“What made Shegon leave the fortress?” Raithe asked him.
“Shegon was never in the fortress. He was from the Asendwayr tribe, not in the Guard. Very few non-Instarya are.”
“I thought you said you were in the fortress.”
“Oh, yes.” Malcolm nodded. “Ah…I had a different master then.”
“He sold you?”
“Died.”
“Died?”
“You of all people should know Fhrey do that.”
“How old was he?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Fifteen, sixteen, maybe.”
“That young?”
“Hundred. Fifteen or sixteen hundred.”
“Oh, okay—I always wondered how long they lived.”
“He didn’t die of old age.”
“Accident?” Raithe looked up at the walkways between the massive tower and the dome. A fall from either of them would kill anyone.
“He was killed in combat.”
Raithe couldn’t imagine what sort of beings killed Fhrey, prior to him at least. Giants, goblins, a dragon? Likely it was something he’d never heard of. Seeing the inside of Alon Rhist made Raithe realize how limited his understanding of the world was.
The three paused at the city square near a big well with a little roof to protect those using it from sun or rain.
“How long did it take them to build all this?” Tesh asked.
Malcolm shrugged. “A thousand years or so.”
“It’s so beautiful.”
“Where are all the people?”
“Hiding.” Malcolm dipped a hand into the fountain’s pool and wiped his face. “The barbarians have entered the gates. The residents have no idea what might happen. This is unprecedented, and likely terrifying.”
“They’re scared?” Tesh said. “The elves are scared…of us?”
“When we arrive by the thousands, and the Rhist’s guards let us wander their streets, yes. These people have been told that we’re wild, little more than mindless animals. I suppose they expect we’re here to loot, pillage, and burn.”
“So goes the planting, so comes the harvest,” Raithe said. He stood up on the rim of the well and looked out. The place was fine, to be sure, but a bit too orderly. This was a home built by warriors, for warriors. It lacked the flowers and winding paths of Rhen. To the south, over the orange clay roofs, he located the river gorge. At Grandford, the Bern River flowed through a canyon. Somewhere down that way the Bern joined forces with the Urum at a place known as The Forks—the place he’d buried his father. “The Gula still might have a mind to do a bit of pillaging.”
“I suspect that’s why Nyphron asked them to remain camped in what’s left of Dureya,” Malcolm said.
“Not going to like that. Probably disappointed there was no battle. I know several who were looking forward to killing those they previously believed to be gods.”
“I just can’t believe the elves are scared of us,” Tesh said.
“Fhrey,” Raithe corrected. “These ones are on our side now. At least that’s the story Nyphron is spreading.”
“Not all of them are frightened,” Tesh said, pointing in the direction of the house Malcolm had lived in.
Raithe recognized Meryl, Malcolm’s onetime partner in servitude—the coward who’d ridden away while screaming, “Murderer, murderer.” Meryl stepped out of the too-pretty-to-be-true house, and leaving the door wide, took four steps. This left him still in the front yard, still behind the little decorative wall. He glared at them from his tiny battlement.
“Meryl!” Malcolm greeted him happily and walked over.
“Murderer!” Meryl shouted back in Fhrey.
Malcolm stopped. “I didn’t kill—”
Raithe didn’t catch everything they said. They spoke quickly in Fhrey. All he caught were the words bloodthirsty, cannibalism, and monsters. He wasn’t even certain of those due to Meryl’s thick accent.
Malcolm was trying to calm his old roommate. Raithe didn’t need to understand the words to know that, but Meryl was having none of it. He shouted his replies and grew more red-faced with each round. Before long he was slapping the top of the wall. Other doors opened. Ghostly faces materialized at windows. Fhrey couples appeared on balconies. From the third floor of what looked to be a leather shop, Raithe heard a reedy Fhrey say, “Please come away. It’s dangerous.”
More were coming out, standing on stoops with folded arms, stiff lips, and nodding heads. “Maybe we should move on,” Raithe said. “Let’s head back and find Moya and Tekchin. Or maybe Roan needs a hand with the wagons.”
Raithe tugged on Malcolm’s sleeve.
The ex-slave waved back at him with one hand. As he did, Raithe noticed another pair of eyes looking down from the upper-story window of Meryl’s house. Remembering Malcolm’s question about who lived there now, Raithe tilted his head up for a better look, and the figure withdrew into the shadows. All that remained was the flutter of a curtain.
It took a full-out drag by his wrist to get Malcolm walking, but Raithe outweighed his friend by no small amount, and Malcolm soon gave in to the idea.
“Idiot,” Malcolm grumbled. “He’s completely forgotten who he is. He actually thinks being a slave is a privilege. A privilege! Can you believe that? And he refuses to even admit he’s human—or Rhune, as he so derisively refers to us. The little partisan bigot—traitor is what he is.” Malcolm marched up the street with loud slaps of his feet.
“You used to think of us as Rhunes, too.”
“That’s before I knew better.” Malcolm jabbed his pointed finger at Raithe. “See, right there; I can be reasoned with. But not him. Oh, no, not Meryl, the little weasel. He knows—he thinks he knows—everything, except that he’s no better than anyone else. I honestly don’t know how the man manages to dress himself in the morning.”
Malcolm continued to fume, but more quietly as they rounded a wall painted with crude images.
“So, did you find out who his new master is?”
“Doesn’t have one,” Malcolm said. “He empties chamber pots in the Kype and cleans out cells in the duryngon now. Not too happy about the change. Blames me for tarnishing his otherwise impeccable reputation. I don’t know what he’s complaining about. He still gets to live in one of the best houses in the city, and he has the whole place to himself.”