Age of Myth (17 page)

“Tell the truth. Did you kill Shegon?” the tall one asked.

“Yes,” Raithe said. “And I'll do the same to any Fhrey who tries to enter this dahl.”

“Well, well. Aren't you the bold one.” The tall Fhrey took a step closer, and Raithe realized they were the same height. Raithe glared back, refusing to blink.

“So you're a great warrior, then? Do you think you could kill me?”

He didn't reply. The Fhrey was sizing Raithe up, and he wanted to keep him ignorant.

“There are stories about you all along the road. I'm a little disappointed. I expected you'd be taller—the tales certainly are.”

The others laughed.

“Do you know who
I
am?” The tall, long-haired Fhrey held his hands out, palms up, and slowly pivoted to give Raithe a full view. Sun glared off his brilliant armor, and the wind blew his golden hair. “I'm Nyphron, son of Zephyron, leader of the Instarya tribe, and captain of the Galantians, these nice fellows with me. They are the elite of the Instarya, and as there are no greater warriors than the Fhrey, these Galantians are the best of the best.”

“Being their leader, I suppose that makes you the best of the best of the best?” Raithe spoke with a cavalier tone. He wanted to show he wasn't impressed, which was difficult since he was certain the Fhrey told the truth.

Nyphron shook his head. “No, I'm actually not.” He clapped the short-haired Fhrey's shoulder. “Sebek is.”

This brought a round of moans from the rest of the troop.

“Well, okay, each of us has specific fields of expertise.
But…
” He paused, holding up a finger and glancing at the others. “I'd still say Sebek is the best overall warrior. Anyone dispute that?”

Sebek grinned.

No one said a word.

Nyphron returned his focus to Raithe. “I suppose you think you're something special now that you've killed one of us, yes? Before you get too full of yourself, look at the sword you carry. See all the fancy decorations on the hilt? The encrusted gems? Lovely, isn't it? Do you think that's a warrior's weapon? Shegon was a member of the Asendwayr tribe, a hunter. They provide food for our kind. Although they're skilled trackers and excellent in forests and fields, they don't know much about
real
combat. That sword is merely decorative. A pretty toy. He received it as a gift from an admirer. Some idiot in Estramnadon who doesn't know the first thing about battle made it.”

Nyphron drew his sword. He did it slowly, making a point not to threaten. Nevertheless, Raithe took a step back and gripped the hilt of his weapon more tightly.

“This”—he presented his weapon—“is
Pontifex,
one of the names we have for the wind. It's a custom-crafted, curved cleve I designed myself—simple, short, and fast. Not as austere as Sebek's more traditional twins, but as you can see it's definitely not a toy. So tell me, Rhune, do you think you can kill me?”

“I'm not a Rhune. I'm a man.”

Nyphron smiled. The cheery, simple look disturbed Raithe more than anything that had happened so far. He didn't know what it meant.

“Let's find out exactly
what
you are. Go ahead, draw that pretty sword.”

Nyphron waited until Raithe had his blade clear. “And your shield, slip it on. We need to do this right.”

Raithe wasn't certain if it was a trick. The Fhrey saw his apprehension and took a step back, providing him room to safely arm himself.

“That's an odd shield,” Sebek said, and glanced at Nyphron. “Did Shegon have a weird little decorative Dherg shield?”

Nyphron shrugged. “Who knows?”

The Galantian leader also had a shield, and in one blindingly fast motion it moved from his back to his forearm. The action was beyond impressive—like magic. Raithe couldn't help being intimidated, even as he realized that had been the point.

The rest of the Fhrey stepped back, and when they were both ready, Nyphron bowed while touching the sword's pommel to his forehead. Raithe returned only a nod.

He expected the same lethal speed as before and wasn't disappointed. Nyphron was faster than Shegon, but not exceedingly so. If Raithe hadn't already faced a Fhrey—if he hadn't seen the lightning-quick strikes before—he would have been dead in an instant. But Raithe was ready this time. He gave himself over to instinct and caught the stroke with his new shield. He had no idea what to expect and was shocked when the power of Nyphron's blow rang the metal and jarred the buckler from his grip. With no supporting strap, it fell to the grass.

“No protection,” Sebek muttered. “Just decorative.”

A following stroke was inevitable. Raithe acted in anticipation rather than in reaction. Nyphron struck, aiming to decapitate him. If Raithe had been an instant slower, he would have lost his head. His blade clashed with Nyphron's, and Raithe feared a repeat of his failure with his father's copper, but as the metals kissed, Shegon's weapon—toy or not—held.

Nyphron wasn't one to pause. Momentum was in his favor and he pressed hard, striking again—first low then high. Raithe caught the strokes an instant before they would have cleaved off his leg and arm. He had no time to counterattack as the Fhrey forced his advantage.

