Imaly nodded. “And given that, we should find out for certain what she does or doesn’t know.”
“Buried in a coffin! Is she dead?” Volhoric asked Imaly. “Did that fool Vasek kill her?”
The high priest had been waiting outside the Garden, pretending to prune the hedges that surrounded it. He had a small pile of twigs at his feet and a tiny saw that he waved and jabbed to articulate his comments.
“No, she’s fine,” Imaly replied, pulling back. She was concerned Volhoric might accidentally hit her with his pruner.
“Seriously? How could anyone be all right after that! We need her on our side—or at least sympathetic to our cause. She’s our only path to peace. Did you explain that?”
“I did.”
Volhoric lowered the garden tool and sighed. “What’s Vasek going to do now, start chopping off fingers?”
“That might have been his next approach, but I persuaded him to try a different course. We can’t have her hating us.”
He looked at the saw with remorse. “I think that tree has already fallen.”
“I’m sure it has, but the good news is that any animosity she possesses is with Lothian, and that could work to our favor. But that’s not our immediate concern.”
“What is?”
Imaly bent down and picked up a handful of little branches that the priest had been cutting. She held them pointedly. “We need to stand that tree up again, which is where you come in.”
“Me?” He stared at the twigs. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re the head of the Umalyn tribe. I need the cooperation of one of your disciples—a priestess of Ferrol. I need her to speak to the Rhune and make her feel at ease.”
“I take it you have someone in mind?”
“Yes.” She clapped the branches against her open palm. “I suspect Nyree is the only one in Estramnadon whom the Rhune might be willing to trust.”
Volhoric’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Why?”
He dragged a hand over his face. “Because I can think of no one more ill-suited to the task.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s as zealous as they come, utterly unyielding, and as cold as the frozen Shinara River in the depths of winter. Even if I could convince her that making friends with a Rhune would save Erivan, I doubt she could manage it. She’s a terrible liar.”
“Oh, no! She can’t lie.” Imaly dropped the twigs and held up both hands. “This Rhune has already suffered from several deceptions. She’ll be expecting that. We need Nyree to be authentic, so don’t give her any instructions other than that she is to follow Vasek’s directions.”
Volhoric stared at Imaly, dumbfounded. He shook his head, his saw arm limp at his side. “How is that going to end in anything other than disaster?”
“It’s been said that this Rhune had been close friends with Arion—she was there when the Miralyith died. I’m hoping that their shared loss of a loved one will generate a common bond and shared pain.”
“Only one problem with that,” Volhoric said, as he brushed at the hedge, dusting off the remaining dead leaves. “Nyree hated Arion.”
“But Arion was her daughter,” Imaly said incredulously.
Volhoric nodded. “As cold as the Shinara, I tell you.”
Chapter Four
Loved Ones Lost and Found
In that world beyond the veil of death, we found that those we had thought to be lost forever had only been misplaced. — The Book of Brin
Moya was thirty-two when she died, and while that certainly wasn’t young for an unmarried, childless woman, it wasn’t get-your-things-in-order old. As a result, the afterlife wasn’t a topic Moya had given much thought to. Still, she’d heard the stories. Great warriors went to Alysin, the afterlife’s paradise; everyone else was divided between Rel and Nifrel. The good went to the former, the bad to the latter. Nifrel was rumored to be a place of retribution, endless torture, and anguish. Moya never thought Rel would be much better, especially given it had been described to her as a sunless existence filled with sadness and regret. Moya heard all of this from her mother, and as Audrey had a reputation for poor judgment as well as a negative view of everyone’s future, Moya guessed that her mother’s descriptions were probably wrong. Death could just as easily be a wondrous place flowing with abundant food and drink. She honestly had no idea what to expect, no preconceived notion of what the afterlife would be like—dark probably, hazy perhaps, cold certainly. Everyone knew Phyre was underground, and Moya’s visit to Neith suggested all three.
The light shining through the gate surprised her, but passing through it was like entering an illuminated house on a dark night. From the outside and at a distance, the interior looked as bright as a star. Once inside, it wasn’t nearly so brilliant, but the outside changed into a dark opaque of utter black.
Rel, as it happened, was not a dark, cold cavern; nor was it like living in an orchard with apples on every tree and fountains filled with foaming beer. In her youth, Moya had never thought much of their neighbor, the Crescent Forest. But having left Dahl Rhen and seeing a wider world of barren, dusty plains, Moya had discovered a fondness for trees, a nostalgia that had fermented from childhood bitter to adulthood sweet. These trees were different from those in Rhen. Moya found their massive height and aged appearance as comforting as an old cloak rediscovered at the start of a long journey.
Aside from the forests, the land was hilly, but not unbearably so. A pleasant stream meandered through, snaking around the rocks and hills. In the distance, mountains rose and were unlike anything Moya had ever seen. Huge, snow-swept stony teeth made a wall, as if Mount Mador had given birth to a brood of equal-height children. Above it all was a sky of sorts, but Moya saw no sun nor any hint of blue. Diffused white light illuminated everything such that there were no shadows and no warmth. Moya’s mother had been right about that much: The afterlife appeared to be sunless.
“Huh,” mused Rain as they all took their first look at the eternal world.
Only a single utterance, and perhaps not even a word at all, but Moya felt it summed up what she, too, was feeling.
“I was expecting a bit more,” Tekchin said, sounding disappointed, his eyes peering off into the distant heights.
“I was expecting less,” Tressa admitted with a tone of relief. “Or perhaps, more of something else.”
“I think it’s grand,” Gifford declared, beaming a perfectly straight smile.
“No sun . . . so what makes the light?” Roan asked softly, presumably to herself.
Brin had nothing to say, but her head shifted, and her eyes darted, struggling to take it all in.
On the far side of the gate began a road, a fine street made of white bricks—chalk or perhaps alabaster. Along its edges waited another crowd. This one was larger than those previously trapped outside. Moya’s first thought was that they were trying to get out, but she soon realized that wasn’t the case. The moment the gate opened, the newly dead poured in and were swarmed by mothers, fathers, grandparents, and children. Shocked recognition was followed by hugs and tears—a series of grand reunions. Introductions were the next order of business. In the vast crowd of pushing bodies, Moya didn’t so much see as hear them.