“Did she know who he was?” Brin asked as she stared at the wall, captivated by the image of the tall noble lady standing beside the thin man, both looking up at the withered remains of the tree. The shadow of the first Miralyith fell to her knees, crying.

  “She called him Caratacus—the name he’d used centuries before when he fashioned the horn—so she guessed that much, but there’s no telling if Fenelyus realized she was speaking to Turin—to Rex Uberlin himself. Or if she even knew what those words meant. Still, the visit worked its magic, and Fenelyus spared the Belgriclungreians.”

  The light faded. The images on the wall disappeared.

  “And that was the last time he came here?”

  “That was the last time anyone did.”

  “But . . . you said I was the fourth.”

  “You pay such close attention.”

  “I’m a Keeper of—”

  “I know all about you, love. I remember the sound of your first cry.”

  While Brin couldn’t see it, she both heard and felt Elan smile like the first warm day of spring.

  “Yes, you are indeed the fourth. Turin, of course, is the first. Then he returned with Fenelyus.”

  “And the third?”

  “The greatest of the great, of course. Eton exempted from mortality those he decreed were the most worthy, but by setting the requirements so high only one has ever met his standards. She is the third to enter this place. You see, the Guardian has been granted the privilege to freely travel both the realms of the living and the dead. As such, she needs no key to enter this place. With just a few brief exceptions, she has guarded Alurya’s body, slept on her roots, and kept watch for the end of days, for the Golrok. For you see, it is believed that Turin will unlock Phyre. But as with all rumors, they are easily distorted. Most think that Turin can’t stand the fact that there is a realm beyond his control. Those in Phyre are convinced that the creator of war will wage a final campaign against them, and this is what they plan for. It is commonly thought that the start of the final war will begin here. The Guardian will not allow any desecration of Alurya, and for that reason, the Greatest Hero stands her vigil, guarding the body of my firstborn against any who might do her harm. But given the task that lies before you, she may once again take a leave of absence to offer assistance.”

  “Who is she? Who is this hero?”

  Brin heard footsteps. She turned, and a shadow stepped out from behind the trunk of the great tree.

  “Oh, Grand Mother of All! It can’t be!” Brin exclaimed, as she immediately recognized the face. The light in the room grew in that joyful reunion as Brin saw bright-blue eyes and snow-white fur.

  “The world’s wisest wolf!” Brin said and smiled. “Suri wasn’t kidding, was she? Did she also know you are the greatest of heroes?”

  The wolf licked Brin’s face.

  “Oh, Minna, I’ve been sent by Malcolm to find Suri. I couldn’t hope for a better guide. Will you help me?”

  The wolf responded by bounding to the little wooden door and scratching at it.

  “Good luck to you, my dear one,” Elan said. “And remember I’ll always be with you, no matter where you go.”

  Brin walked to the door as the light from the mushrooms faded. She fished out the key, then paused. Brin wasn’t nearly as frightened, now that she realized she was a ghost.

  What worries can I have? she thought. What harm can befall me on the face of Elan? If an army with spears and swords attacks, what could they do?

  Minna scratched on the wood again.

  Brin reached out and was surprised to discover she could touch the door—really touch it. The wood was as real to her as it was to Minna. Reaching over, she found the walls to be the same.

  Another scratch.

  “Okay, okay,” Brin said and looked for a place to insert the key. Rain had explained locks when they were at the gate to Rel, but . . .

  There’s no hole, no place to insert it.

  Minna scratched again.

  I didn’t see what Tressa did when we entered Nifrel, but I didn’t have to do anything to get into Alysin. I only had to have the key with me, and that was enough.

  Another scratch, and Brin noticed the door move. Putting her hand to it, she gave the door a shove and felt it give. A sliver of light entered around the edges.

  Brin became giddy at the sight. Not only was the door open, but it was daytime. She hadn’t seen the sun in so long. There was reassuring comfort in that yellow light, such that she wanted to bathe in it. She pushed on the door again and noticed something was impeding its swing. With effort, she moved it a bit more.

  Minna leapt up and clapped her forepaws against the wood. The opening grew wider—enough for Brin to slide out through the gap.

  Snow. Everything was covered in winter white, and large lazy flakes fell through the last rays of a setting sun. A drift had been pressed against the door.

  I’ve made it. I’m back.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Last Meal

  I did everything I could. I jumped. I waved. I shouted and screamed. At one point, I tried to hit her—anything to get Suri to notice. None of it worked. — The Book of Brin

  Suri stood at the counter, watching Makareta push the chestnut porridge around on her plate. Imaly often made it for the midday meal, frying the leftovers for the evening’s supper. That day, with Imaly gone, Suri had volunteered to cook, since Makareta had proven to be inept in all endeavors related to food preparation except for making tea, which to Suri meant she was incapable of doing anything sensible.

  Imaly had explained that Makareta’s upbringing was to blame. She had been raised a Miralyith, and they were taught at a young age to rely on the Art, to use it for just about everything. Total immersion was said to be the best way to learn a language, and the Art was a tongue of sorts. But it had left Makareta, and many other Miralyith, stunted when it came to basic tasks. “The least of which is her inability to cook,” Imaly had once told Suri. “Being so removed from the common shared experiences of a normal, natural life, the Miralyith have lost their connection to others. Untethered as they are and free of traditional drudgeries, it is easy to see why they made the mistake of believing themselves to be superior.”

