The dwarf puffed air through his beard and mustache, clearing the hair out of the way in order to speak. “We’ve selected a dozen good men who are eager and capable of learning, but we’re still struggling with the method and system.
“Although Roan carefully watched the swordsmiths produce an iron blade, she apparently missed a number of details. We are still working out the process—but we’re getting there. Once we have the steps down, those twelve will take what they’ve learned and train a smith in every village in Rhulyn. And those smiths will take on apprentices, expanding our numbers. When the system is perfected and people are trained, the work won’t take long. But getting all that going is the problem.” He rubbed his chin. “I estimate we could outfit a small army in…a year.”
“There,” Raithe said. “And in that time, we can train the men to—”
“It will be too late by then,” Nyphron said. “The fane will consolidate his hold on the frontier before winter. This is a race, and we’ve already delayed too long. Besides, there is a fine smithy inside the fortress, and a few residents in the city have excellent forges and tools. Also”—the Fhrey looked at Persephone—“where will the people of Rhen winter? Here? Will you shelter from the icy blasts against that wall?” He looked to Lipit. “Do you have room for them inside the city’s walls?”
Persephone’s eyes darkened.
Raithe was losing her. Losing her to him, which made it worse.
“My way will ensure we can defend ourselves if things go wrong,” Raithe declared. “If he fails to deliver on his outlandish promises—”
Nyphron smiled as he cut Raithe off. “And my way will win this war.”
Raithe glared at Nyphron, but the Fhrey steadfastly refused to even glance his way. Nyphron continued to study Persephone.
“How soon would you want to move on Alon Rhist?” she asked.
“Immediately,” Nyphron said. “We have already wasted too much time.” He gestured at the dahl around him. “While we sit and talk, who knows what the fane is doing.”
“I’d feel better if we had some Artistic support.” Persephone looked Raithe’s way. “In case anything goes wrong. But Arion can’t be moved, and Suri won’t leave her side.”
“We don’t need a Miralyith to take Alon Rhist, and we can’t afford to wait,” Nyphron said. “Arion is more likely to die than recover, and that mystic child is no Artist. Waiting for Arion’s death won’t change a thing.”
Brin raced into the courtyard, and all heads turned. She was moving so fast she had to skid to a stop. A huge smile stretched her cheeks. “Arion’s awake!”
* * *
—
They weren’t an army—far from it.
The course of humanity had shifted in a very real sense. Suri was certain she’d seen rainstorms with fewer drops than the number of people walking north. And while Suri wasn’t an expert on such matters, she imagined that even the worst army carried weapons, unlike the crowd around her. They were shepherds, farmers, leatherworkers, hunters, woodcutters, fishermen, brewers, and traders. Most didn’t own weapons. They carried bags and baskets. The rumpled host of that would-be army struggled to walk in line. They also complained about the pace, the road, and the sun—or its absence when the rain came. Most of the women had been left at home, except for those of Dahl Rhen, who didn’t have a place to stay. Those without small children walked alongside their men, carrying bundles of food and clothes. The majority of the host was ahead of the wagon where Suri and Arion sat, all marching along the road that went by Dahl Rhen, the same path they’d traveled down seemingly a lifetime ago.
Arion and Suri were tucked alongside barrels, sacks, pots, and wool, rocking and bouncing with the ruts and dips. The Fhrey had declared herself fit to travel, but she wasn’t up for the long walk. Padera and Gifford, who served as cooks to that migratory march and also looked after Arion, rode with them. The two won seats on the wagon by virtue of Nyphron’s desire to travel quickly.
Suri didn’t make a habit of riding in the wagon, but she checked on Arion frequently and sometimes napped among the sacks in the afternoon. No one questioned her right to do so. No one spoke to her much at all.
Rumors had circulated about her incident in the land of the dwarfs. While Suri had always received stares as an outsider and a mystic, now the expressions of curiosity and disapproval were replaced by looks of fear. Folks sped up, slowed down, or even changed directions to keep their distance. With Persephone, Moya, Roan, and the dwarfs all so busy, the only ones who spoke with Suri were Padera, Gifford, and Brin. Everyone else acted as if she were poisonous.
I’ve always liked being alone, she reminded herself. I prefer it. Too many people in one place isn’t natural. This is better. But she wasn’t alone. Suri was surrounded by people, yet not a part of them. She was the daisy among the daffodils, the fly in the goat’s milk, the butterfly in the army.
Suri turned and saw the trees off to their left, a slope running upward, leafy boughs nudging into darker piney ridges. She knew that line, that rise of trees, that curve. Just beyond was a river and over the next hill they would see the full face of the wood—the Crescent Forest.
“We’re almost back,” Suri said. She checked the sun. “By midday, we’ll be there. How do you feel?” she asked Arion. “We’ll walk slowly. No need to rush.”
Arion, who was sitting up and wrapped in a light shawl, appeared puzzled. “Are we going somewhere different than everyone else?”
“Yes, to the Hawthorn Glen. Home.”
“But Persephone—I thought we were headed to Alon Rhist.” Arion looked perplexed.
“That’s where she’s going; we’re going home,” Suri said. “You’ll love it, Arion. The garden will be a disaster, but I’ll take care of that. You won’t have to do a thing except rest and get stronger. We’ll go swimming!”
“Suri, there’s a war starting,” Arion said. Suri believed the Fhrey’s voice reflected her health, and Arion’s speech was still far too windy and hollow.
“Yes.” She glanced at the men with hoes and mattocks on their shoulders. “And in the glen we won’t even know it. We’ll be safe and happy. In a way, it’ll be like old times—the way it was with Tura.”
Persephone had wanted Suri and Arion to go to the Fhrey fortress, but Suri didn’t think war sounded very pleasant. Instead, she had come up with a better plan. The two of them would ride on the wagon back to the Crescent Forest, then hop off and walk to the Hawthorn Glen. Arion was still weak, so they would go slowly and stop often. Might take all day, but once there, Suri would show Arion the most beautiful place in the world: the little vale where the sunlight was more golden, the water sweeter, and where birds of different species sang in harmony. Suri knew Arion would love it, and in that wondrous place the Fhrey would grow strong again, and then—