“Me, too,” Mawyndulë replied with his own whisper. “I sometimes imagine spotting her in a crowd.”
“What would you do if that happened?”
This was a question he’d asked himself before. In the past, he always knew the answer, but now Mawyndulë shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Mawyndulë left Imaly in front of her house and began to wander. With his father in such a foul mood, he had no desire to return to the palace, but he had nowhere else to go—or so he thought.
Perhaps it was Imaly’s comments that caused him to take the river road back, or it might have just been an accident, but Mawyndulë found himself strolling along the Shinara. He stopped as he spotted the Rose Bridge and remembered the overgrown memories that gathered beneath it. Under the heavy gray sky, everything looked so dead: trees reduced to skeletons, fallen leaves rusting brown, the grass a brittle yellow. He tried to picture the place as it had been so long ago in the bloom of early summer, all of it so rich and full, so deep and green: people laughing, singing, drinking, making plans, and building dreams. He remembered the taste of the wine, the sound of the music, the feel of her hand—all of it gone. Mawyndulë felt the pang of that loss as a tightness in his chest, a fist squeezing his heart.
He considered going down, but the bank of the river looked wet and muddy and there were thorns.
It’s not the same anymore. Nothing is.
Staring at the place was like visiting a grave. A cold wind pushed him. He shivered against it and sighed.
Time to go back to my room, he thought but continued to stare at the spot where Makareta had hugged him. He tried to recall how she used to look—always smiling, her lips rosy from the wine. He thought of how good her embrace had felt, how she smelled, and the warmth of her body. But the memories were so thin that the effort left him cold and sad. He endured the bitterness in search of the last drop of sweetness.
I loved her.
The revelation added to his suffering, lending righteousness to his pain. He was a martyr. In this, he found the drop of sweetness he’d looked for—self-pity. He was alone with his pain, with his grief, and that made him noble, even more courageous, and worthy of admiration. He could have been whole with Makareta. He knew this as certainly as he had ever known anything. She was the one person who could have completed him, his only chance at happiness, and their future together was gone before it fully started.
I’ve got to stop coming here. It’s too painful.
A cold wind picked up.
She said she thought I would make a better fane. So did Imaly.
Mawyndulë pulled up his hood.
Your father is not a very good fane, Mawyndulë, but you will be. What’s more, everyone else sees that as well . . . Let us pray to Ferrol that we can endure the wait.
He found the hood’s string and pulled it tight.
Maybe Makareta wasn’t a traitor.
The wind blew harder, coming down the open corridor of the river.
He heard his father’s words, Granted, I had my doubts when you were caught up in that Gray Cloak Rebellion. I mean, what were my options there? Either my son is a conspirator or an idiot.
A freezing rain began to fall, making the surface of the Shinara jump and the trees rattle.
Maybe Makareta was right after all.
Chapter Twelve
Astray in a Gloomy Wood
Drome and Ferrol were twins in the same way that day is related to night and good is the counterpart to evil. The underworld realms they ruled were mirrors reflecting their light—or lack thereof. — The Book of Brin
The crow sat on a patch of dead grass watching them. At least Brin thought it was a crow. The bird was big, black, and she’d known them to stand their ground over a carcass, but there was no carrion to be seen, no reason for the bird to be there. Still, the crow was less than six feet away, glaring at them with all the disdain of a thousand-pound aurochs.
The noise of their entry should have been enough to scare it away. The portal popped loudly upon each person’s arrival. They burst through the door into the darkness of Nifrel with shouts and gasps. Brin had come across the threshold crying.
Moya and Tekchin are gone!
Moya had been Brin’s closest friend. After Audrey’s death, Sarah had opened their home to the orphan, whom Brin’s mother used to call The Handful. Moya became Brin’s troublesome older sister. She was the bad influence, the foul-mouth, the mischief-maker, and Brin’s undisputed idol. Moya had taught Brin to dance, provided her first taste of mead, led the pair on forbidden adventures into the forest, and shown Brin she could be the hero of her own stories. Moya had also lied for Brin, telling Sarah that she was the one who had broken the treadle on the loom. Sarah had made Moya sleep on an empty stomach for that—Brin didn’t sleep at all. Moya had always protected her, and in all the years they lived in Dahl Rhen, no one ever picked on Brin. No one dared. She’d always been safe with Moya around. Upon reaching the bottom of the underworld and kneeling in the frightful, dark, and gloomy wood, Brin didn’t feel safe anymore.
Wiping her eyes, Brin saw Gifford looking back at the threshold, his sword drawn, likely waiting for Drome or that big one-eyed giant to come through. Tressa stood with hands on hips, peering the other way into the gloomy wood of pale leafless trees that was Nifrel. Rain clutched his pick, unsure which way to face, and Roan sucked on her lower lip the way she used to after someone had touched her.
“I don’t think they’re coming,” Gifford whispered. He moved closer to the portal, which from their current side was a smooth sheet of pale light. With his free hand, he reached out, and his fingers passed through the barrier.
With a violent cry, Gifford was jerked forward.
Rain and Brin grabbed him, pulling hard. Roan and Tressa joined in, and the combined effort was enough to free his arm.
“Someone on the other side grabbed my fingers,” Gifford said while clutching his assaulted hand to his chest and glaring up at the brilliant opening. “Doesn’t look like they can come through.”
Brin nodded. “I hope you’re right.”
“What happened?” Gifford asked her.
Brin tried to talk but her throat closed.
“The castle came down on them,” Rain answered for her. “Tekchin is gone, buried, and Moya was pinned by a block as big as a roundhouse. I tried, but I couldn’t make much more than a dent. Moya ordered us to leave.” The dwarf looked at Brin. “Practically had to threaten this one before she got moving.”
Gifford nodded solemnly. “So it’s just us now.”
Brin sniffled. “Looks like it.”
Together they turned from the door to view this new place, the second realm of Phyre.
Tree trunks creaked and groaned, and a handful of shriveled leaves clinging to bone-white wood rustled—the whisper of a thousand ghosts. Brin couldn’t feel a wind, yet bare branches clicked and clacked—a hollow, mournful sound.
Not at all a wholesome place.
Gifford, who also peered into the dark wood, summed it up. “Makes the Swamp of Ith seem nice, doesn’t it?”
“Is that the same bird that was in Rel?” Rain asked, returning his pickax to the sling on his back.
“I don’t know, maybe,” Brin replied.