CHAPTER TEN

Lord of the Rhist

The Kype was this huge stone building filled with rooms, stairs, and corridors. It was where the rulers of Alon Rhist had lived. On the ground floor was the Karol, a small chamber where the keenig listened to grievances and passed judgments. Persephone used to call it her torture chamber: Each day there was a different torturer, but always the same victim.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN

Being the keenig, Persephone realized, was as rewarding as a punch in the face. The perks were equally as stellar, consisting of no sleep, no privacy, and excessive ridicule. Nothing she did was enough, yet every act was going too far. She’d been accused of favoritism toward people she’d never met, of knowing too little or too much, and of being insane. There were those who actually believed she was mentally unstable, suggesting the stress was driving her mad. Women weren’t built to bear such weight was a common sentiment expressed when she made an unfavorable judgment against someone. People, Persephone realized, had very short memories, even shorter tempers, and acted like children.

This was on grand display with Erdo, Chieftain of Clan Erling, who came before her that day in the Karol to plead his case for taking his entire clan home so they could help with spring planting. She sympathized with him—the man had a point—but sacrifices had to be made. That day it was Clan Erling.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking down. She tried as hard as she could to sound compassionate, but after giving the same disappointing news hundreds of times, to hundreds of people, the sincerity was difficult to maintain. “We can’t afford to lose so many men at this time.”

“My people will starve!” He slapped the bronze railing that divided the room between the lower and upper half. The metal bar rang in the small chamber with a dull note.

“Erling will receive shipments of grain from the south to help them survive until—”

“We don’t want charity!”

“It’s not charity. Consider it payment for standing guard.”

“It’s putting the Gula at the mercy of Rhulyn. That’s what it is! Putting a noose around our necks and calling it a leash.”

Erdo had succeeded Udgar as the leader of the Erling after Moya killed the prior chieftain in the contest that made Persephone the keenig. She had expected more challenges from the northern clans, but trial by combat was seen as sacred by most and especially by the Gula, for whom combat was such a large part of their lives. The Gula so far had been honorable in their acceptance of her rule and obeyed her judgments, even if they couldn’t always control their people. Over the winter there had been eight cases of murder that had come before her. The majority had been committed by Gula-Rhunes against people from Rhulyn, but the Rhulyn-Rhunes weren’t innocent and had a fair number of killings on their hands. Even more deaths had been reported in the territories, where interaction between the two sides had been required. Persephone had left those issues to the local elders and hoped they would prove to be wise.

There were no reports of Fhrey killing or being killed.

Erdo, new to his post, was the loudest of the Gula-Rhune chieftains. This wasn’t his first visit to the Karol. Most of the Rhune leaders aired grievances in the monthly council meetings, which made them run notoriously long. Erdo wasn’t the sort to wait.

“The south is better equipped to grow food,” Persephone explained. “There’s better soil and a longer season, and the fields are farther from the enemy who might otherwise be inclined to burn them. I promise you—your people will be looked after, but right now we need you here.”

“Makes no sense,” Erdo said. “All we do is sit. Easy for you, all warm and happy here in the city. Me and mine have to sit in the fields, in the cold, in leaky tents. No need for us to be here. Been two full seasons. The Fhrey are scared of us. All this waiting is stupid. Use us or send us home!”

Persephone looked at Nyphron, who sat to her left.

Nyphron leaned forward. “How many times did Alon Rhist launch attacks on the Gula in winter?”

The Gula-Rhune shook his head. “Don’t remember.”

“Then let me help you recall—never. Wars are fought in warm weather. If you look outside, you’ll see the snow is off the ground. Your enemy is on the march. They will be here soon enough. And if I were you, I wouldn’t be so eager for their arrival. Now, we have others to listen to.”

He waved his hand in dismissal.

Persephone cringed.

Erdo glared at Nyphron, his mouth a stiff, tight line. He spun and stomped out.

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Persephone whispered to Nyphron.

The Fhrey leader looked at her, puzzled.

“It’s not your place to dismiss—”

“Oh!” Nyphron nodded. “You’re right. My apologies.” He glanced across the hall as Erdo retreated out the door. “It’s just…I don’t like the way they speak to you—these Gula especially. They show no respect. No Instarya would dream of speaking to a superior in such a way.”

