CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dawn’s Early Light
I honestly do not know what happened that morning. Only one person alive did, and I never had the courage to ask her.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Mawyndulë. Mawyndulë!
He opened his eyes to find a dark world where a stretched canvas tarp quivered in the wind. Took a moment to remember where he was: in a tent on the edge of a barren battlefield. Depression filled him. He had been dreaming of Makareta. He’d spotted her in a crowd on the streets in Estramnadon and had struggled to reach her, then woke up. That left him in the lonely dark, listening to the gusts and thinking about her again.
No one knew what had happened to Makareta, or maybe they did and chose not to tell him. He thought it possible that she was locked in the same cell where they had held Vidar. Or maybe they gave her to Vidar to make up for his wrongful imprisonment. As much as he hated Makareta for what she’d done, he thought he would kill the senior councilor if he’d hurt her. That’s why he thought he might be in love with Makareta, and maybe that was also why everyone had lied to him about where she was.
A gust of inexhaustible wind made his tent sing a dull note. I hope the stakes were driven in deep.
Mawyndulë was bundled up in a pile of wool blankets topped by a bearskin. Only his head was exposed, and his nose felt numb. The sound of the wind made it worse. He couldn’t actually feel it, but the howl spoke a rumor of bitter cold.
Mawyndulë, answer me.
Mawyndulë cringed. He’d thought it was fun to listen in on Jerydd’s conversations or turn the kel into a personal storyteller as he rode. But having Jerydd invade his mind uninvited in the dark hours of the morning, left him feeling violated. While he knew Jerydd couldn’t hear his thoughts, Mawyndulë didn’t feel safe even in his own head.
He considered not answering. He could even pretend to snore. He was thinking just how annoying that could be when Jerydd spoke again. I know you can hear me. I know you’re awake. I’ve listened to you breathing for hours, and I can tell the difference.
“I was sleeping,” he said.
Sleep tomorrow. We need to get to work.
Mawyndulë yawned, wiped his eyes, then began to moan. He moaned a lot, a dull low tone that he was certain made dealing with life easier. “What kind of work?” He hoped it wouldn’t be any more lessons. He was sick to death of them. At the academy, they made him do all kinds of repetitive tasks that made him wonder whether jumping off the Talwara balcony would really hurt so bad, or would it be better to just die instantly.
We’re going to kill Arion.
Mawyndulë’s head came up off the pillow. “How? The Spiders tried that yesterday. They can’t find her. She’s hiding.”
She can’t hide from Avempartha.
Mawyndulë pushed up, letting his covers slip and swung his bare feet to the ground. Forgetting that the floor of his tent was the field, he flinched when he felt the brittle grass poking against his soles and tickling his bare legs.
I thought the Spiders and Kasimer could handle it, but she’s crafty. Should have guessed. Did you know Fenelyus named her Cenzlyor?
“What do you want me to do?” Mawyndulë wiped his eyes and ran a hand over his bare scalp, cringing as he felt the stubble forming. He hated hair. Couldn’t understand why Ferrol allowed it to grow on Miralyith. The more it grew the dirtier he felt, as if the Rhune world was infecting him.
This won’t be without risk, you understand.
“I don’t care. I want her dead.”
Good. Then I need you to go to where you can see the fortress. Get away from the camp, away from others, especially away from other Miralyith. Get in a nice lonely place where you have a perfect view of the whole fortress and then let me know.
“Right now? It’s the middle of the night.”
It’s almost morning, and, yes, right now. I wanted to do this hours ago, but you sleep with the dedication of a depressed drunk. We need to do a search, and it’ll be easier the quieter things are. Stillness makes hunting more efficient. So get up and—
“Okay, okay. I’m moving. It’s not like where you are, you know? I’m in an awful tent. It’s dark. It’s cold. And there’s a wind that doesn’t stop blowing.”
You whine a lot. I suppose that being the spoiled child of the fane people don’t dare tell you that. They should.
“As I am indeed the son of the fane, how is it you dare?”
Because I know your father would side with me.
“Treya!” he called. An instant later, his bleary-eyed servant stepped in, rubbing her face and blinking repeatedly. Treya wasn’t much to look at. Most of the time Mawyndulë didn’t bother. She was an ever-present staple in his life, like his shoes or his goldfish—always there, never noticed. But he couldn’t recall having seen Treya fresh out of bed. She was always up much earlier than he. At least it seemed that way. This was the first time since he was a child that she appeared unkempt. Her hair, which was always hidden in a wrap on the top of her head, was down. He was surprised to discover she had light brown hair—he was surprised she had hair at all. This revelation did nothing to enhance her appeal. Not only did Mawyndulë not find hair attractive on anyone, hers was an atrocious mess of tangles and jutted up in peculiar, inexplicable ways. “My sandals and cloak, get them, and pour water into the basin.”
