Gifford heard every word Beatrice said, and—individually—he understood most of them, but taken together they made no sense. Then he figured it out.
She doesn’t know anything. She’s making it all up. But why?
“Passage to where?” Mideon asked.
“Alysin,” his daughter replied.
The room erupted in laughter. All those gathered on the benches guffawed or snickered, but Fenelyus, Beatrice, and the king were not among them.
Neither was Gifford. With that one word, he was forced to reconsider his assessment. She knows at least that much.
“The door to paradise is locked to all except to the greatest of heroes,” said a bald, muscular man who sat with his feet up on an overturned barrel. “And these don’t look up to the task.”
“I’m not asking you to unlock it for them,” Beatrice said. “I’m only requesting that you help them reach it. Ferrol will do everything she can to prevent them from crossing the bridge and reaching the gate. We must ensure she doesn’t succeed.”
The bald man shook his head. “Fools are always certain they are left in the wrong realm. Oh, no! I’m supposed to be in the warriors’ paradise, they say, not realizing they already are. If none of us can pass, then there is no way they can.”
“May I ask your name?” Moya inquired, and she did so far more politely than Gifford would have expected. But then she added, “I like to know who’s insulting me, in case it comes up later.”
The bald man’s brows rose up in shock. “You don’t know me?”
“Should I?”
“The name’s Atella.”
Gifford saw Brin falter and take an unconscious step backward.
Moya saw it, too, and whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Brin? Talk to me.”
This time, the Keeper spoke. “Atella is a myth, or was thought to be. A hero from an age long ago. The greatest of all warriors, he couldn’t be killed or even defeated on the field of battle—except by the one he loved most.”
Moya narrowed her eyes. “Your lover killed you?”
“Was an accident. She didn’t mean it. I fell to the ground, and in the confusion, she trampled me.”
“How does one die from being stepped on?”
“Her name was Yolan Og, a beautiful elephant,” Atella said.
“What’s an elephant?” Moya asked.
“I have no idea,” Brin replied. “I mean, the old stories described it as a giant beast, but the description made no sense—long nose, short tail, wrinkly skin, and huge ears.”
“She sounds lovely,” Moya added.
“Now who’s throwing insults? And for the record, I didn’t. If I want to offend you, believe me, there will be no question. I’m not a subtle man. What I said was a fact. There is no sense in fighting our way to the door because no one can open it.”
Beatrice stepped back. Sweeping her arms, she gestured at all of them. “They can.”
“How?” Mideon asked, leaning farther forward. He looked each of them over. “You’re not saying these are heroes, are you?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Beatrice turned around and smiled mischievously at her father. “Like I said, you’re just going to have to trust me.”
Mideon raised and slammed the head of his great ax against the floor, shaking the room. “You can’t tell your own father?”
“Truthfully? Next to Ferrol, you’re the last person I would tell.”
The king straightened up. “You cut me, daughter.”
Beatrice slammed hands on both hips and glared. “You killed hundreds of thousands of our people and destroyed Neith for a fruit salad!”
Mideon looked angry. “Why are you—you’ve never acted like this before.”
“All the more reason to listen then, isn’t it? Didn’t you just tell Rain that you wished you had? So heed your own counsel, Father. And as for all of you”—she whirled around to the figures on the shimmering bleachers, spraying a fan of that amazing hair, her eyes brighter than before and her voice ominous—“you need to do whatever you can to ensure that these six make it to Alysin, and the sooner the better. Believe this of me if you’ve ever accepted anything in life or death. I do not speak of matters that I do not know. I’m saying this on behalf of Alurya, of Elan, and Eton, and the Chaos that bore them. Heed me, all! Help these heroes before you suffer the consequences. Consequences that I assure you will be dire.”
The king continued to glare at his daughter, who glared back in equal measure.
Fenelyus broke the contest. “She was right about Rain being on the ridge.” She looked at the lady dwarf. “I guess I owe you a favor, Beatrice. Let’s hope it’s a sensible one.”
The white-haired dwarf smiled. “You will consider it little more than a trifle.”
Fenelyus focused on the king. “Whatever is going on, Mideon, Ferrol is committed. When was the last time she attacked you at home? There is a siege army outside your walls. She’ll bring everything she has to bear, and she won’t stop. Your walls are strong, but she’ll break them. That much is evident.” She raised a finger, and in the silence, they could all hear the faint booms of Mideon’s defenses still firing. “If these six remain within your walls, the queen will destroy the Bulwark. Your grand fortress will be rubble under her feet. This group is not worth the cost of holding onto.”
“But why does Ferrol care so much?” the king asked. “What’s so special about these people?”
“They are going to change the world,” Beatrice said. “What once was broken can finally be made whole.”
Okay, this part is certainly made up, Gifford marveled at Beatrice. I could never pull off such a charade, especially in front of so many. What lies this person weaves! They won’t believe her. They can’t. No one could possibly mistake us for heroes. Moya, maybe, but—
“Will the future be better?” Fenelyus asked.
“Yes, I’m sure of it.” Beatrice took a step toward the throne and spoke to the king. “I’m your daughter. I have only ever acted in your best interest. You can trust me. You know that I can see the future. How many times have I proven it? How many times have you ignored me and suffered? After the war with the Fhrey, you cried into my robes. You begged for forgiveness and said, ‘Never again.’ Well, here we are, Father. Here we are once more. If you won’t listen to me, listen to yourself. Or have you descended so low that you can’t even do that?”
The hall was silent as Mideon brooded. He made an arched bridge with the fingers of both hands and rested his chin on them, watching the fires. Then he looked around and finally turned to Fenelyus. “It is a nice castle, isn’t it?”
The onetime fane nodded with a pleasant smile. “The strongest in Nifrel. Be a shame if it fell.”
“I was thinking that very same thing.”
“I don’t give a bankor’s buttocks about the Bulwark,” Atella shouted and stood up. Then he smiled. “But cutting a path through the queen’s army to Paradise’s Door would be a joyous fight.”
“Certainly would have the benefit of being different,” an unnamed man said. He wore what Gifford could have sworn was a Rhen-patterned cloth. “The queen won’t expect an attack, and her forces are already committed. We could cut a hole, find a weak spot, and push . . .”