“I am.”

  Persephone nodded. “You should rest then. We can talk another time. I just . . . Nyphron will be fighting Mawyndulë in a few days near Avempartha. We’ll have to be leaving soon, but before I go, I wanted you to know that your mother and father would be so very proud of you, Brin. Of all that you’ve done for us. Of all that you sacrificed.”

  “They are,” Brin said. “And my mother thinks you are doing a wonderful job as keenig.”

  Persephone bit her lip and sucked in an uneven breath. Her eyes grew teary as she nodded. “You saw her? You saw Sarah and Delwin?”

  “Yes.” Brin smiled. “I saw everyone. Even Padera and Darby, too. I always wondered about dogs, where they went. I guess maybe if someone loves you enough . . .” Brin felt the tears rising again.

  “What about . . .”

  “Yes, Raithe was there. He wants you to know that he understands why you picked Nyphron, and he’s not upset. He still loves you, and he waits for you. He—”

  Persephone silenced her with a squeeze of her hand. She nodded, wiped away a tear, and didn’t say anything for a long time. Then she said, “I’m so sorry, Brin.”

  That was all it took. She began crying again.

  Persephone shifted beds. She hugged Brin, pulling her tight. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeated as if willing it to be so.

  Brin dropped her head onto Persephone’s shoulder, her brow pressed against the older woman’s neck.

  “You did it, Brin.” Persephone rocked forward and back, taking Brin with her, holding her like a child who’d just woken from a nightmare. “You saved us. You saved them. You saved everyone.”

  Brin lifted her head. “Not everyone.”

  Persephone cupped Brin’s face, lifted it, and looked into her eyes. “Don’t do that. I know what it’s like to lose people. I know how it feels when you believe it’s your fault. It can eat you up from the inside. Don’t let it. You’re so young. You still have so much life to live. Don’t give in to the grief. You have to go on.”

  Brin didn’t realize she was shaking her head until Persephone took a firmer grip and stopped her.

  “You have to, Brin. You must.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “It’s not about want—do you think I wanted to keep eating after Mahn died? Or continue to breathe after Reglan? And when Raithe . . .” Her voice broke. She let go of Brin’s face and turned away. “It’s not about want. Some things you just have to do; some things you need to do because you can and others can’t. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “Good.” She kissed Brin, hugged her one more time, then stood up.

  “Wait,” Brin said, then paused in thought, recalling her conversation with Moya. “What good will come from telling her now? She’s married to Nyphron. They have a child.”

  While all that was true, the more important point was that Nyphron had blown the horn, and the fate of all Rhunes rested in his ability to win against Mawyndulë. Not to mention that it was what Malcolm wanted. He wouldn’t have put them through all they endured if it weren’t so important.

  What benefit will come from revealing his treachery? If I tell her the truth, Persephone will do what she always does. She’ll sacrifice herself for her people. She’ll do nothing, say nothing. But late at night, she’ll torment herself with the ugly truth that she married a ruthless murderer who thought nothing of starting a war to serve himself. Is that what I want to give her?

  If Brin kept quiet and Nyphron were to win The Challenge, that day could be bright. Persephone could receive the reward she deserved. The sacrifices would be balanced against the promise of the future: that the world would be a better place.

  If Brin told the truth, she’d have to live in silence, knowing that her husband had deceived her, that the father of her child was to blame for thousands of deaths. That she had—

  “What is it, Brin?” Persephone asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Brin lay on her bed, listening to the sounds of those preparing to travel as they went about the tasks of breaking down and packing up. The camp had been in place for years, and travel in winter was miserable. More than one person complained, but mostly to themselves. Brin could hear them through the canvas, grumbling and cursing their misfortune. They had no idea what real hardship was, or how lucky they were. None of them knew the price that had been paid for the luxury of their inconvenience.

  They will. Brin looked over at the stack of pages. I can do that much for them.

  The flap of her tent lifted.

