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  “I do!” exclaimed a woman from the crowd, as if she’d won a prize. “Bought a bowl in Vernes by a potter named Gifford of Rhen. Good pot. Real good pot.” Confusion dawned, and she added, “But I was told a cripple had made it.”

  “Indeed!” Gifford shouted. “That would be me. I’m that very same wretch. All my life I could never talk right. I had a terrible speech impediment. Couldn’t even say the name of my beautiful wife. It’s Roan, by the way—RrrOAN!” he roared. “While alive, I couldn’t say right or rain, ridiculous or terrible.” Gifford grinned immeasurably, his smile reflected on the faces of those in the crowd.

  Roan stood beside Moya and Brin, watching in rapture, her hands clasped together in front of her mouth. She bounced on her toes and appeared to be on the verge of both laughing and crying.

  “Yes, I was an awful mess. My back was as twisted as a carrot grown in a rock-filled garden. I couldn’t even walk without help. People in my dahl used to call me The Goblin because of how I shambled around. A terrible, wretched thing I was, but watch this!”

  Gifford began juggling the three stones Suri had given him. The crowd paid closer attention now, following the stones as they flew high into the air. Moya guessed that such entertainment was a welcome change for those who had been waiting on the beach for who knew how long. Everyone watched, including Tressa.

  “Hey!” Moya called out through clenched teeth, shaking the woman’s arm. “Now! Do it! Hurry!”

  “Oh, right.” Tressa plunged a hand down her shirt and retrieved the twisted bit of metal hanging from a chain.

  “And now, watch this!” Gifford shouted.

  Moya didn’t see what he was doing, but the crowd was impressed enough to let out a combined, “Oohhhh,” which was followed by an, “Ahhhh!”

  Tressa inserted the key into Eton’s mouth and twisted. There was a clank—a loud one. When Moya looked around, all eyes were still on Gifford, who was catching the rocks behind his back.

  Tressa withdrew the key and shoved it down her shirt.

  Moya gave each door a slight push, and they began to swing inward, the light growing. This caught the crowd’s attention, and everyone turned to look.

  The doors continued to part as if drawn back by giants. As the gap widened, the brilliance blinded everyone.

  Chapter Two

  Finding Fault

  For every mistake, someone must be responsible and punishment exacted. To think otherwise is to believe we are not the center of the universe, and the world does not revolve around us. — The Book of Brin

  A cold wind cut through Persephone’s breckon mor as she stood beneath the shrouded morning sun. Dust-mote snow floated wistfully in the air, playful and pretty. The not-quite-snow turned the grassy mound a lighter shade of green. Although she was only a couple hundred yards from the camp, Persephone was confident in her privacy. She stood on the lee side of the beast. Nearly everyone was still terrified of the winged serpent that rested, but didn’t sleep, on the hill’s crest. The great beast’s eyes were closed, and while Persephone visited often, the dragon never moved, and it had only spoken that one time. Once had been enough.

  Persephone kept her distance from the creature. She was terrified by it, yet she visited nearly every day. In the morning hours or late at night when no one would see, she climbed the hill to stand before the beast and confess her fears and failures as well as confide her hopes and dreams. She knew it could hear and understand—believed that somehow he listened, too. Persephone didn’t have the slightest clue how the magic worked, but she felt certain that when she spoke to the dragon, Raithe heard.

  “They should have returned by now,” she told the beast. “I’m worried. They were only supposed to scout out the swamp and then come right back. That should have taken only a day, two or three at the most.”

  She wrung the fingers of one hand and then the other. “I sent Moya to watch over them and Tekchin went, too. With Tesh along, they should have been fine. So, why aren’t they back?” She hadn’t expected an answer, and she didn’t receive one. The dragon didn’t even open its eyes. “Why did I let them go?”