He's fast, so incredibly fast.

Raithe's brothers weren't this quick. They were brutes, big and heavy. Raithe was the swiftest among them, and he used that to his advantage. If they caught him, Raithe was beat, so he perfected his ability to dodge. Speed had made all the difference in the past. Speed and balance, but Nyphron was better at both.

Stretched to his limit, Raithe fell back, holding on to life by his fingertips as he managed to barely place his sword in the path of Nyphron's hammering. The blades had no time to stop singing before the next toll sounded.

Defeat was inevitable. Raithe only needed to make one mistake, and it wasn't long before he did.

The Fhrey's sword came across in a blinding sweep, and Raithe batted it aside, but with too much force. He lost precious time recovering his balance and wouldn't be able to catch the next stroke.

From somewhere behind Raithe came a gasp of fear. He wasn't the only one to see what was coming. In anticipation of the killing blow, he gritted his teeth.

Miraculously, Nyphron slowed. The Fhrey looked up, distracted by something near the dahl's gate. Something behind Raithe. The lack of concentration was brief, but enough. Knowing he couldn't counter Nyphron's attack, Raithe didn't bother. Instead, he made a dangerous gamble. For the first time, Raithe went on the offensive. He swung down instead of across. They would trade blows, blood for blood.

The move might have worked, but the Fhrey raised his shield—another first.

Before his stroke was through, Raithe was already shifting for his next. He had the upper hand now and intended to keep it. Spinning, Raithe cut upward. Nyphron was forced to dodge. Again and again Raithe pressed his attack, knowing he couldn't allow the Fhrey to catch his composure or the tide would turn again. Raithe hammered his opponent, desperate to weaken the strength in Nyphron's arm.

Sweat formed on the Fhrey's brow, and his gleaming eyes weren't so bright. Remembering his brothers' tactics, Raithe moved in close to mitigate the Fhrey's ability to dart clear of attacks. When he saw his chance, Raithe stomped down hard on his opponent's foot. Surprise flashed on Nyphron's face and Raithe took the opportunity to punch him hard in the jaw with the hilt of Shegon's sword.

The Galantian staggered backward, stunned and off balance. Blood dripped from his chin, and his shield lowered.

Seeing his one clear chance to win, Raithe stabbed out—

Clang!

Raithe's attack was parried away. A second stroke hit the hilt of Shegon's sword, breaking Raithe's grip and throwing the weapon to the ground.

Sebek stood before him, holding a cleve in each hand—violence in his eyes. Bold, confident, powerful. Despite Malcolm's assurances, Raithe believed that what stood before him was indeed a god. He waited, but Sebek didn't advance. He merely stood with one foot on Shegon's sword.

Nyphron was bent over, panting for breath and wiping blood and sweat from his eyes. Raithe, also struggling for air, took a step back, and drew his father's hunting knife. It wasn't much, but it was slightly better than Herkimer's broken blade.

Of course, how fitting that I'll die holding the same knife. The gods are nothing if not poetic.

Nyphron waved a dismissive hand at them both. “We're done.”

What does “we're done” mean? Is this where they kill me?

Raithe didn't mind the break; he needed a rest. The chance to clear his eyes and take in much-needed air was welcome. Waiting for what would come next, Raithe glanced behind him to see what had distracted Nyphron. Persephone and Malcolm stood together, watching wide-eyed from the open gate. Persephone had hands over her mouth. Malcolm appeared just as apprehensive but managed to offer Raithe an approving smile.

“How did you learn to fight like that?” Nyphron asked.

“My father taught me.”

“
Your
father?” He glanced over at Sebek. “Did you see?”

Sebek nodded. “Hard not to.”

“My father fought in the High Spear campaigns,” Raithe explained. “He was taught by your people.”

“He wasn't taught by my
people,
” Nyphron said. “He was taught by my
father.
Those are
his
techniques.”

Raithe didn't know what to say. He decided
nothing
was the best course and focused on breathing. Whatever came next, he would need air.

“Why did you do it?” Nyphron asked, and then spit a bit of blood. “Why did you kill Shegon? Was it for sport? To see if you could? To test your mettle?”

Raithe shook his head. “I thought you heard the stories. He killed my father.”

“That was true?” Nyphron looked surprised.

“Killed him right in front of me.”

Nyphron stared hard at Raithe, and for another long moment no one moved or spoke. Then the Fhrey nodded as if understanding something. “Thing is, Shegon was a
brideeth eyn mer.
”

“I've heard that about him,” Raithe said.

“If it wasn't forbidden, I'd have killed him centuries ago.” Nyphron ran an absent hand through his long hair and looked at the sword beneath Sebek's boot. “Give it back to him. He's earned it.”

