She was older and wore some type of disgusting dress made of crudely woven black-dyed wool. She had long hair and a lot of it.
“I sent Suri to bring Nyphron,” the Rhune told her, keeping a distance and standing against the doorframe.
“You’re Persephone?”
“Yes.” She nodded many times.
“The other one, Suri, said that people have been taking care of me.” Her hand came up and touched her bandages.
More nods. “You suffered serious injury. Afraid you might die. We knitted you. Stopped bleeding.”
“Knitted? Do you mean sewed? I was bleeding?” Arion felt her nausea grow.
“Yes. Very much.”
Arion inched down off her elbows and closed her eyes. That felt much better. Her head was growing fuzzy again. Already she was exhausted and wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t. She had to stay awake. She had to find out what was going on.
“Who hit me and why?”
Persephone didn’t respond.
Slowly Arion turned to look at her. “Did you hit me?”
“No!”
“Well, who, then?”
The Rhune looked terrified. “Please not to kill us. Rhune people do no wrong. We people of Dahl Rhen good people, very, very good. Never harmed you or yours. Lived long years by treaty signed in Alon Rhist. Never broke it. Not once. Done nothing wrong. Very peaceful we people be.”
The Rhune’s mastery of the Fhrey language suffered when she was nervous.
“Wait. Was it a Rhune that hit me, then?” She saw in Persephone’s eyes that it was. More docile than inebriated sheep, Vertumus had told her. Rhunes think Fhrey are gods, everyone had said. They had left out the Rhunes’ odd quirk of worshipping their gods by battering them senseless with rocks. “Why would a Rhune hit me?”
“You were fighting with Nyphron. Nyphron good to us…ah…Nyphron has been good to us.”
Arion’s eyes went wide. She remembered it now. She had confronted Nyphron. He resisted. The others, the Galantians, tried to interfere, and then—
Once again, the sound of feet on wood approached, and Persephone dodged out of the way as Nyphron entered. He approached hesitantly, shield on his left arm. Behind him came another Fhrey, his arms crossed over his body, gripping the handles of two short swords.
“You live,” Nyphron said, his tone decidedly disappointed.
“Your concern is overwhelming,” she replied.
“I’m just a bit surprised. I didn’t think I would need to be told when you woke. I sort of expected the news to be apparent when the sun went dark and the ground swallowed us. There’s not even lightning or thunder. Isn’t that what you Miralyith do just before you murder people?”
They didn’t do anything to me, she thought. He doesn’t know.
“Sorry to disappoint,” she said. “But I have a headache. It seems someone hit me with a rock.”
“Not hard enough, apparently.”
If you only knew, Arion thought.
Her best hope was to make sure he didn’t. She’d never heard of anyone losing the Art, but then again, head injuries weren’t a common occurrence among the Miralyith. The injury had to be responsible. If she had a day or two to heal, then maybe—
“For what it’s worth, the Rhunes saved you. You were leaking blood like a punctured wineskin.” He pointed at Persephone. “It was her idea to sew you up. Why, I don’t know.”
“And what did you do?”
“Not a thing. I watched you bleed in the dirt and did nothing at all. No, that’s not true. I smiled a good deal.”
His sword-gripping friend shifted uncomfortably.
“I don’t like you,” Nyphron went on, his tone simmering between contempt and rage, but his hand didn’t go near his sword, which Arion was exceedingly happy about.
Arion had never been scared of swords any more than she’d been afraid of wolves. Yet at that moment, both worried her, and the long metal weapons kept drawing her attention.
“I don’t like your kind,” Nyphron told her. “You act cowardly—without honor.”
“And it was a Miralyith who killed your father.” She pointed this out in the hope that her understanding might calm him, but she didn’t see a marked difference. If anything, it made him angrier. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She couldn’t; her head was too fuzzy.
“My father had hoped to restore the Instarya’s rights as Fhrey. Rights your people stole.” Nyphron paused, then after a breath said, “You came here to arrest me, to haul me back so I could also be humiliated and murdered before an audience of asica-wearing Miralyith—more entertainment for the fane. I could have let you die. All I had to do was stop her. Just keep the Rhune away.” He glanced at Persephone, who stood frozen against the doorframe as if she’d been nailed there. “You would have bled to death facedown in the dirt—and it still would have been with more dignity than your fane granted my father. So to answer your question, I did nothing, and you’re alive because of it.” He leaned closer. “You owe me and everyone in this village your life. Maybe you should think about that while you dream up whatever destruction you have planned.”
Arion didn’t have any plans for destruction. She was still trying to piece together what had happened and wondering if the two swords Nyphron’s friend was keeping warm with his palms would come out anytime soon. The only positive thing was that she didn’t have an opportunity to dwell on the throbbing of her head, which hurt so badly that her eyes watered.
“You might also consider that there is an alternative to slaughtering everyone,” Nyphron said. “You could let us go. The Galantians and I will live out our days in the wilds. You won’t hear from us again. We’ll disappear. If you have to, you could tell the fane you found and killed us. Problem solved, ego served, page turned. I think you owe me that much for letting you wake up.”
“I’ll consider it.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. The pain in her head was reasserting itself with a fury.
“Since each breath you take is a gift we gave you when your head was dangling from your neck like a dead goose, I hope you’ll be considerate enough to at least inform me of any decision you make before ripping the sky apart.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say as the pain forced her teeth to clench. She held his stare as long as she could, the pain hammering hard with each second. Arion was relieved when he broke first.
“Anything can I get you?” Persephone asked. She grimaced nervously. “Is—there—anything—I—can—get—for—you?”
“I want to sleep. I just need to rest, and I’ll be better.”
She hoped that was true.
—
The room was dark the next time Arion woke. Outside the window, stars shone. Inside the room, a single lamp—a hollowed-out block of chalk stuffed with animal fat—revealed the same girl she had awakened to before. This time the girl lay on the floor. Her head was propped against the side of the wolf, which lay sprawled across the wooden floor. Once more, Suri played with a loop of string.
Arion wasn’t in any immediate pain for a change and just lay still, watching as the girl wove a surprisingly complex pattern. Arion had no idea Rhunes played the same game she taught her students, and seeing it was like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. Arion knew the design. After centuries, she’d likely formed every possible combination. The one between Suri’s fingers was what Arion referred to as the Spider’s Box, and the girl was doing a lovely job. Her fingers worked with unexpected facility—whirling, twisting, and drawing out the string with nimble grace and uncompromising confidence. Arion realized this Rhune girl, who used a wolf as a pillow, was doing a much better job of weaving than Mawyndulë ever had.