  “May I come in?” Malcolm asked as he did so anyway. He bent low to get his tall, lanky frame under the roof of the tent.

  He smiled at her as he moved in a crouch to sit on Padera’s bed, just as Persephone had. Malcolm let his hands run over the surface of Padera’s bed, dipping down into the depression the old woman had left. “She seemed bigger than this.”

  “She gave me your message.”

  “Yes, I know. I can’t see into Phyre, but looking into the Swamp of Ith is an easy task.”

  “She still hates you.”

  “A lot of people do, but you know that now, right? You know everything. That’s why I sent you. I needed you to know the truth, warts and all.”

  Brin nodded, and watched as Malcolm crossed his long legs and folded his hands in his lap. He looked clumsy and not at all godlike.

  Funny, the Fhrey always looked like gods, and Gryndal acted like one, but they weren’t. Malcolm looks like the kind of awkward man whom people ignore—the dull sort that is never noticed, never appreciated. Tressa was right, though. Malcolm is a god, and with the world as his mother, the sky his father, and immortality granted from Alurya’s gift, he might be the only true god. Unfortunately, he’s the god of evil.

  “Is it true?” she asked.

  Malcolm raised his brows. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “That you’re evil.”

  Malcolm smiled. “Evil is an odd word. Somewhat useless, really. It means different things to different people, doesn’t it? If you’re asking, did I do many terrible things, then yes—I did. I would say I hold the record for that achievement. But am I evil? I suppose that’s for others to decide. People like you.”

  “You sent all of us to our deaths without so much as a warning. You had Tressa lie to us so we didn’t even know what we were getting into.”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve deceived a great many people.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Because it was what was necessary. If there had been a better option, I would have chosen it. There wasn’t.”

  “I don’t . . .” Brin shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of you. Are you trying to fix the world? Elan says you are, but Muriel says you aren’t. Who is right?”

  Again, he smiled; once more looking like the same old friendly Malcolm, the one she remembered sitting on the floor of Roan’s home, chatting about how Fhrey, Dherg, and Rhunes were all related. “I can’t answer that question. Well, I could, but we’ve already established that I’m not to be trusted, so my answer would be pointless. All I can say is this: You’ve spoken to my enemies, and the very few people who might still believe in me. I have no idea what they told you, but words can be lies. So I’ll ask you to judge me on my actions. Granted, up to this point, it’s difficult to know all the things I’ve done. But you can see where we are now, and if you think about it, you’ll see that I’ve been steering us to this point. The world is about to change, and if it’s going to be for the better, you should aid me. That’s why I sent you. To grant you the unvarnished knowledge necessary to decide.”

  Brin nodded.

  “Well, then, on to other matters. Can I assume you no longer have my key?”

  Brin sucked in a breath. She closed her eyes, with all the expectations of a criminal ready to be executed. Then she confessed, “I left it in a safe place in Phyre.”

  Malcolm frowned. “That’s probably not a very—”

  “It’s only temporary. I’m hoping the others will be able to get out. Even if they can’t, it will be given to Muriel.”

  Malcolm tilted his head to the right and then the left, considering the implications.

  When he didn’t say more, Brin spoke up. “I told her that you’re trying to fix things.”

  “Let me guess. It had no effect. She still hates me.”

  Brin frowned and with a sudden unexpected fit of bravery and self-righteousness said, “You need to fix that.”

  “Yes.” Malcolm displayed a sort of smile, a curious, amused expression. “You have learned a lot. What’s more, you’ve become quick to advise.”

  Brin flushed. Malcolm didn’t look like Ferrol or Drome. He didn’t speak with a booming voice, more of a quiet tone, but his words carried a similar weight.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “You should know by now, that’s one sentiment no one need ever express to me.” He nodded then. “And you’re right. And I am working on it.”

  “Trust is a good first step, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t appear to share her enthusiasm, but neither did he strike her dead. Brin took this as a good sign.