  “Something wrong with the porridge?” Suri asked as Makareta continued nudging her meal around the plate.

  Makareta was confused for a moment; then she noticed her plate and understood. “Oh, no. The food is fine. At least it’s as good as fried chestnut porridge is capable of being. I’m just not hungry. To be honest, my stomach is already filled with butterflies.”

  Suri stared at her, appalled.

  Makareta rolled her eyes. “I didn’t eat any butterflies. It’s an expression that indicates being nervous or excited, that sort of thing. Honestly, did you really think I ate insects? Aside from the obvious eew factor, how do you think I managed such a feat? It’s winter. There’s, like, a foot or more of snow out there. Not a lot of butterflies this time of year. You ought to know better. Didn’t you grow up living inside a tree or something? You must know a thing or two about butterflies.”

  Butterflies. Butterflies. Butterflies.

  The way the word was being thrown about and repeated disturbed Suri. That word—that idea—carried with it a personal and ominous portent. Whether Makareta knew it or not, Elan was speaking through her.

  Filled with butterflies . . . I didn’t eat any butterflies . . . not a lot of butterflies this time of year . . . You must know a thing or two about butterflies. There are too many mentions to be a coincidence. Is it a warning? An alarm? What is Elan trying to tell me?

  That had always been the problem with Elan’s discourse: It was never straightforward. Rarely did she say, “Don’t step there because the wood is rotted.” Or, “Those berries will make you sick.” Or, “Don’t knock down that big fruit you think must be sweet because all the bees are around it.” The fruit hadn’t been food after all. It had turned out to be the bees’ home, and they didn’t appreciate Suri whacking it. Now Elan was shouting about butterflies—practically screaming the word at her as if Suri were blind, deaf, and dumb.

  Suri guessed Elan had decided to break with her tradition of vague innuendo and subtle hints. For years, Suri had been waiting for the time that Arion had foretold. The end of her own Gifford’s Race. The time she would do the thing she had been meant to do for her entire life. As far as Suri could tell, Elan was jumping up and down and waving her arms, letting her know the time had come.

  Get ready to show off your wings, butterfly!

  “Suri?” Makareta was saying.

  “What?”

  “You all right?”

  “Uh—yeah. I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” Makareta looked down at her food for a moment, then asked, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  Suri frowned as she abandoned the skillet and took a seat opposite the Miralyith at the table where she had laid out a meal neither of them would eat.

  Stupid butterflies.

  “I know it’s not polite conversation, but”—she glanced at the drawn drapery—“in another few minutes it will be dark, and I’ll be doing that . . . again. You might have to as well, so I was wondering if you ever had.”

  “Yes,” Suri quietly admitted. “More than once.”

  “So you know what it feels like?”

  “All too well.”

  “Did you feel . . .” Makareta placed palms on her chest. “Was it like a part of you died?”

  Suri nodded.

  “And did you feel hollow afterward?”

  Again, Suri nodded.

  “Are you afraid you lost your soul?”

  Suri had been with her up to that point, but this was a sharp turn in a new direction. She didn’t even know what a soul was, which would make it pretty hard to know if she had lost it.

  “What do you mean?”

  Makareta pushed aside the plate of fried porridge and spread out her hands on the wood as she leaned forward and whispered, “When I killed the Gwydry Jinreal, I felt like a part of me was ripped out. You see, Fhrey believe that if we kill another of our own kind, Ferrol will banish our soul, prevent us from entering Phyre. For years, I thought that was a myth or lie used to keep our people in line. But after I killed Jinreal, I knew it was true. Priests have blathered on and on about how the afterlife is a place of peace and beauty. But nothing is ever mentioned about what awaits the likes of people like me. Do I just spend eternity standing alone, listening to the music and laughter I can never reach? Or when my body dies, do I just stop existing?” She touched her face and arms. “Is this all that remains of me, and when it’s gone, I will be, too?”

  “I don’t know,” Suri said. She thought about it for a moment, and added, “But I don’t know of a single thing that stops being. Trees seem to die, but they come back. Even after they fall down, new shoots spring up. Creeks dry up but return with the rain. When Tura passed away, I burned her body, but there were still ashes that drifted on the winds. And the stars are always there, following the same course they have always travelled. It’s like they take a trip each year and then return. The moon is the same way, it just takes shorter, more frequent, trips. Maybe everything does that. Goes away, but eventually comes back.”

  “But now that you’ve killed, are you afraid of death?”

  “Huh?” Suri stared at her, shocked.

  For a moment she thought Makareta might be joking. Sometimes she did that—made jokes that didn’t make sense. The Fhrey would say something pointless and then break into guffaws for no reason. Suri wondered if this was one of those times, but Makareta wasn’t laughing. She had her serious face on. This was important to her.

  “No, I’m not scared.” Suri realized the idea was funny after all—the absurd sort of humor like asking if a person was all right after they had clearly suffered a painful injury. But she knew Makareta wasn’t joking.

