Age of Myth (10 page)

Persephone's gaze followed the ridgeline to the south, where it rose sharply. “They say the bear that killed my husband and son lives on that mountain.”

Suri nodded, and her bright smile faded. Persephone was sad to see it go. Something about the girl's cheerful enthusiasm, as odd as it was, made Persephone feel better—hopeful—as if Suri were spring itself, bubbling and budding with possibility. Now the girl appeared serious for the first time. The tattoos around her eyes and mouth added a grave authority, and for a moment Persephone felt a little frightened. “Grin the Brown makes her home in a cave on a cliff near the top of the tree line. Magda isn't nearly so high, but Grin has a tendency to wander, and she has no respect for the old oak. Grin has no respect for anything.”

Persephone looked out at the forest. “I need to speak with her…to this tree. Can you take me?”

Suri no longer looked at Persephone; her eyes had shifted to a fluttering butterfly. Persephone waited while Suri watched it land on a sprig of clover. A bright smile filled her face once more.

“Did you hear me?” Persephone asked.

“Did I hear what, ma'am?” the girl replied.

“Can you take me to this old oak? So I can ask her some questions?”

“Do you see the butterfly?” Suri grinned with enthusiasm.

“Yes, I see it, but—”

“So stunning and delicate; it's marvelous. No one can see a butterfly and not stop to admire it. I'd love to be one. To go to sleep and wake up a season later with such beautiful wings and the ability to flutter about. That's the most wonderful sort of magic, don't you think? To change, to grow, to fly. But…” She paused. “I wonder what the cost would be.” The smile diminished once more. “There's always a cost when it comes to magic. I suspect there is a great price to go from lowly caterpillar to glorious butterfly.”

Definitely not a normal person.

Still, Persephone had to admit she liked Suri. “Can you take me to—?”

“Of course I can.” Suri smirked. “Why do you think I've risked my sanity staying in this terrible walled place? Oh, is this another game?” She turned to her wolf, which was sitting but still eyeing the woodpile. “Can you get that rat, Minna? Would you like me to move the wood so you can catch it?” Suri looked back at Persephone and smiled. “How's that?”

The Crescent Forest was our neighbor. A place so vast no one knew all its secrets. From its trees, Dahl Rhen was built. From its animals, Dahl Rhen was fed. And from its darkness, a hero was made.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Raithe and Malcolm were nestled in the eaves of a forest just outside Dahl Rhen, a fortified settlement built on a hill and surrounded by a circular wall of logs. The hill itself was dreamlike, so high, so green. Raithe had never seen such lush land. In Dureya, everything was bleached, the only color painted in sunsets. His father had often spoken about Alysin—a paradise where the spirits of brave warriors went after death, a place of green fields, foaming beer, and beautiful women. Seeing Dahl Rhen, Raithe wondered if his father had simply heard rumors of
this
place.

“So that hill is a dahl?” Malcolm asked, sitting with knees up, twiddling a twig between two fingers.

Raithe once more marveled at Malcolm's lack of rudimentary knowledge about how people lived. He'd given up asking how Malcolm had become a slave. Any inquiry resulted in vague responses and a change of subject. Raithe concluded Malcolm had either been taken by the Fhrey as a baby or was born in captivity.

“Yes, that's a dahl.”

“A little too symmetrical. Did they make it?” Malcolm asked.

Raithe nodded. “Sort of. Comes from centuries of building over previous villages.” He was in the brush on his knees and had already trimmed a cross branch, constructed the gateway for the snare, and was working at tying the loop. Usually he had trouble with that last part; his fingers were too big. “After a fire or a razing, people rebuild on top of the rubble. Easier than going someplace new, and the well is already there. Do it enough times and a mound builds up.”

“So Rhen is a clan? How many are there altogether?” Malcolm asked.

“Seven. Not including the Gula-Rhunes.”

“Why not include them? They're human, too, right?”

“Rhulyn-Rhunes and Gula-Rhunes don't get along.” Raithe finally got the little knot pulled. “We've been warring for centuries.”

“Are they who your father fought against with the Fhrey?”

“Yep. Every year there would be a battle or two and every decade a full-scale war. My father survived more than thirty years of fighting.”

“So how is it he never saw a dead Fhrey?”

“The Fhrey don't bloody their hands. They plan the battles, pick and train the men, then send others off to fight. There were plenty of deaths but only among the Rhunes.”

Malcolm nodded as if he understood, but Raithe knew he didn't. Few did. Even he had a hard time understanding. His father didn't seem to question any of it. Herkimer accepted war as readily as he acknowledged water being wet. But then Dureya was a different place, certainly nothing like this.

“Usually, the higher the hill, the older the dahl,” Raithe said, looking across the field of sunlight. “That's why it's shaped that way. In a real sense, it's a burial mound. By the look of it, Dahl Rhen must be quite old.”