  She was still trying to wrap her head around the idea that this unassuming man before her had sort of fought the sky . . . and kind of won. He didn’t look anything like how Elan had depicted him: wearing a crown and a shimmering robe that changed colors. The notion that he had once ruled the world and made it tremble seemed so odd. And before that . . .

  “What was it like?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the beginning? Before—you know—before everything went bad?”

  Malcolm looked at the floor. He appeared sad for a moment, then the smile returned. “It was wonderful. Not at all like now. The world was . . . well, like bread fresh out of an oven. You know what I mean: The smell fills the air and makes everything wonderful somehow, and it tastes so good when it’s warm and soft. Fact is, all you’ve ever known is hard, week-old moldy crust. Back then, colors were different, the light brighter. Everything was just, well, more—I guess. It’s hard to explain. Everyone who had ever been was here. Not one had died. The world was massive, unexplored, and more people arrived every day: new friends, new loves, and an endless universe was our playground. Instead of fear, regret, and hate, we had only joy, love, and happiness.”

  “No wonder they hate you,” Brin said.

  Malcolm’s brows rose, and Brin’s hands flashed to her mouth as if to retrieve the words and push them back in.

  “No—no, you’re right. It’s true. I ruined all that. And that’s why I’m here—why I’ve come to visit. I have one last task for you. A very, very important job.”

  “It doesn’t involve running, does it? Because I can’t even walk. If I could, I’d be—”

  Malcolm raised a hand to stop her. “No. But you do need to get up. I’ve arranged a wagon for you. A nice one with wooden sides and a fringed canopy. There’s a bed filled with thick blankets. It will take you days to get to Avempartha, but while you are traveling, I need you to finish this.” He placed a hand on the stack. “You need to write down everything you learned in Phyre.”

  “I plan to. I will. But as soon as I’m better I need to go—”

  “No,” he said firmly. “This has to be done now.”

  “You mean now, now?”

  “Yes, and don’t worry about your supplies, you’ll have all the ink and parchment you require.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is why you went, Brin. To be honest, writing what you learned is even more important than retrieving the horn. Stopping the war was crucial, of course. Nyphron will become the first emperor of those born of Mari and the children of Ferrol. Then he’ll make an alliance with Drome’s children. But that’s only a start. Your book will do the rest.”

  It was a lovely sentiment, but Brin couldn’t follow the logic. “How?”

  “With it, you will teach the world a new language. From your book, all races will learn to read and write. This will give them a common tongue again, allowing them to communicate with one another as they once did. And in reading your story, they will learn that they are all one people, born of the same five seeds, of the same mother and father. This will open the door for reunification. Brin, I sent you through Phyre so you could see the truth for yourself. I sent you because no one can ever doubt your words. My words, on the other hand . . .” He shook his head and snorted. “No one will ever believe me, no one will listen—and with good cause. I wouldn’t believe me, either. But you! Your words are untainted. I sent you into Phyre because you’re flawless—perfect.”

  “I’m not!” she said, feeling the pain return. “How can you even say that? For example, look at how disgusting and messy this tent is?” She glared at him as her lower lip began to quiver. “I’ve been mean to people, too. I was judgmental. For years, I despised Tressa . . . and . . . and . . . I didn’t even help my uncle Gelston after he was struck by lightning.” Tears came up and spilled. “And . . . Tesh, Roan, Gifford, Moya, Rain, and Tressa.” She wiped her cheeks. “I left them behind! I am not perfect, Malcolm. Not at all.”

  “You left the key for them. You did so while knowing I would want it back. You willingly angered the god of evil, the creator of murder, deceit, and war, and you didn’t even hide the fact. You didn’t try to lie to save yourself. That doesn’t sound like much of a character flaw.”

  “I still abandoned them, and Tesh wouldn’t have even died if it weren’t for me.” She stared at the blanket on her bed. Her hands spread out, palms down, sliding back and forth, smoothing it.

