CHAPTER THREE
The Rhist
We traded dirt and rough-hewn logs for marble and glass.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The other times Persephone had been to Alon Rhist she’d stuck close to Reglan, and neither was prone to wander. No one wandered inside Fhrey territory, much less in the heart of their principal stronghold, whose largest tower had come to symbolize a monolithic sentinel. During those early visits, the procession of chieftains marched across the Grandford gorge under guard. When the men were led to a meeting hall, the women—those allowed to come—waited in nearby rooms. Persephone had marveled at the lamps, windows, curtains, and furniture. She didn’t dare set foot out of the little apartment; none of the women did. They weren’t offered a midday meal, and all the Rhunes ate the evening meal together.
On her second visit, Persephone and Gela—who she’d assumed was Lipit’s wife only to later discover that she was his mistress—dared to climb the stairs to the window level where they peered out at an unprecedented view of the great dome, the beautiful city below, and the massive tower that rose higher than she thought possible.
No one had stopped them, no one so much as looked their way, but she’d been scared to death. They only had the courage to approach the one window, but that view had stayed with her. She’d had dreams where she walked the city’s paved streets, visiting the pillared shops. She was never frightened in her dreams. No one could see her, and somehow she knew this. Persephone had never once believed those dreams would come true in waking life.
The day Nyphron became lord of Alon Rhist, he spent the afternoon providing Persephone with a personal tour of the fortress that would be her new home. The outpost wasn’t as large as she had thought. The majestic fortification crowned the pinnacle of the crag, appearing as the inevitable conclusion to the natural rock. The city, formed of lighter stone and some wood, spilled out below. These smaller buildings trickled down the hillside in tiers, curling around the base of the butte like the tail of a dragon around a hoard of gold.
“And that is Mirtrelyn.” Nyphron pointed to a nondescript open door in a cluster of three-story buildings.
“Land of Mirth?”
Nyphron smiled in surprise. “Your Fhrey is very good.” He nodded. “Mirtrelyn is…” He stopped walking and stood in the middle of the street, thinking. “I don’t know if you have such things in Rhulyn. It’s a place where people go to drink, sing songs, and tell tales.”
“We do that in our lodges.”
“This is less formal, a place common people can come and relax. Most enjoyable. The Galantians and I spent many a long night in there.”
“Seems small. Why come down here when you have that grand dome that I imagine could accommodate the whole town?”
“The Verenthenon is our tribal chamber, our general assembly hall—a smaller version of the Airenthenon—where the leading officers of the various Spears discuss issues and advise the Rhist Commander.”
Persephone smiled politely. “I see.”
“You don’t have a clue what I just said, do you?”
“You said that dome building is your lodge, only you don’t drink there.”
Nyphron laughed. “Okay, yes. I suppose that’s about right.”
“Wouldn’t work in Rhulyn,” she told him as the two began walking again. “Can’t call a meeting if there isn’t food and drink. No one would come.”
He laughed again. A nice laugh, she thought, and generous. Persephone often saw humor and laughter—the good sort—as a gift that both the giver and receiver enjoyed equally. The humorless she viewed as misers. Most of the men she knew were far too serious, which made Nyphron a ray of sunshine through a grim canopy.
The city wasn’t at all like her dreams. The real thing was far less perfect, and much more amazing. The complexity of twisting streets paved in flat stones, the pretty arched bridges, the brightly painted multistoried homes with their tall windows and dark wood trim were all things beyond her imagination. But she had been surprised to find piles of manure, broken pots, unconscious drunks sleeping on stoops, lewd graffiti, and the smell of urine, which was unmistakable on the narrower streets. But the biggest difference between dream and reality was that all the inhabitants could see her. Everyone stared. Those gathering water from the fountain forgot what they were doing. They stood frozen, watching as Nyphron and Persephone passed. Conversations halted; doors closed, and laughter died. In every face she saw fear mingled with revulsion and disbelief. One Fhrey openly cried.
Nyphron didn’t appear to see any of it as he continued his tour, pointing out landmarks and curiosities in a proud, positively jaunty manner. “I won’t take you up there.” He pointed toward a narrow lane that ran uphill underneath a bridge that joined two three-story buildings. “But there is a wonderful bathhouse up that way.”
“Bathhouse?”
“Where you go to bathe, to steam, to socialize.”
“None of those words seem at all related.”
Another warm laugh. Persephone was apparently the goddess of humor that day. “Trust me, it’s very nice. You’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I will,” she lied.
They had returned to the stairs and were on their way back. The tour was coming to an end, but Persephone had a few questions she needed answered before they rejoined the rest. When they reached the first landing they were alone, so she seized the opportunity. Nyphron was a warrior, and she thought he would appreciate a direct approach. “So, what happens now?”