  Persephone sighed out a cloud into the frosty air, her eyes focusing on the beast’s massive claws. “Because I was terrified the sky would darken with more of your kind; that’s why. I’m still afraid.” Looking up at the gray sky and feeling the gentle kiss of snow on her cheeks, Persephone pictured vast, black shadows, swarms as numerous as locusts. “We need another miracle, Raithe.”

  Persephone dropped to her knees, hands clutching her arms, head bowed as if praying. “I’ve no more faith in Nyphron’s plans than my own. We sent Elysan to the north to speak with the giants, and half of the second legion marched south to look for an easier way across the river. I don’t have high hopes for either. Lately, it seems like all we do is send people into the wilderness to be swallowed. I’m out of ideas. We’re out of ideas. While he’ll never admit it, not to himself and not to me, I think Nyphron feels the same desperation—a sense that the tide has shifted once more, and we’ll be drowned this time. It all feels so hopeless and absurd. When we first heard the Fhrey were coming to destroy the dahls, it was easy to accept our loss. In Tirre, when we had no keenig and no weapons to fight with, it made sense to expect that we would perish. Even in Alon Rhist, success was such a distant dream. Yet somehow, we always survived. There have been so many near misses—so many miracles.”

  Persephone thought about all the famines, diseases, and skirmishes among the clans that Rhen had endured during her lifetime. None of them compared to the perils they’d faced over the last few years. Humanity seemed like a weak flame that the wind was determined to extinguish, but each time a gust arose, something got in the way—an unexpected stroke of luck that under normal circumstances would have been impossible.

  “It’s almost as if—”

  From behind, Persephone heard a labored breath and the crunch of grass. Turning, she spied the tall, thin figure of a man bundled in a cloak. He used a spear like a walking stick while climbing the hill—a familiar yet unexpected sight.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Good morning,” he said brightly. “I thought I might find you here.”

  Pushing to her feet, Persephone stared at the man, and she was overcome with a strange mix of happiness and irritation. “I haven’t seen you in years. Where have you been?”

  “Many places actually: Tirre, Caric, Neith, and a little point of land that juts out into the Green Sea.”

  “In case you haven’t heard, there’s a war on. What made you leave? We needed every available man.”

  Malcolm finished his climb, leaned on the spear, and smiled at her. “I missed you, too.”

  “I—” She felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scold. I did miss you very much.”

  This was truer than even Persephone had realized, and she gave him a hug worthy of the old friend he had become. But Malcolm was more than that. Before he had disappeared, Raithe’s unassuming tagalong had grown into a valued adviser. After the Battle of Grandford, Roan had mentioned something about him being special, but Roan’s observations were often obscure and hard to understand.

  Persephone had initially noticed Malcolm’s hidden talent firsthand when he’d predicted the birth of Nolyn. And he hadn’t merely guessed she might have a child soon. He’d told her she would give birth to Nyphron’s son in a tent on the bank of the Bern River in the High Spear Valley during the first battle of the next spring. A bold claim at the time given that she was still in Alon Rhist and unsure if she would ever see Nyphron again, much less marry him. Persephone had known seers in the past, and as such, she was untroubled by his apparent, albeit recently developed, foresight. Suri and Tura used bones and spoke in vague, cryptic terms, admitting they didn’t know exactly what would happen, but Malcolm’s predictions were made as precise statements of fact.

  Persephone let go of Malcolm, and she offered a sad smile. “It’s just that things aren’t going well, and I’m
. . .”

  He nodded, a knowing smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’re terrified. You’re worried that the Fhrey will obliterate all of mankind.”

  Persephone blinked. “Well, yeah.”

  “But that’s not all you are thinking. Is it?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “For most, it would be, but the chances of Rhunes prevailing against the Fhrey have always been slim. Your fears are rooted closer to your heart.” Malcolm looked at the dragon. “You believe Raithe’s blood is on your hands, that sending Suri to Avempartha was pure stupidity, and that letting your closest friends disappear into the Swamp of Ith will result in nothing but their deaths.”