“No?” Moya asked. Only one word, but she managed to saturate it with a sea of sarcasm. “That’s not what Tekchin tells me.” She smiled at Nyphron.

Moya stood to Persephone’s right. There was a chair, but Moya always stood, leaning on her strung bow. She complained endlessly about the need for more than a mere bronze bar and a four-foot step separating those coming to complain to Persephone. People with grievances were angry folk. But Persephone wasn’t worried. Moya had proved she could nock and launch three arrows faster than a man could jump the bar. The tale of her stunning victory over Udgar and her increasing mastery with the bow had made her a legend. Most of the clans imagined her in mythic hero terms, which was the only way most could resolve the contradiction of someone so beautiful being so deadly. Even the Fhrey extended an unusual degree of…perhaps not respect, but caution…for something they, too, did not entirely understand. While the secret of the bow had been disseminated to those interested in learning, Moya, who practiced daily, remained the master. And just the sight of her standing at the ready was better than twenty armed guards.

The doors to the Karol opened and Petragar and Vertumus were led in. Seeing them, Moya grinned. “And what do you think these two would say about the respect Instarya show their leaders?”

Nyphron smirked as the two approached the bar. “I didn’t say leaders; I said superiors.”

The Karol was excellently suited for grievance hearing. Located in the base of the Kype, the chamber was off-limits to most of the inhabitants of Alon Rhist, and as such, it sustained an air of mystery and awe. The room was also small enough to be intimate, but divided to maintain a judicial separation. There were no windows and only the two doors, one for the petitioner and one for the judges, making the proceedings appropriately private. In some ways, the Karol reminded Persephone of the lodge in Dahl Rhen, but this was far more formal and ominous. She especially bemoaned the lack of windows. This time of year the doors of the lodge would have been thrown open to let the spring light and air in. Instead, she was trapped in a dim cave of flickering flame, listening to complaints about her leadership and being forced to disappoint nearly everyone.

“We have spent…” Petragar began in the Fhrey language, then faltered. He looked to Vertumus, who whispered in his ear. “We have spent more than eight months incarcerated. I am a ranking member of the Fhrey, and as such, I demand our immediate release.”

Throughout this demand Petragar never once looked at Persephone. His attention was focused on Nyphron.

And while it didn’t please her, it didn’t surprise Persephone when Nyphron responded on her behalf.

“You’re responsible for sending a troop of Grenmorian killers to murder me,” Nyphron said. “You’re lucky to be alive. Thank Ferrol you were born Fhrey.”

“A civilization’s worth can be measured by its treatment of prisoners,” Vertumus said to Persephone; then he, too, directed his comments to Nyphron. “Returning us to the fane would be the first step in changing minds.”

“We don’t need to change minds,” Nyphron said. “You had your chance to listen to fair debate. Now it’s our turn to repay the kindness.”

“Nothing can be gained by keeping us here,” Petragar said. “If anything, we are a drain on your resources.”

“Good point.” Nyphron turned to Persephone. “I agree with Petragar. You should authorize their execution immediately. No sense wasting good porridge on the likes of them.”

The two looked at Persephone in wide-eyed horror.

She had never ordered the death of anyone before, and the idea made her nauseous. She could do it; Reglan had. But it was never easy, and rarely sensible. A clan needed all hands working together to survive. Execution was a last resort when all else failed, but there were times when it was necessary. This wasn’t one of those times.

“Escort them across the Grandford Bridge,” she ordered, still speaking in Fhrey. “Give them food and water in the necessary quantity for a journey to Erivan, then let them go.”

Smiles brightened the faces of both prisoners as the guards hauled them out.

“You’re being foolish,” Nyphron said quietly, switching back to Rhunic, “and also weak. Weakness is no way to run a territory.”

“I’m not running a territory. I’m leading a war.”

“All the more reason. You need to be more decisive, less accommodating.”