Caught by surprise, Nyphron turned to discover he’d left her behind. “I thought I’d show you around the fortified areas. Not the Spyrok, that takes too long to climb, but I think—”
“I mean now that we’ve taken Alon Rhist.” She toggled her index finger between them. “What happens now?”
“You’re the keenig; you tell me.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she said. “This is a huge victory for you.”
“For us.”
She rolled her eyes. “This won’t work if you continue to treat me like a child.”
He peered at her sidelong, his mouth partly open; he licked his lips, then his tongue lingered, touching his front teeth.
“You planned this,” she said.
“Of course I did. You were there when—”
“No—you planned this before you ever came to Rhen.”
He stopped. Again, the contemplative stare.
“You’ve plotted this maneuver for months, maybe years, but you didn’t count on me. You expected to be the Keenig of the Ten Clans.”
Still, Nyphron didn’t say anything, but his face shifted to genuine interest—perhaps for the first time in her presence. She wanted to think there was respect as well, but maybe she saw only what she wanted.
“When you came to Dahl Rhen, you said you were outlawed because you wouldn’t carry out the fane’s edicts and refused to destroy the Rhune dahls. You expressed outrage at the other Instarya who destroyed Dureya and Nadak, killing every villager. But I’m not buying that. Your assistance wasn’t because of moral outrage over the slaughter of innocents.”
He didn’t try to refute her, so she went on. “I don’t know. Maybe you do have a genuine aversion to butchering women and children. Or perhaps killing is a mindless habit for you, as easy to do as it is for Padera to snap the neck of a chicken. But you didn’t give up your heritage…leave all this”—she gestured at the city—“because a few houses were burned, a few babies killed. Such an act would take far more compassion than I think you’re capable of feeling. Honestly, I don’t care. What I do care about is what your plans are now. How do you see this grand adventure of yours playing out?”
“How do you think I see it?”
Persephone stepped to the handrail and looked down on the roof of a home that had a flower-and-vegetable garden on top. The plants were doing well for such a hot summer. “I think this bloodless victory, the capture of a fortress that my people believed to be impregnable, establishes you as a worthy hero among the ten clans. You’re gaining trust and allegiance. Another similar success and you might not need me at all. You might already feel I’m unnecessary.” She looked behind her. “And these stairs are very steep.”
“They are,” he said, then surprised her by holding out his hand.
She stared at it suspiciously.
He smiled at her hesitation, lowered his hand, and began to nod. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, but I’m probably not the only one to underestimate you. I suppose I could lie, I could insist you are wrong and reaffirm my devotion to the cause of saving the Rhunes, but I suspect you’d see through that. You’re a hard woman to lie to.”
“No—people have no trouble lying to me. The hard part is making me believe. So, what happens next? What are your plans…for me?”
Nyphron ran fingers through his hair, leaving his hand to linger on the back of his neck. “Okay, I was planning to tell you this in a more appropriate time and place.” He looked around the steps and shrugged. “But since you insist…it was my hope to marry you.”
Persephone’s mouth dropped open. Conquering the premier Fhrey stronghold in a matter of minutes without the loss of a single life paled in comparison to her shock at that single sentence.
“Marry me?”
“You do that, right? Rhunes have marriage?”
“Yes, we do, but we”—she once more toggled her finger between them—“don’t.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me there is a Rhune law against that, too.”
She opened her mouth, but the number of possible ways to answer that question jammed in their flood to escape, leaving her speechless.
“In Fhrey society, most marriages are arrangements of convenience. They advance social status, grant access to certain circles, form needed alliances. Rarely are they romantic. This is what I’m proposing.”
He’s proposing!
“To win this war, we need to join forces. I need credibility in the eyes of the clans. Without it, I have no means to fight. You need the support of the Instarya, which I can obviously provide. My recognized authority will bring all the Avrlyn outposts to heel. Our marriage would bind these two otherwise antagonistic groups into an extremely effective and overwhelming force. Your numbers, my guidance and resources”—he wove his fingers together in front of him—“together we would become the knot at the confluence of two ropes, forming a line strong enough to pull up the whole world.”
“Or enough rope to hang ourselves with.”
“That too.” He smiled. There was an amazing power about him, and his smile was warm, friendly, inviting.
But is it genuine? Well, at least he’s not treating me like a child anymore.
“There’s no need to give an answer now—I’d prefer if you didn’t. Like I said, this wasn’t the time and place of my choosing. Let’s get settled in, get to know each other better. Then we can revisit the topic.”
Revisit the topic? He’s really pouring on the charm.