  His words cut, but she retorted, “Maybe I was premature about saying I missed you.” All of what he said was true, but hearing it spoken aloud, and by a friend, was devastating. “Did you come back just to remind me what a failure I am?”

  His eyes left the creature and returned to her, his lower lip offering sympathy. “Not at all. I’m here, among other things, to show you just how wrong you are.”

  “How can you say that? I sent birds, foolishly seeking peace. I should have realized that the fane didn’t want Suri to negotiate. I’ve given up our most valuable weapon, and Lothian will get her to reveal the secret of dragons. I lost this war, Malcolm. I’ve ruined everything.”

  He shook his head. “This war won’t be won or lost by birds or dragons, nor by greed or hate, but by the courage and virtue of an unlikely few who will forfeit everything to save the future. That’s how it works, you know? The proud, the greedy, the vengeful are never the ones to change the world—not for the better, at least. They can’t; they don’t have the tools. It’s like asking a fish to fly. It’s not in their nature to sacrifice for others. But those who went to the swamp understand the importance of doing what’s needed when the time comes, and they’re not the only ones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You, Persephone. Your sacrifices have made a difference, and they will continue to do so.”

  She let out a sad laugh. “Me? Maybe I did some good in the past. The trip to Neith and moving to Alon Rhist gave us some time, but I’ve done nothing of value for years.”

  “Really? Is that what you think?” He glanced at the dragon. “Why did you choose Nyphron over Raithe?”

  “I don’t see how my choice of husband has a bearing on anything.”

  “I do, and you do, too. Why are you so reluctant to say it out loud? Tell me.”

  She didn’t want to answer, but with so many gone, she was down to just a few people she could speak freely with, and Malcolm was one of those. She sighed, embarrassed to admit it. “Because he was the best for the job.”

  “Which one? Lover? Father? Confidant?”

  “No.” She returned to staring at the grass.

  “Well?”

  Persephone was a bit surprised by his insistence. Malcolm had never been so confrontational before. “Ruler,” she finally said.

  “Yes.” Malcolm nodded. “Not exactly the trait most women would look for in a man. But why does that matter? The Rhunes have their chieftains.”

  “The world has changed. We can’t go back to the fractured clans that we once were, not now that we’ve seen the benefit of a single ruler.”

  “But you are already keenig. You are the leader of all the Rhunes, aren’t you?”

  “For now, but I’m forty years old. I’ll be lucky to see Nolyn grow to be a man. When I thought there was a chance we would win, I saw Nyphron as a steady hand, a fair hand. He isn’t much of a husband, not passionate or devoted, but he is strong, rational, and our best chance for a better future. He will likely live for another thousand years. In that time, he will bring stability and do great things for us as a people.”

  “And that’s why you sacrificed your future—the happiness you might have known with Raithe. You did it for the good of the world and for generations yet to come. And you will keep doing so for the rest of your life.”

  Persephone took a hard breath and shook her head. “If it had only been my burden, that would have been one thing, but it wasn’t. It’s because of me that Raithe is gone. I took away his life!”

  “No, you didn’t.” Just as Persephone had developed a preoccupation with the grass between her feet, Malcolm looked to the clouds as if bad weather were approaching. “Raithe didn’t die because you rejected him. What’s more, Suri didn’t go to Avempartha because you asked her, and Brin, Moya, Roan, and Gifford didn’t leave because you let them. Take a moment to think. Set aside your devotion to regret and guilt and consider that all these things may have come to pass because that’s how it had to be. Everyone has their part to play. Their own part. It’s not because of you; it’s because of them. They are sacrificing for the greater good, just as you have done.”

  “So, is that your way of saying the whole world doesn’t revolve around me?”

  He smiled. “More or less. My point is that while much of what has happened is to your credit, the things you see as failures are not your fault. None of it is. Not the war, not Raithe’s death, nor Suri’s capture.”

  “Whose fault is it, then?”

  Malcolm hesitated, then looked around as if he’d heard something. “Where is Nolyn?” he asked, as if just noticing they were alone.

