So what emerges after a butterfly is sealed in a chrysalis? Suri smiled. It only took being buried alive to discover the obvious.

  “Brin, go,” Suri ordered. “Leave now!”

  The ghostly figure of her friend, who was clutching the horn to her chest, didn’t hesitate. She retreated toward the muddy pool.

  Suri straightened her back, hands up, palms out. She wasn’t certain what she would do. This, she felt, wasn’t going to be a battle of Artists. Trilos wasn’t a Miralyith. He was both something more and something less. Her first inclination was to weave a shield, a dome perhaps, but she didn’t know what she would have to block. She had to be ready for anything.

  The truly odd aspect of this confrontation was that she was inside this arboreal tomb—a dark place that smelled of withering wood and rotting soil—and she was facing a menace beyond her comprehension. Suri’s understanding of the situation was limited to a spattering of comments and the inadequate hints gifted to her by the Art. All of which amounted to a few charred chicken bones in the dirt as seen by moonlight. Suri, however, was good at reading signs, finding patterns, and foretelling the future from nothing more than cracks and smudges. At that moment, the omens were not good.

  If she was honest with herself, they were absolutely horrific. And yet she wasn’t frightened or even worried. If anything, she was happy. For years, part of her had been dead, but now she was back, and she was free of her responsibilities to Arion, Persephone, Imaly, Malcolm, and the rest of the world. Suri felt like a girl again who was on a grand adventure with her best friend at her side. Even though the challenge before her held unimaginable danger, Suri didn’t care.

  This is what life is supposed to be.

  She readied herself for the battle.

  A voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “Not here, Trilos.”

  Suri had spent a lifetime listening for the voice of Elan, to hear the faint hidden messages that she gave, but never before had the Mother of All been so clear—so loud. The parental voice boomed with motherly exasperation.

  “Have you no respect? You shall not desecrate this place. Try and you will fight me, too.”

  Trilos gritted his teeth. He shifted his gaze back and forth between Minna and the retreating Brin. Then he turned and looked at the tree. “Hasn’t he done enough damage, Mother? When will you see him for what he is?”

  Drawing himself up to his full height, he shouted after Brin, “I want that key!”

  Brin didn’t stop. Entering the murky pool, her shimmer faded.

  Minna advanced, growling.

  “I won’t fight you here,” Trilos told Minna. “You have the advantage in this place. But then you knew that, didn’t you, O Wise One? Yet your wisdom fails you in this: Turin is evil, and you’re aligning with the wrong side. The next time we meet, you shouldn’t try to stop me.”

  Minna appeared unimpressed as she stopped growling. Her hair settled, and with a swish of her tail, she turned her back on Trilos and trotted for the door.

  Suri followed.

  “I mean it, Gilarabrywn!” Trilos shouted. “Stay out of it.”

  Suri and her wolf returned to the world of snow and ice. The Garden was filled with Fhrey, who, upon seeing her again, let out a collective gasp. They retreated like a flock of birds. Suri didn’t recognize anyone, which wasn’t strange given how few Fhrey she knew. But neither Mawyndulë nor Imaly was there.

  She would have liked to have spotted Treya, to thank her for her kindness. She had been the only one in Estramnadon to treat Suri with compassion. If Brin hadn’t shown up, Suri might have volunteered to be Treya’s challenger, except she suspected the unassuming Fhrey had no interest in being fane.

  As she walked past those in the crowd, a few of the bravest ones asked, “What’s in there? What did you see?”

  She didn’t bother to answer. She wasn’t comfortable with the press of the crowd, and she began moving clear. It was then that she heard a familiar voice.

  “Suri?” Nyree called.

  Arion’s mother was on her way to the door, wrapped in a white winter cloak. Her face was knotted in confusion, fear, and amazement, as if Suri had grown long ears and a snout. No—she probably would have been fine with that. Seeing her emerge from the Door was something else altogether.

  “I saw . . . you just came out of . . . but . . .” Nyree sputtered, her eyes shifting between Suri and the Door. The priestess caught sight of Minna, which only served to bewilder her further. Then she narrowed her eyes at Suri. “Who are you?”

