—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Raithe pulled Persephone up the last ledge. She could have climbed it on her own, and none of the chieftains had needed or been offered a hand, but she took his. Persephone felt it best to be agreeable when she had the luxury, knowing she couldn’t always be so generous. That’s what she told herself, but she knew that if anyone else had made the gesture, she’d have waved them off.
Raithe was brave, capable, and handsome, wearing his leigh mor with a casual indifference. The young Dureyan was a popular topic among the women, but he took no notice of their flirtations. What he wanted, she couldn’t give. Persephone was still married to her dead husband in ways she couldn’t put into words, or even thoughts; emotions had a language of their own that didn’t always translate.
Raithe and her husband were nothing alike. Reglan, nearly thirty years her senior, had been more like a father, a teacher, a guide. With Raithe, she was the wise one, the steady hand that kept the rows straight. And yet, Raithe’s hand felt good—safe, warm, strong. She was the keenig, chieftan of the ten clans, and supreme ruler of millions, but she still needed more. Power couldn’t replace respect, devotion couldn’t replace friendship, and nothing could replace the enveloping warmth of love. He did love her, wanted her, and while she couldn’t grant his wish—at least not yet—she cherished the idea. The gift of his desire was another of those impossible-to-translate, difficult-to-corral feelings. Passion was a wild, selfish thing that didn’t respect boundaries or common sense, but without it life felt pointless.
“What did you call this?” She looked around, getting a feel for the natural pillar of rock rising sixty feet above the plain.
“Misery Rock,” Raithe replied.
The sheer drop on all sides of that far-too-small-for-comfort pillar produced a flutter in her stomach. She nodded. “I can see that. Sure.”
Persephone walked in a tight circle, shuffling her feet, too scared to lift them. Falling was an irrational fear as long as she didn’t do anything crazy. The rock was as flat as a table, but she didn’t trust herself. Stumbling isn’t an option, unless flying is, too.
Persephone had never been one for heights. As a child, she stopped climbing trees at a young age and escaped roof-thatching duties by claiming illnesses that were greatly exaggerated. Standing on Misery Rock, looking down and seeing the tops of all those walnut-sized heads that made up the Rhulyn clans, she felt dizzy. How did I ever find the courage to jump off that waterfall in the Crescent Forest? That incident seemed decades ago rather than just a few short months.
Wolves, she recalled. Yes, a pack of wolves in pursuit provided the necessary incentive.
Persephone watched in awe as Suri scampered up as if the summit were a foot off the ground. The young woman was beyond fearless; she appeared thoroughly bored.
From where they stood, Persephone could see for miles. “Did you live around here?” Persephone asked Raithe.
He pointed toward the northeast.
Most of Dureya was a dusty plateau, one great rock interrupted by jagged stone formations like the one they stood on. Looking in the direction he indicated, she spotted a black mark on the consistently blond plain.
“That was my village, Clempton,” Raithe said. “Thirty-seven buildings, forty families, and almost two hundred people.” He continued to stare without blinking, a hard, brutal look. She wondered what he was thinking, then imagined herself gazing on the ruins of Dahl Rhen.
Persephone put a hand on his arm. Her touch broke his stare, and he offered her a forced smile.