Just enough starlight pierced the canvas for Treya to find her way around.
“Shall I make a meal for you, my lord?”
Mawyndulë shook his head. Too early, his stomach wasn’t ready for food yet. With sandals and cloak already on, he paused to splash water on his face. It was icy cold, so he opted to just dip his fingers and wipe his eyes.
“Are you going out, my lord?” Treya asked.
“Yes.”
“Shall I come with you?”
Mawyndulë hesitated but shook his head. Best he did this alone, and he couldn’t endure another minute near her hair. As much as he tried not to look, he’d catch sight of it out of the corner of his eye, bobbing and dipping like some ghastly puppet performing on her head.
He pulled back the flap on his tent as much to comply with Jerydd as to escape Treya. He had no idea how stuffy the interior of his tent had been until the fresh air greeted him. Damp and chilled, the world outside was alive with crickets and peeping frogs. All around were other tents and fires that had dwindled to glowing coals.
Stepping outside, letting the tent flap fall behind him, Mawyndulë didn’t know where to go.
“Pits are that way, my prince.” The duty guard stationed outside pointed to the south.
“Ah…thanks.” Mawyndulë didn’t know why he said it or why he turned and went south or why he felt he had to be secretive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but it felt that way. He was on a clandestine mission following the instructions of the voice in his head. Some might even call that insane. Look out! Look out for the mad prince!
He slipped into the shadows and around to the south past two more guards, who just nodded respectfully. He picked his way, moving fast. Cold had a way of adding urgency to any endeavor. He passed the pits and kept going down the slope out beyond the pickets, then he veered to the west—toward Alon Rhist. In the starlight, he could see fine, and he pinpointed a pillar of rock rising from the plain. Looking a bit like a crooked finger, it jutted up and out. The crag appeared to have a small trail running up one side.
Where are you? What are you doing? Jerydd pestered him.
“I’m having breakfast with a family of bears, tarts with jam and cinnamon tea. Bears are very good cooks, you know.”
Don’t get flippant. This is serious.
“I’m climbing a rock to get a good vantage point to see the fort. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Are you outside the camp?
“Yeah, about two, three hundred yards, I guess.”
Good. Let me know when you’ve found a spot—a quiet spot.
The trail was precarious, and Mawyndulë was regretting his decision to take it. Narrow, with a sheer drop on one side and the cliff wall on the other, he found himself shimmying along. By the time he reached the top, he was no longer cold. He was sweating.
“Okay, I’m at the top.”
Have a good view of Alon Rhist?
Mawyndulë peered west. He was up only sixty feet, but it felt as if he could see forever. Below him, the entire Fhrey camp was visible so that he could see the orderly precision of the tents punctuated by the glowing red points of burned out fires. “Yeah. It’s across this chasm: bunch of walls, big dome, massive tower—not so tall now that they cut the top of it off.”
Just sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Keep your back straight, cross your legs, and just concentrate on Alon Rhist. Try not to let your mind wander. Just focus on the fortress.
“Okay.”
And try not to scream.
“Scream? Why would I—”
Mawyndulë jerked as he felt a jolt of power slam into him. He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. All he was able to utter was a weak squeak as his mind and body were blasted with the indomitable force of the tower of Avempartha. Power flooded him so that he felt he might drown. Every muscle contracted, as if someone had dumped a barrel of ice water over his head.
He managed a weak gasp as the fortress rushed at him. In an instant, he was viewing the great bronze doors. They were close enough to touch. Then he flew through them. A moment later, he was standing in a courtyard where soldiers—both Rhune and Fhrey—stood or walked. Not needing to use the stairs, Mawyndulë flew upward to a higher courtyard and passed through barracks where men were waking up, getting dressed, and eating at long tables or with bowls in their laps. Next, he reached the dome and rose to a balcony overlooking a huge room filled with decorative weapons. He’d been there before when he and Gryndal had visited. Then he was whisked away, flying across a bridge toward a sturdy square tower built just in front of the decapitated Spyrok. This was the Kype, the fortress inside the fortress. Lamps were being lit. People were dressing. The fort was waking up, and Mawyndulë felt himself growing dizzy. He flew again, back this time toward the front of the Rhist. The jerking, haphazard motion was making his stomach queasy as he flew through the many rooms and hallways spinning left and right searching for—
He stopped.
