“It’s a war,” Gifford said, his face lit by the orange glow.
Fen pointed. “King Mideon has the strongest rebel hold in Nifrel. That Belgriclungreian fortress down there is where we are heading. It will be your life raft in this storm.”
Rain stepped to the edge of the drop. “King Mideon is down there?”
“Yes. And for Beatrice’s sake, I am willing to escort you.”
“Down there?” Tressa asked, shocked. “There’s a battle—a huge one!”
Fen peered over the edge as if she hadn’t noticed. She pushed out her lower lip and nodded in appraisal. “Atella is doing better than usual. Of course, he has Havar now.” She added in a quiet, casual tone, as if speaking among friends at a sporting match, “Traded Rhist for him in the last negotiations with Mideon—which was a great deal when you think about it. Won’t help, though; they still can’t get past Orr. Mideon is the only one who has a chance of fighting the dragon, and he won’t leave his citadel.” She shook her head with a disgusted, hopeless expression. “As long as Ferrol has Orr, no one will ever breach even her outer walls. Atella doesn’t care. He will beat on that same door for all eternity. But then, that is what makes him Atella, is it not? Been thousands of years, but for him, losing is somehow still a novelty.”
“This happens every day?” Gifford asked.
Fen nodded. “Well, yes, but it’s always the same day here, isn’t it? Now then, given that Ferrol has shown an interest, this won’t be easy. Your only hope is that she doesn’t know I’m with you. She’ll assume it’s just the seven of you wandering in the woods. You can refuse my help, but if you wish to avoid Ferrol, you’ll want to get down off this ledge, and I know the fastest way short of jumping, which you could do, but it’ll hurt almost beyond imagination. And if you’re all like this one”—she pointed at Moya—“it will take too long for you to put yourselves back together.”
They stared at one another, as if Fen were speaking an unknown language.
“Well?” she asked. “Do you want my help?”
“I’m inclined to say yes,” Gifford said.
“I’m not,” Tressa countered, folding her arms. “We don’t know the first thing about her.”
“She helped Moya,” Brin said.
“That doesn’t tell me who she is or what she’s up to.”
“You want to know about me?” Fen looked surprised, as if she were of no importance. “Well, you already know I’m Fhrey—or was when I was alive. That should be obvious. I have my own tower of sorts down there. You can barely see it from here. I visit the Bulwark often; that’s Mideon’s fortress. I’m one of the few Fhrey he allows in without armed guards. We have what you might call a friendship of sorts—a mutual history, at least. Ironic, as in life we were mortal enemies. Our newfound cooperation is something I take great pride in.”
Rain gasped and took two steps back.
“What’s wrong?” Moya asked him.
“I know who she is.” Rain pointed an accusatory finger at the Fhrey. “The Dark Sorceress of the Ylfe. She killed tens of thousands of my people.”
“I did not! That’s absurd.” Fen shook her head, then in a sad voice added, “I killed hundreds of thousands.”
“Hundreds of thousands?” Tesh said, stunned.
“I know who she is now, too,” Brin said. “Arion used to tell me tales . . . for my book. She practically worshiped her.”
“Arion?” Fen asked surprised. “Arion Cenzlyor? You know my Arion?”
“She was a friend of ours, who was—”
“Was?”
“Yes,” Brin said. “She died during the first battle of our war with the Fhrey. That was many years ago.”
“Oh?” Fen said. “I wonder why I haven’t heard of her arrival.”
“She’s in Rel.”
“Really? What is she—oh, I suppose that makes sense. Despite all her talent, she always was a simple soul.”
“And who do you think this Fhrey is?” Moya asked Brin.
“You know I’m standing right here,” Fen said sardonically, folding her arms in mock insult.
Brin held out her hands to the Fhrey. “This is Fane Fenelyus Mira, Arion’s beloved mentor. She was the ruler of the Fhrey before Lothian and the first Miralyith. She single-handedly created Mount Mador and the tower of Avempartha.”
Fen smiled. “I think you’ll find things are a bit less formal here.”
“I say we trust her.” Brin looked to Moya. “My official opinion as Keeper.”
Moya licked her lips, then glanced down at her pair of legs. “Good enough for me.” She looked at Fenelyus. “And thanks for the help, by the way. So, what do we do?”
Fenelyus smiled. “We travel fast. Starting right now, we are in a race.” She looked at the raging conflict below and then at Rain. “For once, I get to have some fun. At last, there might be a battle I’m able to win. Follow me.”
Chapter Thirteen
Point of No Return
Artists can create things of great beauty. Suri often described becoming an Artist was like turning into a butterfly. So I have to wonder if Suri’s greatest creation was herself. — The Book of Brin
“This isn’t a good idea,” Makareta told Imaly as they reached Vasek’s door.
Imaly spotted the familiar look of distress on the girl’s face. Makareta had been a wide-eyed, skittish rabbit when Imaly had first taken her in. Over the intervening six years, the young Miralyith had calmed; depression was followed by a melancholy acceptance that had replaced panic. Now, the rabbit was back—but she was no harmless bunny.
“I’ll kill him if I have to.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Imaly replied, trying to keep her voice low and even. Despite her outward calm, the Curator was terrified and not merely because she was about to introduce an outlaw she’d been harboring to the chief enforcer of laws. This was the moment of truth. She was about to cross the line, and there would be no turning back. “Just keep your hood up. It’s winter and cold, and no one will think that’s unusual. You leave Vasek to me. Don’t say a word or do anything. He’s expecting us.”
“Don’t you mean you?”
“No, I mean us. I told him I’d be bringing a Miralyith.”
“But not me specifically, right?”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Says you.” Makareta began flexing her fingers, stretching them.
Imaly sighed. “Look, Mak, this whole thing is tenuous enough as it is. Now, are you going to cooperate, or should we just go back home? You agreed to come, but your attitude isn’t making it easy.”
Makareta said nothing, and Imaly took that as consent. She rapped lightly on the door to the Master of Secrets’ little home. He opened up an instant later and waved them in.
He offered no greeting. Vasek was just as austere with his conversation as with his furnishings. “So, who is this?” he asked after closing the door behind them. “What’s with all the mystery?”