were too many dark windows, too many hidden balconies, and he wasn’t showing himself.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“No, I don’t think so. You need to get back in your box where you belong.”
“Why?” Suri asked.
“Because you are an abomination that can never be allowed.”
“Why, what?” the Fhrey Miralyith asked.
Suri smiled, pointed at the tower, then at her own head. “Jerydd is scolding me. What’s an abob-nation?”
“A horror and outrage. That’s what you are. The Art is for Fhrey alone. And if you were to get away, you’d teach the Art to more Rhunes. We can’t have that—no, absolutely not!”
Teach? Suri thought and started to nod. “Yes—teach. Tura taught me. Arion did, too. That’s what butterflies do; they show caterpillars how to fly.”
Looking at Minna, she added, “And how much more beautiful the world would be with more butterflies.”
Minna wagged her tail.
Suri smiled back, knowing only Minna could fully appreciate the plan. Suri waited, but apparently Jerydd was done speaking to her. She glanced at Minna, who waited patiently, sitting in the snow. “Isn’t that cold, Minna?”
Looking toward the tower, the Fhrey with the dragon spoke, “But you said we have a truce, and I heard the horns. There is no fane at the moment, so by what authority are you—” The Fhrey paused, listening. “That’s not right. She’s not doing anything. She said she’s going home. Honestly, Jerydd, if it wasn’t for Ferrol’s Law, I’d order her to rip your throat out, not the Rhune’s. There is no reason for me to do that.”
“C’mon, Minna.” Suri walked past the Fhrey and up to the river’s edge. She bent down near the water and brushed the snow away until she found a perfect stone. “This is a good one.”
Round, slim, and almost flat, the rock had just enough of an edge for Suri to get a good grip on. She picked it up, hummed a little tune, and threw it with an excellent sidearm pitch. As it flew, a span of stone formed. Where the rock skipped, support piers grew, and with each hop, a bridge formed. Fifteen elegant arches crossed the river just upstream from the tower.
The wolf yipped.
“Bet you wish you had hands now, don’t you, Minna?”
“Be careful. Jerydd is going to—” the Fhrey started to say when the fine stone bridge blew apart, pelting the river with pebbles.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Suri said. She saw Jerydd then, a tiny figure on a balcony, his arms spread out.
“You’ve misplaced your collar, I see.”
“Putting me in that cage was more than impolite. Maybe you didn’t know I had a problem being locked in small places, but even if you didn’t, you were aware how cold the trip would be. Plus, you tricked me, and I’m trying to hold my temper, but you’re not making it easy.”
“A cage is no longer adequate for you.”
Suri felt the draw. There was no noise; it was a sensation that crawled across her understanding, but Suri perceived it as a sound the same way tones and pitches were related to weaves. Usually when pulling power, the pitch was deep and throaty; this one was high and whistling.
He’s using the tower, focusing it, funneling it.
When the attack came, it was heavy-handed, like trying to hit a fly with a hammer. Pure power in the form of light and heat, similar to what had killed Arion, was now directed at Suri. She had played this game before. The last time she had bounced the beam back, but knowing there were other people in the tower, Suri deflected it into the river where it hissed and formed a massive cloud of steam.
She looked at the youngish Fhrey who, after that first blast, had taken the precaution of moving away from her and creating a shield. “He has no right to attack you. We have a truce.”
“It’s okay.” She looked down at the wolf standing at her side and smiled. “I wonder how Jerydd would like it if I put him in a box.”
She felt the draw of power again. Suri looked at the water. Ice chunks flowing toward the falls revealed the power of the current. “It’s the river, isn’t it, Minna?”
The wolf yipped again.
“You’re not powerful at all, are you, Jerydd?” Suri said toward the tower, not certain if he was listening or not, but she guessed he was. Even at that distance, she felt his fear. “All your strength comes from the river and the tower. One boosts and the other funnels the Art. That’s why you never leave Avempartha. And it’s why you sent Mawyndulë to take me to Estramnadon.” She looked up at the sleeping trees, at the snow and ice, at the overcast sky. There wasn’t even much wind to draw from. “Without the river, you’re helpless.”
She sensed it again, that high-pitched whistle as Jerydd pulled the might of the falling current. Suri stepped back, braced herself, and sang a single powerful note of her own. With a thrust of her arms, she slammed shut the source. Like a banging door, she heard it close with a power that echoed. Snow fell from the branches of trees. A few sparrows took flight, and then quietly descended. There was a trickle, which slowed to a drip, and then even it dried up. In its wake was a different world. A quiet world.
