“You’re ah gonna open that door,” Moya told him. “Or I’ll put an arrow through that skull of yours.”
The eyes blinked. The window in the door shut, then the big bronze door opened.
Poric was a surprisingly small Fhrey with white-blond hair who appeared to live in the nearby little room filled with dirty bowls, empty cups, and a pile of wood shavings. Twenty or thirty tiny animal carvings lined the shelves and tables. Poric watched Raithe enter with what looked like a mix of fear and anger.
“It will be fine,” Malcolm assured him. “Raithe has a broken arm. Makes it hard to properly strangle a person that way.”
“Hard,” Raithe said, “but not impossible.”
Poric’s eyes widened, and a hand fluttered to his throat. This might have made Raithe smile if he hadn’t been in such a foul mood. He didn’t have anything against Poric. The Fhrey was only doing his job. Apparently, someone had told him not to let the Dureyan in except for official meetings. Raithe had enlisted the help of Moya rather than Suri or Arion. Suri, who didn’t appear to care for Nyphron any more than he did, would have jumped at the chance for a little fun, but Raithe didn’t want to cause that much trouble until he knew what was going on. Moya was the obvious choice. As Shield, no one could stop her from escorting him to the keenig. If Nyphron tried to, then Raithe might have a talk with Suri.
Moya led the way up the stairs. “Careful, the second one is crumbling. I usually just jump it.”
Moya had denied any nefarious attempts on Nyphron’s part to keep Raithe and Persephone apart, but Moya also said she had no idea why the keenig would refuse to see him. Under normal circumstances, she might have asked Persephone first before letting him in, but nothing was normal that day. The war had begun, Raithe was wounded, and Persephone had nearly died the night before. Time felt in short supply, and when Raithe had added, “How would you feel if you learned Tekchin was wounded, nearly died, and they wouldn’t let you see him?” That was all it took.
They climbed seven flights to what Raithe realized was the top of the Kype. Just as sparse and cold as the rest of the fortress, the Kype made a poor home. While Alon Rhist exhibited power and elegance, this building was colder and more barren than Dureya. Despite the lack of food and the relentless winds, Raithe’s people had songs, dances, and the laughter of children. The Kype was silent, their steps echoing.
“We have her in the Shrine,” Moya explained. “Used to be the private chambers of Alon Rhist—the guy this place is named after. He was the only fane from the Instarya tribe, so they sort of worship him. Ruled for only five years before dying in some fight. They kept his rooms exactly the way he left them.” She stopped and looked back. “You might not want to touch things. The Fhrey get a little sensitive about stuff like that.”
If I find they’ve treated her badly, I’ll do more than touch things.
They found familiar faces standing guard out in front of the chamber door. Grygor, Eres, and Tekchin all smiled at their approach. They were playing a game of Stones. Tekchin had the biggest stack.
“I asked you to watch her door,” Moya admonished Tekchin.
The Fhrey shrugged. “I get bored easily. Not into wood carving like Poric. Left alone, I’d end up nibbling the ends of my fingers or something.”
“Any change would be an improvement,” Grygor said.
“Thanks.” Moya expressed the one word with weight to all of them, then leaned in and kissed Tekchin. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Embarrassed, Tekchin turned to Raithe, pointed at his arm, and said, “Got a scratch, eh?”
“Had a disagreement with a giant,” Raithe replied, glancing at Grygor, whose head nearly touched the high ceiling.
“They’re animals,” Grygor said. “Never trust one to keep a secret, or not bite the head off a Rhune just to make a point.”
Eres and Tekchin nodded gravely, which made Raithe wonder—not for the first time—if the Galantians were joking.
Moya opened the door and Raithe walked inside alone.
The Shrine was a suite of rooms decorated with tapestries depicting battles and containing sculptures of half-naked Fhrey wielding spears or javelins, their muscles straining. Dark wood chairs with red-cushioned seats and gold vases and candelabras filled the space with an aura of opulence. This was by far the greatest assemblage of wealth Raithe had ever seen. To think such splendor existed across the river from the dung-brick home he was born in was shocking. Did any of the Dureyans ever have a clue? Did they even know such things were possible?
If we win the war, how can we ever return to lives lived in dirt? What will become of us if we’re victorious? What will happen to the world?
And yet this room, too, while lavish, felt lifeless. Everything was so clean, so ordered. This wasn’t a home to the living. It felt like a tomb, and he didn’t like the idea that they had put Persephone in such a place.