“You read?”
“Yes, I created markings that represent sounds.”
“And you found tablets in the Agave? Ones with marks you could understand?”
Brin smiled sheepishly. “Yes, but the one who sent us here, the guy we know as Malcolm but whom others have referred to as Turin, told me that the person who wrote those tablets did so using the symbols I invented. That seems impossible because the tablets were created long before I was born.”
“The name Turin and the word impossible have no business being together,” Beatrice assured her.
“Okay. Well anyway, it was easy for me to understand them.”
The princess nodded, then her eyes widened. “Oh! So, you’re that one. Okay. That makes sense, I suppose.”
That one?
“Well, you were doing well up through the seasons,” Beatrice said. “I’m actually impressed. It’s quite an accomplishment that you kept it that straight through so many generations. I don’t think your people ever had the whole story. Let’s back up just a bit.” Beatrice set her cup on a little table near the stool so her hands were free.
A good sign. All the best storytellers use their hands.
“First, you need to understand that Eton is infinite—in other words, he goes on forever. When you look at the sky, you can see this. Elan is not. She ends, sort of. She’s a circle. So, everything that comes from her also expires. But everything that comes from Eton is immortal. Eton and Elan gave birth to a daughter named Alurya. She was beautiful, and Elan loved her above all else—even Eton. The two were inseparable, and Eton grew jealous of Alurya. But like all things of Elan, Alurya was destined to die. When she did, Elan was so heartbroken she refused to speak to her husband. She wouldn’t talk to anyone. This was a time of great depression, when the North Wind and his son Winter kept watch over Elan as she wept.
“After seeing Elan’s sorrow, Eton relented and granted immortality, allowing Elan to breathe life into Alurya once more. But each year, Alurya had to die for the span of three months. During this time, Eton would have time alone with Elan. Alurya went on to become the mother of life, of the plants and animals.”
“I never heard that before,” Brin said.
“That’s because this is where the story turns dark,” Beatrice replied. “People like to forget terrible things.”
She took a sip from her cup, set it back down, and started again. “Once more, Eton united with Elan, and from this union came the three Typhons.” Beatrice paused as if waiting for them to react. No one did, so she went on. “These triplets were named Erl, Toth, and Gar.”
“Not Goll?” Brin asked, and the others nodded their approval of the question.
“No, Goll isn’t a Typhon. Goll is Gar’s son—but that’s another story, one that leads to the birth of the Grenmorians. Our tale goes elsewhere. You see, once again, Elan loved her sons too much for Eton’s liking. Worse yet, Elan spoiled the Typhons, which made Eton hate them. He despised his new sons so much that he pushed them back into Elan’s womb and imprisoned them there.” Beatrice extended her hands palms-up and indicated the walls around them. “In here—inside Elan, in the place known as Phyre.”
Beatrice took another sip, wiped her lips, and went on, “Elan was bereft once more, but this time Eton wouldn’t relent. He also refused to join with her again, for he didn’t want to see the creation of more immortals. Furious and lonely, Elan plotted against her husband. While Eton slept, Elan stole five of his teeth and sowed them in her soil. From them, the Aesira were born: Turin, Trilos, Ferrol, Drome, and Mari. When Eton learned of the Aesira, he was angry, and Elan pleaded with him not to send her new children to the Abyss. Luckily for them—and us—he didn’t. Not at first. Eton found that the Five were not at all like the Typhons. Perhaps advised by their mother, the Aesira showed Eton respect and thoughtfulness, but this only got them so far. Eton still wouldn’t budge on his vow that no other immortals would come between him and his wife. A deal was reached. Elan expanded Phyre, making a pleasant home for her children. What was made of Elan would live happily with her until their time was over, and what was made of Eton was sent to dwell in Phyre, a prison with a lock and a key that he kept. Such was the plan, but as with all intentions, this one went astray. The problem began when Turin, the eldest of the Aesira, took ill. His time to die, his time to move on to Phyre, had come and—”
The door to Beatrice’s chambers opened, and Mideon entered, followed by a parade of people carrying armloads of armor, including Roan, Tressa, and Rain, whom Brin hardly recognized. They were bedecked from helm to boot in leaf-style bronze so polished it glowed. None of it appeared sensible. Tesh had taught Brin that armor needed to be smooth and clear of lines and creases to avoid giving a sword’s point a place to catch, but these suits were beyond extravagant. Roan’s helm was adorned with a long crimson feather that came from no bird Brin had ever seen. It extended several feet above Roan’s head. Rain’s chest was covered in overlapping scales in teardrop shapes. Both Roan’s and Rain’s boots came up to their knees and looked as if gold-colored ivy reached up out of the ground, wrapping their legs. Both of them were bigger. The normally tiny Roan was two feet taller, and that didn’t include the helm or the feather. Even her hands—now encased in brilliant metal gauntlets—seemed twice the size of Brin’s. The shy woman with a tendency to chew on her hair and talk to herself had been transformed into a hero of epic proportions.
But that’s the point, isn’t it? The armor doesn’t protect the flesh. There is none. The armor builds the spirit. Its purpose is to scream, “I am here, but don’t even think of messing with me!”
Alberich Berling, Brin realized as she gaped at them, was truly a genius and a master.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wars Within a War
All too often, that which we are most certain of is that which we are the most wrong about; and that which we are wrong about can change everything. — The Book of Brin
“Holy mother of Ferrol!” Imaly exclaimed. She threw her cloak at the stone bench and missed. It crumpled into a pile on the floor.
“This is no time to blaspheme the name of our lord,” Volhoric said. He paused for a moment, staring at the discarded cloak with a grimace so disgusting that he might have been viewing a corpse.
“I wasn’t,” she said. “I was blaspheming Ferrol’s mother.”
“Ferrol doesn’t have one,” the High Priest snapped back.
Imaly made a show of dusting off her hands. “No harm done, then.”
She went to the sarcophagus of Gylindora Fane, leaned over, and bowed her head. Volhoric likely thought she was praying to her great ancestor or some other such nonsense. Imaly just needed to catch her breath. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, and old Gylindora just happened to be there.
Good ole Great-Grandmama, lending support in my time of need. Maybe I am praying to her.
Nanagal came in next, looking pale, his hands nested together, the left squeezing the right. “I thought he was going to kill us right then and there.”
Imaly had stressed the importance of not marching directly from the palace to the crypt. Chances of an observer reporting them were unlikely. Still, she didn’t want a line of ducks waddling into the old tomb. The idea of meeting there was to avoid attention, and all of them gathering at once in broad daylight would be impossible to miss. Imaly had been forced to pick her co-conspirators based on their positions of influence, not their skill at subterfuge. She wondered if she would come to regret that, but she took solace in the notion that if she did, everyone else would, too.