“What of it?” Atkins asked.

  “There’s a wagon setting out, but it’s odd; ain’t got no sides—well, I guess it does, sort of.”

  Anwir peered across the river. “Bars,” he told them. “It’s an animal cage, but that one is on wheels.”

  Tesh squinted but couldn’t make out much. “A cage on wheels?”

  Anwir nodded, then went back to his knotting, this time using his hair. How he managed it, Tesh never learned. Knots in his own hair usually fell out, but the Fhrey somehow got his to stay.

  “Big cage.” Tesh stood up to get a better look.

  “Probably for sheep,” Brigham said. “Back in Rhen we had pens to separate out the rams from the ewes.”

  “I thought you Killians raised wheat or barley, something like that,” Atkins said.

  “Did,” Brigham replied. “I didn’t mean we as in my family. I meant the dahl in general. Me and my brothers helped out Gelston and Delwin.”

  “What for?” Edgar asked. “What’d they give you for helping?”

  “Wasn’t like that.” Brigham shook his head, then shrugged. “Everyone pitched in where needed in the dahl. That’s just how things were back then.”

  Tesh sat down and took off his boot to look again for the pebble that had been bothering him since setting out. He’d shaken and slapped the boot, but nothing ever came out. Finally, he resorted to stuffing his hand down inside and groping the leather seams, searching with his fingertips. He found a knobby bump of worn hide that might be the culprit and was about to reach for his belt knife when he heard the screams.

  Even the roar of the falls wasn’t sufficient to drown out the shrieks that cut across the river. Tesh’s first thought was that the elves were burning a goat alive, a sacrifice or something.

  Anwir dropped his braid, his sight focused on the tower.

  Across the river, the animal cage had been opened. A group of elves came out of the tower carrying something, or trying to. Their captive bucked, kicked, and screamed; the shrieks were terrifying. One elf fell. The remaining ones dumped what they were carrying into the cage and slammed the gate closed. Not until they had did Tesh get a clear view of what was trapped inside.

  “Sorry, Brigham,” Tesh said. “I think Meeks is going to have to wait.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Animal in the Cage

  I often wonder how that first meeting would have gone without the collar. — The Book of Brin

  Mawyndulë saw the horse and wagon as he approached the tower. The thing made him uneasy. Even the name was grating. The Fhrey had no word for a cart hauled by a horse. The word carry was sometimes used, but a carry, or lift, was a device traditionally used to move the powerful, the sick, or the old, and doing so never involved animals. Horses were noble creatures who allowed themselves to be ridden by worthy Fhrey. It was so like the Rhunes to dishonor and humiliate a majestic beast.

  The wheels of the wagon were different, too. They weren’t solid disks but rather a thin rim of curved metal with pole-like supports radiating out from the center. The contraption appeared inadequate to the task of holding up the cage. That, too, was a Rhune thing. Chariots, arrows, dragons, and the Orinfar were the four scourges that had plagued the Fhrey. None of them really originated with the Rhunes. The savages were incapable of invention in the same way that sheep failed to grasp metalwork. The Dherg had taught them all these insidious tricks—the vile moles, who continued to harbor hatred for losing a war that they themselves had started out of greed.

  We really should kill them all as well. Fenelyus was wrong for not wiping out the Dherg, and now her mistake has come back to plague us.

  The cowardly Dherg had joined forces with the disgruntled Instarya, and together they yoked the Rhunes to fight for them. In a way, Mawyndulë nearly felt sorry for the Rhunes—nearly. How could anyone truly feel that way for a dumb animal?

  Mawyndulë saw a dark lump to one side of the cage, as he and Treya passed by on their way to the tower. He made out skin, straw, and hair. The figure was curled up like a dog.

  “Is that the Rhune?” Treya asked, hanging back.

  “It’s a Rhune, and as I doubt Jerydd has an assortment on hand, we can assume that is indeed the Rhune as well.”

