Suri turned her head, feeling pleasantly like an owl spying a mouse. “I brought you back.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“Sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“And no flying?”
“No flying.”
Suri sighed and jumped down off the rail, planting her feet back on solid ground. Arion’s posture relaxed, and Suri could feel a wave of relief pour off the Fhrey. Arion was looking much better, healthier than ever, and the wound on her head was nothing more than a white scar, which could be clearly seen since Arion had resumed shaving her scalp.
The Miralyith had resumed a great many things.
Suri had done the unthinkable that night under the wool with Padera and Brin. She had opened a door between their world and that of the spirits—then she walked through. She’d passed through the gateway to the dark realms of Phyre, to the long river that spirits traveled to reach their final homes. In that sunless stream, she’d found Arion struggling against the current, but slowly slipping away. Everyone eventually succumbed to that flow, every living thing. But Suri still had a toe in the world of the living that acted as an anchor, a lifeline. She had reached out, grabbed hold of Arion, and pulled. In doing so, she’d done more than just restore her to the living world—Suri had fixed her. There had been a hole in the vessel that had been her body. From that side, Suri could see it plain as a tear in a blanket held up to the sun. She had sewn it shut, woven it closed, and dumped Arion inside. With Arion safe, Suri had passed out from exhaustion. Only later did she learn how close she’d come to death herself. Swimming in the river, in that dark stream of the dead, wasn’t an activity for the living. Had she stayed too long, grown too tired, the current could have pulled her in and severed her lifeline. Then both of them would have been carried away into Phyre.
Even after all that, Arion still didn’t wake up for days. That week was the worst of Suri’s life. She had lost Minna, and even after dragging Arion out of Phyre’s mouth, the Fhrey had not opened her eyes. After she did, Suri fretted over her like a mother with a new baby. As Arion grew stronger, the Miralyith discovered she wasn’t merely alive. She was whole.
Arion could use the Art again.
“This is very disappointing,” Suri continued. “I can’t become invisible. I can’t be immortal. I can’t create my own animals. I can’t convince flesh eaters to prefer plants. I can’t rearrange the stars or add a new season, and now I can’t even fly.”
Arion pointed at her with the little ceramic cup she held in her hands. The Fhrey had a fondness for an awful-tasting tea she’d found in a shop in the city. Supposedly it was the same stuff she used to drink back in Estramnadon. “But you were able to make beautiful flashing images with fireflies.”
Arion was always bringing that up.
“Really impressive,” Arion said. “Never saw anything like it before. I still don’t know how you made such real-looking bears and bunnies out of streaking lights.”
“Flies didn’t much care for it.” Suri left the balcony, returning inside the tower, getting out of the wind so they could talk. “So, what’s wrong? Persephone still refusing to send a message to the fane?”
Arion looked up, innocent as a thief. “What makes you think anything is wrong? Are you sensing something?”
“Don’t need to. You just climbed the Spyrok—way too many steps just to tell me I couldn’t fly.”
Arion smiled.
“What?”
“You’re just…maturing so quickly—thinking like a Miralyith.”
“Is that a good thing?”
She nodded while rubbing the cup. “I think it is.”
“So I’m right? No message-bird?”
Arion nodded. “The keenig is still siding with Nyphron. The Instarya here at Alon Rhist are just as unconvinced about the existence of a human Artist as Rapnagar was, which lends credence to my suspicion that the prince never told Lothian about you. Given that, Nyphron wants to keep your talent hidden. He believes the fane’s ignorance gives us a tactical advantage. Surprise, he says, is more valuable than revealing your existence. Right now, Lothian believes he has the only Artists capable of causing harm because I won’t break Ferrol’s Law. Nyphron sees you as our secret weapon.”
“And what do you believe?”
Arion looked into her cup. Sadness. Embarrassment. Suri read these as: Old as I am, I’m still a fool.
“I suspect I may have been too optimistic about the effect of Rhune Artists softening Lothian’s attitude toward your people. And now that we’ve taken Alon Rhist, I fear things have gone too far. The fane can’t just forgive and forget anymore.”
“But you still want the bird sent?”
Arion nodded. “War is inevitable, but one day when both sides have drunk their fill of blood, the truth about you could provide the honorable excuse to end it. It’s just so horrible to think people—so many people—need to die to reveal wisdom that ought to be common sense.”