Suri handed the steaming tea over to Arion. The two were at the top of the Frozen Tower. With the Spyrok gone, it was the nearest Suri could come to the out-of-doors. The closest she could get to feeling any kind of freedom. She’d always hated walls, and lately she had been confined behind a great many of them.
Although no one could actually stop her, Arion could put up a good fight, but Suri didn’t think even she could do anything if Suri really wanted to go out. She had learned there were few things she couldn’t do if she really wanted to. For the last month, her education with Arion had dwindled to discovering not what she could do, or how to do it, but the few things she couldn’t. Flying was one, so was bringing back the dead—at least once they had crossed into that light, into the realm of Phyre. Another was pure creation—making something from nothing. These were all beyond the Art—well, sort of. Nothing was really beyond it. The Art was everything, the common thread that ran through existence, holding it together. Everything was part of the Art, but some things, like pure creation and raising the dead, were so complex, their cords so deep, no Fhrey or Rhune Artist was likely able to master the weaves or control the power needed. That was the realm of gods. The closest anyone had ever gotten—as far as she knew—was the creation of Balgargarath and the Gilarabrywn. Even they weren’t real, not actually alive; each was a force of power held together by artificial bonds, but independent of the Artist: an animated, self-sustaining, thinking thing that could feasibly continue to live even after the Artist who created it died. In that sense and by virtue of achievement, Suri was perhaps the most powerful Artist in the world, second only to the one who had created Balgargarath. Whoever had managed that feat had to be the greatest Artist, and only a little short of the gods themselves.
Despite her hatred of walls, Suri remained indoors. She stayed because Arion asked her to. Arion was afraid something bad might happen if Suri left. What that was, Suri couldn’t sense or imagine. She had lived all her life in the wilderness among killer bears and hungry wolf packs, and that was before she could redirect the course of rivers and order the sky to rain. Suri also understood that Arion didn’t want to be alone. Suri had discovered a comfortable companion in her fellow misfit, Raithe, but in this place, at this time, Suri was all Arion had. In the span of one short year, the Miralyith had become Suri’s mentor, substitute mother, dependent child, and best friend. Even though Arion was fully recovered, Suri still worried about the Fhrey’s health, about her using the Art—not because of remaining symptoms, but because she could still see the scar on her head. The small white half-moon was always there as a reminder of how close Arion had come to death.
“So, what am I not supposed to do today?” Suri asked as the two looked out at the waking world over steaming cups of tea. That was another wonderful thing about Arion. She, too, got up early and enjoyed saying “good morning” to the sun.
“Same as yesterday—unless something unusual happens.”
Suri looked down at the Fhrey camp being revealed by the growing light. “Yesterday they threw lightning and blasts of fire—what is it you consider unusual?”
“Yesterday they didn’t know about the runes,” Arion said. “Tactics will change. I’ll try to counteract them. From what Nyphron told me, few of the Spiders survived. I think I can deal with those that remain. I don’t want to boast, but now that Gryndal is dead, I think only Kel Jerydd and the fane himself could best me.”
“You’re Cenzlyor.”
“That’s right.” Arion took a sip. “And you’re Cenzlyor of the Rhunes—ah, humans. Sorry.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“When the first person to wield the Art names you Swift of Mind, the implication is that you’re the best Artist in the world.” Arion shrugged. “Honestly, I think it was just a pet name Fenelyus made up for me and had nothing to do with my skill, but the title impressed a lot of people.”
Suri watched her standing at the wall resting, her cup on the edge while she was still holding it with both hands. Bright blue eyes looked out at the horizon, as if she could see something there. Suri had seen that look before.
“I don’t think it was just a pet name,” Suri said.
“Oh, really? You, who never met Fane Fenelyus, can tell me her mind?”
Suri nodded. “Don’t need to know her—I know you. And I can see the same thing she did.”
“Really? Okay, what does it mean?”
“Swift of Mind.”
Arion smiled. “Well, yes. Literally, sure, but it doesn’t mean I am the best Artist. Like I said, Lothian is more powerful; so is the kel. Even Gryndal—”
“Gryndal was a monster.”
Arion neither nodded nor shook her head. “And if Raithe hadn’t killed him, I’d be dead. But the question remains, why did Fenelyus choose to call me that? I clearly wasn’t the best Artist.”
Suri looked at her curiously. “It has nothing to do with being an Artist. She wasn’t speaking about your skill in the Art at all, she was describing you. I can see the same thing. You’re a lot like Tura. A lot like Magda, too. I think Fenelyus called you Cenzlyor because she thought you were wise. That was why she wanted you to tutor the prince. Not to teach him the art of magic but the art of wisdom.”
