Age of Swords (The Legends of the First Empire #2)

“It’s okay, Suri.” Persephone said. “Roan, are you here?”


“Yes.”

“Brin?”

“I’m here.”

“Frost?”

No answer.

“Flood? Rain?”

Still no answer.

Suri said, “Minna’s here.”

“Well, thank the Grand Mother for that,” Moya said, and Suri heard Persephone sigh.

“What’s going on?” Brin asked this time.

“We are…” Arion began, speaking in Rhunic, then paused and switched to Fhrey. “How do you say being held in custody for a crime?”

Persephone replied, “Under arrest? How do you know?”

“Dherg language has similarities with archaic Fhrey. I didn’t understand everything, but enough.”

“Why are we under arrest?” Brin again. “What have we done wrong?”

Because she stood the closest to Suri, Arion’s face was the easiest to see, but in the faint glow, it appeared an eerie green. The Fhrey’s brows were in a bunch as she struggled to think of the right words. Suri knew Arion was the type of person who didn’t like making mistakes.

After a long while, the Fhrey said, “Dherg not…do not…allow others to come to Belgreig. Big prob…err…it is a big problem.”

Suri’s breathing grew shorter, and she squeezed Arion’s hand tighter. Big cavern. No sealed door. Big cavern. No door at all. Suri didn’t want to start screaming. Screaming never helped. She’d done that in the rol with Tura.

Closed was okay. Closed could be dealt with. If the door behind her now was only closed, she could open it whenever she wanted.

“So why did Frost ask us to come if foreigners are forbidden?” Persephone asked.

“Don’t know,” Arion said, speaking slower, more deliberately. “I think the three are guilty of something bad. Something very bad.”

“The giant, right?”

“Think so.”

“So are they going to let us deal with it?”

“They be…they are…talking, I think. So we wait. But things be good for us.”

Suri heard the door rattle against the frame.

“We’re trapped in a room,” Moya said. “How is this good for us?”

Not trapped! We’re not trapped. Even if the door is barred, Arion can rip it open. I am not trapped!

“Penalty for coming to Dherg lands is death,” Arion explained. “Locked room better, yes?”

A long pause stretched between them, and then Moya replied, “Definitely better.”

Suri was having a problem getting air, despite the quickness of her breath. Inhalations were shorter, and she was puffing instead of breathing.

“So what happens if they don’t agree?” Brin asked. “Will they kill us?”

“Arion?” Persephone said. “If it comes to that, you’ll do something, right?”

Arion hesitated. “Suri will.”

Ghostly heads turned to face the mystic. Suri shook her head, and she didn’t care if anyone saw.

“You can if you let yourself,” Arion told her in Fhrey. “You have the ability, and more raw talent than any student I’ve ever taught. You just need experience. If you tried, you could blow that door off its hinges or dissolve the walls around us.”

Suri stared at the ghostly face of Arion. Does she know?

“Suri, if you wanted you could put every Dherg in a mile radius to sleep. Then we could take any ship we liked and summon a friendly wind to blow us home, and in a fraction of the time it took to get here. You could do all that…and you will…you just have to spread your wings and decide it’s time to fly.” Arion paused then added in a softer, gentler tone, “Suri, when you want to, you’ll move mountains.”

“I don’t want to move mountains,” Suri said, but inside her head the response was: But opening that stupid door would be nice.

“I know.” Perhaps it was a trick of the dim light, but Arion looked very sad then, as if she might cry. “You remind me of Fenelyus in that way. She didn’t want the gift, either. She believed that was why it was given to her. She was immune to the Art’s seduction, to the addiction that touching the chords inflicts. It’s a rare gift, being able to shun power. Gylindora Fane had it, Fenelyus had it, and I think you do, too.”

“I don’t know any of those people.”

Arion shook her head. “Does not matter. When the time comes, you will be a most beautiful butterfly.”

“I’d be happy if she could just open this door,” Moya said, and rattled it.

Suri cringed at the sound.

“But…but…if Suri can’t save us,” Persephone said, “you will, right, Arion?”

Arion hesitated for a long time, and when she finally spoke, it was in a solemn tone, like an oath. “Yes. I will do that for you.”

—

They didn’t have to wait long, Persephone realized in retrospect; it just seemed that way.

In the darkness of that little room—with their fate so tenuous—the seconds felt like days. Upon their release, Persephone estimated that they had been detained for only a few minutes—less than an hour, certainly. When the little people came for them, their attitude had changed. They didn’t yell or poke at them with spears. Instead, a particularly plump Dherg with a red beard, bald head, and floor-length tunic of bright mint green announced in a quavering voice, “Please be so kind as to follow me.”

They were escorted from in front and behind, but gone were the faceless, gray-armored soldiers. In their place were well-dressed dwarfs. Still, all of them were outfitted with a sword attached to their belts.

Persephone and the others were led through the corridors until she was quite lost; not that she had a good idea of how to return to the ship given their haphazard rush. She expected to be taken to some sort of throne room, like the big domed hall she had visited in Alon Rhist. Instead, they were escorted to a little study where Frost, Flood, and Rain waited.

The room wasn’t big, but there were enough chairs for all. In front of the party, a beautiful fireplace, carved to look like the mouth of a beast, burned brightly, filling the room with a warm, comfortable light. A sturdy, practical desk stood to the right of the fireplace. On it was an assortment of tools, metal shavings, and old worn boxes of oiled wood, filled with a variety of metal odds and ends. The surface of the desk was marred, gouged with deep scratches. To one side was a pile of oil-stained cloths, and on the floor at the other end, was a metal bucket filled with a yellow liquid, perhaps the source of the harsh resin smell that permeated the chamber.