All told, there were ten of them, counting Minna and the three Dherg. Persephone continued addressing them as dwarfs, having given up any hope of pronouncing the longer version. They didn’t mind it nearly as much as being called Dherg, and her term had the benefit of beginning with the same sound. She slipped and saved herself on numerous occasions by saying, “Dher—warfs.” She could see them wince at each slip, but she also thought they appreciated that she was trying. The others avoided the problem by not talking at all.
Frost led the way with Flood right behind, shouting course corrections and insults in equal measure. At that hour, the streets were deserted, and they made good time as they slipped through tight lanes and down steep, narrow stairs.
Passing a series of large buildings stained white with salt, they came upon a wooden pier and just beyond it, a row of three ships. Persephone had only ridden in boats like those used to fish on Dreary Lake, the kind two men could carry over their heads. The ships in Vernes were longer than three roundhouses, and their fronts were fashioned to look like the faces of beasts. In the center was a tall pole, and across it’s middle another pole, half as long, was wrapped in cloth.
Doubt crept in. Persephone had been so fixated on getting swords that she never considered the perils of where the path might lead, or what she’d need to suffer to travel it. She looked out at the endless horizon, which appeared more infinite now.
What’s out there?
She couldn’t even separate sky from water.
What if we come upon the place where Eraphus swims? What if we get lost in the dark and miss Belgreig? Could we sail off the edge of the world like Brin warned about?
Rhunes never went across the sea—not anymore. She was taking them into the unknown, and she wasn’t anything like Gath. She wasn’t even Reglan.
They stopped on the dock while Frost and Flood spoke to another Dherg, who sported a short beard and a silver ring in his nose that matched the ones in his ears. He wore an unpleasant sneer on his lips. They spoke in the Dherg language, and none of it sounded friendly or polite.
Looking back out at the endless water, Persephone thought she should have asked Raithe after all—or Malcolm, the Killians, Tope Highland and his sons, and…and…well, everyone, really. She obviously hadn’t thought this through.
She took a deep breath.
“What’s wrong?” Brin asked.
“Nothing,” Persephone assured her, even if she couldn’t convince herself.
Moya gave her an I-told-you-so look, or maybe she, too, was scared. Persephone preferred to think she was angry. If Moya was frightened, they were truly in trouble.
They stood alongside one of the ships, which bustled with activity. Every person on board was a Dherg, but unlike Frost, Flood, and Rain, they didn’t wear metal. Most were shirtless or wore only simple vests or sleeveless tunics. A wooden bridge connected the ship to the dock, and it knocked and rattled with the swells.
“It’s not too late,” Moya whispered. “We can go back.”
“And then what?” Persephone asked.
Moya didn’t reply, thank Mari. If she had given any answer, no matter how absurd, Persephone might have given up. She didn’t want to get on the ship and go out into the endless void. The idea of depending on the Dherg to take them there and back was nearly inconceivable. But the most frightening thing of all was relying on Suri to defeat the giant. Arion was right: The young mystic hadn’t been ready when dealing with Rapnagar. Would Arion be able to teach her in time? And if not, would the Fhrey step in? Yes, she opposed the idea of harming the giant, but she’d defend herself and the party if necessary, wouldn’t she? Suddenly, none of Persephone’s plan sounded sensible or safe.
After more negotiation than Persephone had expected, Frost and Flood waved them across the gangway onto the heaving vessel. Everyone, even Arion, paused.
“It’s all right. Dent cleared us,” Frost told them.
“Lipit said Rhunes aren’t welcomed in Caric. That your kind might see our presence as an act of war. Are you sure this won’t be a problem?” Persephone asked.
“It could have been, if there were more of you, maybe. But how could a handful of women and a couple of girls be perceived as a threat?”
“Then why did it take so long to convince that Dent fellow? He seemed quite put out by something. What was it?”
“The cargo,” Flood said.
“Minna or me?” Arion asked neatly, though a bit haltingly, in Rhunic.
“Was a long war,” Flood said.
“And long ago.” Despite the heavy accent that clipped her syllables, Arion’s dismissive tone was clear.
Flood frowned at her. “Losing leaves a bitter taste that lingers long after the sweetness of victory has been forgotten.”
Arion nodded. “Well said.”
“Let’s go.” Frost hurried across the bobbing bridge. Rain, who rarely spoke, followed him across, with Flood close behind.
No one else followed. They all watched Persephone.
She stared across the bridge, missing Reglan more than she had in weeks. If he had been there, he would’ve told her how foolish she was being. He’d tell her the whole idea was too risky, too strange. She’d insist, and he would take her hand, letting her squeeze it until the fear went away. Looking at the ship, her hands felt cold and empty.
Everyone waited for her.
She was only the widow of a man who had led a small clan of woodsmen, shepherds, and huntsmen, but if she didn’t cross that bridge, none of her companions would—not even the Miralyith.
We’ll do it together, she heard her friend Aria say once more.
She took the nearest hand she could find, Brin’s, and held it tight, waiting for the fear to pass. It didn’t, but she crossed the bridge anyway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Nightmare
There are many lies spoken during a war, even more before one. That is how they start.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The pitcher and glasses that Mawyndulë had smashed in the council chambers had been replaced. They looked identical to the old ones, and he wondered if his father had used the Art the way The Traitor once had and just reassembled the pieces. Sadly, the Art couldn’t reassemble his father’s attitude—his dusty attitude—into something sensible. A week had gone by since Mawyndulë’s outburst in the meeting, and his father hadn’t said a word—no lecture, no shouting, no punishment of any sort. The lack of action didn’t surprise Mawyndulë; his father was weak whether confronting his son or the murderers of Gryndal. The fane was weak, period. Everyone praised Lothian’s performance in the Carfreign during the challenge, but Mawyndulë still recalled how Gryndal had dealt with Rhunes on the frontier—simply a flick of his fingers, and five Rhune died in a burst of blood. That sent a better message. His father just didn’t understand.
As before, Mawyndulë slouched deep in the chair while his father’s advisers sat seated around the big table. They were discussing…well, Mawyndulë had no idea what they were babbling about. He was trying his best to ignore them.
A fly entered the room and landed on the Miralyith banner hanging high on the wall. Mawyndulë trapped it there with the Art, holding the tiny creature frozen to the cloth. He wondered what the fly was thinking. Could it think? Did it have the concept of a god? Did it wonder if it had offended one? If he let it live, the fly might return home and tell his fellow insects of the strange experience. It would likely feel as if it had been singled out for some grand purpose by the divine. What else could it think? It certainly couldn’t begin to fathom that a prince stuck in a council meeting had trapped it for a time simply out of boredom. Things happen for reasons. The fly must conclude this or else abandon all belief that it was the center of the universe. Out of pity—and the kindness born from Mawyndulë’s desire that the fly and its brethren would never discover how truly insignificant they were—he pressed his fingertips together. Across the room and nine feet up the wall, a tiny fly died an honorable, yet inconsequential, death.