The crowd gathering at the Great Gate of Rel was massive. At first, Moya feared there had been a huge battle and many were arriving at once. But she hadn’t heard a series of rings, and intuition whispered that there had been only a single death, and the throng was an indication that someone important had died.
Having discovered that the ruler of Rel had people looking for Moya’s party, she considered using the distraction to slip away. One thing that stopped her was the knowledge she’d gained from the shepherd’s community of Dahl Rhen. Everyone knew that when a wolf pack hunted a particular area, it was the foolish, and soon to be dead, sheep that separated itself from the flock.
And then there were her curiosity and trepidation. She wanted to learn who had passed, but she was also terrified to find out. Moya hadn’t been the only one who had heard the signal, and that provided a clue. Brin, Gifford, Tressa, and Roan had heard it, too. Rain and Tekchin had not, making the list of possibilities short, and none of them good.
“It’s Suri, isn’t it? We’ve failed.” Brin’s voice was filled with concern as they all huddled together, trying to blend in with the rest of the crowd.
“We don’t know that,” Moya said while silently thinking, It could be Persephone, and I don’t know which would be worse.
Moya directed them to wait near the rear to avoid getting penned in. They only needed to know who had arrived. Afterward, they could disperse with the rest of the crowd and just keep going. She wasn’t certain exactly where to head but thought following the road would be a good place to start.
“She’s told them the secret, and they’ve killed her.”
“Calm down, Brin. We don’t—”
Moya spotted Tura waiting in the crowd, and her reserve of hope shrank. Looking over the waves of faces, she recognized Cobb, Bergin, Filson, Tope Highland and his sons, and the whole Killian family—minus the still-living Brigham. The Bakers, the Whipples, Holiman Hunt, and most of the Wedons were there. He was out front with a handsome young man Moya didn’t recognize.
Holiman doesn’t know Suri. So it has to be Persephone.
With that knowledge, she realized that there had been a worse option, and the gods had chosen it.
Just then, several of those who had gathered noticed her. Shock was followed by bewilderment and even a dash of irritation, as if Moya had done something shameful by dying.
“Moya?”
She turned to see Arion. The Fhrey looked exactly as she always had, still wearing the asica she’d been buried in. “Are you here because Suri has—”
“That’s them.” The mauled-to-death fellow they’d met outside the gate was talking to a small group of people dressed in flowing gray robes. He pointed toward Moya, then added, “The gate opened after they arrived.”
The six robed figures headed directly their way. They weren’t Fhrey, but they moved with the same elegance and grace. All were clean-shaven and tall, so they weren’t Dherg, either, but they bore the same stony stare and granite jawlines. These were something else. Something Moya had never seen before.
The ruler of Rel has people looking for us.
Tekchin moved close as one of the six stepped forward. The man—as that’s what Moya decided he most resembled—had the same green eyes as Muriel. His hair was straight, slick, and black, as if he had dipped it in a vat of Brin’s ink. The man’s skin was alabaster white, and his gray robes billowed despite the lack of a breeze.
“His Most Immaculate, Serene, and Renowned Majesty of Rel has decided to favor you with an audience. You will accompany us to his wondrous presence.”
“How nice,” Moya said. “But we’re busy at the moment. Please tell His Majesty that we’ll have to meet some other time.”
The man’s brows rose in surprise, then his eyes narrowed in seriousness. “It’s not a request.”
“Not overly polite, either,” Moya added, and she enjoyed seeing his brows rise once more.
“Watch your words. His Majesty reigns supreme here.” The man in gray swept his arm forward, indicating they should walk back up the brick road toward the village.
“Good for him.” Moya stayed where she was.
The others did likewise.
Moya felt everyone’s eyes on her. She was upstaging the main event with this unexpected warm-up act. A long moment lingered. Maybe it was only the length of a heartbeat, but Moya no longer had that meter to judge by.
“You will obey your lord,” the ink-headed, alabaster man declared with insulting certainty.
Moya knew she wasn’t smart. Her mother had reminded her of that little fact from the time she was born. She wasn’t creative or physically strong, and she couldn’t make a dress, shear a sheep, or cook a decent meal. Until discovering the bow, she hadn’t been good, or even adequate, at anything—except causing trouble. She didn’t mean to be difficult and most of the time regretted her actions, but something in her refused to bend. No one owned Moya. No man, no woman, no Fhrey or Dherg, and no ruler of the afterlife was going to make her bow.
“Tell your lord that if he wishes the privilege of our company, he will ask nicely. I’m accustomed to being courted with a please and thank you.”
The creepy, pale man—although he might have just looked pale because his face was framed in that intensely black hair—stared in confusion. “You will follow me now,” Ink-Head demanded and turned his back.
“Kiss my ass,” Moya said.
Brin’s hand touched Moya’s back. The Keeper of Ways was only lightly patting, but in hand-language, her fingers were screaming.
The man whipped back around and glared at Moya with enough intensity that she almost reached for an arrow. Tekchin shifted his stance, hand rising to the pommel of his sword.
“What does your master want with them?” Arion asked.
“None of your business, Fhrey,” Ink-Head replied without looking at her.
Moya knew that because they were dead the rules were different, but it was still shocking to see anyone speak to Arion with such disregard. Perhaps in death she was no longer the terrifying Miralyith she’d once been, or maybe they merely didn’t know her well enough.
“These are friends of mine, which is why I’m making it my business,” Arion explained, using her ridiculously even tone that proclaimed refinement and grace. “And besides, when I first arrived, I didn’t receive an invitation to bask in the grace of his wondrous presence, so I’m feeling a bit snubbed.”
“They will obey His Majesty’s command,” Ink-Head insisted.
“Or what?” Arion asked. She’d spoken the words matter-of-factly, but their meaning was clear. The shocked expression on the gray-clad half dozen revealed that perhaps they did know Arion, at least by reputation.
“His Majesty will not appreciate your interference, Fhrey.”
“Ezerton, we’ve been over this. I prefer to be called Arion, and if Drome has a problem with my actions, he can bring it up with me personally. I don’t conduct conversations through intermediaries.”
“Did you say Drome?” Rain asked. “You don’t mean . . .”
Arion nodded. “God of the Belgriclungreians—yes.”
Rain, who was usually as steadfast as a hundred-year-old elm, staggered.