PART I
Chapter One
Innocence Lost
What a strange treasure is innocence, a virtue to the old and a curse to the young, so highly prized but eagerly parted with—the riches of beautiful skin traded for the wisdom of calluses. — The Book of Brin
Suri sat alone with a sword across her lap, staring at what most would call a dragon but which the onetime mystic of Dahl Rhen saw as a fragment of her broken heart. Having been shattered several times, her heart had left pieces strewn across two continents. But the part she watched that morning was both physically huge and the only one visible.
For days, she had monitored the dragon-like creature lying atop the hill. Being the one who had created the thing, Suri felt responsible for whatever it might do. She’d kept a vigilant eye on her handiwork, but after it had saved the inhabitants of Alon Rhist by slaughtering half an army, her creation hadn’t moved. It didn’t so much as twitch its tail. This came as both a comfort and a concern to nearly everyone. Most hoped that the once miraculous—now unsettling—dragon lying on their doorstep would just fly away. They wanted their monster-savior to go back to whatever mysterious place it had come from. Few knew of the creature’s origin, although news of Suri’s involvement had spread. The mystic imagined that the gilarabrywn remained a disturbing fixture to most, sort of like a wasp’s nest on the porch—if wasps could tear through stone and breathe fire. The beast remained curled up, still as a stone, like an enormous sculpture or an unusual rock formation. A quiet, sleeping dragon, while not ideal, was better than the alternative.
From where Suri sat, with the rising sun casting her subject in silhouette, the gilarabrywn blended into the craggy outline of Wolf’s Head, and some effort was required to make sense of its shape. Suri struggled to remember where the head and tail were, but the wings were unmistakable. Even folded, they stood up from the hilltop—two sharp points like listing flagpoles. Suri felt the weight of the black-bronze blade on her lap and considered going closer. She would have to release the creature eventually, but tomorrow always seemed better than today. Instead, she sat on a rock, beside a dead tree, at the bottom of a sea of guilt.
If I go up there, its eyes will open. Suri was certain of that. Those giant orbs would narrow on her, staring with . . . what? Hatred, fear, pity? Suri wasn’t sure and wasn’t confident she’d recognize the difference. The worst thing is, I have to kill them twice.
Despite several days of pouring rain, the Grandford battlefield remained stained. The beige rock and dirt had a rusty tinge. And the air smelled foul, especially when it blew from the west. Not all of the bodies were buried; many Fhrey had been left to rot. There was too much to do, too few people to do it, and burying the enemy was low on everyone’s list of priorities.
“This is a horrid place,” she said, looking at the beast, “but you always knew that, didn’t you?”
She had felt the bleakness of the plains of Dureya even before the day when the premonition of Raithe’s death had threatened to overwhelm her. The Art granted a second sight, a sixth sense. Arion sometimes called it a third eye, but that wasn’t right. The sensation had nothing to do with vision. What it granted were feelings, impressions, and usually they came in a jumbled, tangled mess. The closest and strongest perception usually stood out from the background noise, but here the clamor was deafening. Generations of men had fought and died on this land.
And nothing has changed.
In her hands, Suri held Arion’s knit cap. She rubbed her thumbs over the little holes in the open weave of thick wool yarn, and she recalled Arion’s voice. Still, I feel it, this little string that stretches between you and peace. When I look at you, I sense hope. You’re like this light in the darkness, and you get brighter every day. Arion had said that just a few days ago, but that seemed like another lifetime. Suri didn’t feel brighter.
Sounds of movement came from behind her. Someone was walking from the ruins of the fortress across the bloodstained clay. Malcolm. She didn’t need to look or use the Art to know who it was. He was the only one who wasn’t frightened of the wasp’s nest on the porch or the mystic who had summoned it, and she had been expecting his visit.
Since Raithe’s and Arion’s funerals, Suri had spent most of her time at this exact spot. She and the gilarabrywn were a pair of unlikely twins tethered together. Suri occasionally left in search of food, but she was careful to avoid others. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, answer questions, or face looks of pity—or, more likely, fear. She didn’t want to talk to Malcolm, either. While he had nothing to do with Arion’s death, he had pushed her into killing Raithe and creating the gilarabrywn.
“Strange, isn’t it?” he said, approaching. “How with time, simple things, silly little things like knit hats, can become so important. Magical, in a way.”
Suri looked down at the hat and nodded. “She only wore it for a short while, said it itched. But I remember her best that way.”
He sat down beside her, his big knees sticking up like a grasshopper’s.
“Are you . . .” Suri was about to say Miralyith, but even as she spoke, she realized he wasn’t. Miralyith gave off a signal, a hot spot, a light. Malcolm seemed like everyone else, except more so. She’d never noticed before, but if he were a tree, he wouldn’t be any old one. Malcolm would be the perfectly shaped, full-leafed oak that everyone imagined when thinking of a tree. He wasn’t ordinary, that was certain, and he also wasn’t easy to comprehend. Looking at him was like trying to make sense of a cloud. She gave up on the possibility of understanding Malcolm. Not every puzzle needed to be solved, and some things were more trouble than they were worth. She guessed he was like that.
“Am I what?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“How are you doing? You okay?”
“No.”
They sat in silence as a dry wind failed to convince brittle grass to dance.
“Tell me something. Is this it? Was that all?” Suri asked. Malcolm had revealed he could see the future, and she didn’t know how much more she could take.
“You’ll have to be a little more specific.”
Suri expected he would know what she was referring to, that he could read her mind, but maybe that was unfair—people thought she could read minds, too. “Arion believed that if the fane knew a Rhune was capable of the Art it would result in peace between our peoples.” She nodded in the direction of the gilarabrywn. “Well, the fane saw with his own eyes, so the war should be over. Is it?”
Malcolm sorrowfully shook his head. “No, it’s not.”
“Then why did you . . .” Suri’s eyes teared up. “If you knew it wouldn’t be enough, then why sacrifice Raithe?”
“You already know the answer to that. The fane’s forces would have overwhelmed us, and everyone would have died. Raithe saved us. You saved us. And . . .”;
“And?”
“It was necessary for what’s yet to come.”
“So, what about me? Is my part in all this over? I mean, I did what Arion wanted, and what you needed, so I’m done, right?”