  Jerydd came out of the tower just as Mawyndulë and Treya paused to stare at the occupant of the cage. The kel of Avempartha had been in contact with Mawyndulë off and on all morning. Jerydd was impatient and stressing the urgency of the mission, but Mawyndulë believed the old kel just wanted to get rid of the disgusting Rhune on his doorstep. The smell alone was enough to make him want to put as much distance between it and him as possible. He and Treya were downwind, and the odor was unmistakable, like a breeze blowing over the mouth of a piss-pot.

  I’ll be traveling with that for three days? he thought with a grimace.

  “You took your sweet time!” Jerydd barked as he shambled his way down the road. Jerydd and Mawyndulë met halfway between the cage and the tower.

  The kel looked older. How is that even possible? That’s like water being wetter or snow being colder. The Fhrey was no longer dusty, he was practically powder. The way he walked had a lot to do with that impression. The last time Mawyndulë had seen him, Jerydd wasn’t exactly doing backflips, but he’d walked normally enough. The Fhrey coming at him now shuffled with one hand out for balance as if he were navigating a tightrope. Each step appeared labored, and a sheen of sweat shone on his face.

  Perhaps there was another reason for the urgency.

  Mawyndulë remembered visiting Fenelyus in the weeks before she had died. The old fane couldn’t walk. She was bedridden and appeared withered and thin. Now, Jerydd had that same look. Transparent, he thought, as if one of the kel’s feet were already in Phyre. Along with Jerydd came Indus and Krem, both young Miralyith presumably on hand to catch the kel should he fall. All three stood with asicas flapping in the wind.

  “We set out as soon as you instructed,” Mawyndulë replied. “You know that.”

  Jerydd scowled. “Then you strolled your way here. Haven’t I made it clear that the survival of Erivan hangs like a droplet?”

  This wasn’t the first time Mawyndulë had heard this. Jerydd had been venting his frustration for days using the Art. On the way there, Mawyndulë had been forced to listen to diatribes on how the prince was lazy and ultimately unworthy of the gift that Ferrol—and Jerydd, mostly Jerydd—was handing him. But all those conversations had been waged in the privacy of his head. Mawyndulë thought Jerydd might be so old he forgot he’d already said this very thing just a few hours before, then realized the kel remembered just fine. Jerydd wanted witnesses. What good were private insults? Ridicule was best delivered before an audience.

  “Now take the Rhune directly to your father. Let him know we are in desperate need of a dragon to hold the tower.”

  This is new. “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “Your little mind isn’t equipped to hold more than one thought at a time, so just remember to have the fane send us a dragon as soon as he can.”

  Mawyndulë glanced at Indus and Krem. “Hold on, do you mean you want us to turn around right now? We just hiked all day. We’re tired. I was planning to spend the night in Avempartha, have a decent meal, sleep in a bed, and set out tomorrow.”

  “Do you see?” Jerydd said to Indus, then turned to Krem. “This is what I’m dealing with.”

  Wisely, neither Indus nor Krem offered so much as an expression in reply.

  “You will take this Rhune to Estramnadon,” Jerydd ordered. “And you will travel with all due haste. Kill the horse if you have to, but get this Rhune to the fane. Impress upon him with your tired, bloodshot eyes how imperative it is that he get the secret and send help.”

  Another Fhrey, who looked like he might be a Gwydry, walked past them and on down to where the cage was. He checked over the straps holding the horse to the wagon, then gathered up the animal’s lead and waited for Mawyndulë.

  “And don’t take that collar off,” Jerydd said. “And stay away from Imaly. That Fhrey is poison.”

  The kel shook his head. He was breathing hard and looking desperate. For a moment, Mawyndulë thought he might cry. “If only I were younger. You need to do this, boy. You need to do this properly. Now go. Go and save Erivan. Save our people.”

  The Gwydry held out the horse’s lead toward Mawyndulë, which he promptly ordered Treya to take. He sighed, shook his head, and with one longing look at the tower, said, “Let’s go.”

  When Suri became conscious again, the wagon was moving. She didn’t think of it as waking because she hadn’t fallen asleep. Sleep was a pleasant thing, a wonderful satisfying end to a well-lived day. She had passed out. At some point, her mind and body had mercifully overpowered the panic on her behalf. As the wagon bumped, bounced, and jostled side-to-side while banging over rocks and sticks, she opened her eyes to see that the nightmare had worsened.