  Suri thought for a moment, and a smile came to her lips as she replied, “I am who your daughter always wanted me to be. I am the hope for peace between our peoples; I am the butterfly; I am the new Cenzlyor.” Then she turned to the wolf. “Let’s go home, Minna.”

  Entering the pool was painless the second time—third time, Brin corrected herself. This was her third drowning, though technically only the first one was real. Drowning implied a death. Since she was already dead, this was nothing more than a transition between worlds, which was likely why it was easier—that, and the fact she was more terrified to stay than to go. She hoped Suri and Minna would be all right, and guessed they would be because she had the key that Trilos wanted. Once she was gone, she hoped he’d have no interest in them. For a moment, she thought he might follow her, but given the effort she knew he went through to escape Phyre, she assumed he wouldn’t. Despite this, after returning to Alysin, after crawling out of the pool into that wondrous paradise, she looked back. She spent precious seconds watching that surface, but it remained still.

  Brin wondered if she could run as fast as she hoped. She hadn’t really tested her newfound buoyancy since climbing out of the Abyss, and she wasn’t certain if leaving and then returning might have hampered her abilities. Crossing Alysin would be her first test of speed. She took a tight grip on the horn and key, crouched, focused on the door to Nifrel, and ran. She hardly saw the little stone house or the fruit trees. The few people she passed did not appear to move, as if frozen in time. A moment later she was at the mirrored doorway.

  Faster than I thought! Brin recalled her previous fears of the queen, of Drome, of the broken bridge, and she smiled. If I can run this fast, imagine what I can jump!

  “Brin!” Raithe called to her. “Wait.”

  He and Aria were near the door. Both trotted toward her, grinning as if they knew what had happened, or perhaps they were just happy to see her.

  “I did it!” Brin shouted. “I have the horn. I just need to get it back to Nyphron.”

  They both beamed at her.

  “We never had a doubt,” Aria said, her hands clasped before her. She hesitated, then took a breath. “Can you tell me something? Was Gifford—was my son happy? Did he live a good life?”

  Brin didn’t know how to answer. She couldn’t lie, not in that place, not to Aria. She endeavored to frame the answer as best she could. “Near the end he did. For the last few years—yes—I think he was happy.”

  “I still say you shouldn’t underestimate him,” Raithe told them both. “That man has more reserves than anyone I know. He may have fallen into the Abyss, but—”

  “But he’s good at falling,” Brin finished for him as a new thought dawned. “And Roan can figure anything out.” Brin fished the key out from under her armor, which had returned when she entered back into the underworld, and held it up to them. “I need this to get out, but I don’t need to take it with me.”

  “Brin—” Raithe started.

  “No, listen. I believe the way back to Elan can be opened and held clear the same way Tressa held open the door to Nifrel. If that’s true, I can leave the key in Rel for the others to use if they get out.” Brin frowned. “But they’d need to be able to—wait! They can pass from Nifrel to Rel without the key, right? I saw Gifford’s hand pass through the portal. He was almost dragged back. So it’s possible for them to return to Rel, right?”

  “Yes.” Aria nodded. “As we told you, limitations here are what people place on themselves, and those who enter Nifrel expect they can also enter Rel.”

  “You can’t leave that key in here,” Raithe said. “It’s too risky.”

  “It’s also dangerous for me to take it out. Trilos knows I have it. If he finds me before I get to Malcolm—that will be worse. In here, it will be safer for now.”

  “But Malcolm will want it back. You can’t—”

  “It won’t stay here. If the others don’t claim it soon, I’ll leave instructions for the key to be delivered to Muriel. She’s safe. She’s immortal. She can’t use the key, and she’s Malcolm’s daughter. If the others do escape, Gifford will certainly come here. He’ll look for you, and you can tell him. But urge Gifford to hurry, because you’re right: It won’t be safe in Phyre for long.”

  “Where will you leave it?” Aria asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll find somewhere safe, someplace they can all find it.”

  She gave them both hugs, then turned toward the mirror where the face of a golden-armored hero looked back. “I have to go now.”

