Dust was suspended in clouds, and from overhead, heavier pebbles continued to fall, pattering like hail.
“Tek!” Moya screamed, her eyes frantic and wild, her cheeks smeared with tears and dirt.
Brin pushed on the stone that trapped Moya, but the block was twice her size.
“Stand back!” Rain appeared out of the dust-filled fog. He had his pickax in hand and struck at the stone.
“Tekchin!” Moya cried again in agony.
Something larger than hail struck nearby, and Brin noticed a spear. Then another whistled past, barely missing Rain.
“Tetlin’s ass!” Moya shouted, slapping the floor where she lay. “He’s coming. Brin, can you feel it? The weight is back. Brin, Rain, you’ve got to go. Leave us. Do it. Now!”
“No.” Brin shook her head violently. “I can’t do that.”
“You have to.”
Out of the dusty mist, Brin saw Drome’s forces massing. They came from another section of the palace, struggling to find a route through the rubble.
“Leave!” Moya shouted.
“Moya, I can’t leave you.” Brin looked over at Rain, whose efforts had only managed to chip a small depression in the block.
The digger shook his head, a miserable expression on his face.
“Go, damn it,” Moya growled through clenched teeth. “That’s an order!”
Brin lingered as spears hit the wall and floor.
“Brin, please . . .” Moya cried. “Please. I’m begging you. Leave us. Go and save Suri. Please!”
Brin could hardly remember what had occurred after that. Later, it felt as if the events had happened to someone else while she watched from above. She knew she had grabbed hold of Rain, and together they abandoned Moya, leaving her trapped and helpless on the once black-and-white floor that in its ruin had turned a somber, indistinct gray.
“Go through!” Brin shouted to everyone waiting at the gate.
No one listened.
“What happened to Moya?” Gifford asked. “Where’s Tekchin?”
Brin shook her head. “Not coming. Everyone go through now!”
Another boom sounded from the castle, and Brin felt heavier.
The master of the house is coming.
“We can’t leave them, Brin!” Gifford declared.
Before he could think about it, the Keeper wrapped an arm around his elbow and pulled. “We have to! He’s coming!”
“It’s open!” Tressa announced.
Looking through the doorway to Nifrel, all Brin saw was darkness, but it hardly mattered; her eyes were too filled with tears to see.
She pulled on Gifford.
“Stop!” Drome shouted from somewhere—maybe everywhere.
With a leap, Brin hauled harder on Gifford and together they passed through the portal into the darkness beyond.
Chapter Eleven
The Hero
I can only imagine the fear that must have existed in the land of the Fhrey during those years when we besieged Avempartha. In Rhulyn, we were used to facing the possibility of dying every day, but to the Fhrey, Death was an unwanted stranger who had only recently moved in. — The Book of Brin
Mawyndulë never used to tire of the corridors and halls of the Talwara. He’d spent years inside, entertaining himself: He’d see how far he could slide across the polished floor or down the grand stairs’ banister. He never got tired of trying to spit into the river from the map room’s balcony or swinging from the curtains in the great room. Lately, however, none of those things interested him.
Maybe they never did. It’s just all I had.
Serving in the Aquila, meeting Makareta, and going to war all managed to widen his world and tarnish the little pleasures of his youth. This last trip to Avempartha had utterly broken them. Those three days out and three back had been his first time on his own away from home. Treya had been with him, but if he counted her, he might as well include his blanket and the horse. That trip was his first taste of true independence, of freedom. He’d found it scary, but exciting. While not as exciting as Makareta, his travels were better than sliding down hallways. And he’d also discovered something else—a sense of accomplishment. With this came a new restlessness, a sense that the Talwara, which had always felt so huge, was now stifling.
“You have truly solidified your status as a hero of the people,” Imaly said as she came down the steps of the Airenthenon after the conclusion of that week’s Aquila session.
Mawyndulë didn’t go to the council meetings anymore. Too many bad memories in there. Instead, he had waited outside. He hadn’t had a chance to speak to Imaly since coming back, and he was curious about what she thought of his excursion and prize. “Have I?”
“First, you protected the Aquila and the Airenthenon, and now this.” Imaly descended the steps awkwardly—but then everything she did physically was ungraceful. “Come. Walk me home.” She led the way down the steps.
“What do you mean—this?”
“News has gotten out that the Rhune you brought here holds the secret to our victory. Is it true?”
“That has yet to be seen,” Mawyndulë said. “Vasek was put in charge of getting the knowledge of dragons out of her. It’s been days, and so far, he has nothing. As a result, my father has taken to throwing things. If Vasek doesn’t succeed soon, the Master of Secrets might become one more shattered wineglass.”
“Why is Vasek interrogating her? Why isn’t Synne, or you, forcing the truth out of this Rhune? Surely the Art is more adept at extracting information from unwilling subjects.”
Mawyndulë nodded. “Normally it is, but this Rhune has a special collar on her that prevents the use of the Art.”
Imaly looked confused. “Why not remove it? If an enemy warrior were taken prisoner, we wouldn’t allow him to wear armor.”
“Oh, it’s not by choice that she wears it. Jerydd forced it on her. The collar also prevents her from using the Art.”
“So, she really is a Rhune Miralyith?”
Mawyndulë shrugged. “There is some speculation to that effect. Jerydd certainly thinks so, but I never actually saw her do anything.”
“Still, she could be dangerous, couldn’t she? I mean, if the collar were removed.” Imaly appeared outraged as she shook her head. “Your father ordered you to bring this monster into our city? What if someone unlocked that collar? How many would die before—”
Mawyndulë shook his head. “Don’t worry. The collar can’t be removed.”
“Your father has many enemies. Some misguided fool might steal the key and—”
Again, Mawyndulë stopped her. “There is no key. The lock is sealed with the Art.”
“It could still be cut off. A simple saw or chisel could do the trick.”
“The whole collar and lock are protected.”
Imaly frowned. “I thought this collar nullified magic.”
“It does. The Orinfar markings are on the inside. This allows a weave to be placed on the outside. Sort of like varnishing the exterior of wood to protect it from harm. And it’s pretty tight.”
“So it can never be removed?”