The white-bearded Dherg felt it, too, and braced himself at the threshold. He looked at the raging storm then glanced back to Arion, trying to decide. With his beard whipping, he shouted, “Close it! Close it!”
The gray-bearded one clapped hand to stone. The door reversed direction, the stone rolling back into place until the roar was shut out once more.
“You’re doing that!” the white-bearded Dherg accused in Fhrey, pointing at the door while glaring at Arion.
She shook her head wearily while sitting on the stone bench. “Not of my making. Believe me.”
“I don’t believe you!”
Arion flexed her fingers. Shock and worry creased her brow. She reached up and put a hand to the back of her head.
“It’s okay. It’ll come back.” Suri pointed at the series of runes chiseled along the top of the walls. “The markings.” They were the same as the ones on the bandages that had prevented Arion from using magic.
Arion nodded slowly. She was frowning but looked relieved. Seeing that the Dherg were still glaring at her, she pointed to the runes and said, “Those are yours, so you know I’m not responsible for what is happening out there.”
Persephone had never seen Dherg quite like them. None of the others she’d met were dressed in metal. The traders in Vernes wore floppy wool hats of bright orange or red, and long tunics usually dyed yellow or blue. Metal in the southern regions wasn’t common, and the Dherg coveted it like sacred relics—their form of magic. They haggled stubbornly for even small bits of tin. But it was their other metals that were truly remarkable: wondrous bronze, which could be forged into invincible weapons, and gold and silver, which shone with divine light. She wondered if these three were rulers or otherwise-powerful members of Dherg society. Whoever they were, it’d be a mistake not to make a good impression. Or at least the best that could be made after barging in on them.
“I’m Persephone, chieftain of Dahl Rhen,” she said, thinking it was time someone did the polite thing. “This is Arion of the Fhrey. And this”—she gestured toward the mystic—“is Suri. Oh, and her wolf, Minna, who is very nice, and will do you no harm.”
Perhaps because they realized Arion wasn’t capable of performing magic, or because Persephone had been the first to address them, the three finally appeared to notice her existence. They looked at her with no less suspicion but far less fear.
“Now then,” she said, offering the friendliest smile she could conjure. “Who might you be?”
They all offered one more glare at Arion before the white-bearded one spoke. “I’m Frost of Nye. This is Flood,” he said, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the one beside him, making the gray-bearded Dherg wince. “And he”—Frost pointed at the one with the pickax who hadn’t run for the exit—“is called Rain. My companions obviously weren’t properly watching the door.”
“Us? And what were you doing?” Flood asked Frost. “Why was guarding the door our responsibility?”
“I was busy trying to remove a pebble from my boot.”
“Careful, it might be your brain. If you toss it away, then…well…now that I think of it, we likely wouldn’t notice any difference, so go ahead.”
Frost scowled.
“Honored to make your acquaintance.” Persephone bowed formally, which appeared to surprise them.
“Now, how did you know about our rol?” Frost asked no one in particular. “These are secret places, safe areas known only to our kind.”
“Suri is a mystic and has lived in the Crescent Forest all her life.” Persephone glanced at the girl. “She led us here.”
The Dherg smirked. “All her life? How long could that possibly be?”
“Suri is…well…special. She’s located many rols. Haven’t you?”
Suri was petting Minna’s neck, oblivious to the conversation.
“Suri?” Persephone nudged the mystic with an elbow.
“What?”
“I was telling them that you have a knack for finding rols. Could you explain how you do it?”
Suri shrugged. “Empty places feel different from the ones filled with dirt and stone. It’s fun to find the spot that opens the door. Although Minna sometimes gets bored if I take too long. Don’t you, Minna?”
“We just came here to get away from the storm,” Persephone said. “No idea it was occupied. I hope you don’t mind, but as you can see the storm is…the storm is…” A thought wriggled into her head—and then more than one. A whole set of puzzle pieces fell together: the suddenness of the storm, Arion telling them to run, and the trail of scorched divots left in their wake.
She turned her attention to the Miralyith and spoke in the Fhrey language, “Arion, how did you know?”
The bald woman sat on the bench, head resting in her hands. “Know what?”
“You told us to run. And that lightning, it…it wasn’t random. I don’t know how, but it was trying to hit us. Right?”
“Yes,” the Fhrey said, looking up. The relief that Suri’s explanation had provided earlier was gone, replaced by a painful expression as Arion rubbed the knit hat on her head.
“This was how it was in the war.” Frost seemed to be talking to his companions, but spoke in Fhrey. “When the Fhrey attacked, we’d shelter in rols.”
“You couldn’t know anything about the war,” Arion said. “I was young, but I remember. You don’t. You only know stories. Dherg don’t live that long.”
“Don’t call me a Dherg…you…you…elf!” Frost’s hand went to his sword.
Arion’s brows rose at the term elf.
“Hold on, hold on,” Persephone said. “Maybe we should all calm down a little. I’m sure Arion meant no disrespect. The storm is too dangerous for any of us to leave, so let’s make the best of it. We don’t know how long we’ll all be stuck in here.”
Overhead, thunder boomed, and the wind’s howl continued.
Persephone moved to take a seat on the bench beside Arion and was unpleasantly reminded about the hail that had struck her back. She also had time to notice the many cuts along her hands and legs from the thornbushes. Her left ear hurt as well, though she didn’t know why.
“Might as well sit down,” Persephone told the three.
Frost and Flood looked at each other and then returned to the benches on the far side of the glowing green gem. Rain, who hadn’t stopped looking at the runes since they’d been pointed out, had wandered into the shadows. He stood near the back wall, head tilted up, studying the carvings.
“Pardon me for asking, but if Dher…er…what Arion said isn’t the correct way to refer to your kind, then what is? It’s the only term I’ve ever heard.”
“Dherg is a Fhrey word meaning ‘vile mole.’ How would you like it if we called you Rhunes?” Frost asked. “That’s also a Fhrey word. You know what that means, right? ‘Barbarian,’ ‘primitive,’ ‘crude’? Do you like being called that?”
Persephone hadn’t thought about it before. To her, to most everyone in the Ten Clans—few of whom spoke Fhrey—Rhune was just a common term, a name. Now that he mentioned it, she realized it had been an insult. “So what do you call yourselves, then?”