The ex-slave reclined but continued to study the dahl. “It doesn't look that big.”

Raithe had been thinking just the opposite. The dahl rose majestically in the distance, sun-drenched and luxurious with its abundance of wood. “It's much bigger than Dahl Dureya and mammoth when compared with Clempton, the small village where I grew up.”

“I lived in Alon Rhist, remember,” Malcolm said. He hooked a thumb at the village. “That's not suitable for a cattle pen when compared with Fhrey standards. How many people do you think live there?”

Raithe shrugged and tied a second knot into the loop as a precaution. He didn't want his dinner getting away. Nothing was worse than finding an empty sprung trap. “Here? I don't know, a thousand maybe. Where I grew up we had close to forty families, about two hundred people, but that was a little village, not a dahl.”

“What's the difference?”

“Dahls are the oldest and most populated village of a given clan. It's where the chieftain has his lodge. You know what a lodge is?”

“What beavers live in?”

Raithe stared at him incredulously.

“Yes, I know what a lodge is,” Malcolm said with a smirk.

“Well, you don't seem to know much else.”

Malcolm shrugged. “I never claimed to be smart.” He focused back on the hill. “So there's a thousand people in there?”

“Maybe. This place is twice the size of Dahl Dureya.”

“How many Rhunes, I'm sorry,
humans,
are there?”

“Including the Gula?”

Malcolm nodded.

Raithe shrugged. “I don't think anyone knows.”

Raithe stared up at the great green mound. Morning fires burned inside the wall. He couldn't see the homes but counted scores of smoke columns rising straight on a windless day. The only structure visible from where they sat was the peaked roof of the lodge. Made of raw logs, it looked huge.

“I don't see why we can't go in,” Malcolm said.

“We don't need to. After I finish this snare, we'll go back over to the cascade where we set the others. Hopefully, our first rabbit will be waiting for us. So we'll have plenty of fresh water and roast rabbit for supper. It'll go along nicely with the rest of the bread.”

“Bread's gone,” Malcolm mentioned.

“Gone? All of it?”

“Last night.”

“But we only ate a little bit.”

“And the night before we had a little. It's not magic bread, you know.”

Raithe frowned. He'd been looking forward to rabbit and grease-soaked bread. Thinking about food when he didn't have any was miserable.

Malcolm pointed to a flock of sheep barely visible on the far side of the dahl. Two men and a pair of dogs urged them up a grassy slope. “They probably have lamb stew in Dahl Rhen, fresh bread, maybe even milk, eggs, and butter. Bet they're having breakfast right now. I love breakfast. Are you familiar with the concept?”

“Don't start that again. If you wanted steady meals, you shouldn't have hit Shegon with that rock.” He looked over at Malcolm. “Did he really do those things? Did Shegon feed women to dogs and cut off the hands of a child?”

“No.” Malcolm shook his head. “Shegon was a self-indulgent, arrogant fool—most of them are—but he wasn't a monster. He was a hunter. The Instarya are another matter, and they're the ones after us. They're warriors who command the outposts, the tribe charged with keeping order out here on the frontier.”

“I thought Alon Rhist was the home of…” Raithe stopped before revealing his own ignorance.

Malcolm smiled, not a gloating grin or pretentious smirk but a look of understanding. Raithe reconsidered his earlier impression about Malcolm resembling a weasel. The man did have a pointed nose and narrow eyes, but other than that he wasn't weasel-like at all.

“No, Alon Rhist, though far more impressive than that dahl over there, is small by Fhrey standards. The Fhrey's homeland is Erivan,” Malcolm said. “A vast and beautiful country of ancient forests more than a week's hike to the northeast. It's on the far side of a great river called the Nidwalden. Few Fhrey ever leave Erivan. Significant portions of their population have never left the capital city of Estramnadon. They see Erivan as the center of the universe, the source of all things good, so there's no point in going anywhere else. Alon Rhist is the largest of five fortresses built during the Dherg War. The Fhrey out here patrol these lands and ensure there's a safe buffer between people like us and them. It's actually a source of some friction in their society. The Instarya don't like being the only ones forced to live in what most consider a wasteland.”

A breeze picked up. All around them leaves rustled, whispering to one another—a gentle sound. Across the field, the pillars of cook fires began to lose shape, blurring as they blew to the south.

“I don't know why the Instarya complain. It's really quite beautiful,” Malcolm said.

Raithe stood, taking his snare with him. He cut down a small tree, pruned off the branches, and laid it across the opening of a tiny path. The trail through the brush was the perfect size for a rabbit, and little pebble droppings were everywhere. He hung the loop down from it, keeping the noose off the ground. Then he stuck pruned branches in the dirt before the hoop, ensuring that the rabbit would need to jump over them and would land in the snare.