  “Good luck, and may Elan’s and Eton’s blessings go with you,” Aria said.

  “Give Persephone a kiss for me,” Raithe said. “Tell her I understand why she made the choice she did, and I’m not angry. Let her know we can still be together, and I have the perfect place picked out. Tell her, if she still wants me, I’ll be waiting for her.”

  Brin nodded, then steeled herself and pushed into Nifrel. As she did, she remembered Tesh’s words once again. “Promise me one thing—one lousy thing. That if things go bad, you’ll run—that you’ll run as fast as you can and save yourself . . . Will you promise that much? Please, Brin, promise me that.”

  Brin was going to keep her vow and so much more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dropping Rocks

  When going forward doesn’t get you where you need to be, going back will at least keep you moving. — The Book of Brin

  Using his wadded cloak as a pillow, Gifford lay on his side in the crook between the wall and the tooth-shaped rock. Doing so messed with his mind because he knew he didn’t have a cloak, but he didn’t have a head, either. Between him and Tesh, Tressa was curled, head down, knees up, arms pulled tight like a newborn. Her eyes were closed, and she shivered and jerked, as if enduring a nightmare. Of all of them, Tressa suffered the most in death. She’d never had it all that good in life, but in the Abyss, she was the cripple. He reached out to her, wishing he could ease her suffering. That’s when he realized that helplessness came in at least two forms: those who couldn’t do for themselves, and the people who could offer little more than a hand on a shoulder.

  Maybe that’s how Tressa felt about me when we sat on the porch of Hopeless House.

  Being trapped in the Abyss was a lot like his former home. He, Roan, Tressa, and Tesh were a set of lost misfits, ensnared by their own shortcomings.

  But I escaped Hopeless House. How did I manage that?

  He tried to think back, but everything was difficult at the bottom of Nifrel, and getting harder.

  Gifford had been lauded as a hero after his miraculous midnight ride through the Fhrey camp, but that hadn’t been what saved him. Odds were good that he would eventually slip back into the familiar role of the cripple. People might still offer him a smile as they passed, but in their eyes would be that old uncomfortable sadness. Eventually they would forget his deed, and so would he. But when that happened he’d still have Roan, and that was all he needed.

  On the mornings when he couldn’t stand up on his own, when he wet the bed, or when he couldn’t find a word without an rrr sound to express what he needed, she had been by his side. And during the nights when he doubted himself, when the memory of his heroic deed grew hazy, all he needed was to touch her. That she no longer recoiled was proof of his salvation and the reward for his heroic ride. Roan had saved him; of that he had no doubt.

  Why can’t I do the same for her?

  All of them were piled up like warmth-seeking puppies. Gifford reached for Roan, who had been cuddled against his back. He expected to feel her shoulder but found nothing. Gifford sat up and looked around, expecting to see her elsewhere in the cave, but it was dim, desolate, and Roan was nowhere to be seen.

  He stared confused at the place where she’d been.

  How can she be gone?

  Gifford pushed to his feet and felt the weight—that strange heaviness that climbed onto his back, pulling him down. He knew that load, that drag of pointlessness and despair. He shouldered it now the same way he’d always endured life as a cripple. Hopelessness and the difficulty of standing and walking were as familiar as old shoes.

  “I’ll be back. Just going to look for Roan,” he told Tesh and Tressa, figuring they wouldn’t be pleased about losing his light, even as dim as it had become. Still, being in total darkness would be worse, although neither bothered to respond. He wished he could offer words of hope before leaving, but he had none to give.

  Baffled as to why Roan would have left and where she would go, Gifford made a quick exploration of the cave, looping around the edges and stepping over the scattered tablets lying on the floor against the back wall.

  Where are you?

  Logically, he shouldn’t worry. They were in the Abyss, a vast wasteland of nothingness. Nothing down there could—

  Iver. The name flashed through his mind.

  Concern shifted to fear and then jumped to rage. Gifford’s light grew brighter as he left their cave. He crossed the black expanse, his feet crunching the frost as he searched among the craggy cliffs for the entrance to Iver’s lair. He had difficulty remembering which niche was the home of the carver.