  “Dying is easy. Anyone can do that,” Suri said. “Living—going on after you’ve lost those you love, having to face each new day under the weight of their absence—is what’s hard. You have to witness a sun that is never again as bright and hear music that is no longer cheerful. Eating food will never fully satisfy, and you wake each morning to a shattered world that can never again be whole. Despite all this, you have to find a reason to breathe, to move.” Suri stared at Makareta. “You’ve killed, and so have I, but that doesn’t compare to losing someone you loved. That’s when you really lose a part of yourself. Have you gone through that?”

  Suri hesitated long enough to give Makareta time to answer. She didn’t.

  “Try going through that a few times, and I doubt you’ll give a damn about what happens to you after you die because it couldn’t possibly be worse.”

  The two sat in silence. Then Makareta said, “The sun is going down. I need to get to the Airenthenon. You’re going to wait outside on the steps, right?”

  Suri nodded. “And you’re going to go in and kill.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said defensively. “I don’t have a choice. It’s just destiny, I guess.”

  “You’re lucky.” Suri stood and collected the plates. “I’m still unsure what my fate will eventually be, but I don’t think I’ll have to wait long.” She glanced toward the draped window. She didn’t need to see outside to know the sun was nearing the horizon. They had less than an hour. “I think a lot will be revealed very soon. Good luck.”

  “You, too,” Makareta said. She stood, pivoted on her left heel, and walked to the door where she took her cloak off a peg. “I’m sure it will be fine. Imaly is smart. I’m certain she’s planned this out perfectly.” With that, she left.

  Suri cleaned up the dishes and put away the food. No matter how this evening turned out, she had no intention of coming back to this place, and she didn’t want anyone to think Rhunes were either messy or lazy. Then Suri grabbed a cloak off the peg, and as she, too, left Imaly’s little house, she reflected on how she didn’t share Makareta’s confidence in the Curator.

  Butterflies!

  Suri didn’t think Elan did, either.

  Suri took her time reaching the Airenthenon because she expected a crowd. Imaly had called the meeting, which would draw the full membership of the Aquila, the fane and his entourage, and who knew how many others. While Suri wasn’t forbidden from climbing the marble steps, she didn’t think it would be smart to be there as all those people walked by. She waited until the fane and his bodyguards went in, figuring they would be the last to arrive.

  As Suri climbed the broad steps past fountains and sculptures, the sun’s face was fully set, the last hints of light quickly fading. Looking out across the city from that high perch, Suri witnessed a tranquil scene. The cold, dark winter’s night didn’t invite people to wander, so the streets were empty, and no one gathered in the plaza. Aside from the sounds of shuffling feet and the murmur of low conversation emanating from the interior of the Airenthenon, the evening was as quiet as any other night during that time of year.

  Suri took a seat on the top step, sitting sideways so her legs dangled while still granting a decent view into the Airenthenon. She couldn’t see much, just a thin slice of firelight through the door that was left open a crack. Maybe they did that for her, or perhaps it was just warm inside with so many people gathered. She could see a bit of them—tiers of seats where folks in heavy winter robes sat. Suri had no idea where Makareta was, but she guessed Imaly would be toward the middle.

  My last night here, Suri realized, swinging her legs as a smile came to her face. I can go home after this. The goulgans are going to rue the day when I return to the garden. It will be good to get back.

  She should be happy, but the idea frightened her a bit, and she bowed her head.

  This will be the first time I’ll be by myself in the Hawthorn Glen. After Tura died, I still had Minna. I had no idea I’d be away for so long. What will it be like to be back there by myself?

  She wouldn’t be completely alone. Suri remembered that no one is ever truly alone in a forest. Still, it wouldn’t be the same without Tura and Minna.

  If I still had Minna—if it was the two of us again—I’d be fine. It’s easy being brave with a sister, especially when she is a courageous and wise wolf. Oh, how I miss you, Minna.

  Suri’s eyes refilled with familiar tears when—

  Yip!

  Suri’s feet stopped swinging, and her head came up. “Minna?”

  She looked out across the city, searching the streets, then shook her head.

  I’ve done this before.

  Suri remembered climbing stairs out of Neith, believing Minna was somehow following her.

  Must have something to do with stone stairs—that and wishful thinking. Talking to Makareta got my mind going, so of course, I—

  Yip!

  Suri stood. Below her, a quickly moving figure ran up the street, a fleeting shadow racing toward her.

  “Minna?” She stared down as the shape revealed itself to be a wolf.

  As it crossed the plaza, the animal was illuminated by one of the lamps, and in its light, Suri could clearly see white fur.

  A great grin filled Suri’s face. “Minna!”

  At the sound of Suri’s voice calling out, the white wolf sprinted to the base of the stairs and charged up the steps, taking them three and four at a time.

  “Minna! Oh, Minna! You’re back! You came back!”

  The wolf leapt to Suri, who threw her arms around her sister’s neck.

  Suri fell onto the marble, hugging the wolf to her. Tears ran down the mystic’s cheeks, and she wiped them by burying her face in the wolf’s thick fur.