“You may feel comfortable kicking your feet up in your home, but I have not forgotten that I am living in the house of my enemy. They watch us. You don’t notice, but the Fhrey in the city stare at us with loathing. Padera cooks my food because the Fhrey chefs refuse. Roan and her smiths are struggling to produce weapons and armor working in Alon Rhist’s smithy, but your metalworkers refuse to help. They don’t know how to make iron and refuse to learn from a Rhune. It’s as if those Fhrey who chose to stay did it in expectation of our failure. They’re waiting for us to give up and go home so they can scrub the smell of us off their floors and return to their old lives.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“To date, only Shegon and Gryndal have died at the hands of Rhunes, and no Fhrey has been killed while I’ve been the keenig. The Fhrey are watching. If I execute two high-ranking Fhrey, if they witness two of their own being murdered by humans, their tolerance may well fade. I already have one war on order. I don’t need another conflict inside the walls of my fortress.”

“Power is kept with fear, not compassion. Fear of the fane united the Rhunes and made you the keenig. Fear of the keenig will keep your people and mine united when they no longer fear the fane.”

“I don’t want my people to fear me. They shouldn’t have to fear anyone. That’s the whole point.”

“A fine ideal, which you should repeat in public every chance you get.”

Persephone frowned. She didn’t want to be sucked into the same old argument. Mostly because she was starting to think Nyphron might be right.

Initially, the gleaming Fhrey lord had terrified her, but over the last year she’d come to depend on him for so much. Unlike the clan chieftains, Nyphron, in fact all the Fhrey, hadn’t showed the slightest concern with her being both a military leader and a woman. She knew that, until recently, the Fhrey had been ruled by a female fane named Fenelyus, who led them to victory against the Dherg. Nyphron in particular had been very supportive. Persephone found it odd how she felt more comfortable with, and accepted by, a member of another race than she had by her own husband, which made resisting Nyphron’s counsel all the more difficult. “How many more prisoners are there?”

“You’re changing the subject,” Nyphron told her.

“She can do that; she’s the keenig,” Moya said while smiling innocently. Persephone was certain she had the only Shield capable of wielding her eyes as a deadly weapon.

“And good Shields are supposed to be silent,” Nyphron replied.

A year ago, such a comment would have terrified both of them. Instead, Persephone braced herself for the inevitable reply. Moya always had a reply.

“And Fhrey are supposed to be gods.” Moya shrugged. “Isn’t life just full of disappointments?”

Moya’s mouth! Persephone had mentally turned the phrase into a curse. The three of them had spent nearly every day of the winter together, planning and organizing. At first, Persephone was certain Moya would get them both killed. She loved the girl to death, but Moya could make difficult situations impossible. Then, by the first snows, she realized Nyphron invited attacks. He appeared to enjoy her barbs. By midwinter, the two were regularly greeting each other with scathing insults. To aid her, Moya had Tekchin teach her Fhrey profanity.

“How many more prisoners?” Persephone asked again.

Nyphron continued to look at Moya a moment longer, then shifted over. “A little more than a hundred.”

“A hundred? Why so many?”

“I thought Instarya never disobeyed their superiors,” Moya jabbed again.

Moya!

Thankfully, this time Nyphron ignored her. “Petragar and Vertumus are the only Fhrey down there.”

“You have humans imprisoned?” Persephone asked.

“No,” he replied, as if the question was ridiculous.

“Dwarfs?”

“Why would we imprison dwarfs?”

“I don’t know, but what else could there be?”

“We use the duryngon as holding pens mostly. Patrols sometimes capture goblins, welos, or bankors. We even had an ariface once, and for a few years, we had a white bear that we named Alpola, after a Grenmorian legend of a snow giant.”

Persephone didn’t know what most of those words meant but imagined a menagerie of mystical creatures, a terrifying collection of nightmares underneath her feet.

“What do you do to them?”

“Study, mostly. We learn weaknesses and strengths, attitudes, motivations, and languages if applicable.”

“Are we done here?” Moya asked. At midday, she taught the bow to a hundred would-be archers.

“Looks like it.” Persephone was getting the nod from the door guard, who closed the chamber on that side.

“Then I’m off to belittle and humiliate this month’s crop of manhood.”

“How are they doing?” Nyphron asked as he stood up and they headed toward the judge’s door.

“Very well—but don’t tell them that. This is part of the same group I had back in autumn, and I’m pleased to find they’ve kept up with their practice.”

“Any standouts?” Nyphron held open the door for the two women.

Moya nodded. “A kid named Tesh is the best. He loves challenging me.”

Nyphron was nodding. “Sebek has the same problem with that boy.”

