CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Signal
I still feel as if it was my fault, which I understand is stupid. But like I said, I only had the one job.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
A fire ignited at the top of the Spyrok.
Mawyndulë was just outside his father’s tent, which was still being raised by a team of Eilywin busily pounding stakes with mallets. Ever since his first visit, Mawyndulë had thought of the great tower of Alon Rhist as an upthrust spear punching out of the ground, stabbing at the sky. Now the tip of the spear burst into flame.
“Does that mean they’ve seen us?” Mawyndulë asked his father.
Fane Lothian was observing the construction of his battlefield home, which, when completed, would be a circular purple monstrosity held up by twelve-foot poles. He turned and squinted at the fortress; then, without a word, he marched across the camp.
Mawyndulë followed his father, who was already shadowed by the ever-present Sile and Synne. The silent twins who looked nothing alike—the giant and the hobgoblin—went everywhere his father did. What has the world come to when the fane needs constant protection?
The four of them weaved between tents and cook fires. Why the evening meal was taking so long, he couldn’t imagine. Remembering Jerydd’s trick of making strawberries, Mawyndulë made a silent vow to master it.
The only thing worse than his hunger was the soreness and exhaustion from riding. They’d traveled far that day, his father pushing them, anxious to end the ordeal. All the Miralyith rode horses, and Mawyndulë was certain his animal was the worst of the lot. The beast wouldn’t obey, and Mawyndulë spent most of the trip pulling its reins and kicking its sides. By midday, he’d found himself thinking that walking would have been a better choice.
The fane arrived at Kasimer’s tent, which inexplicably was up before the fane’s own. Lothian shouted for him to come out.
“My fane?” Kasimer asked. He was in dark robes and still wore the Spider helm.
Mawyndulë’s father pointed at the spire, which, now that it was burning, reminded Mawyndulë of a candle. His father apparently thought the same, saying, “Blow it out.”
“My fane?”
“It’s a signal. Put it out now!”
“Yes, my fane.”
Kasimer shouted to his troops. The Spider Corps had trained to work as a group. This wasn’t easy. Miralyith were by nature a pack of individualists. Artists enjoyed meeting and talking, but collaborating on a project was the behavior of the Nilyndd or Eilywin—two tribes that needed to team up to accomplish anything worthwhile. The Art was personal, and Artists rarely needed help manifesting their dreams. Execution was also always part self-expression, and suppressing the instinct to act freely was difficult. To follow another’s lead was counterintuitive and took months of practice, but the benefits were obvious. Like a dozen oarsmen on one ship, a handful of spiders could weave bigger, stronger webs. In this case, a team of Miralyith could snuff out a massive bonfire at a distance no individual could manage alone.
Mawyndulë watched as they rapidly assembled, forming in a circle around Kasimer, who acted as lead Spider. Everyone else would feed him power.
I could blow that candle out all by myself, Mawyndulë 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, Mawyndulë had a direct line of power to Avempartha. Jerydd waited on call. Anytime Mawyndulë 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, Mawyndulë 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. Mawyndulë 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, Mawyndulë 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, Mawyndulë 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?”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. The bonfire burned for only a few minutes. I can’t imagine anyone at Perdif is watching every second. Even if they were, they’d likely believe it was a mistake, a test, or a mirage. Why else would it vanish so quickly? But I’ll go check.”
With that wonderful assessment, he walked out, leaving Persephone alone with Padera. The old woman rinsed a towel in the basin, then wiped Persephone’s face. Despite an inability to move, the keenig continued to work up a sweat.
“What is Perdif?” Padera asked.
“A small village of shepherds—a raised place in the High Spear Valley. There’s a bonfire built on a hill there that can be seen by the Gula and the Nadak. They’re supposed to light their fire when they see ours. The alert is then supposed to be relayed across Gula and Rhulyn, fire after fire, as the signal for all warriors to hurry back.”
“And if they didn’t see it?”
“We’ll be on our own here with too few men to fight.”
Nyphron returned. He was shaking his head. “There’s no fire at Perdif.”
“Build another,” Persephone ordered. “Tell—”
“Can’t. They didn’t just blow the fire out. They blasted the top off the Spyrok. Even if we could, they’d just blow that one out, too. You’d be giving them targets.”
Blew the top off the Spyrok? How could anyone blow the top off that huge tower? And if they can do that, how can we hope to survive?
Persephone felt herself sink farther into the mattress. They needed to signal Perdif. They had to signal. She’d sent everyone home based on the idea that she could call them back if the Fhrey attacked. The whole idea seemed so simple—too simple not to work. Persephone recalled patting herself on the back for her ingenuity.