“Bless me with three rabbits, Wogan, and I'll make a burnt offering of the last one to you.”

“Bargaining with the gods again?” Malcolm asked. “Wouldn't it be more enticing to offer the
first
rabbit in order to prove your faith?”

“Wogan isn't a god; he's a spirit, a guardian of forests.”

“There's a difference?”

“I know you were a slave for a long time, but did they keep you trapped in a hole, too?
Is there a difference?
Is there a difference between a cow and a goat, between the sun and the moon? Tetlin's Witch! I swear—”

“Don't.” Malcolm's tone was abrupt and serious.

Raithe paused. “Since when are you against swearing?”

“I'm not. Just choose another name to swear by.”

“Why? Using a god or a spirit would be far worse.”

“Call me superstitious.”

“You? Malcolm of the Rhist, who scoffs at the idea of manes and leshies? You're afraid of the Tetlin Witch?”

Malcolm didn't reply. He pulled his legs up tight to his chest and stared out at the hill and the walled village of the dahl. “You know, rather than praying for rabbits we could just check out the dahl. It worked out all right at the roadhouse.”

“You call that all right? Did you forget Donny?”

“What if I promise to keep my mouth shut?” Malcolm asked.

“Is that possible?”

Malcolm frowned. “I meant no storytelling. Aren't dahls supposed to be generous to strangers? Isn't that a thing? They'll at least give us a little to eat, right?”

“Maybe…if they follow tradition. Hard times among the clans these days. And it could be dangerous for us. What if someone from the roadhouse is there? A group of traders might welcome the God Killer, but dahls are different. Dahls have chieftains tasked with keeping everyone safe, men who agreed to live by the Fhrey's rules and force others to do the same.”

“But I don't see that we have a choice. We can't keep running like this, especially without food.”

“Our only hope is to keep moving south and stay ahead of the Fhrey. We do that and we'll stay alive.”

“No man can escape death,” Malcolm said. “But it's
how
we run that defines us. And aren't you getting a bit—” Malcolm stopped, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the sunny field between them and the dahl.

“What?” Raithe whispered, trying to see what Malcolm was looking at.

“I think they're women.” Malcolm pointed out a pair of figures coming from the dahl and heading their way.

They
were
women. The taller one wore a long black dress that made tramping through the tall grass a struggle. She had wavy black hair that whipped behind her, exposing a lovely face. Beside her walked a girl with painted markings, short hair, and a battered cape dyed the color of red clay. Bounding by their side was a white wolf.

It's just a forest, only trees,
Persephone assured herself as they approached the meadow's edge.

But people have died inside it.

Her son had been killed while hunting deer with his two best friends—both able men. And an entire war party had accompanied Reglan.

I should have brought someone along. I could have asked Konniger to send Sackett as an escort, but what would I have said? “I'm afraid of the forest, so I want to borrow the Shield of the chieftain. Oh, and by the way, the reason I'm going into the woods that terrify me is because I feel it's important to talk to a tree. For the good of the dahl, of course.” Yeah, that would go over well.

The murky forest grew larger as they approached. Persephone had hoped the trees would appear smaller than she remembered. Things usually shrank when people grew older. The steps of the lodge used to seem mammoth and the stone foundation it sat on had been a veritable cliff when she was a child. But the trees hadn't gotten smaller. If anything they looked bigger. Since her son's death, Persephone hadn't left the dahl, and after Reglan died, she rarely left Sarah and Delwin's roundhouse. But the forest was another matter, and she hadn't entered it, not since…

It's just a forest. Only trees.

When Persephone was seven, she and the other children would goad one another to venture deeper into the wood and touch certain trees. Everyone managed to reach the white birch, but only she and her best friend, Aria, had managed to touch the elm beyond the shade line. Then one of the children, perhaps Sarah, dared them both to touch the black tree. No one knew what sort of tree it was. They could barely see it from where they stood in the safe warmth of the afternoon sun. Sarah, if it had been Sarah, hadn't been serious. Everyone knew it. That tree was too deep, farther even than where the grass turned to ferns. It lived where the undergrowth loomed and darkness reigned. The whole idea was silly—crazy, really—and Persephone had laughed. Choosing that tree was a sort of revenge because they'd all been humiliated by Persephone's and Aria's courage.

It couldn't have been Sarah,
Persephone concluded.
We're so close now, and I hated the little girl who made that dare.

She hated her because Persephone had laughed but Aria hadn't.

It didn't matter that Aria was two years older; they were best friends and had always agreed on everything, but this time was different. Aria had taken Persephone's hand and said, “We'll do it together.” Her friend had been serious. Persephone, shocked at the words and frightened by the prospect, ripped her hand away. She could still see the disappointment in Aria's eyes, inside of which Persephone's reflection became smaller.