She has a gap between her two upper front teeth that she can make an ear-piercing whistle through, but she thinks it’s improper to do so. There’s a sizable freckle on the top of her left ear, and she almost always drools when she sleeps. She’s always using the phrase, “When trees walk and stones talk,” when she’s frustrated about something that will never happen.

  Pondering why Malcolm thought that one line was so important kept her mind occupied for what seemed like hours while she climbed.

  Why is it so important for me to know that Trilos and Muriel were in love? There has to be something I’m missing. Didn’t he know that Beatrice would tell me about the two of them? He knew I had read the tablets when I was here with Persephone. Was he counting on me remembering that line? Funny thing is, I didn’t see that phrase back then. I only found it when I was searching the tablets for a way out. And now that I have, what does it matter?

  She still didn’t know what to think about Malcolm. His divinity—if that was the right word—was no longer in question, but what he was up to was still a mystery.

  Malcolm isn’t an idiot. He must have known that by coming down here, I would learn the truth about him.

  He’d always appeared so genuine, unassuming, and supportive, especially regarding her Book of Brin.

  “It sounds wonderful, this idea of making a permanent record of everything that’s happened. But you need to be careful. Don’t allow personal opinion to distort facts.”

  He’d said that the last time they met, back in Alon Rhist after the Battle of Grandford. She thought he was talking about her own opinions, but maybe he was trying to warn her about the negative comments Malcolm’s siblings and daughter would make.

  She pulled herself up another two feet and found what was becoming an increasingly rare sight, a ledge. She didn’t pause there. Keeping her mind busy was helping her forget the trials of the climb. Unable to unravel the mystery that was Malcolm, she focused once more on Trilos and his writings about Reely.

  Why did Trilos devote such an enormous amount of time and effort to jotting down trivialities about the love of his life? Was it boredom, longing, or something else?

  There were dozens of tablets filled with insignificant details about this woman, and more devoted to his love for her. He described how a mere smile from Muriel had the power to erase a whole day of misfortunes. How tears in her eyes made him physically ill. No detail was too small. He poured his feelings for her onto the tablet . . . but why? Brin felt she was missing something—something important.

  And how did he escape? If Phyre is able to hold the Typhons, where did Trilos find the power to punch through worlds?

  Pins and needles in her fingertips were becoming an agony once more, and Brin took a brief rest even without a ledge. Fatigue of spirit translated into sore arms that quivered as she pulled on them and watery legs that protested when pushing up. Weight continued to increase, and her light had dimmed by more than half. She realized Gifford was probably brighter now.

  Air moved.

  Startled, Brin looked around.

  Wind?

  At no point in all of Phyre had she felt a breeze.

  The Abyss doesn’t want me to escape.

  Brin clutched the stone. Flattening her body as best she could, she clung to the column as the wind brushed by. Her hair whipped, but the air had a hard time getting a grip on her. Eventually its icy fingers found a hold, pulling her back from the pillar, jerking first left, then right.

  The wind is actually trying to tear me off!

  Brin shifted around, working to get to the lee side, but this was no ordinary gale. The wind followed her, clawing harder. She hugged the rock, her fingers frosting with the relentless blow of freezing gusts. She pressed a cheek against the pillar’s face. Her entire body trembled from stress and exertion.

  Brin searched for another handhold. She had to keep moving upward because her light was fading faster, reduced to little more than a candle’s flame, a lonely flicker.

  She could feel the hopelessness seeping in, stealing her strength.

  I’m not strong enough. Tressa was right. No one can cheat death.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and fought against the growing weakness. Then she remembered, Trilos cheated death, but how? Where did that power come from?

  The wind gusted and howled, and nearly tore her off the pillar. She shifted her weight, finding a better spot, a larger foothold. It wouldn’t matter. Brin could feel her muscles failing. Soon she wouldn’t have the strength to hold on. Before long she’d let go.

  “I’m sorry,” she cried, but the wind stole her words, too. While her failure was a blow, the knowledge that she’d convinced Tesh to die for nothing was so much worse.

  Brin felt the weight even more than before. Her light flickered dangerously low. The disappointment of her failure was bitter, her remorse palpable.

  Regret. Regret is the weight.

  Her foot slipped, and Brin cried out from the pain in her hands as they fought to hold on. She was panting in fear, huffing against the rock. The dangling foot was as heavy as if a weight were tied to it. She couldn’t pull it up.

  How did Trilos escape?

  Brin concentrated on that, feeling there had to be a clue, something she could use.

  She has a gap between her two upper front teeth that she can make an ear-piercing whistle through, but she thinks it’s improper to do so. There’s a sizable freckle on the top of her left ear.

  He wrote as if he didn’t want to forget even the most trivial detail. Trilos was recording his memories—he was making his own Book of Brin. He was being a Keeper—but not of a people and their deeds. He was recording the specifics of the one he loved. Why?

  Why do I write? Brin thought for a moment. Because I don’t want to forget anything. I’m trying to preserve what I’ve learned for the future. But I’m also writing about the people I love, so they won’t be lost when I die.

  But he was already dead, so why would he . . .

  Sacrifice.

