I could blow that candle out all by myself, Mawyndul? thought.
Not really by himself, but without the aid of the Spiders or anyone else at the camp. In the same way the Spiders fed Kasimer, Mawyndul? had a direct line of power to Avempartha. Jerydd waited on call. Anytime Mawyndul? wished, he could contact the kel and summon up the awesome power of Fenelyus’s tower. Jerydd had taught him the technique before he left Avempartha, and they had practiced every day. By the time the troops reached Grandford, Mawyndul? was able to listen and monitor everything Jerydd said all day long. The kel knew he was listening and rambled on about the origins of the Torsonic Chant and the usefulness of the Plesieantic Phrase—two topics Arion had bored him with. He had always tuned her out, but it was more fun with Jerydd. Mawyndul? took great pleasure in having the kel’s voice in his head, a voice that no one else could hear. He was positive that none of the Spiders—not even Kasimer—knew how to eavesdrop at unlimited distances.
After establishing the connection, all it took was a little concentration, and unless his horse stumbled, he managed just fine. He also had to pay attention; he couldn’t let his mind wander. In the few days it took to ride from the Nidwalden through the Harwood and across the plains to Alon Rhist, Mawyndul? had learned more than in the three years with Arion.
“You just want us to put it out?” Kasimer asked.
“Blow it out so it can’t be relit,” the fane ordered.
Kasimer turned and faced the tower. Around him the other Spiders hummed in harmony, their hands and arms moving in perfect synchronization, performing the same motions in concert. Watching them, Mawyndul? thought the group looked creepy, like a real spider—a really big spider. Then Kasimer made a cutting motion with his arms and a slicing with his hands. A mile away, the light at the top of the tower grew brighter, then went completely out.
* * *
—
The top of the Spyrok exploded.
Brin had already started back down. Exhausted after her race up the stairs, she was taking her time, and she was only five levels below the observation deck when the top of the tower sheared away. Screaming as rubble and dust rained down, Brin cowered on the steps in a ball, covering her head and crying. She would have died, but most of the stone, glass, and timber blew west.
She stayed huddled, clutching herself and shivering. Terrified and bewildered, she didn’t know what to do. Then in a burst of decision, she ran. Down the steps she flew, leaping as far and as fast as she could without killing herself, although a few times she came close. Brin kept her arms up for fear something might fall, or another explosion would rip through the tower. In minutes, she was down and running for the Kype.
“What happened?” several people asked as she flew by. Brin didn’t stop. Then Tekchin caught up. He grabbed her with both arms and pulled her to him.
“Let me go!” she screamed, jerking hard. She didn’t know why. By then, she wasn’t even sure where she was heading.
The Fhrey held on. “Calm down. Relax. You’re safe.”
She stopped struggling, her strength gone. Her legs gave out and she collapsed.
* * *
—
Persephone felt, as much as heard, the explosion. It shook the fortress, rocking her bed, swaying the curtains. The men and Fhrey in her bedroom steadied themselves against walls and dressers whose drawers rattled. Tegan and his Shield, Oz, both drew swords, looking around for the enemy. Nyphron was at the window—the raow window as Persephone now thought of it—and looked up.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Miralyith blew the top off the Spyrok,” he told them so matter-of-factly that Persephone wondered if he was kidding. “Don’t want us sending signals.”
“Oh, dear Mari, Brin!” Persephone said. She glared at Moya and again tried to get up, and again she suffered for it, this time gasping audibly with the pain ripping through her.
“You can’t be trying that,” Padera scolded. The old woman frowned with irritation, as if Persephone’s wounds mattered.
Moya bolted out the door. Everyone else except Padera and Nyphron followed her. Padera busied herself, checking what damage Persephone might have done, while Nyphron, dressed in a comfortable robe, continued to stare out the window.
Persephone lay prone, eyes on the ceiling. She despised being helpless. She wanted to run, to check on Brin, to see the damage. But even if she managed to stand up, she’d collapse immediately. The dizziness plagued her. Even her fingers felt heavy. How can I be an effective keenig lying on my back?
“Did they see the signal? Did the message get through?” Persephone asked. “Is the bonfire at Perdif burning?”