“He’s a natural, very athletic and driven. I’ve seen him practicing in weather so cold that stone cries. Made himself a pair of gloves without fingertips on his right hand so he could better feel the string. And he’s the only one, besides me, who can hold five arrows in the draw hand. The rest of my trainees hold them in their bow hand, which slows them down. Tesh isn’t accurate enough, and he’s not thrusting the shot with his bow hand, but he can loose three arrows faster than you can say your own name.”

“He’s been asking for armor.” Nyphron closed the door behind them. “Wants to get used to the weight and balance. They keep telling him he’s not done growing, but that hasn’t stopped him from asking.”

“He’s Dureyan, you know,” Moya said as they entered the Kype’s main hall, which was dominated by the huge doors and dangling chandeliers. Not a shaft of sunlight entered. The Kype was the fortress within the fortress; the only windows were four stories up and very narrow. “Explains why Raithe appointed him as his Shield. Well, that and great foresight on Raithe’s part. That kid is going to be a killer one day.”

---

Persephone insisted on climbing to the top of the Spyrok once a day. She wanted to see the world, and there was no better view than from there. She also loved leaving behind the shackles of her keenig duties. If only for an hour, she could be just one of the birds that circled the tower. Recently, Nyphron had taken to joining her. At first, she’d found it irritating. This had been her alone time. She climbed the thousand steps, which she counted on five separate occasions, to find solitude. He was an invader. Yet as intruders went, the lord of Alon Rhist had proven to be…charming? Somehow, that didn’t quite fit but it was as close as she could come. How else could she describe how he matched her embarrassingly slow progress and pretended to need the occasional rest?

The two reached the top and looked east at all creation, cast in shimmering gold by a setting sun behind them. Wind blew. Wind always blew up there, and Persephone gripped the icy stone ledge and leaned into the cold gusts, which felt good after the long climb. The world appeared so beautiful; hard to believe that out of that splendor death marched toward them.

“Do you think it will be soon?” Persephone asked.

“Yes,” Nyphron replied. “The fane will have built his new army over the winter, same as us. I suspect they are already on the move.”

“How long, then?”

“We have time. Armies, even experienced ones, are notoriously slow. Supply lines need to be established, which will be the first thing we’ll target after the initial battle. Disrupt an enemy’s supplies and it’s like poisoning a village well—everybody leaves.”

“You’ve fought in many battles?”

He nodded with a smile that said he was being modest. He walked around the circle of the parapet with his arms outstretched. “These mountains, forests, rivers, and caves were my playground. I grew up exploring every crag, cleft, and shadow. And those that came with me became legends.” He looked out at the purple and gold of the most distant peaks and sighed.

She thought she saw sadness in his eyes and realized he was likely remembering fallen comrades. “Have you lost many Galantians over the years?”

He appeared surprised and shook his head. “Just two.”

“Medak and Stryker were the first?” She felt foolish for never having offered condolences for—

“Stryker wasn’t a Galantian,” he said with a little chuckle. “Stryker was a goblin. One of the many guests of the duryngon. I pulled him out of his hole thinking he might be useful.”

“And Grygor? Is he a Galantian?”

Nyphron shrugged. “Sort of. We picked him up a few centuries ago in Hentlyn during a clan dispute where—”

“He’s that old?”

“Grenmorians age like trees. Act like them, too. Some fall asleep for years, the bigger ones especially. Furgenrok, the ruler of the dominant Rok Clan, allegedly fell asleep for so long that dirt built up on him, grass grew, and sheep were grazing on his face. Legend holds that one little lamb tugged on an eyelash and what was known as Mount Furg—for reasons no one could by then remember—got up and turned out to be Furgenrok himself.”

Persephone smiled as she imagined a mountain getting up and dusting himself off.

“My father was the leader of the Instarya tribe. That made him lord of Alon Rhist, commander of the whole frontier. This granted me certain privileges, although not too many as my father wasn’t one for favoritism. But I was allowed to handpick my cohort. I chose only a few, but that was all I needed because I picked the best.” He placed his hands on the balcony ledge and looked out. “And the adventures we had.” He sighed again. “But I’m no longer five hundred, and there comes a time when you have to grow up, I suppose.”

He turned to her, looked straight into her eyes, and asked. “Have you had time to consider the proposal I mentioned when we arrived? I don’t mean to push, and I admit that I have very little knowledge of Rhune customs when it comes to marriage, so I apologize if I appear to be rushing things.”