  “What?” Persephone was stunned at the abrupt turn in the conversation.

  “I know it’s early, but don’t little boys rise with the dawn?”

  “He’s with Justine.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Of course,” he said with a lingering tone that was bloated with insinuation.

  “What?”

  Malcolm frowned. There was judgment, negative and disapproving. “I was just wondering—does Nyphron spend any time with the child?”

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “Hmm?” he said.

  Persephone folded her arms. “Whose fault is it, Malcolm?”

  The man with the spear frowned. His shoulders drooped, and he sighed. “Fault. It’s an interesting word, don’t you think? When you became keenig, you didn’t ask whose fault that was, but I’m quite certain the Gula leaders did. A fault is only leveled when something bad happens. Success is free of such a burden. Perhaps it might be best to await judgment on events before laying blame where there may not be room for it.”

  Tura would just have said, I don’t know. No doubt, Suri would have brought up butterflies or clouds or something even more nonsensical. Malcolm knew the answer—of that she was certain—but he was holding back.

  Why? she wondered.

  Persephone stared at him as a new thought began to form in her mind. Seers were those who could sometimes read mystical signs that gave them an insight into the future. To her knowledge, none of them was ever capable of shaping events to come.

  Is that even possible?

  When Tressa had mentioned it was Malcolm who told her about a passageway that could be used to rescue Suri, Persephone hadn’t thought much about it. But now . . .

  Malcolm had been with Raithe when Shegon was killed, the turning point when Rhunes began to question the divinity of the Fhrey. When she first met Raithe, it had been Malcolm who had helped persuade Raithe to return to Dahl Rhen, and just in time to face Nyphron and his Galantians. Also, when Arion came to take Nyphron into custody, Malcolm hit her with a rock, keeping both the Galantian leader and the Miralyith in Dahl Rhen.

  Can these all just be coincidences?

  “Malcolm? How did you know Suri would be captured years before it happened?” she asked.

  “That’s not what you really want to know, is it?”

  He was right; it wasn’t. “Is there still a chance for the survival of mankind?”

  The funny-looking man with the sharp nose and lanky frame nodded. “I’m not saying it’s a certainty. And while I was gone, I discovered things that make matters even more precarious. But I’m here to tell you that plans have been set in motion, and I still have faith. I wa
nt you to have some, too.”

  “You’re talking about the people who went to the swamp, aren’t you? Are they all right? What has happened to them?”

  “You may want to sit down.”

  “Oh dear Mari.” Persephone wavered. Returning to her knees, she waited before him like the guilty under an executioner’s ax.

  Malcolm knelt down as well and took hold of her hands. “Moya, Tekchin, Brin, Roan, Gifford, Tressa, and Rain—they are . . .”

  “What?”

  He shifted uncomfortably.

  “Tell me!” she shouted.

  “They’re . . . dead.”

  Persephone felt as if her heart had stopped, as if time did as well.

  “That’s not possible. Can’t be. It can’t. They only went to look—just to scout, nothing else. They didn’t go to fight.”

  “You’re right. There was no skirmish. They drowned.”

  Persephone was frantically shaking her head. “All of them? No . . . no . . .”

  Oh dear Mari, not them, too. How many more have to die?

  “But . . .” Malcolm paused, then added with a measured smile, “it’s okay.”

  She wasn’t certain she had heard him correctly, but his face—that weak smile—was backing up his words. No, not words, word. “By the will of Elan, how can that be okay?”

  “Because”—Malcolm straightened up and squared his shoulders—“there’s a good chance they’ll come back.”

  She stared at him. This time she had no trouble looking into his eyes. “Are you insane?”

  He shook his head and held up his hands to calm her, or at least fend her off. “It, ah . . . won’t be easy. In fact, it’s going to be a lot harder now than I first expected.”

  “You knew they would go?” The understanding dawned on her hard enough to shorten her breath. “You planned it.” She began shaking her head. “This isn’t my fault—it’s yours!”