“So turning me into a butterfly didn’t save the world after all.”
Arion looked troubled. “I can’t explain—maybe you could, but I can’t. Your ability to interpret is better. All I know is that the Art tells me you are the key to saving both your people and mine. I thought it was by proving a link between Rhunes and Fhrey and extending Ferrol’s Law to the Rhunes—that just seemed so sensible—but people aren’t sensible. Still, I feel it, this little string that stretches between you and peace. When I look at you, I sense hope. You’re like this light in the darkness, and you get brighter every day.”
Arion thoughtfully rubbed the ceramic cup in her hands.
Suri narrowed her eyes at Arion. That’s not it. Something else brought her up here. She couldn’t read Arion’s thoughts, but there was another clue. “Why did you bring that cup? Why carry it all this way? The tea must be cold by now.”
Arion nodded and held the drink up. “Yes, this is actually why I came.”
“Tea?”
Arion shook her head and put the cup down. “Do you know the word Cenzlyor?”
Suri thought a moment. “Mind swift?”
“Swift of mind, to be precise,” Arion said. “That’s what Fenelyus called me. You’re swift of mind, too. The most naturally talented Artist I’ve ever known, and I’ve lived a long time. Thing is, I was given the title when I was fifteen hundred. I didn’t realize until after she died that I was the only one she’d bestowed it on. I suppose she thought I was special somehow, and now I wonder if she knew that I would be the one to find you. She wanted me to be a teacher, and I am—your teacher. I assumed she wanted me to teach the prince, and maybe she did, but now I think that she sensed the importance of my life the way I sense the same about you—in vague pieces, some clear, and some impossible to fathom because they haven’t yet happened.”
Arion moved to the balcony’s edge, put her hands on the railing, and looked out toward the east. With the evening sun behind them, it appeared to Suri as if they could see the whole world. The Bern River was a hairline at their feet, Mount Mador a bump on the landscape. Then came an ocean of trees—what Arion referred to as the Harwood. Beyond that stretched another river called the Nidwalden. Suri took Arion’s word for this as she couldn’t actually see it through the many trees. Across that river, what to Suri was a mere blue haze, was what Arion called home.
“Only a week away,” Arion said so softly that Suri almost didn’t hear. “A week and forever.” She turned back to the mystic. “Nyphron and Persephone want us to recruit more Artists, find more swift-of-minds, more Cenzlyors. They think the fane will be sending an army of Miralyith—the Spider Corps. They are trained to weave attacks and defenses together—you know, like spiders. Get it?”
Suri rolled her eyes. “A minute ago I was swift of mind; what happened?”
“Sorry.”
“So Persephone wants her own Spider Corps?”
“Something like that. Good sense would advocate more than two Artists.”
“And how do we find them? Look for people really good at starting fires?”
“Unfortunately, no. Most don’t manifest as readily as you, but dormant Artists can usually be identified by creativity. Miralyith often start as regular artists: painters, sculptors, or even talented craftsmen. The better the art, the more likely it is the person is a latent Artist.”
Arion held up the delicate cup. “Do you know who makes these?”
* * *
—
By the time they found the little house at the back of the Rhune District, it was dark. For years, Suri had lived under the stars and never had any trouble seeing. Then she moved to Dahl Rhen and felt blinded by its torches and braziers. The same was true for this Fhrey city. Lamps on poles took the place of torches, and the effect was the same—they chased shadows from one place, making them gather all the more darkly elsewhere. That was the problem with people, too, Suri realized as she and Arion made their way down the narrow alleyway. Unlike all other living things, people were never content to just live in a place, to be part of it; they always wanted to change things, to make places conform. Maybe that was why the gods and spirits appeared so cruel—their way of saying, Quit it.
The house was a simple wooden shack placed like an afterthought at the end of the narrow alley. A large storage shed, or maybe a small servant’s quarters, it bore little resemblance to the other grand homes along the street. As they approached, Suri noticed a man and woman sitting out on the stoop. The woman was the one called Tressa. No one liked her, but Suri didn’t know why. No one liked spiders, either, and Suri had long since given up trying to understand the insanity of walled-in people. Beside Tressa sat Gifford, the potter. A jug rested in between.
The two had been talking but stopped at their approach.
Tressa put one hand on the jug and pulled it closer to her. “What do the likes of you two want down here?”