“How did the fane’s army get here without any warning? Our scouts—”
“Our scouts were Rhunes,” Nyphron said. “All dead, I suspect, killed by Fhrey scouts.”
This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. This isn’t fair. She had a plan, a good one. And I can’t even get out of bed because of some stupid raow!
“Wait!” Persephone said. “What about Arion? Couldn’t she make a signal?”
“Already sent for—” Nyphron smiled as Arion and Suri knocked on the doorframe.
“The fane is here, I take it?” Arion asked.
The Miralyith was rubbing her eyes, looking sleepy. Suri was alert, but then Suri had always been a night owl. The mystic stared at Persephone, puzzled. She glanced at the window, and her expression darkened.
She knows. No one told her, but she knows what happened.
Persephone had spent the winter watching Suri blossom. The most noticeable change came with the first snows when beyond all expectations Arion persuaded Suri to abandon her old filthy dress and ruddy wool cape for an asica. The transformation was remarkable. The onetime feral mystic, who had all the fashion sense of a hedgehog, had become a swan. She hadn’t conceded completely. Arion had wanted to shave Suri’s head, but the girl had refused. They compromised on her taking regular baths, which had done wonders. Only the tattoos remained of the mystic’s former self, but even they looked different. With Suri dressed in the formal robe, what had once appeared as just another bizarre ornament now lent an aura of mystery and worldly wisdom.
“The fane blew out our signal,” Nyphron told her.
Arion moved to the window and peered out. “Of course he did. Are you saying you didn’t expect that?”
Nyphron frowned.
“The signal was my idea,” Persephone said.
“But you aren’t an experienced military commander. Nyphron should have known better and warned you.”
“My experience is against normal adversaries. I’m not accustomed to magical warfare. Besides, the thing only needed to burn for a little while.”
Persephone had never seen Nyphron offer excuses before. They rattled him. Now he’s wondering what else he missed.
“Welcome to your first lesson.” She faced Persephone. “You want me to make a new one,” Arion said, not a question, but an understanding, an acknowledgment. Arion and Suri were both a little eerie that way.
Persephone had asked Suri once if she was learning to read people’s minds. The mystic shook her head and replied, I’m learning to read the mind of the world.
“What do you think, Suri?” Arion asked.
Arion did that a lot, too. In every instance where they called Arion in for advice, she always made Suri answer first. The mystic paused and thought a moment. She moved to the window and looked out, then turned back and shook her head.
“Why?” Arion asked.
“Pointless and dangerous.”
Arion smiled at her apprentice, then turned to Nyphron and Persephone. “Jerydd, or whoever they have leading the Spiders, is watching. They’re looking for two things. A new fire—that they will blow out—and me. Can’t see me now. Might not even know I’m here. But if I use the Art, they will.” She glanced at Nyphron. “You’ll lose your precious advantage of surprise as they alter their battle plans to include me, or they’ll just launch another attack and try to do to me what they did to that tower. Honestly, I believe they’re hoping I’ll try.”
Nyphron was nodding, his face tense and thoughtful.
“And the same applies to Suri?” Persephone asked.
“More so. She’s your real secret weapon.”
“So, no signal,” Persephone said.
“Can’t we just send someone to Perdif?” Padera asked.
“Perdif is forty miles away,” Nyphron replied. “Take a person two days just to get there. Two more days for the army to get back. I’m optimistic, but even I don’t think the fane will delay his attack that long.”
“Naraspur,” Arion said.
Persephone assumed this was a Fhrey word she wasn’t familiar with, but she saw just as much puzzlement in Nyphron’s eyes.
“Naraspur is the horse I rode here. I left Naraspur with Petragar. If she’s still here, someone could ride—”
“Alon Rhist has a dozen horses,” Nyphron said, then began shaking his head. “But being a fortress, the Rhist is designed to be hard to invade. A natural cliff protects the citadel and the city below, and we have only the one, well-fortified gate. To escape, a rider would need to cross the Grandford Bridge. There’s just no other way for a horse to leave, and the fane’s army is camped on the far side. Our messenger would be required to ride through a thousand Fhrey.”
Arion frowned. “And the Spiders will kill anyone leaving the fortress. Especially on a horse, and for the same reason they destroyed the tower.”
“I can’t ask my people to commit suicide, not when…” Nyphron looked at Persephone. “So far, the rest of the Instarya are innocent of my crimes. If we fail, there’s a chance at least that the fane will punish me and pardon them.”