  How long has she been gone? Did Iver walk right in and steal her? How could I not notice? Do I sleep that soundly? Does Roan? And why do we sleep at all?

  Frustrated by an inability to remember the exact entrance to Iver’s cave, Gifford’s anger grew. He flexed his fists and noticed that the sword—the one Roan had made for him in Alon Rhist—hung at his side. His armor had disintegrated as he fell, but the sword was still there.

  Has it always been?

  He didn’t think so, but he was glad to have it now.

  Voices.

  Gifford pivoted sharply and homed in on a dark spot in the cliff.

  “She screamed the first time,” Iver said, his voice emanating from the dark. “Grand Mother, how Reanna could howl. I stuffed rags in her mouth after that. Didn’t want the neighbors to hear.”

  Gifford ran forward and nearly clipped his head on the top of the tunnel as he came upon them. Roan sat at the feet of Iver, who squatted on a flat rock near the middle of his little chamber. Iver lacked any light, but Roan still glowed a bit, and her light illuminated Iver’s sagging face and empty eyes—the visage of a melting monster.

  Roan’s cheeks glistened with tears.

  Gifford advanced.

  Roan turned and raised her hands. “Gifford, no!”

  Iver scuttled backward, watching him with eyes that weren’t circles anymore but rather tall stretched ovals, a pair of black empty sockets.

  “I’ll make certain he never takes you again.” Gifford moved in.

  Roan grabbed him, her little fingers clutching his leg. “He didn’t. I came here. I came to him.”

  Gifford stopped. “What? Why?”

  Roan sniffled as she looked up at him. Her eyes were puffed and red, the ends of her hair wet and chewed. She quivered with emotion, and her fingers squeezed his leg as if he were a floating piece of debris and she were drowning.

  “For Brin.” Roan shook even harder.

  Gifford was dumbfounded. He looked at the cowering, sagging flesh of Iver and then back at Roan.

  Is she—she’s—oh, Elan, she’s going mad. Roan is losing her mind to the Abyss.

  Gifford’s light dimmed. “Brin? I don’t understand.”

  “We promised. I promised. I told Brin I wouldn’t stop trying to find a way out. I’ve thought and I’ve thought, and all I can come up with is that the answer lies with Iver. He’s been the problem my whole life. I thought it was guilt—the guilt I suffered from killing him.”

  “What? You came to get forgiveness from him?” Gifford glared at the wallowing pile of flesh that had once been the worst kind of man.

  “That wasn’t it, but he is the one who is keeping me here.”

  Gifford let out a false laugh. “Oh, I can fix that. I can rid you of him real quick.” He drew his sword.

  Iver cringed, lifting saggy arms in defense.

  “No! Don’t!” Roan shrieked so loudly that it scared both of them. “You still don’t understand.”

  Gifford understood just fine. Roan was losing her mind, and Iver was speeding up the process. He had been the one who broke Roan in the first place, and now he was doing it all over again.

  He had always hated himself for not saving Roan when they lived in Dahl Rhen. It didn’t matter that he was a cripple or that interfering with a master’s treatment of his slave wasn’t allowed. No one had actually known what was going on in Iver’s roundhouse, but Gifford felt that he should have figured it out and done something. Now the Abyss was presenting the opportunity to make up for past failures.

  “He’ll never be able to hurt you again.”

  “It’s not him,” Roan sputtered as more tears fell from her eyes. “It’s not anything he is doing. It’s me—what I’m doing.”

  He’s got her again!

  Gifford had never understood the hold Iver had on Roan and her mother. If it had been Moya in that roundhouse, she would have worn Iver’s head for a hat. But Roan and Reanna were timid. Their wills, their sense of themselves, had been eroded by years of degradation. Now he was doing it all over again. He was using guilt and fear to—

  “Don’t you see, Gifford? I’m the one at fault here.”

  “No, Roan, you aren’t! That’s just what he wants you to think. That’s how he controls and manipulates. He steals your sense of self-worth. Iver belittles and demeans until you think his beatings and abuses are your fault, but they’re not. He’s the evil one, not you. You’re the victim.”