By Michael J Sullivan
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Crossing to the pair of chairs near the far wall—the only chairs in the room—Persephone sat in the one on the right. Suri had stopped at the door. She peered at the rafters of the peaked roof, where shields of past chieftains hung along with trophy heads of stags, wolves, and bears. She grimaced, then looked across the room toward Persephone, eyeing the floor as if it were a deep lake and she unable to swim. Then, with effort, the girl and the wolf entered. ” Persephone asked as the girl made her way across the hall.
They dance and make merry in ways you can only imagine. ” “Oh, Grand Mother of All, yes. All the time. No one knows why. Just a thing with them, I suppose. Anyway, when they steal one, they take it back to Nog, where who knows what happens. On rare occasions, one sneaks out. They’re called malkins and aren’t quite right again because anyone spending time in Nog is forever changed. Now, usually a malkin is older, like ten or twelve, but somehow I managed to get out before my first year. ” Suri, who by then had completed the bulk of her journey, looked at Persephone as if she’d said the craziest thing.
His name was Shegon. An incredibly talented harp player, a cheat at cards, and a brideeth eyn mer—which is to say…” The servant paused. “No, there is no other way to say it. ” Raithe looked over suspiciously. Is he lying? Trying to put me off guard? “You’re wrong,” Raithe said with full conviction. “Have you ever seen a dead Fhrey? I haven’t. My father hasn’t. No one I’ve ever known has. ” Raithe shook his head. “No, they don’t. My father mentioned a time when he was a boy, and he met a Fhrey named Neason.