“What about a human?” Padera asked. She had dropped the towel back in the basin, throwing her full attention to the conversation. “What about a Rhune?”
Nyphron replied to Persephone rather than Padera. “A Rhune would stand far less of a chance. Members of the fane’s army might hesitate to kill another Fhrey, but they would have no such qualms with a Rhune. And there isn’t a Rhune alive that can ride a horse.” He looked as if he were going to say more, then stopped.
“What?” Persephone asked.
Nyphron looked pained. “I am embarrassed to say we Fhrey are not above petty amusements. Rhunes have been forced onto the backs of horses as entertainment. It never ended well. No Rhune has ever managed to sit on a horse, much less ride one.”
“Never?” Padera asked, but the tone of her voice was odd, as if this was a good thing.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude; it’s just that humans don’t have the required agility.”
Arion nodded. “He’s right. Riding a horse isn’t easy. It is, in point of fact, dangerous.”
“Racing through a camp of a thousand Fhrey, some of them Miralyith, would be impossible for anyone,” Nyphron explained.
“It would be a race, wouldn’t it?” Padera said. “A race for the fate of all our people.”
Nyphron sighed and leaned against the wall. “Suicide is what it would be.”
“But if someone could do it—if someone could cross that bridge and get past the army…” Padera looked in Persephone’s direction but not at her. That one visible eye seemed out of focus, searching for something else entirely.
“It would be a miracle,” Nyphron told her.
“Yes, but if they did, could they make a difference?”
“If they did, and if they rode hard, they might reach Perdif in less than a day—half a day maybe, though it might kill the horse, and honestly, wishful thinking would be more likely to work. But if you’d like to find candidates to try it…”
“No,” Persephone replied. “I won’t ask anyone to throw their life away.”
“Of course,” Padera said, “trying to ride a horse through that camp is something only a fool with nothing to lose would even think of.”
“And we aren’t that desperate,” Persephone said. “We still have walls, near equal numbers, and our secret weapons.” She looked at Arion and Suri.
Moya came back in. “Good news,” she said and pulled Brin in behind her.
Seeing the girl safe and unharmed, Persephone smiled. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be doing much of that anymore.
“That should wake them up.” The fane sat on the ornate chair, which had been placed in the dusty field. A dozen Fhrey had stomped down the yellow grass around him so that blowing tassels wouldn’t bother the ruler of the Fhrey. He wore a smug smile as he stretched out his feet and folded his arms. “It’ll make it hard for them to sleep tonight, too. In the morning, we’ll finish the task.”
The Spiders continued to hum and chant, and Kasimer wove his fingers at the tower across the chasm.
“No sign of her?” the fane asked.
“Arion is not foolish,” was all Kasimer replied.
“She turned against her fane in favor of a bunch of barbarians,” Mawyndulë said. “She prevented me from rendering justice on Gryndal’s murderer. How exactly would you classify that? Wise?”
A smile tugged at the corner of Lothian’s mouth, and in his father’s eyes, Mawyndulë thought he saw, for just a brief moment, a glimmer of…something. Pride?
Well said, Jerydd spoke in his head, and Mawyndulë nearly jumped. Always in the past, Mawyndulë had initiated their conversations. He opened the link. As a result, Mawyndulë had come to believe that only he could establish their connection. Mawyndulë found it disconcerting to discover the kel could be listening to all his conversations. Kasimer means well. What he should have said is that Arion is not to be underestimated. That she’s dangerous and cunning—which she most certainly is. You made points with your father, but it is better to have Kasimer on your side than against you. Let him off the hook and build a bridge.
Mawyndulë considered this for a moment, then said, “I think you meant to say she’s not to be underestimated, which I agree is very good counsel.”
This brought a new look from the fane, one of surprise and accompanied by a smile.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” Kasimer said. Then he, too, looked at Mawyndulë and nodded at him. Mawyndulë had never seen the gesture before. A solemn look had accompanied the bowed head, and the prince realized it was an expression of respect, perhaps even a thank-you, like the little bow that fencers made at the end of a session.
See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? As fane, you’ll need people like Kasimer.
Mawyndulë fought the urge to nod.
Now you really should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day, and it’ll start early.
Normally, Mawyndulë would chafe at being told to go to bed, but it was different when a voice inside his head said so. He knew it was Jerydd, who was sitting in his study in Avempartha, probably sipping wine with his feet up much the same as his father. But coming from his head, it felt like his own thoughts. Jerydd was also a secret, and what good was a secret if he didn’t take advantage of it?
Get some sleep, and tomorrow we’ll kill Arion.