  She tried to think of something else, something nice, something pretty. Instead, all that came to mind was the lack of air. The two wide sides of the wagon were open, with large windows of narrow-set metal bars allowing a cool breeze to blow through the cage. Despite this, Suri had trouble breathing. She focused on pulling in each breath, then pushing it back out, her eyes fixed on the bars that trapped her.

  Her heart was thumping at a rapid pace. She could feel the beat in her throat as it throbbed against the metal collar. Her hands hurt. She didn’t know why. Her fingertips were bloody, and she spotted a red smear on the floor of the cage where a tiny bit of the wood had been stripped. A few of Suri’s nails had white creases where they had bent back. Two of them still had splinters lodged underneath.

  Once more, Suri began to rock and moan. She tried not to. It’s just a box. It’s better than the cell. I can feel the air. I won’t be in here forever. They’ll let me out soon. It’s not like the last time, when I couldn’t even tell how long I’d been there. The voice in her head sounded reasonable, but the things it said didn’t matter inside a small cage. Nor would they to any sensible person chained to the bottom of a lake and told, “You will eventually be allowed to breathe.” No matter how reassuringly or rationally the voice in her head presented the facts, she wasn’t interested. Suri didn’t want facts. She wanted out. It took all her concentration to resist throwing herself against the bars again or clawing at the floor.

  For hours, she rolled along through a forest of beautiful trees, ancient behemoths. They ought to have soothed her, but the bars and the collar made them a separate reality, an image on a rolling wall. She was alone in a box she couldn’t escape, so where the box was didn’t matter at all.

  “She doesn’t look good.” Suri heard a voice say in Fhrey.

  “Of course not, it’s a Rhune.”

  “Well . . . yes, but what I mean is she looks sick or something. Not well, at least.”

  Suri lifted her head. Walking alongside the wagon was a small female Fhrey. Her hair was surprisingly dark, most of it tucked up under a yellow wrap that exposed a long neck and oblong ears. She wasn’t wearing an asica, just a simple smock tunic and a cloak left open in the front so it hung like a cape. Not nearly as beautiful as Arion, this Fhrey lacked her grace and elegance, but her face—her face, at least, looked kind.

  “You’re an expert on animals now?” The other voice came from somewhere ahead and out of Suri’s view because the front, roof, and rear of the box was solid wood.

  “How much of an authority does one have to be to tell when someone is miserable?” She said this while staring at Suri with an intense pity that made the Fhrey’s face wrinkle.

  “It’s locked in a cage. All animals are miserable when trapped.”

  “I don’t know. I think she might be ill. Do you think they fed her?”

  “Jerydd didn’t even feed us—so I doubt he gave it any food.” The Fhrey she couldn’t see made an exasperated noise. “I can’t believe he just turned us around like that. Couldn’t he even spare me a bowl of soup?”

  “I think he was in a hurry because he’s afraid she might die.”

  “I think he was afraid he might die. Did you see him? My only hope is that Jerydd lives long enough for me to make his life a waking nightmare for mistreating me so.”

  The lady Fhrey came closer. She placed a hand on the bars, looking in. She looked about to cry. Suri wondered why, then realized the Fhrey was a mirror, reflecting what she saw. Sympathetic and sad, the Fhrey searched Suri’s eyes, then reached out.

  Suri opened her mouth to speak—

  “Hey!” The wagon lurched to a stop, jolting Suri forward. “Watch out. Don’t get so close. This thing is wild. It’s likely to bite. Then you’ll get some awful disease.”

  Suri was an inch away from another panic attack. She dug the remains of her fingernails into the skin of her forearms. The pain kept her rooted, but it was a tenuous grip.

  The Fhrey who had cautioned the other one came into view. He had a stick and clapped it against the bars, making them ring.

  Suri flinched.

  “Hah! See?” he said and added a triumphant laugh. “Just a dumb Rhune.”

  “Mawyndulë, please don’t. You’re scaring her.”

