“It’s not a meeting. I would just like to talk to her.”
“That’s what a meeting is, sir. Is the topic of your conversation a matter of Rhist security? Is that why you are refusing to divulge its nature? If so, I can assure you that I am quite trusted by the administration of the citadel, and you should have no concerns about revealing any information to me.”
Raithe didn’t understand most of the words, even though he was certain they were in Rhunic.
“Listen, I just…I just want to say hello.”
“If that’s all, I can pass that information to her. You don’t need to bother the keenig.”
“I also want to see how she’s doing, okay?”
“So, this is a cordial call, a purely social visit?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Please wait.”
The little window slid shut again.
Raithe backed away from the heat-radiating door, wondering if the interior was roasting. That might account for the interaction. The guard’s brains were baked.
Once again, he went out on the bridge, but this time he looked up. The Kype was a building of solid stone as high as the Verenthenon. It had but one entrance, and its only windows were narrow slits near the top. This made the Kype, and everything beyond it, the most secured portion of the fortress. Anyone attacking would need to cross the Grandford Bridge, break into the big gates, fight through the lower courtyard, climb the winding ramp, then battle through the narrow city streets. And that would just get them to the fortress proper, where another smaller wall and an additional set of bronze gates waited. Behind them was the upper courtyard, which housed the barracks, training fields, tannery, kitchens, smithies, and livestock pens. Above that and up a steep, narrow staircase was the domed Verenthenon. An invading force would need to climb up that deathtrap of a staircase, around the Verenthenon’s series of terraces and balconies just to reach the long corbel bridge where Raithe now stood. Given that the famed Spyrok—that sky-piercing watchtower of stone and glass—was on the far side of the Kype and accessed by another bridge, it was the most isolated place in the Rhist complex. So far, after more than eight months of trying, Raithe had never made it farther than where he now stood. He hadn’t been able to get inside the Kype, never made it past its bronze door.
The little window opened once more.
“Madam Keenig is not available at this time.”
Before Raithe could say anything, the little window slammed shut, this time followed by a metal-on-metal snap.
* * *
—
In a field of grass scarred by patches of worn dirt, four dozen men beat each other with sticks. A few others used metal swords—the more advanced ones, the quick learners—but most swung hickory imitations at each other’s heads. Raithe could tell the trainees were getting better, since wood-to-wood cracks outnumbered soft fleshy slaps. In addition, the curses and genuine screams were rare. That morning, rapid staccato clacks carried across the training field, punctuated by the occasional hoot of success.
“See her?” Malcolm asked, even before Raithe was completely down the stairs.
“I think she’s taking a bath.”
Malcolm and Suri basked in the sun at the bottom of the stairs, reclining with their legs extended on the grass. The two looked like a pair of lizards lounging in the heat. Malcolm craned his head back to squint at Raithe. “Turned away again? Did you tell them you’re a chieftain?”
“They know that.” Raithe sat in the light alongside Suri. It felt good to soak up the sun, to feel it on his face. Never know how much you appreciate something until it’s gone.
“Are you sure?”
Raithe nodded while watching the practice field where the closest combatants were Farmer Wedon and one of the younger Gula. Pride prevented the older northern men from training with the Fhrey, but they sent their boys and young men, who likely repeated everything they learned when they returned home. Everyone wore nothing but breechclouts, their skin slick and shiny with sweat. He could tell the better fighters by the number of grass blades stuck to the backs of their opponents.
“He’s doing it on purpose,” Raithe said.
“He?”
“Nyphron,” Suri offered. She had her eyes closed, hands folded on her chest as if she were dead.
Malcolm glanced at the girl, then back at Raithe. “Nyphron was there?”
“No—well, I can’t actually say. All I ever see are eyes and a nose, so maybe, but I’m sure it’s by his orders. He’s trying to keep me away from her, doesn’t like the competition.”
“You think he’s—what? You think Nyphron is romantically interested in Persephone?”
Raithe smirked. “You were the one who once told me Fhrey and humans weren’t so different, remember?”
“I’m not saying it’s impossible, just wondering what makes you think he’s interested.”
Suri answered for Raithe. “It’s because Nyphron raises his fur whenever Raithe gets too close.”