Once again, Persephone was caught by surprise. “More than half a year between comments wouldn’t be considered a rush.”

“Good,” he said and waited.

Persephone felt flustered. “To be honest, I haven’t given the idea that much consideration. We’ve been together nearly every day, and you’ve never…I mean…I guess I thought you might not have been serious, or you might have changed your mind.”

“Not at all. I merely wanted to give you the necessary time to evaluate the proposal.”

I was right, charming really isn’t the right word.

Persephone had contemplated the proposal a great deal over the winter, so much so that she’d refused to meet privately with Raithe, even though he’d attempted to see her dozens of times. During council meetings where all the chieftains were present, she made a point of avoiding him. Persephone couldn’t afford to be alone with Raithe, not even for a second.

Over several cold months of contemplation, she determined that Nyphron was right. Their union wasn’t merely advantageous—it was necessary. Persephone also realized that, despite everything, she loved Raithe. Probably since the day I met him. Back then it wasn’t an option. Reglan’s death was so fresh, and they faced so many troubles. I made excuses. He was too young; he didn’t believe in me, didn’t believe in fighting; his dreams were childish, selfish things. But even though he knew he couldn’t win, he would have fought the Gula champion for her. And he was still there, still training men in Alon Rhist. He hadn’t seen her in months, but the man hadn’t left. I’m running out of excuses. And she missed him more than she ever expected she would. Strange how infrequently I thought about Raithe when he was here, but how important the man has become in his absence. Thoughts of love had always been a luxury before, frivolous and indulgent, but now she had to think. She needed to decide, and that decision led her to a comparison. Nyphron made his argument, which, while sensible, felt cold and empty. In his absence, Raithe couldn’t defend himself; he also couldn’t ruin the growing appreciation that bloomed in a rich soil of selected memories that became all the rosier in light of Nyphron’s calculated arrangements. All of her mental debates, all of her reasons to choose the Fhrey, sounded foolish against the powerful backdrop of longing that, instead of diminishing as she had hoped, had grown stronger.

At first, she had been ridiculously busy. Now, she didn’t dare allow herself to see Raithe, to be alone with him. The winter had made her weaker. This couldn’t be a selfish decision. That was a girl’s choice. She was a woman, and the keenig. Her own happiness couldn’t get in the way of that.

Persephone looked back at him with a concerned frown. “Do you…do you even like me?”

Nyphron drew his head back in surprise. “I…is that important?”

“I think so, yes. I’m not saying you have to be in love with me. I’ve seen Fhrey women and guess you find me somewhere between ugly and grotesque. But for a successful marriage, I certainly think a genuine, if only general, affection of some kind is necessary.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I believe I can honestly say I have enjoyed your company this past winter.”

“Oh, well, that is…that’s wonderful. I hope you didn’t strain yourself with that admission.”

She turned away and crossed the parapet to the south side. Leaning on the wall once more, she stared out at the Bern and Urum River valleys without seeing either. These climbs were so much more enjoyable alone.

“You seem upset.”

“Me? No. Not at all.” She refused to look at him. His blank, bewildered stare was too infuriating.

Why am I so angry?

Nyphron was being forthright and honest, offering her a very sensible arrangement that would benefit nearly everyone. To her knowledge, there had never been a Fhrey-human marriage. Such a thing would go a long way toward eliminating misconceptions and establishing respect between the races. That was the real battle, the real war that needed winning.

So why does it hurt?

Persephone remembered the first time they scaled the Spyrok together. She recalled laughing with him when, after climbing those thousand steps, they couldn’t open the door to the balcony because of the late winter snow. They’d just sat there, slumped on the top step cursing the gods. She remembered how he’d lent her his coat, putting it on her so thoughtfully, and how he’d caught her when she slipped on the ice, and held her hand as they crossed the rest of the bridge on their way to the general assembly for the midwinter address. His hand had felt warm; it had felt good; it had felt like…

I thought…I thought maybe he…

“Do you still need more time to decide?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, and then, biting her lip, she sucked in an unsatisfying breath.

Spring was supposed to be a time of new beginnings or renewal, of love and the joy of rebirth. Instead, spring was just a time of waiting, and death was on its way.