  “Okay.” Malcolm shrugged. “Have it your way. You aren’t perfect, but you’re close. That actually helps. People are suspicious of those who have no flaws. Knowing you’ve made mistakes will make it easier for people to believe your writings. Through your words, they will learn to join and work together. But you really do need to hurry.”

  Brin paused in her efforts to wipe out the wrinkles. “Why?”

  “Because my brother is back on Elan. I can’t see him any more than I can see into Phyre, but I can witness the effects of his actions. I don’t want all that I’ve sewn up to unravel. He’ll follow behind me, tearing my seams apart. He knows about you, doesn’t he?”

  She nodded. “We’ve met.”

  “And I fear you will again. It’s only a matter of time.” He chuckled. “Time. It’s endless, yet its rate of passing is never constant. And it’s something, believe it or not, I fear I need more of.”

  Malcolm looked mournful as he got up and went toward the entrance.

  Before he could leave, Brin said, “Elan told me, if anyone could fix the world—it was you.”

  Malcolm pulled back the tent flap, letting the sunlight in. He turned back and said, “Perhaps she has too much faith in me.”

  “She’s not the only one. I believe in you, too.”

  Malcolm looked skeptical. “Even after all you’ve learned? How can you, Brin? I created evil and invented the lie. Until recently, everything you knew about me was a fabrication. I used you and everyone else. It wasn’t Nyphron who murdered all those people for his own selfish means. He didn’t start this war. I put the spark to that flame. I sacrificed Raithe, Arion, the entire Dureyan clan, all the people of Nadak, and so much more than you could ever know.”

  “Everyone falls. We all have things that we regret. No one is perfect. You know that now, but you didn’t when you were Rex Uberlin. Your mother is right, you’ve changed, and I think that your trying has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps, but the real question is, will it be enough? And only time will tell.” Then his gaze moved to the stack. “You might want to take measures to protect that. I fear my brother will not abide anything I had a hand in creating. Be careful, Brin. Be very careful.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Man in the Mirror

  Gifford is like a pearl inside an oyster. From the exterior, no one would ever assume such a treasure lay inside. — The Book of Brin

  “Didn’t seem as wide before,” Gifford said as he stood at the broken edge of the stone bridge and stared across at Nifrel. They had no trouble seeing the far side. Even if the queen’s manufactured gray sky weren’t lighting the world, the combined shine of Roan and Gifford would have done just fine. After reaching the top of the pillar, the two were once more clad in Alberich Berling’s armor. Roan, who had never felt comfortable in it, stripped off the priceless suit. Gifford did the same, and they were surprised that removing the Belgriclungreian armor hadn’t put a dent in the light they emitted.

  The gap wasn’t wide. Gifford could throw a rock across the missing section of bridge. Beyond the gap lay the slate-gray plain—the worn-out battlefield polished and stained dark with the nonexistent blood of uncounted conflicts. After all the time they had spent in the Abyss, seeing the Plain of Kilcorth seemed like waving to an old friend.

  Has it been years? It certainly feels like it.

  Even the queen’s White Tower, which rose a short way to the left, didn’t hold the same horror it once had. After facing oblivion in the unending dark, everything else was a good deal more pleasant. And they didn’t have the key anymore. Nothing to protect, no rush, nothing to worry about—except how to cross the gap. Unless they found a way, the two would spend eternity on that tiny tongue of stone.

  “Don’t suppose you have any ideas, do you?” he asked while glancing over his shoulder at Roan.

  She gave him a withering look as she continued her pacing between the mirrored door and the severed end of the bridge. She was still fuming for not having realized they should have climbed the other cliff. “Just stupid—just so stupid,” she muttered. She’d been saying that for a while.

  “Did you even know the bridge was broken?” he asked. “I was nearly hit by the pieces, but you weren’t there.”

  She didn’t answer, just scowled as if Gifford was taking the wrong side in an argument with a hated enemy.