Arion stared at her with a look of shock. Then slowly a smile grew. “I suspect I’m not the only wise one here. You know what? You really are Cenz—” Arion looked out east with a concerned face. “Mawyndulë?”
Suri felt the hair on her neck rise. She began to put up the shield, but before she could, Arion shoved Suri backward with an incredible force. She stumbled and fell down the stairs, banging her elbows, pain jolting up her arms. She tumbled down a dozen steps before stopping.
“What was—” Suri began, when a flash of light blinded her and the whole upper portion of the tower exploded.
Suri felt the heat and heard a sizzle. This wasn’t fire, and it wasn’t lightning. This was raw, naked power, concentrated and devastating. Stone burst to powder, wood incinerated. Everything above was gone, including the room they had tea in, leaving Suri on the stairs of the now shorter tower. For an instant, Suri thought the worst, then she spotted Arion. She lay sprawled across three steps. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t moving.
She’s not moving!
Suri was supposed to run to the safety of the runes below, but Arion didn’t even look like she was breathing. She was…
Suri looked down from what had become the new top of the tower. Like a swan left a wake on a still pond, so, too, did the Art. Such a massive blast left a clear signature. This one traced back to Misery Rock. Filled with anguish and rage, Suri raised a hand and spoke a single word—nothing she’d been taught, nothing she’d figured out. It wasn’t even a word she knew. Just as in Neith, she acted without thinking, pure reflex.
Power, she thought, and pushed out.
A blast tore through stone, exploding Misery Rock.
Suri thought she heard a cry or scream—not with her ears but along the same conduit that had sent the attack.
She waited. Nothing.
Suri reached out, searching, groping for the source. Power that strong should be easy to find, but she couldn’t. The wellspring had dissipated—or the caster was dead. The fight was over.
From across the Grandford Bridge came the sound of horns. The second day of the battle was starting, but Suri didn’t care. She ran over to Arion, who remained exactly where she had fallen. “Arion!”
Not a shudder, not a twitch, not a breath.
“No!”
Suri began chanting even before reaching Arion. She knew what to expect this time. She kicked the door to the spirit world open and leapt in. She dove head first into the waters of that awful river, dark and cold. She swam in search of Arion, calling her name as she went.
Arion! Arion! I’m here! I’ll save you. Hold on, I’m here! Just hold on!
She shouted the words into the void.
But Arion wasn’t there.
The river was empty. The dark waters clear.
Her friend had already been washed away.
Mawyndulë nearly killed himself on the trail coming down from what was left of the crag. The cliff-side path wasn’t built for running, much less a panicked dash, and now it was strewn with debris. He slipped three times trying to get down and banged his knee hard enough to make his eyes water. He raced blindly through the choking dust cloud kicked up by the oh-so-close explosion that had ripped the world a new hole.
“What was that?” Mawyndulë shouted as he reached the bottom. He was no athlete, and he struggled to breathe, his lungs burning, his heart pounding. But he kept moving. He knew he needed to get away. “I thought we killed her!”
Silence.
“Jerydd? Jerydd, answer me!”
I don’t know.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Which word didn’t you understand?
“You act like you know everything, and yet, I almost died up there.”
I told you there would be risks.
“But we killed her. I saw her die.”
Yes. She’s dead.
“Did she have some kind of trap on her? Some kind of defense that triggered when she died?”
No. Such things aren’t possible.
“Then what?”
There was another person on that tower with Arion.
“Just some Rhune. She couldn’t—” Mawyndulë remembered the death of Gryndal. How Arion had defended the Rhune and said, This one has the Art.
Couldn’t what? Why’d you stop talking? What are you thinking?
“The Rhune,” Mawyndulë said. “That Rhune has the Art.”
That’s impossible.
“I saw her before, when I was with Gryndal. She defied his silence. She has talent.”
Talent is one thing; a knack is one thing, but a moment ago we were nearly hit by enough raw power to make me think Avempartha has a twin!
“I was nearly hit. Not we, me! I nearly died!”
You’re alive. It’s over. Quit making such a fuss.
“A fuss? What part of ‘I nearly died’ don’t you understand?”
You’re at war, not a tea party, and you wanted to go.
“I’m a prince, not some common soldier.”
Funny how death doesn’t discriminate. Makes you wonder about such privileges, doesn’t it?
“I’m still running—or at least—walking very fast for my life here. Can you stay on topic? What does it mean if I’m right and a Rhune did that?”
A long pause followed; then, as Mawyndulë crossed back inside the pickets, he heard Jerydd’s voice in his head.
Then Taraneh is more right than even he knows.