“I would be killed—slowly, painfully, publicly. And then . . . after that, I don’t know.” Makareta’s face turned sour. Her nose wrinkled up, her mouth squeezing tight. She looked down again.
Suri did, too. “I like your slippers.”
This broke Makareta’s malaise. The Fhrey wiggled her toes and smiled. “Imaly thinks they’re stupid. She’s afraid I’ve lost my mind.”
“I think they’re nice.”
Makareta smiled. Then looked at Suri’s bare feet, followed by the rest of her. “Do you—is that how Rhune—are these your normal clothes?”
Suri shook her head. “I came here wearing a nice asica. They took it. This was a present from Vasek.” Suri pulled on the simple tunic.
“Oh.” Makareta frowned. “Doesn’t really fit, does it? I would . . .” Makareta made a subtle movement with her hands that Suri understood to be the suggestion of a reclaim weave, something that if completed might alter her garment. “But . . .” Makareta glanced in the direction that Imaly had gone and whispered, “I’m not allowed to use the Art—at all. Taking off your collar was the first thing I’ve done in years. She’s afraid there are Miralyith watching the house or something. Terrified that they will smell the residue and investigate.” She shrugged. “It’s not entirely impossible, but seems an extreme precaution.”
Suri felt her then. The Miralyith’s power was warm, strong, and vibrant. She also sensed frustration, and on top of all of that—glistening like morning dew—was a coating of sadness, mixed with equal parts of fear and regret.
Makareta grimaced at Suri’s dress, then beckoned for her to follow. “I don’t have much, either, but we can find something better than that. Maybe we can make you a pair of slippers, too. That way Imaly can think we’re both crazy.”
Makareta’s room was small and cramped. A mat lay on the floor, and she rolled it up the moment they entered, stashing it behind a cluster of clay pots. There was a mattress against one wall, a wardrobe in the corner, and a little table where a bowl of water sat and a pile of clay glistened. There were also a dozen little wooden tools, some small and pointed, others broad and flat. What Suri had first seen as a pile of mud, she realized was a sculpture in progress. Only partially formed, two vague figures were emerging.
There were other sculptures in the room. Most were tiny things, but all of them were beautiful. She spotted a perfectly depicted heron and a stag. On a high shelf, a very delicate clay tree appeared to grow. Of the dozen figurines on the shelves, one that rested on the windowsill halted Suri. Sunlight bathed the perfect figure of a wolf.
As a child, I found the courage to sleep in sealed rols because my head lay on Minna. She was my sunlit window.
Suri felt her stomach tighten. Her teeth locked together.
“Are you all right?” Makareta asked.
“No,” Suri replied.
The Fhrey waited, expecting more, but Suri didn’t say anything else.
Makareta nodded. “I understand.” The Fhrey looked at the sculpture in progress and wiped a rising tear from her eye. “Life is awful, isn’t it? And it just keeps getting worse.” Makareta threw herself onto the mattress. “Have you ever lost anyone you loved?”
“Yes,” Suri said.
“Were you responsible for them leaving?”
“Yes . . . yes, I was.”
Makareta looked up, revealing more tears building. A hand went to her chest. “Me, too. I feel hollow, empty.”
Suri nodded and looked at the wolf on the windowsill. “Part of me is gone, destroyed forever. Maybe the best part.”
Makareta stared at her, nodding, biting her lip. “Yes—exactly. My soul is missing, and I don’t know what to do about that. Imaly wants me to keep busy.” She gestured with irritation at the menagerie of clay animals. “But I have a hard time finding reasons to breathe, much less sculpt. I used to like it, but not anymore. It all feels so pointless now.”
Suri sat beside her, and both looked at the window that revealed Imaly’s private garden. “The face of a leaf is no place for a butterfly.”
“How’s that?”
“A caterpillar spends all its time crawling on leaves and eating, but such things no longer satisfy butterflies. The mistake, I think, is to focus on what was lost rather than what has been gained.”
“Nothing has been gained.”
“Loss always provides something—losing twenty legs to gain two wings—the past for the future.”
“What if the future holds nothing? What if there is no future?”
Suri looked at Makareta and smiled. “Then it’s up to us to make one.”
Makareta thought a moment, then nodded. “I like you, Suri.”
“I like you, too, but I knew that the moment I saw the slippers.”
Makareta looked down, then jumped up. “Clothes. Almost forgot.” She moved to a wooden wardrobe. Opening the doors, she revealed an assortment of garments, all made of the same shimmering material as those Arion had worn.
“Which one do you like?” Makareta asked.
Suri approached the wardrobe. She reached out and touched the blue one. She’d never seen material that color before, and this asica rippled like water.
Makareta grinned. “Good choice.”
She pulled it free and slipped it over Suri’s head. The garment was too large. Makareta had to wrap the belt, rather than cinch it. But the bigger problem was the length. Makareta went over to the table and shuffled through some small containers. She bent down and started pinning the fabric.
“We’ll have to cut and sew the hem, and then it will be the perfect length.”
While Makareta was on her knees, Suri studied the unfinished sculpture. “What is it?” She pointed to the clay.
Makareta pulled a few pins from her mouth and said, “Nothing at the moment.”
“Looks like it could be two people holding one another.” Suri could almost see it. A male and female intertwined in each other’s arms.
“It’s a dream, a fantasy that can never happen. I don’t care so much about everyone else, but . . .” She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I wish I could explain to him. You know? Tell him why I did it. Maybe then . . .” She sighed in defeat. “He thinks I’m dead, and I can never let him know otherwise. I can never ask forgiveness.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Imaly said. She was standing in the doorway, arms folded. Her eyes focused on the sculpture, and she nodded. “Maybe you should explain things. Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea.” Then, catching a glimpse of Suri, she frowned. “For Ferrol’s sake, is that my good asica?”
Chapter Sixteen
In the Hall of the Dwarven King
I did not know much about dwarfs: their society, traditions, or culture. There is a reason for that. His name is Gronbach. Mideon did nothing to change my opinion of what the Fhrey referred to as vile moles. — The Book of Brin
Running faster than she ever had, Brin could hardly see. Everything was a blur, and not just because of her tears. She was going faster than was possible, at least with legs. The serpent was gone, and the route to the bridge was clear. Everyone else was already crossing the stone span—everyone except Tesh.