Suri nodded. “Killed her as a traitor—but she never was. All Arion ever sought was peace.”
Nyree studied Suri for a long moment, then inched closer and peered at the collar.
“So . . . if that thing was taken off?” She pointed at the restraint on Suri’s neck. “What would happen?”
Suri smiled. “Things would be much different.”
Imaly sat on the stool nearest the hearth, trying to lose the chill that came from walking to Vasek’s house in the freezing rain, while she listened to Nyree give her account of her latest meeting with Suri. The Master of Secrets’ home—a tiny, humble residence for such an important figure—was located a full half mile from the central square. Imaly imagined the frustration Vasek experienced when forced to hike to the palace to supply the fane with his daily reports.
Most people might have suspected that Vasek’s poor opinion of the fane had been the direct result of Lothian burning him, but Imaly guessed it was actually the result of a thousand little cuts delivered over the course of centuries that had severed his leash. Whatever the case, she was glad that Vasek was siding with her, at least for now.
The house was austere, lacking mementos as one would expect from a Master of Secrets, but that didn’t explain everything. Not only did it lack knickknacks, paintings, and pillows, but there were also no plants and only a few pieces of furniture. The stool Imaly perched on was the only seat. There was no table and only a tiny shelf upon which rested a single empty cup. Vasek lived like a man prepared to disappear at a moment’s notice—a tree with no roots.
By contrast, Nyree was a different species altogether. She was all roots. The priestess continued to live in the same small village where she’d been born, rarely ever leaving it. Imaly hadn’t seen Nyree in more than a century, but it didn’t matter. The priestess was one of those people who never changed. Fhrey were blessed with lives that lasted thousands of years, yet few did much with all that time. Even Vasek, who seemed untethered from his role, hadn’t altered course. People found comfortable corners, and unless something forced them to move, they settled in and stayed put. Nyree was an extreme example. She’d found success early in the Umalyn tribe, and her childhood beliefs merged so neatly into adult life that her career choice could have been—and certainly was, in Nyree’s mind—divine destiny. When a glove fit that well, there was no need to look further. Certainty inevitably followed. In Nyree’s colorless house of drawn drapes and locked doors, the world remained comfortably black and white.
Once the priestess had finished her report, Vasek said, “Thank you, Nyree. We appreciate your assistance in this matter, and we will tell Volhoric how helpful you have been. I don’t think you’ll need to come back.”
Imaly was surprised by this but wanted to show a united front. She nodded. “Yes. Go on home. We can take matters from here.”
They waited for Nyree, who hesitated to leave. The priestess ran her tongue along the edge of her front teeth.
“Something else?” Vasek asked.
“Ah . . . just one thing more. Suri said that Arion . . .” A pause followed in which doubt appeared to replace two thousand years of certainty.
Suri? That’s the first time Nyree has used the Rhune’s name.
The priestess continued, “Well, she said Arion only defended herself from attacks. According to her, my daughter never broke Ferrol’s Law. That means she wasn’t a traitor. If that’s so, can the fane make a public statement to clear my daughter’s name?”
And remove the stain she put on you and your reputation? Imaly thought.
“We’ll take it under advisement. Again, thank you for your time. Goodbye, Nyree,” Vasek said.
Once she was gone and the door closed, Imaly faced Vasek. “Why did you send her home?”
“Because Lothian’s patience wears thin. I’ve not been able to show him any progress, and he’ll soon be taking matters into his own hands.”
“That would be most unfortunate, especially since we now know the Rhune came here seeking peace.”
“Do we? What makes you think the Rhune is telling the truth? I don’t believe a word of it, and I see no reason you should, either.”
“But she confirmed what Lothian said. She admitted that she can make dragons.”
“Which means absolutely nothing, other than she maintains the lie she came here with. I see no reason to change my opinion on the matter.”
“I confess I’ve never known whom to believe. You’ve made valid points to the contrary, but Lothian and Mawyndulë have long supported that it was a Rhune, not Arion, who made the dragon. And the Rhune that we have in custody—the very one credited with that feat—has substantiated the claim.”
“I think the key word there is claim. The existence of a Rhune Miralyith is hard enough to conceive, but how could one of her kind possess more knowledge than the fane—the son of the first Artist? On the other hand, Arion was a master of the Art, a teacher at the academy. She defeated Gryndal, and Fenelyus often referred to her as Cenzlyor. Isn’t she the more logical source of the dragon? But beyond the speculation about who knows how to make them, there is one indisputable fact.”
“Which is what?”
“There is only one. Why? Obviously, Arion’s death prevented her from supplying Nyphron with more. If this Rhune can do what she says, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. Dragons would have already darkened our skies and obliterated our race. Since we are still alive, how do you explain this?”
Imaly shook her head. “I can’t, but that’s not the only thing I can’t figure out.”
“Such as?”
“Nyree mentioned a collar. Is there one?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it prevents her from doing magic. I could claim the shoes I wear stop me from being able to fly, but it doesn’t make it so.”
“Then why does she wear it? I was under the impression she traveled here in a cage. I see no need for a collar. Has it ever been used to restrain her in any way? Was she previously chained, and whoever released her forgot to remove it?”
Vasek considered this for a moment, his eyes shifting side-to-side in thought. “Actually, as I think about it . . . the collar lacks a means of attaching a chain or rope—beyond a simple loop.”
“And do you have the key?”
“No, but I have no need for one.”
“If there is no need to take it off, then there shouldn’t have been any reason to have put it on. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Vasek didn’t answer.
“Does it have markings?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
Again, Imaly heard the disquieting voice of Trilos. What you’re missing is that you don’t have enough pieces on the board to achieve your goal. You’re going to need a second Miralyith, Imaly, or it isn’t going to work. What you are ignorant of, what you’re failing to realize, is that the Miralyith doesn’t need to be a Fhrey.
If anyone other than Trilos had said those words, Imaly would have forgotten them. Now, they were all she could think about.
Imaly noticed Vasek pondering. Unlike Nyree, even when he settled on an assumption, he never closed the door completely on any possibility, no matter how absurd. She got up from the stool and went to the window. The freezing rain continued to fall. Ice had begun to coat branches, and the street glistened.