Go on, tell him already! Do it so we can—
Wings fluttered overhead, and everyone looked up, including Drome.
Into the room of polished stone and flowing precious-metal waterfalls, a bird flew. A crow. Its wingbeats thumped and echoed as loudly and ominously as drums. It circled the perimeter once, then landed on the throne. It eyed them in the creepy, sidelong manner that birds sometimes use, then it let out a caw! The sound was shrill, reflecting off the harsh, unyielding stone.
Drome regarded the bird for a moment, then scowled.
“Fine,” he said and looked back at those mired in the black-and-white stone floor. “I’m in no rush, but I think you might be.” Moya wasn’t certain whether he spoke to them or the bird.
Drome smiled. “I have eternity on my side. Stay here for as long as you like. I don’t mind the wait. But you won’t leave until you tell me what neither you”—he turned and looked at the crow—“nor apparently my sister, wants me to know.”
He clapped his hands. Out of the floor, sheets of stone rose, walling them off, closing them in. After reaching a height twice theirs, they came together in a ceiling that formed a dome. A tiny window formed on one side. Too small to put a fist through, it allowed a single shaft of light to shine directly on Moya’s face. She didn’t think its placement was coincidental.
“When you are ready to answer my questions, just tell Goll, he’ll let me know.”
Goll? Is that the bird? Ink-Head’s first or last name? Someone else?
Moya stood with feet still trapped, forced to face the throne of Drome for what could very well be eternity.
How long has it been since we’ve died? How much time is left before Suri tells the fane the secret of dragons or is killed? When will our bodies in the muck of the swamp decay? How long before we’re really and permanently dead?
From outside the prison, the crow squawked again.
Chapter Nine
An Equal Trade
For many, telling the truth is a given; for the rest, conversations are a quest for lies and hidden meanings. — The Book of Brin
The door opened, and Nyree entered for the second time. She was alone and still dressed in that snow-white asica, but she wore a different expression. She kept her head down, casting furtive glances at Suri the way a guilty child might approach an angry parent.
“I, ah . . .” she began, hesitated, then closed the door. Whatever she was going to say this time, she wanted privacy. Then Nyree took three steps inside. “The last time I was here, I ah . . .” Nyree continued to struggle. Her face shifted from one awkward grimace to the next. “You caught me off guard, and I reacted badly.” Her tone was one of an apology, and it sounded sincere.
Nyree took three more steps, two more than on her previous visit. “You, ah . . . you look better,” Nyree finally said.
Suri glanced down at herself. Vasek had made good on his promise of a bath, which Suri accepted both because she was filthy beyond even her own standards and because she still hoped to make a good impression on the Fhrey. The new clothes—which were supposed to appear as a gift from Nyree but clearly came from Vasek—were simple linen. While they fit poorly, they were clean and comfortable.
“I suppose you are wondering why I am back?” Nyree asked.
Suri wasn’t, but she was grateful for another conversation. Despite everything, she still had hope for Arion’s plan, and she thought Nyree was her most likely candidate.
The Fhrey weaved her fingers together, holding her hands to her chest. “I came because I want to know why Arion betrayed us. It’s a question I’ve never been able to answer for myself, and perhaps you can. Why did she forsake her heritage and Ferrol? How could she join the Rhunes and become a traitor to her people? You were right about me being upset that she chose to be a Miralyith. That was reprehensible, but I can understand her decision. They are the ruling class now, and Arion always wanted power and prestige.”
“I don’t think we are talking about the same person,” Suri said. “Arion never wanted those things. She liked string games, baths, and a good cup of tea. And she didn’t become a Miralyith to side with those in control, she did so because that’s who she was. She was the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. I wish you had known her the way I did.”
“But that doesn’t explain why she turned against her own people. Why did she do that?”
“She didn’t.”
Nyree’s open, inviting demeanor vanished in a flash of fury. “Of course she did! She killed hundreds of her own people!”
Suri shook her head. “No. That’s not so.”
Nyree threw out an arm, pointing violently at one of the walls, making her sleeve ride up to the elbow. “She made a dragon that slaughtered our army and nearly killed the fane!”
Again, Suri shook her head. “No. Arion would never do such a thing, even if she could. As it happens, she didn’t know how.”
Nyree opened her mouth and just left it that way for a moment. Then she folded her arms and stared at Suri for a long while.
Suri hesitated to say anything. She didn’t want to risk upsetting Nyree further. Still, she had to take the risk. This silence might be her only chance. “When your daughter came to Rhulyn, she discovered an amazing secret,” Suri began gently. “You see, just like you—just like everyone here—she believed Rhunes were like animals or something. She learned she was wrong, that we were people who had thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, and fears. That was a surprise to her. But what really shocked Arion was that we, too, could use the Art.”
Nyree narrowed her eyes, a little frown forming. “You mean like a Miralyith?”
“Yes, just like that. Arion tutored me, but I already knew some things before she arrived.” Suri ran her fingers through her hair and made a lopsided grin. “She wanted me to shave my head, too, but I refused. Bathing was sacrifice enough.”
Nyree looked skeptical.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“No, I do not. If you could use magic, then why would you allow yourself to be held as a prisoner?”
Suri pulled on her collar. “This is marked with symbols called the Orinfar. They create a barrier between me and the Art. As long as this is on, I can’t create weaves. I agreed to this collar because it was the only way I could get an audience with your fane. Arion thought if Lothian could see us, see me, that he would realize that Rhunes have just as much right to live as the Fhrey. I came here in good faith to talk about stopping the war. I risked my life to make peace between our peoples because that is what your daughter wanted.”
Nyree shook her head. “No. No—that can’t be. She fought against our people. She broke Ferrol’s Law! She killed hundreds of the fane’s men at Alon Rhist by creating that dragon.”
“She didn’t. The thing you call a dragon was made by me. Arion never took a life, Fhrey or otherwise. Yes, she helped defend the Rhunes, but she never attacked. Never. I can’t say the same about Lothian and his son. I was there when your daughter died. She pushed me aside and saved my life. Mawyndulë attacked and killed her.”
“The prince? He was the one—”