“Probably wishing you hadn’t insulted Ezerton right now, huh?” Tressa asked her.
“Oh, like you would have done any different.”
“You’re taking pride in being as stupid as me, now?”
Moya opened her mouth, but realized she had nothing to say.
“What do we do?” Brin asked.
“Looks like, what? Twenty? Thirty?” Moya asked.
“How many arrows you got?” Tekchin inquired.
“Eight.”
“And they’ve got weapons now,” Gifford said.
The men at the gate formed up in straight lines and began to walk in their direction. No running, no rush; they moved slowly and in perfect formation.
Moya frowned, turned back to Tekchin, and sighed. “Arion said Drome was usually good-natured, right?”
“She did.”
“And we don’t know why he wanted to see us, so it might not be anything bad.”
“That’s true.”
As the soldiers came closer, Moya saw it was Ezerton approaching. Just as Gifford had said, this time he wore a sword.
“You will follow me, now,” he ordered and turned toward the castle.
The group of men split, forming two lines. Ezerton walked between them.
Moya took Tekchin’s hand. “Stay close to me.”
“Like a tick on a hound’s ear.”
She looked over.
Tekchin shrugged. “It’s what I used to tell Nyphron. Sounded better with him.”
As the party approached the castle, the soldiers reformed and followed from behind. Looking at the entrance, seeing the open archway like a wide mouth ready to swallow everyone whole, Moya realized three things. A lot of people had called the Fhrey gods. A few Miralyith thought themselves to be gods. But when a Fhrey Miralyith dwelling in the afterlife said someone was a god, you should listen. Moya squeezed Tekchin’s hand as they stepped over the threshold and went in.
Chapter Seven
End of an Era
If I had been Nyphron, I would have chosen a tree. A tree does not strike fear into the hearts of one’s enemies, nor does it inspire anything besides peace and growth, so I am guessing that is why he went with a dragon. — The Book of Brin
A thin veil of snow dusted the ground, except for the mound of freshly turned soil that was a dark scar upon the land. The barrow before Persephone was one of many that had transformed a flat field into a mounded plain, as if it had suffered a terrible pox. She supposed it had. So many years of war had raised an abundant, bitter crop.
“Cold,” Nolyn complained. He pulled on her finger.
“Hush, little man,” Justine said from behind them.
Little man? Is that new?
Persephone couldn’t remember having heard it before. She approved.
It’s good he’s reminded. Someday he might forget.
“Shall I take him back, ma’am?” Justine asked.
Persephone looked at her son. His cheeks and ears were red from the wind, a stream glistening under his nose, his mouth pulled down in a miserable frown. Nolyn had suffered through the farewell, and he’d cast his handful of dirt into the hole. His duty was done. Keeping him there was selfish, but holding his hand had helped.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
She felt him let go, heard her son trotting away.
“Don’t stay too long, ma’am,” Justine said. “Getting cold.”
“Yes,” Persephone replied without turning. “It is.”
As Justine led Nolyn away, Persephone was the last one standing in the field. Few had been there at all. Persephone had long believed that when Padera finally died, her funeral would be massive, but she had outlived everyone. With her death went an era. The old woman had been the last true remnant of the past—that time of stone weapons and gods across the river.
Farmer Wedon’s two boys, Brent and Oscar, who were now men, and Viv Baker’s daughter, Hest, who was betrothed to the last of the Killian boys, had all attended the funeral. And of course, there was Habet, who remained a comforting constant in the universe. All of them had been born in Dahl Rhen, but they were young, too young to remember how it was. They had only one foot in the old world. Most of their weight was on their other leg. The days of gathering in the lodge in winter to listen as Maeve told the stories of Gath of Odeon were over. No longer did anyone sit shoulder to shoulder in the flickering light with friends and neighbors, sharing roast lamb. And the innocence of knowing that tomorrow would be the same as today would never come again.
They are all gone.
Persephone dropped to her knees, clutching the fabric of her breckon mor tightly to her neck.
Padera, Reglan, Mahn, Maeve, Sarah, Delwin, Gelston, Aria, and . . . no, not them!
Persephone shook her head. She still had hope that those who’d gone to the swamp could come back because Malcolm told her they might. This strange proclamation gave her an extremely tenuous thread to hold on to. And as absurd as it sounded, and as impossible as it might seem, Persephone clutched it as if that hope alone stood between herself and the brink of insanity. But with each passing day, even that hope wavered, the thread frayed.
Persephone looked back at the camp and sighed.
Why—in a camp filled with people—do I feel so alone?
She loved Nolyn, was blessed with Justine, and comforted by Habet. They kept her going, but the people she had loved the most, the ones she’d fought and bled with, were gone. Without them, she felt weak and naked.
Winter had arrived, and even old Padera had abandoned her. That’s when Persephone realized the truth of it.
Padera isn’t the last of the era—I am. Without Brin and her book, everything I once knew and loved will be forgotten. After I die, the days of Dahl Rhen will be an age of myth.
“How are they doing, Padera?” Persephone asked the dirt. “Tell them to hurry, won’t you? Tell them they must come back because I need them. I need them all.”
Persephone began to cry, but she wasn’t sure who the tears were for.
Nyphron walked the empty, open plain between what had become known as the Dragon Camp and the forest.
A dragon. That should be my symbol, my standard.
He’d had nothing to do with the beast. He hadn’t conjured it, nor asked for it to be summoned. If he’d known such things were possible, he would have ordered twenty. They only had the one, but that singular winged beast had saved everyone at Alon Rhist and kept the Dragon Camp safe through many years of war. People saw it as a symbol of strength and protection.
Nyphron frowned. They’re supposed to see me that way.
That had been the plan, but Nyphron’s plans hadn’t been working out so well.
He paused his meandering stroll through the field when he caught sight of bone. A hand—or what had been one—lay mostly covered in grass and a dusting of snow. Only the fingertips poked up, as if the skeletal owner were trapped and trying to claw his way to the surface. This was the site of the last of the open battles where the fane’s forces had foolishly attempted to stop them from entering the trees. As they always had done in the fields, his chariots ruled, and he had won the day.
But not the war.
“Who were you, I wonder?” he asked the hand. “Rhune or Fhrey? Friend or foe?”