“Tiny sips,” the old woman barked. “I know you want to guzzle like a drunk, but trust me, it’ll come right back up on you—and me. Even if you don’t care, I do.”
Suri stood under the flap, staring. Part of her refused to believe what she was seeing. She was afraid it was merely a dream and worried that the moment she embraced the sight, the illusion would dissolve and the pain would rush back with twice the force. She didn’t know how many more blows she could survive.
“Come in—go out—pick one!” Padera snapped. The old woman, her lips sunken over toothless gums, squinted with her one good eye against the blinding sunlight.
Suri took a step forward and let the flap fall. The lamp was out, but sunlight burned brightly through the cloth walls. Arion was resting against Padera’s shoulder. The old woman helped the Fhrey hold a ceramic cup to her lips. Over its top, Arion peered back with weary eyes as she slurped loudly.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough for now,” Padera said. “We’ll let that settle a minute. If it stays down, if you don’t erupt like a geyser, I’ll give you more.”
The cup came away and Suri waited.
Arion’s voice—Suri needed to hear it to be sure, to make it real.
The Fhrey tried to say something but couldn’t. She pointed apologetically at her throat.
Suri panicked. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing,” Padera grumbled. “Well, nothing beyond sleeping for almost a week without food or water, which made her dry as the dust she nearly became.” Padera looked at the Fhrey with a small shake of her head and a confounded expression. “With as little water as she’s had, she ought to be dead. Any man, woman, child, rabbit, or sheep would have passed three days ago. ’Course, she’s none of those, is she?”
Once more, sunlight pierced the room, blinding everyone. Brin stood in the entryway, holding the flap. She didn’t say anything, just watched from the gap.
“Come in—go out—pick one!” Suri and Padera barked in unison.
“Sorry.” Brin stepped in, letting the flap fall.
All of them watched Arion. The Fhrey lifted her head slowly, focused on Suri, and smiled. Arion reached out a shaky hand. That was enough. Suri fell to her knees and discovered she still had tears left. She buried her face in the side of Arion’s neck. “I tried, I tried, I tried…” Suri managed in between sobs. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I opened a door and found a dark river. I followed it toward a light, a wonderful and yet terrible light. I…I…I tried to pull you back, to fix you, but…but…”
She felt Arion’s hand patting her head.
Suri looked up.
“Not…tried,” Arion managed to croak with a voice as coarse as gravel. She then mouthed the word succeeded.
Suri wiped her eyes and squinted. “What?”
With more effort, the Fhrey said, “You…saved…me.”
Suri continued to stare. “You sure?”
Arion smiled. “Pretty…sure.”
* * *
—
Raithe refused to sit. Something about being seated in the face of such lunacy felt too much like acceptance. The rest of the clan chieftains, who referred to themselves collectively as the Keenig’s Council, sat in the familiar circle inside Dahl Tirre’s courtyard. Four chairs had been added: three to accommodate the chieftains of the Gula clans and an elaborate seat with carved arms for Persephone. Gavin Killian, the prolific father of numerous sons and the new chieftan of Clan Rhen, sat in Persephone’s old chair.
Nyphron wasn’t seated, either; he was up and speaking. Persephone nodded when the Galantian paused.
She’s not actually considering this, is she?
Besides the ten chieftains, most of the other usuals were there, except for Brin, the keenig’s personal Keeper of Ways. Raithe had last seen her heading toward Padera’s tent, the one they had Arion in. The Death House some called it, since the Miralyith hadn’t shown any sign of life in nearly a week. The other non-chieftains in attendance included Moya, Persephone’s ever-present Shield with her famous bow; the dwarf named Frost, who always stood in for Roan and reported on weaponry progress; Malcolm, who simply had a habit of showing up; and Nyphron, who represented the Fhrey. That’s how Raithe saw Nyphron’s role, as the voice of a small band of warriors. Given that Raithe represented only himself and Tesh, he couldn’t begrudge the Galantian leader a place at the council.
At least I shouldn’t, but I’m not making insane recommendations that will get everyone killed.
“We must take Alon Rhist, and we must do so immediately,” Nyphron repeated. He wasn’t asking or suggesting; this wasn’t a bit of advice or an option being presented. The Fhrey leader was demanding agreement.