  Mawyndulë. The single word cut through the haze of her prison like a shining beacon. Suri forgot about the bars, the cage, and about being trapped. Her eyes came up and focused on him once more, and she remembered the prince who had come to Dahl Rhen.

  “You’re Mawyndulë,” she whispered to herself, but the words were loud enough for them to hear.

  He drew back at the sound. Even without the Art, Suri sensed his fear.

  “She talks!” the female said, blinking in amazement. “You never said they could talk.”

  “You killed Arion.” Suri glared at Mawyndulë.

  The prince recovered, gathered himself, and took a step closer. “Yes, I did.” He glanced at the lady Fhrey, and in a lowered voice, he added, “She was a traitor.”

  “I loved her,” Suri told him.

  Both Fhrey looked at her in surprise.

  The female Fhrey continued to stare at her, astounded. “She speaks so well.”

  “That’s good. I hope Arion trained it sufficiently so it can tell my father about the secret of dragons.”

  Suri heard laughter. For a moment, she thought it was one of the Fhrey, but she was looking at them and neither made a sound.

  “Why is she laughing?” the female Fhrey asked Mawyndulë.

  Realizing she was the one chuckling, Suri laughed all the harder. It felt good. The sound, the feeling, the look on their faces all combined to push back the walls. She could breathe.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Six Dead, One Captured

  It has been said that nothing ever goes according to plan, but I guess that depends on whose plan you are talking about. — The Book of Brin

  “Captured? Are you sure?” Persephone asked.

  Tesh nodded. “Suri walked into the tower fine enough, but something musta happened. A couple of days later, she was brought out, and it definitely wasn’t by her choice.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Tesh glanced at Edgar, and both of them frowned. “She was screaming her head off as they dumped her inside a wagon.”

  “More like a cage,” Edgar clarified.

  “Yeah, what he said. She tried to fight them off but couldn’t. Not long after that, an escort party came and the wagon was pulled east into the forest.”

  Persephone reached out for the chair behind her but missed. She staggered backward, nearly falling. She felt like Tesh had stabbed her.

  Why didn’t Suri stop them? She’d crushed Neith beneath a mountain, collapsed a bridge at Alon Rhist, and held up the fortress walls in the Battle of Grandford, but she did nothing as they carted her away? That doesn’t make sense. Then it came to her. The Orinfar.

  Tesh and Edgar stood before Persephone in the Keenig’s Lodge. Nyphron had escorted the pair, announcing they had arrived with “important news.” Her husband had thought he and the keenig should hear it together and in private. He was right. As big as the tent was, it still felt crowded. Wind buffeted the canvas and rattled the support poles. Cold weather was coming.

  Tesh may have said more, but she didn’t hear. Her mind returned to the conversation when he paused and said, “Also . . .”

  “There’s more?” Nyphron asked. He had taken the news with less outward shock, but his voice, and those words, betrayed him.

  “We lost six this trip: Meeks, Brinks, Ethan, Seth, Prichard, as well as Anwir.”

  “Anwir?” Nyphron asked, his eyes darkening. “How?”

  “Ambushed just before we left the forest on our way here.”

  Nyphron stared hard at Tesh, but the Techylor continued to stand at attention. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Having found the chair, Persephone sat down. She stared at the ground while running a hand over her face.

  “Dismissed,” she heard Nyphron tell his troops.

  Tesh retreated from the tent, followed by Edgar, who seemed equally relieved to get out. The Techylors were back in the Dragon Camp after months in the wilderness. Having completed his report, Tesh looked forward to better food, drink, and seeing Brin—although not in that order. Edgar’s priority must have been beer because he headed toward the tent where the barrels were stored.

  Tesh knew where to find Brin, but he wanted to clean up first. He and his men had returned wearing the forest—a phrase that needed no explanation. Covered in dirt and blood, he probably looked hideous and smelled worse. This wasn’t how he wanted to greet her after being away for so long. He veered toward the river, but word of their return must have spread because he’d barely reached the Healing Quarter when Brin found him.

  She ran his way, one fist full of her pages. Somehow, she managed to hold on to them as she tackled him.