“Suri!” Persephone yelled once more while pulling her own sword. “Suri, where are you?”
Persephone’s voice bounced back, and then…
“Lost another little one?” A voice came out of the dark, speaking skewed Rhunic, a cold haunting voice with a rasp and a high, taunting lilt. “It’s ours now. We have the small one in the dark where you can’t find us. Your dog is gone, and you can’t track where we are.”
The voice was right. Persephone struggled to determine where the voice came from; echoes confused her. The words came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
“Suri can do magic,” Moya whispered to Persephone. “She can defend herself, right?”
Brin overheard and looked at both of them, horrified. “She needs to make sounds. To do her singing. And she needs her hands to wiggle her fingers. It covers your mouth and holds your wrists with long, clammy hands and a grip that’s so strong. You can’t get it off.”
Persephone took a step, but didn’t know where to go. The stone floor spread out into darkness in all directions, running under a forest of pillars that eventually disappeared into the dark.
“She has a lovely face,” the voice teased.
“Oh, dear Mari.” Brin shuddered.
“Suri!” Persephone screamed.
The only answer, besides the echo, was a horrible little laugh.
Persephone looked to each of them, but there were no answers to be found, and no time to find one. “Let her go! Let her go, or we’ll kill you. We’ve already killed Balgargarath.”
Another chilling laugh. “You are all flies in my web. All little children to be swallowed. Please come look for me. Come into the dark and search for—” The voice paused.
They waited.
Then a wind rose, blowing so hard that Persephone had to steady her stance.
From beneath, they heard a rhythmic beating: thrump, thrump, thrump.
This was followed by a crack of stone that jarred all of them off their feet. Persephone fell, her sword and the glowstone clattering onto the floor. She felt the spray of pebbles and finally heard a deafening roar. She knew that roar. Trapped in the Agave, she’d heard it over and over, until it had hurt her ears. Then she heard a scream, a high, raspy, gurgling scream. This was followed by a snap, crack, crack, and snap as if someone were walking over brittle branches on a cold winter’s day. The screaming stopped. The thrumping of the wings halted.
Persephone had the presence of mind to scoop up the glowstone. Cupping it, she searched the area. Across the vast room, the light revealed the dragon lying down, tail curled, head tilted. They rushed down, crossing the room until they spotted Suri. She stood beside the dragon, rubbing the bridge of its massive snout.
“Good girl,” Suri said. “What a good girl you are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Aftermath
The seeds of unrest in Estramnadon were planted long before Grandford. By the sound of things, they had grown ripe and were harvested prior to our first real battle.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Mawyndulë stood bewildered beneath the great painted dome of the Airenthenon. Outside, he heard explosions. The prince wasn’t alone. Huddled around the walls, the other members of the Aquila cowered in terror. The gallery had emptied. The Miralyith who had filled it joined with Gray Cloaks who had waited outside. That’s where the battle raged, on the front steps of the Airenthenon.
They planned it.
The Gray Cloaks were trying to kill the fane.
Makareta planned to kill my father.
Mawyndulë was still trying to make sense of how any of it could be real when he heard someone crying. Hemon of the Gwydry huddled beneath one of the stone benches, staring at him in horror. They all were. Even Imaly watched him with concern as she sat with her back propped against the wall where she had been so inelegantly tossed by Makareta. The Aquila’s Curator clutched one arm, and there was a patch of blood staining her forehead. Only an abrasion, a scrape, but it looked terrible. Mawyndulë hadn’t seen many wounds. Blood bothered him, and, once again, he remembered Gryndal’s beheading.
Is that what they are doing to my father?
Mawyndulë started toward the doors.
He managed to take a total of two steps before the building began to shake. He staggered as the ground shifted, tilting and rocking. Hunks of plaster and stone broke free from the ceiling and fell, smashing with great bursts of white where they hit the marble floor. The fluted stones that formed the pillars of the colonnade moved, shifting out of alignment, making the dome itself slide. Larger parts of the ceiling fell, exploding on the floor—lethal hail.
One of the councilors screamed as part of the gallery balcony collapsed. Mawyndulë thought the councilor had been hit, but only two tri-legged braziers were crushed.
Mawyndulë was terrified.
All around him was weeping, crashing, and blood. He had no idea what was happening and didn’t want to. What he wanted was to be back in the Talwara, in his room, on his bed, with Treya bringing him cider and tarts.
As more of the ceiling came down, he thought to run out, but was too scared to move.
I need to get out before—
Another huge stone hit the floor, bursting only three feet away. Bits of debris pelted him.
Horrified that another rock was on its way down, he reacted. Mawyndulë drew in power and pushed out. He felt for the building around him, grabbed it, seized every pillar and stone and held fast, binding each block and pebble, weaving a web of defense. All that marble was his shield, and he wasn’t letting it go anywhere.
Outside, the world was a terror, filled with screams.
Inside, Mawyndulë supported the roof, weathering a storm he’d rather not see.
—
The exterior of the Airenthenon had been blackened with scorch marks. On the east side, the steps were gone; nothing of them remained. One of the great trees—the old sacred ones that had shaded the square since the days of Gylindora Fane—had been severed in half. Cut clean, the great elm laid its leafy head and broken branches over the stalls of the marketplace.
Standing on the steps outside the Airenthenon’s doors, Mawyndulë expected to see blood—lots of it. A grotesque splatter of red stained the market, but it was only paint. A war between Miralyith produced great carnage but little gore.
A member of the royal guard found Mawyndulë after the battle and informed him that his father had survived. The fane and his troops had chased the last of the rebels through the streets of the city. In the distance, Mawyndulë heard the occasional shout.
“What will you tell your father when he returns?” Imaly asked. The Curator stood beside him, both staring out at the changed landscape.
“That I wasn’t involved.” He faced her. “I wasn’t, you know.”
“Oh, I believe you, and I’m sure he will as well.”
She was still clutching her wounded arm, cradling it across her stomach. She winced with pain, and he noticed that she limped each time she took a step with her right foot. The old Curator slowly moved down what was left of the western steps, one at a time, always taking the dip with her left foot. Mawyndulë took hold of her good arm, lending what support he could.
They paused at the first landing, where the fountain miraculously continued to spout water, though the upper half of the stag was missing, leaving just a set of four spindly legs. Mawyndulë took that moment to look back at the Airenthenon. For the first time, he spotted the crack splitting the surface and leaving a horrific scar through the ancient pediment.