And yet, she found his practical approach appealing. She had rejected Raithe’s overtures because they were based on selfish desire. He wanted her all to himself, for them to run away and live a fantasy on a hill overlooking the Urum River. She had no doubt Raithe loved her. She remembered what that looked like, how it felt. But love was for the young, the innocent, and the stupid. She couldn’t see herself putting those blinders on again. She had a job to do, and that was more important than her own happiness.
She held no illusions about Nyphron, and he appeared to see her just as clearly. Persephone had little interest in being a wife again, but a partner—an equal partner—that was something else.
She looked at the Fhrey lord appraisingly. He was more than attractive; he was beautiful, godlike, and yet if he tried to kiss her, she thought she might scream. They weren’t even the same race. The whole idea was absurd, and yet his logic was irrefutable.
“C’mon,” he said. “We need to get back. I don’t want Moya hunting me down with that giant bow of hers.”
“Thank you,” she told him.
He paused, puzzled.
“For telling me the truth,” she explained.
He smiled again.
A nice smile.
“That’s where I used to live.” Malcolm pointed at a beautiful home, its door ornamented with a bronze handle and a decorative knocker in the shape of a sword striking a shield.
Raithe had never seen anything like it—aside from the countless other homes they had passed. The street was perfectly straight and paved in flat stones with such precision that no weeds could grow between the cracks. The only visible dirt to be found was packed in planters, which produced vegetables and herbs.
“You lived there?” Tesh asked.
“That’s Shegon’s old house. Meryl and I both worked here. He didn’t need two servants after his wife left, but he kept us both on anyway.”
“You lived here, and you ran away?” Tesh’s eyes widened. “Is the inside a fancy torture chamber or something?”
“The inside is lovely—an artful clover motif reflected in the curved archways as well as the spring colors.”
Tesh just stared at him.
Malcolm chuckled. “I wasn’t there long. I used to serve in the fortress.”
They both looked up toward the Spyrok; that’s what Malcolm called the insanely tall watchtower linked to the Kype by a giant bridge. Upon seeing it for the first time, Gifford had described the tower as looking like Mari had been tending her garden and left her shovel jammed in the dirt. That’s what the potter meant to say at least, but because of his inability to pronounce the R sound, what he said was: “Looks like Ma-we left a shovel in the ga-den.”
“That’s where they tortured you?” Tesh asked. “In the fortress?”
“No one mistreated me.”
“Didn’t even beat you?”
“No.”
“Starved you?”
Malcolm shook his head and frowned.
“They must’ve done something pretty awful for you to run from this. I know families who’d sell their firstborn to live here.”
Again, Tesh looked at Raithe, who supported him with a nod. Having already gone through this conversation with Malcolm, Raithe wasn’t as shocked, but there was a difference between what he’d pictured and reality. Usually, Raithe’s imagination outstripped the real world—not this time.
Tesh had worried eyes, as if this was the part in the dream where monsters closed in and a door to safety refused to open. He’d had that look ever since they’d crossed the Grandford Bridge. The kid was swimming in a pool of deadly snakes, waiting for the first one to bite. Raithe understood. He felt it, too. These were their enemies, the evil gods who’d butchered their people, and he and Tesh were strolling their streets as if they owned the place. They didn’t. The ten clans had done nothing to earn this right. The Fhrey had invited them in. Spiders did the same to flies.
“How many families lived there with you?” Tesh asked.
“None,” Malcolm replied. “Just Shegon, me, and Meryl.” The ex-slave tilted his head with a puzzled look. “The plants are doing well. I wonder who lives there now?”
“What made Shegon leave the fortress?” Raithe asked him.
“Shegon was never in the fortress. He was from the Asendwayr tribe, not in the Guard. Very few non-Instarya are.”
“I thought you said you were in the fortress.”
“Oh, yes.” Malcolm nodded. “Ah…I had a different master then.”
“He sold you?”
“Died.”
“Died?”
“You of all people should know Fhrey do that.”
“How old was he?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Fifteen, sixteen, maybe.”
“That young?”
“Hundred. Fifteen or sixteen hundred.”
“Oh, okay—I always wondered how long they lived.”
“He didn’t die of old age.”
“Accident?” Raithe looked up at the walkways between the massive tower and the dome. A fall from either of them would kill anyone.
“He was killed in combat.”
Raithe couldn’t imagine what sort of beings killed Fhrey, prior to him at least. Giants, goblins, a dragon? Likely it was something he’d never heard of. Seeing the inside of Alon Rhist made Raithe realize how limited his understanding of the world was.
The three paused at the city square near a big well with a little roof to protect those using it from sun or rain.
“How long did it take them to build all this?” Tesh asked.
Malcolm shrugged. “A thousand years or so.”
“It’s so beautiful.”
“Where are all the people?”
“Hiding.” Malcolm dipped a hand into the fountain’s pool and wiped his face. “The barbarians have entered the gates. The residents have no idea what might happen. This is unprecedented, and likely terrifying.”