  Gods demanded it. So did the Art when making dragons. The greater the sacrifice, the stronger the power.

  Then Brin understood the horrible truth of it all. She realized where the power had come from to punch through worlds and create Balgargarath.

  That’s how he got out. He sacrificed her. That’s what I have to do, too.

  Brin shook as she clung to the pillar. She finally understood.

  Tesh is my weight.

  The mere thought allowed her to replace her foot and relieve the pressure on her hands.

  I have to let him go, but how can I do that?

  She couldn’t forget Tesh any more than she could forget—

  What he did.

  The wind shrieked in her ears and clawed at her face.

  No, the weight isn’t what I’ve done to Tesh. That’s not how it works. The weight comes from me.

  Brin’s breath deteriorated to short gasps.

  What do I have to let go of?

  She lost footing again, and this time the sudden movement pulled both feet free. She hung only from her fingertips as the wind whipped, pulling then slapping her dangling body against the rock. Yet she hardly felt it. Her mind was hard at work, searching for the answer.

  Love can’t be a weight, but . . . do I love him? Can I love a murderer? Should I? I was able to forgive Tressa, but . . . can I forgive Tesh? Can I truly and completely forgive him for luring Anwir out into the forest and killing him slowly? Can I just look past all the Galantians he murdered? How can I forget that he pretended to be their comrade while plotting their deaths?

  The wind went to work on her fingertips, biting with icy teeth.

  None of the Galantians were innocent, she reminded herself. They had murdered his family, his whole clan. And for what reason? To start a war where thousands of other innocent people would die. But does that excuse Tesh?

  No, that’s his weight, not mine. He has to deal with that. All I need to address is how I feel after knowing what he did. My weight is my judgment.

  The wind whipped into a fury, and the cold raised a frost on the stone, turning it white. But still, Brin hung on.

  My regret, my failure, is that I never truly forgave him. Not really. That weight is mine to carry, or mine to let go.

  Who am I to judge him? Was I there? Am I him? Who granted me the right to arbitrate the transgressions of others?

  The moment the thought entered, the second she gave it room, she realized she wasn’t an authority on the matter. She hadn’t killed anyone, never even helped her father slaughter a sheep. But she had made mistakes and was far from perfect. She could have seen the good in Tressa years before. If she had, Tressa might not have turned out to be the bitter woman she grew into.

  I could have been a better friend to Moya and Padera, and most of all, to Roan. And I certainly could have been a better daughter.

  And then there was her uncle Gelston. The lightning strike had left him enfeebled. If ever he had needed his family, it was then. But she had avoided him out of fear. She was his niece, the only living family he had, and she did nothing for him. Only Tressa, the dahl’s anointed “evil one,” took care of him. She was kinder to Brin’s uncle than Brin was herself.

  Yes, she’d made mistakes . . . like anyone. Everyone fell, some harder and farther than others, but . . .

  Who am I to judge?

  “I forgive you, Tesh,” she said aloud. “And I’m sorry for taking so damn long to do it.”

  Just then, Brin had no choice but to close her eyes. If she hadn’t, she would have been blinded by her own light.

  Chapter Ten

  Yellow and Rose

  Some homes are haunted by spirits. Some spirits are haunted by homes. — The Book of Brin

  Suri put a heel of the loaf of dark bread into her bag and added a wedge of orange cheese. She’d always had a fondness for little pouches. Big bags encouraged carrying too much. Little ones invited the gathering of such wonders as polished pebbles, colorful leaves, string, animal teeth, or shiny pieces of metal. Suri didn’t have such treasures anymore, but the cheese and bread would do.

  “What are you doing?” Makareta asked. She was working on her sculpture again, her hands caked with clay.

  “Going for a walk.”

  Makareta’s brows rose. “Oh, the old lady’s not gonna like that.”

  “I can’t continue staying inside. Makes me crazy. I think it drives everyone a little nuts.” Suri gave Makareta an insinuating smile, and then glanced at the Fhrey’s mouse slippers.

  Makareta replied with a smirk.

  “You went out,” Suri said.

  “I had to,” Makareta replied, dipping her fingers into a bowl of water and letting the runoff drip on the heads of the statuette. “I had to invite Mawyndulë to the meeting.”

  “I have to go out, too.”

  “Where are you going? I only ask because Imaly will want to know where to look for the body.” Makareta smiled back.

  “Mine or my victim’s?”

  “Ha-ha,” Makareta said, impersonating a laugh. “Seriously—be careful.” She looked over her shoulder at a blank wall, as if she could see through it. “There’s a lot of scared people out there.”

  She meant that there were a lot of Fhrey who might think hurting a Rhune would make them feel less frightened.

  “I can take care of myself,” Suri replied as she slung the bag’s drawstring over her head so that the pouch hung under her arm.

  Makareta tapped her own neck. “Collar, remember? No one is supposed to know.”

  Suri reached up and touched the metal band around her neck. She’d worn it for so long, she’d forgotten it was there. “I grew up among wolves, bears, raow, leshies, green apples, and really nasty pricker-bushes. I was able to handle all those things long before I knew the Art. As long as I don’t bump into Mawyndulë, everything will be fine.”

