I’m going to die.
Roan passed the fallen bronze doors and the collapsed ramparts that had become massive stones of broken architecture. Ahead of her, all that was left was the ford where seven magically made stone bridges stitched the two sides of the chasm together. She was running for the center one, but running was an optimistic term for what she was doing. She’d been steadily slowing down, her flight reduced to little more than a jog by the time she could see into the chasm. Despite the dark clouds overhead, there was a gap at the horizon, and the brilliant yellow face of the sun shone through that opening. As she ran due east, the piercing light blinded her to nearly everything that lay ahead. What she did see was an army and the silhouette of a warrior on horseback riding across the center bridge.
I’m trapped.
The race was over. As if to punctuate this, lightning began flashing out of the sky, striking on the far side of the chasm. The turmoil in the heavens, the shouts and cries of men, the cracks and booms all told the same story.
No point in running anymore.
With lungs burning, Roan came to a stop, struggling to breathe and waiting to die. At that moment, a new contest began.
Who will reach me first? The rider crossing the bridge or the Fhrey from behind? Roan managed a miserable smile. So much effort for the daughter of a slave.
She didn’t care who won, but looking out through bleary eyes at the cliff before her, a new thought popped into her head.
I can always jump.
There was a certain satisfaction in denying both of them the pleasure of her death. And what if killing me isn’t their intent?
Roan turned off the path to the bridge and aimed for the cliff.
You deserve everything you get. She heard the familiar words, but this time the voice didn’t sound like Iver. He was dead. She finally knew that to be true because she’d killed him twice, once with poison and once with a metal punch, with an assist from Banger the Heavy.
Exhausted and unable to run, Roan began to cry as she realized she wouldn’t make it to the cliff’s edge in time to kill herself. The rider was coming at her, too hard, too fast. She saw the mounted warrior draw his sword. He was a faceless silhouette against the bright morning sun, but she heard it. The ring of that metal coming free of its scabbard, only…
That sound was unmistakable. Not bronze—that was steel.
As the rider drew closer, she saw the glint of silver. Beneath the helm was a beautiful, misaligned face.
“Gifford!” she cried, sacrificing the last remaining air in her lungs.
He rode at her pursuer, swinging his sword, missing badly. It didn’t matter. Whether by intent or accident, the horse trampled the Fhrey.
Having ridden past Roan, Gifford wheeled around. As he did, the full face of the rising sun shone on his armor and upon his white horse. Dazzling and bright, Gifford gleamed like a morning star, wondrous and beautiful. He glowed.
“Woan, I can’t get down.” Gifford leaned over and extended his arm. “Please, you have to take my hand.”
She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of that offered arm and let Gifford pull her up behind him. Then she hugged him around his waist.
“You’re alive! You’re alive! You’re alive!” she cried, squeezing as hard as she could.
“Woan?” Gifford said. “You know you hugging me? You touching me, Woan.”
“I know.”
As Gula-Rhunes charged across the bridge and poured into the fortress of Alon Rhist, Roan laid her head on Gifford’s back.
Once more, she heard the words: You deserve everything you get. The voice wasn’t Iver’s after all. It was her mother’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Dragon
At first I thought it was a dragon, savage and fierce. I wish that had been true. Dragons only kill you; Gilarabrywns break your heart.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Persephone stared in disbelief.
Above them was open sky.
The roof to the Kype had been ripped off. Most of it was wood, but there had been stone as well, and a dragon had torn it away like a cork from a jug. Then it began to kill.
Persephone assumed the beast was another weapon of the fane.
He has giants, magicians, and storms. Why not a dragon?
She closed her eyes, waiting for death. She cringed, expecting the crush of claws or the bite of teeth.
Nothing happened. Even the screams of the dying fell silent. She heard only the sound of the dragon’s breathing, and then Brin’s voice. “Mari, mother of us all, protect us. Mari, mother of us all, protect us.”
Letting go of her dagger, Persephone reached out and found the girl. She clutched her arm, then found her hand.