“They’re scared?” Tesh said. “The elves are scared…of us?”
“When we arrive by the thousands, and the Rhist’s guards let us wander their streets, yes. These people have been told that we’re wild, little more than mindless animals. I suppose they expect we’re here to loot, pillage, and burn.”
“So goes the planting, so comes the harvest,” Raithe said. He stood up on the rim of the well and looked out. The place was fine, to be sure, but a bit too orderly. This was a home built by warriors, for warriors. It lacked the flowers and winding paths of Rhen. To the south, over the orange clay roofs, he located the river gorge. At Grandford, the Bern River flowed through a canyon. Somewhere down that way the Bern joined forces with the Urum at a place known as The Forks—the place he’d buried his father. “The Gula still might have a mind to do a bit of pillaging.”
“I suspect that’s why Nyphron asked them to remain camped in what’s left of Dureya,” Malcolm said.
“Not going to like that. Probably disappointed there was no battle. I know several who were looking forward to killing those they previously believed to be gods.”
“I just can’t believe the elves are scared of us,” Tesh said.
“Fhrey,” Raithe corrected. “These ones are on our side now. At least that’s the story Nyphron is spreading.”
“Not all of them are frightened,” Tesh said, pointing in the direction of the house Malcolm had lived in.
Raithe recognized Meryl, Malcolm’s onetime partner in servitude—the coward who’d ridden away while screaming, “Murderer, murderer.” Meryl stepped out of the too-pretty-to-be-true house, and leaving the door wide, took four steps. This left him still in the front yard, still behind the little decorative wall. He glared at them from his tiny battlement.
“Meryl!” Malcolm greeted him happily and walked over.
“Murderer!” Meryl shouted back in Fhrey.
Malcolm stopped. “I didn’t kill—”
Raithe didn’t catch everything they said. They spoke quickly in Fhrey. All he caught were the words bloodthirsty, cannibalism, and monsters. He wasn’t even certain of those due to Meryl’s thick accent.
Malcolm was trying to calm his old roommate. Raithe didn’t need to understand the words to know that, but Meryl was having none of it. He shouted his replies and grew more red-faced with each round. Before long he was slapping the top of the wall. Other doors opened. Ghostly faces materialized at windows. Fhrey couples appeared on balconies. From the third floor of what looked to be a leather shop, Raithe heard a reedy Fhrey say, “Please come away. It’s dangerous.”
More were coming out, standing on stoops with folded arms, stiff lips, and nodding heads. “Maybe we should move on,” Raithe said. “Let’s head back and find Moya and Tekchin. Or maybe Roan needs a hand with the wagons.”
Raithe tugged on Malcolm’s sleeve.
The ex-slave waved back at him with one hand. As he did, Raithe noticed another pair of eyes looking down from the upper-story window of Meryl’s house. Remembering Malcolm’s question about who lived there now, Raithe tilted his head up for a better look, and the figure withdrew into the shadows. All that remained was the flutter of a curtain.
It took a full-out drag by his wrist to get Malcolm walking, but Raithe outweighed his friend by no small amount, and Malcolm soon gave in to the idea.
“Idiot,” Malcolm grumbled. “He’s completely forgotten who he is. He actually thinks being a slave is a privilege. A privilege! Can you believe that? And he refuses to even admit he’s human—or Rhune, as he so derisively refers to us. The little partisan bigot—traitor is what he is.” Malcolm marched up the street with loud slaps of his feet.
“You used to think of us as Rhunes, too.”
“That’s before I knew better.” Malcolm jabbed his pointed finger at Raithe. “See, right there; I can be reasoned with. But not him. Oh, no, not Meryl, the little weasel. He knows—he thinks he knows—everything, except that he’s no better than anyone else. I honestly don’t know how the man manages to dress himself in the morning.”
Malcolm continued to fume, but more quietly as they rounded a wall painted with crude images.
“So, did you find out who his new master is?”
“Doesn’t have one,” Malcolm said. “He empties chamber pots in the Kype and cleans out cells in the duryngon now. Not too happy about the change. Blames me for tarnishing his otherwise impeccable reputation. I don’t know what he’s complaining about. He still gets to live in one of the best houses in the city, and he has the whole place to himself.”
“Then who was in there with him?”
“Meryl made it very clear he was alone, and how it was my fault he was now a pariah.”
“I saw someone upstairs.”
Malcolm looked at him skeptically. “Really? Why would Meryl lie about something like that?”
Raithe shrugged. “Take it up with him the next time we never come down here again, okay? Nyphron just gifted us this pretty place; might not be a good idea to get exiled before we’ve tasted the veal.”
This made Malcolm smile. “They do have wonderful veal.”