Gifford swallowed, looking embarrassed. “I would have said strong.”
“How did you see Padera?” Moya glared at Tekchin.
“Oh, we’re both pure bull.”
Roan nodded in agreement, then her eyes went wide, and she let out a little gasp.
“What?” Moya asked.
“I just thought of something.”
“Yes, we know that. The question is, what was it?”
“Oh . . . I thought of the well in the middle of the brick road. Did you see it?”
“I think we all did. So?”
Roan looked at Moya, confused. “It’s in the middle of the road—right on the brick.”
Moya frowned and shook her head. “Am I the only stupid one here? Is anyone else following her?”
A series of identical gestures followed, making Moya feel better, and Roan blinked several times, bewildered.
“Why is it significant that the well is on the brick road?”
“Because I don’t think this road exists any more than Sarah’s home or your bow.”
Moya gave a glance around and was happy to see five faces looking back that were still just as muddled as she felt. “Need a bit more, Roan.”
“Really?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Oh, okay. The well is on top of the brick, it was made after the one who created the paving stones. And I’m going to assume that’s the ruler of this realm.”
Tekchin nodded. “You’re saying someone altered Drome’s work. So, that someone must have more power than a god. Who in Rhen could do that?”
“Oh, I know!” Brin had the answer. “It’s everyone. That’s what my mother meant when she said they draw something other than water from the well. She mentioned it was deeper and more vital. It’s the community. It’s all of them.”
Moya was about to ask what exactly Brin’s mother drew from this waterless well when she heard the ringing once more.
“Someone has died,” Gifford announced. “I hear ringing.”
“I think we all do,” Moya added.
Even Tekchin and Rain appeared to hear it this time, and Moya felt certain that wasn’t a good sign.
“Who do you think it is?” Brin’s face displayed a devastated expression.
“It’s not Suri,” Moya insisted. “It’s not. And we aren’t going back to look. We have a job to do, and we’ve wasted too much time already. C’mon.”
They walked along the bricks in silence after that, each lost in thought. Moya had a pretty good idea what was on their minds. She didn’t want to know who was climbing up the riverbank at Rel’s Great Gate. Whoever it was, there was nothing Moya could do for them. Suri, if she was still alive, was another matter. They had died for the mission that Malcolm and Tressa had cooked up, and her only path was forward.
You are brave, Muriel had told her. I can tell that just from the short time I’ve known you. Your fortitude is the sort of thing that will be important in Phyre.
Moya was disturbed by the silence that was more than a lack of noise. It was the absence of life. While alive, even when isolated in a room, she couldn’t block out the din of a living world: Wind rustled thatch; voices carried, and birdsongs wafted in through windows. When she had been in Neith—deep underground—there was still her beating heart and the sound of breathing. She’d never noticed them before, but now their absence was maddening. After climbing the last steep hill, Moya should have been panting for air. She wasn’t even out of breath.
She broke the stifling silence. “Is anyone else having problems getting used to this whole not-breathing thing?”
“I feel like I am; breathing that is,” Tekchin said.
“But you don’t have to.” Moya turned so that she was walking backward and spread out her arms, inviting them to view how far they had come. “Look at that. See how high we’ve climbed. Is anyone tired? Anyone sore? It’s creepy—creepy, I tell you.”
They never once strayed from the white road, and it never faltered. As they rose higher, the brick lane serpentined ever upward. Despite the switchbacks, they covered the distance between the Rel Gate and the mountains in a short time—or so Moya thought. Without a moving sun, a need for sleep or rest—or the beating of a heart—time became impossible to judge. Covering the distance might have taken hours, days, or weeks. Moya had no way to make a determination except by remembering various milestones they had passed. All she was certain of is they had come far, and they were high above the valley, plains, and hills. Ahead, jagged walls of gray stone were covered in snow.
Villages continued to come and go, but they were tiny things now, and not at all like those back in the valley. In the highlands, humans were shorter and hairier, and their crude huts consisted of stretched animal skins and bent tree branches. The Fhrey’s ears were less pointed, and they wore modest cloth wraps and lived in simple mud-brick structures. The Dherg, who were oddly tall, sought shelter in caves. And there was another group, a strange-looking race with large eyes and long arms. They wore robes of red. All of these people glared with angry eyes as they chipped rocks and shaved sticks. Then for a long time there were no more villages, no more people. The higher altitudes brought with them a world of pure, uninhabited wilderness.
As they entered the mountains, the road narrowed. Once wide enough for five to walk abreast, they now had to go single file, making their way through twisted gaps and along cliff ledges that provided fabulous views of the valley.
What happens if I fall? Moya wondered. Will I plummet thousands of feet, hit the ground, and then what? Bounce and get up? Will I just have to start over?
As they climbed higher, Moya saw snow on the ground. She looked up at the pale sky.
Did that snow fall? Or has it always been here?
Clearing one more switchback, a great fortress came into sight. Made entirely of stone, the building wasn’t cut into the mountain like Neith, nor was it raised up the way Avempartha was said to have been. Castle Rel was the mountain itself. More than twice the size of Mador, the stronghold extended into clouds that, until that moment, Moya hadn’t known were there. Made of obsidian and alabaster, the castle was a forest of white and black spires that pierced and defied the gray sky with undeniable insult. The perfect spear-like towers appeared to be weapons thrusting at the very nature of the underworld. Rage was at the heart of the design, a bristling symbol of defiance. In a place of peaceful surrender, Castle Rel was an expletive in stone. And Moya had to admit it was beautiful. Lines were straighter than any she’d seen before. Curves were exact, and the construction bore a balance so perfect that it made Moya smile against her will. She’d never seen anything so delightful and so disturbing at the same time—a beautiful flower made entirely of thorns.
“Whoa.” Tekchin craned his neck, trying to see the top. “Now, that’s something.”
Rain gaped as he moved to the front of their little troop. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s scary,” Brin said.
“I’m with you on this one,” Gifford added.
“There’s the Nifrel Gate.” Roan pointed to where the road ended.
Directly across from the castle’s entrance, a great arched gateway stood, supporting what looked to be a sheet of black glass. In front of it, a small contingent of gray-clad beings blocked its access.