The kid looked to be no more than eighteen, but he was built like a Dherg fortress, with long, beautiful hair the color of late-season maple syrup.
“This is your husband?” Moya asked.
Padera grinned her toothless smile and nodded. “Ain’t he something?”
“He’s so . . .” Moya swallowed. “Young. No offense, Padera, but watching your old mushed-up face smooching him is a sight I could have done without.”
Melvin looked confused. “She looks exactly the way she did on our wedding day.”
Padera laughed, looked down at her hands, and ran one over the back of the other. “Yep, it’s smooth as a baby’s bottom. I’m glad to be rid of the dark spots and thin skin. I was the Moya of my day, and Melvin was . . .” She looked at her husband and shook her head. “Nope, there never was another Melvin.”
“What are you two talking about? Padera hasn’t changed at all,” Moya said.
“None of us have ever met Melvin, so we’re probably seeing him the way Padera remembers him,” Roan said in her usual muttering voice, the one she reserved for talking to herself. “Or maybe we see Melvin’s own impression of how he imagines himself. Could be either, really. But it doesn’t explain why Moya still sees Padera as old. To me, she’s young and beautiful.”
Tressa’s annoyance grew once more. “By Mari’s fat ass, I don’t care who looks like what; you said Malcolm sent a message. What was it, woman!”
“Oh right. Well, as I was saying, the night I died Malcolm came by. I was feeling poorly, so I wasn’t in a mood for visitors. I went right on with curling up in my covers, and he just stood there staring at me. Odd became strange, and I saw a look of sadness in his eyes. Then he said, ‘The next time you see Brin, tell her, “When trees walk and stones talk.” ’ ”
“And?” Brin asked.
“That’s all there was. I thought there should be more, too, but he said that was the whole message.”
“But that makes no sense. There must be something I need to do when that happens. There has to be more.”
“Nope. That’s all. At the time, I figured he was drunk. Then he did something really strange.” Padera gave a sheepish glance toward Melvin, and Moya saw her blush. “He kissed me.”
Melvin opened his mouth to speak.
She stopped him. “Not that sort of kiss. It was . . .” She hesitated, and her eyes watered. “Anyway, after that, he left, and I went to sleep. The next thing I know, I’m in a river with a stone, heading toward a light, and now I’m here.”
Moya’s mind was pulled back to the swamp and the discussion she’d had with Muriel.
Our little Malcolm, who has trouble putting his own boots on, can arrange help for us in Rel?
If he wants to, yes.
In Rel, goodbyes were as rare as birthday parties, and Sarah and Delwin were mystified by their daughter’s departure, asking where she thought they were going. Rather than attempt a lengthy and awkward explanation, Moya asked for Padera’s help. The woman, who Moya still saw as an ancient matriarch, assured everyone that those who’d arrived with Moya had some place they needed to be. As hoped, that ended the discussion. While Dahl Rhen’s oldest resident had only just arrived in Phyre, everyone still accepted her wisdom. So it was with hugs and lingering waves that Moya managed to get them moving.
In accordance with Arion’s directions, they followed the brick road deeper into Rel. Gifford had suggested they ask Arion to join them, but Moya felt the fewer who knew about the key the better. Tressa also pointed out that if Malcolm thought they needed Arion along, he would have said so. The bright-white stones made Moya’s boots clack in a manner she found pleasing. Having trudged through field and swamp, the idea of a pleasant stroll along a smooth road was inviting. Given that nothing could be worse than drowning in the witch’s pool, Moya felt confident in her expectations for a brighter future.
After passing numerous homes and spotting side streets that revealed even more buildings, they moved beyond the Rhen village. More communities appeared, such as the plaster frame homes of Nadak. Then came the Dureyan mud-brick houses, which stood to either side, looking sorely out of place along the pristine brick.
Gifford pointed at a man who was splitting a log as they walked by. “Why do you think they are doing that? Chopping wood, I mean? It’s not cold, and I doubt anyone eats, so there is no reason for a cook fire.”
“To them, it’s a joy,” Brin explained. “Tesh always complained that there was so little wood in Dureya that it was considered a luxury.”
“Still seems a bit, well, boring,” Tekchin said. He frowned at another man who was stacking the pieces. “I like a good wine, but I wouldn’t want to drink it constantly.”
Brin looked at Tekchin, as if what he’d said was profound. “My mother complained about the monotony as well. Said it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Apparently, something broke.”
“Broke? Like what?” Gifford asked.
“She didn’t say. Maybe she doesn’t know.”
“Malcolm does,” Tressa proudly announced.
“Give it a break, will ya, Tressa,” Moya said, her voice weary. “You’ve told us a hundred times about the marvel that is Malcolm. It’s way past old.”
“No, she’s right,” Roan interjected. “He brought it up. In the smithy the night when Suri made the gilarabrywn, Malcolm said the world was broken.”
Tekchin snorted. “That’d be quite a feat. In what way is it supposed to be busted? Seemed fine to me.”
“I don’t think he actually explained that part.” Roan looked to the others. “But I remember he said that he was the one who broke it.”
Moya laughed. “Malcolm broke the whole world, did he?”
Roan nodded, straight-faced, but she had also once declared that the world had to be round. With Roan, there was no line dividing imagination from fact.
“Did he say how?” Tekchin asked with a bemused interest.
All those with a means of knowing shook their heads.
Moya spoke up, “And you didn’t press the issue?”
“There was a lot going on,” Tressa said. “The Fhrey were about to attack, Suri was preparing to kill her best friend, and Raithe was about to die, so—”
“Raithe!” Moya said, looking out among the many mud-brick houses.
“You see him?” Brin asked.
“No. But I just realized he wasn’t at the gate or your parents’ place. Don’t you find that strange?”
“Maybe he’s not dead, not entirely,” Tressa said. “Maybe he’s still in the dragon—part of him anyway.”
“Or maybe we just missed him,” Tekchin countered. “Moya’s mother wasn’t there, either. To be honest, I can’t see how people ever find one another. That ringing lets you know someone has died—but you don’t know who, or even what they will look like. Consider how many millions of Rhunes, Fhrey, Dherg, Moklins, Grenmorians, and who knows what else have died over the millennia. Phyre ought to be packed tight. I know I contributed my fair share to the afterlife’s population. The Galantians have slaughtered hundreds and we were only eight warriors. Think of the wars! Moving at all should be nearly impossible, and yet—look at this place—it’s quite spacious, and all the people we knew were nearby.”