  “He’s not the only Miralyith in the city.”

  Suri shook her head. “That’s not the problem.”

  Makareta frowned. “Be nice. He’ll be the next fane and my husband, and I’d like you two to be friends.”

  Suri chuckled. “Oh, that’s not going to happen.”

  “Fine. Be that way. And here I was planning to invite you to the wedding. Guess it wouldn’t be appropriate now that I know you want to kill my fiancé.”

  “Could be awkward.” Suri started toward the door.

  “Arion’s house is north. It’s been empty since she left. Easiest way to go is through the Garden, which is pretty empty this time of year. Head up the widest street out of the plaza, then straight through the Garden. Follow the street and you’ll see it, a little house with a bright blue door.”

  “What makes you think I’m going there?”

  “I didn’t, but where else would you go? It’s not like you have a lot of friends in Estramnadon.”

  “Good point,” Suri said.

  “Don’t be too long,” Makareta called after her. “When you get back, we’ll play a string game.”

  Suri would have liked a real walk, one that would take her into the forest, but she guessed that wasn’t such a good idea. She had to get out, needed to know she could, but she wasn’t trying to escape. As much as she longed to disappear into the arms of the trees, she knew better than to risk everything. Imaly had called for the meeting, setting everything in motion. Suri could afford to wait one more day. Regardless of how things turned out, the world was going to be very different.

  It looked and felt like snow was on the way, and there weren’t many Fhrey wandering around. Those who were out and about took little notice of her passing. From a distance and while wearing the asica and a borrowed cloak, she looked much as they did. A light snow did begin to fall as she moved through the plaza, leaving a thin film of white dust on the street. Suri followed a fresh set of single prints, which were joined by another. Suri knew how to read tracks, and these were especially easy. One small, the other large—male and female.

  Suri enjoyed the walk between the house and the Garden, even though it was short. It felt good to stretch her legs and to see the world. Even the cold spray of snow against her cheeks was nice. She remembered such wintry kisses from her childhood when she played wild and free in a forest full of grand adventures. Her world had grown, and her adventures were bigger by far, but somehow less grand. Everything was that way: duller, grayer, smaller. She had gained the power of magic, but this had only served to render the world less enchanting.

  Suri knew Arion’s home the moment she saw it, a bit off the road and mostly shaded by a tree; it would be beautiful in spring. The place was small, delicate, and unassuming. The front door was unlatched. She stood there, listening to the flakes fall—working up the courage to push the door open. She had no idea what she would find. Nothing, most likely. Yet Suri was afraid without knowing why.

  The interior was musty. She found a pegboard where a hooded cape hung. Suri touched it, rubbed the thick material between her fingers.

  Probably put it there on her way out.

  In the center of the first room, a small, round table stood covered in dust. After running her finger over its surface and removing the grime, she found it had been polished to a fine gloss. A vase sat in the middle; long-dead flowers had rotted away. She could see the remains of them like shadows on the side of the vase, marring the existing design. Chairs were pushed under the table and carefully spaced. Light came through open shutters framed by yellow drapes, making the room bright and cheerful. The walls were painted a festive rose color, and a plush carpet matched the drape’s sunny disposition. Suri’s toe caught an edge of the rug. She took a moment to smooth the corner back down and straighten the tassels.

  How long has it been since Arion was here? Did she suspect she would never return?

  A half-moon arch led to a room with a high bed topped by a pretty canopy. The thick mattress was covered by a wonderful quilt with embroidered flowers in the colors of—what else—yellow and rose. Suri ran her hand over the cloth that was still beautiful despite being shrouded in dust. Inside closets, several colorful asicas hung, one with pretty blue piping.

  She would have looked beautiful in that.

  Suri made sure to close the closet door before sitting on the bed.

  Arion’s world was so perfect and bright. When Suri had first met Arion, the Fhrey had been lying on Persephone’s bed in a dark, smoky lodge, bleeding and hurting. How horrible that must have been after this—after a world of yellow and rose, a place of sunlight and softness.

  Suri reached into her bag and felt around until she touched the knit hat. When Suri was captured, she’d thought it had been lost forever. Imaly had no way of knowing how much giving it back had meant. The gift, that tiny gesture, had made all the difference. Suri held it to her face and breathed in. The scent of Arion was gone from the wool, and Suri laid it on the bed beside her. She pressed it out, making it lie flat.

  “You’re home,” she said, and for the first time since being lied to, captured, dragged across the Fhrey lands, imprisoned, buried alive, and forced to give up a terrible secret, Suri cried.

  Even fewer Fhrey were out by the time Suri left Arion’s home. All around, windows were shuttered against the cold. After reaching the Garden’s gate, only Suri and her shadow remained. She followed the curving path around the snow-covered bushes until she came to a set of benches across from a whitewashed door. Surprisingly, someone was there. Suri hadn’t noticed anyone her first time through, yet here was a person in a dingy robe with the hood pulled up, sitting across from the Door.

  “Do you know how long before it opens?”

  Suri stopped, and the hood tilted upward to look at her. She shook her head.

  Shoulders slumped. “Neither do I. But I think we’re getting close—very close now.”