“Yes—yes she is.” Roan shook her head slowly as her hand crept to her mouth. “Poor Brin.”
Gifford looked at the others and wondered if anyone else understood. They didn’t. “What’s wrong, Roan?”
“Moya and Tesh,” Roan said. “They followed us into Nifrel.”
“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t have the key.”
Understanding reached each face.
“How did they do that?” Gifford asked.
“Because they belong here,” Roan said. “Everyone rides the river to the Rel Gate. Those destined for Nifrel walk the White Brick Road to here, and they can pass through the door.”
“The bad ones do,” Tressa said, sadly. “Moya I can understand, but I would have thought that Tesh—”
“Nifrel isn’t for bad people,” Gifford recalled what Fenelyus had told them. “It isn’t punishment. It’s for ambitious, brave, and courageous people. Which is good because that means Tekchin will be able to cross over, too. He’ll be able to find us.”
Roan nodded. “Yes, he will, and that’s good for now, and I’m happy for Moya. But eventually, when this is over and we really die—you know, come to Phyre forever—Brin’s place will be in Rel.”
“But that’s good, too, right?” Gifford asked. “She’ll be with her family.”
Roan looked at the door, toward the sound of crying. “But she won’t be with Tesh. You and I, Moya and Tekchin—we’ll be together for all of eternity, but Brin . . . she’ll never see him again.”
The full weight of the revelation landed, and in turn, each looked at the door and the sound of the weeping women beyond.
“Yeah, okay, that’s messed up,” Tressa said.
Chapter Nineteen
Sacrifices
I had imagined that if Suri told the fane the secret before we reached her, there would be so many dragons in the sky over Rhulyn that they would blot out the sun. But I had not been in the smithy, so I did not understand. — The Book of Brin
“It’s to be a lottery.” Imaly shouted the words. Such a thing wouldn’t have been necessary in the intimate chamber of the Airenthenon, but that hall couldn’t accommodate the gathered multitude. Instead, Imaly spoke from the Airenthenon’s steps, casting her words to the crowd that gathered below in Florella Plaza. Mawyndulë wasn’t sure if they could hear her. The silence that followed answered that question.
Mawyndulë stood on a step above the members of the Aquila, who were gathered on a lower landing. Vidar was there, but no junior councilor stood beside him. So few Miralyith remained in the city that none could be spared to take the position. The only available Miralyith was Mawyndulë, and Vidar refused to have him. The prince looked down at his ex-mentor’s gray head.
Another political blunder, you fool. When this crisis is over, I’ll be certain to remind my father to replace you.
“There will be exceptions.” Imaly plowed ahead through the drifts of morbid silence. “The prince will obviously be excluded, as well as the senior members of the Aquila.”
This caused a low rumble, not words but gasps, groans, and whimpers that came from the juniors who hadn’t been in the meeting the day before. No one liked the decision, but none of them was willing to fight for their own survival. Mawyndulë was surprised. The Aquila was famous for its insolence toward fane edicts. That morning they were silent.
Dire times. Dire measures.
Those were the words his father had used when he personally explained to the senior members of the Aquila that sacrifices would need to be made. That was yesterday, but today, every citizen of Estramnadon had been invited, and the entire plaza was filled to capacity as the people came to discover their fate. The fane had learned how to make dragons, but there would be a price. For every creature created, a life would be taken—a Fhrey life. Everyone had come to learn who the first victim would be.
“Likewise,” Imaly said, “the palace staff will not be included, nor will”—Imaly hesitated—“any member of the Miralyith.”
The gathered crowd roared with outrage. Fists shook and feet stomped. Imaly made no attempt to rein them in. She simply waited. One word shouted from the back row pierced the din. It had come from a Gwydry. “Why?” he asked. “It’s not fair for the fane to exempt his own tribe.”
“It’s because the Miralyith are indispensable in this war,” Vidar said with all the impunity of someone privileged with a double pardon. “Without them guarding the river, none of us would survive. And make no mistake, the Rhunes are salivating for our blood. They are savages, uncivilized barbarians who will defile our children and revel in our humiliation. And slowly, monstrously, they will butcher every last one of us. They will carve us like venison, cook us alive over bonfires, and toast their victory with goblets stolen from the fane’s table, filled with the blood of our sons and daughters. If you were freezing to death in a wooden home, would you begin by burning the walls or start with the furniture?”
Mawyndulë frowned in curious surprise. Vidar had actually made sense. Although comparing them to furniture was a bit insensitive.
“As a member of the Aquila and leader of the Nilyndd, I am not impartial,” Imaly said. “There aren’t many here who can claim to be fair-minded. Fewer still, perhaps, who can be trusted with such an onerous task. That is why I nominate Mawyndulë, prince of Erivan and son of Fane Lothian, to draw the name. I believe he is the only person we can truly put our faith in.”
This brought a snort from Vidar, which didn’t sound the least bit respectful, much less a sign of agreement.
Just keep digging that grave, old Fhrey.
Imaly extended her arm to Mawyndulë. “Will you help us?”
He climbed the remaining steps slowly. Applause followed from every councilor. Vidar was the last to join, and his token appreciation was far from enthusiastic. The clapping didn’t end with the Aquila. Across the plaza, everyone in attendance was demonstrating approval.
He reached the top step, and a large vase the size of a barrel was brought forth. “The names of the eligible citizens of Estramnadon have been placed in this urn. His Highness will now choose one.”
Mawyndulë faced the great ceramic crock: around the base were geometric patterns and circling the neck, a single flying goose. He knew it well. The vase had been in the Talwara vestibule for years. As a child, he’d often hidden toys within it. Using the Art, his father had filled it with tiny stones engraved with the names of all those eligible. Looking inside, he found thousands of pebbles. At first, he marveled at his father’s ability to keep track of all the names. Then he wondered about how few there were.
Is this all who remain in the city?
There were likely thousands more in the towns and villages, those living deeper in the trees, those farther east.
Or maybe this is all there is.
The thought staggered him.
What if these stones represent all the remaining Fhrey, excluding the few paltry Miralyith and members of the Aquila?
It wasn’t impossible, but it was terrifying.