“We going again, then?” Raithe asked.

“No.” Nyphron held up his free hand as he sheathed his sword. “I found out what I wanted to know.”

“Which was?”

“That it's possible.”

“What is?”

“For a Rhune to kill a Fhrey.”

“Glad to have helped.”

“Can we come in now?” Nyphron asked.

“Sorry.” Raithe shook his head.

“Not very courteous of you.”

“Neither is slaughtering thousands of people and burning down Dureya and Nadak.”

Nyphron nodded. “You make a good point. But would it make a difference if I told you
we
”—he gestured toward his group—“had nothing to do with that? In fact, we're outlaws…rebels…because we refused to take part in that reprehensible affair. We went against the edicts of our ruler and declined to butcher defenseless Rhunes. We're in flight, like you, and from the same pursuers. If you have been offered shelter, couldn't we receive the same?”

Raithe was stunned. He had imagined the conversation going differently. “It's ah…it's not my decision to make.” He turned to look at Persephone again. She blinked then nodded.

“It would appear the lady approves,” Raithe said. “Welcome to Dahl Rhen.”

“Wonderful.” Nyphron smiled. “Where is Maccus?”

“Maccus?”

“He's the leader here, right?”

This time Persephone spoke from the shelter of the open gate. “Chieftain Maccus…was…that is…he is…dead. He's been dead for, ah, seventy years, I think. He was my husband's great-great-grandfather.”

“Oh,” Nyphron said. “Well, do you still make that marvelous wine? The pale red one, with a hint of nuts? I've boasted about it all the way here.”

“There
was
a vineyard once, up on the slope of the Horn Ridge,” Persephone said. “But it was lost to drought decades ago.”

Nyphron scowled. “Doesn't anything in this place last?”

“Hardship,” Persephone replied. “We always have an abundance of that.”

The god looked directly at her. Their eyes met and he smiled. With a nod, he replied, “Well…at least you have that.”

There were seven clans of the Rhulyn-Rhunes and three for the Gula-Rhunes. Each clan had a chieftain. When it was necessary to unite, a single leader was named and we called him the keenig, which eventually became the word
king
.
The Fhrey had tribes instead of clans and no chieftains. Instead, they had a single ruler who was called the fane.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

The three stones clattered to the marble floor. One rolled toward Arion, who picked it up and handed the smooth egg-sized rock back to Mawyndulë. The fane's son acted as if the little stone weighed a ton—every movement dramatizing extreme effort. Even his breathing appeared labored, each exhalation a long sigh. He stood before her, frowning, head bowed and shoulders slumped so that the sleeves of his asica slipped down and covered his hands.

“I can't do it,” he told her.

“Try again,” Arion insisted.

“I don't want to.”

The two were in the palace's entrance hall, which Arion had chosen for its high ceiling. She'd chased away the servants to give them privacy, and it was there, before the grand staircase and among the lavish frescoes, tapestries, polished stone, and vases filled with flowering plants, that the two faced off in a battle of wills.

“I don't care. Do it anyway.” Arion folded her arms in a gesture that should have ended the debate, but this was no typical student of the Art. Mawyndulë was the prince, the twenty-five-year-old son of Fane Lothian, and every one of those years had been spent isolated in the Talwara Palace. Surrounded by servants and those eager to curry favor, the prince had developed an inflated sense of himself.

He glared back defiantly, his anger unmistakable.

Most people wouldn't risk antagonizing the son of the only Fhrey endowed by the god Ferrol with the power to kill or order the death of another of their kind. But being too lenient wouldn't help Mawyndulë or the future of their people. After spending time with him, Arion was sure Fane Fenelyus wanted her grandson schooled in more than just the Art. And she was going to do exactly that.

You may be the prince,
she thought,
but I've lived more than two thousand years. Which well do you think goes deeper?

If she was going to teach him anything, she had to establish respect. As far as Arion knew, the only person Mawyndulë held any respect for, other than his father, was First Minister Gryndal. Not a surprise, Gryndal was a legend and held in awe by nearly every Miralyith.

Arion didn't waiver. She stood with folded arms, staring directly back. After several minutes, the prince's ire turned to bafflement. Servants who'd been with him since birth weren't likely to lock eyes with him for long. This was only their third meeting, his second lesson, and the prince was testing her boundaries. Centuries of meditation and training gave her a considerable edge. Arion didn't so much as blink. The prince struggled to mimic her resolve. The lad was stubborn if nothing else. That was good. It showed a strength of character. She could work with that.

In the stillness of their silent war, Arion could hear the rustle of leaves and the songs of birds entering an open window accompanied by a pleasant spring breeze. Deeper in the palace, she could make out the muffled music of the Estramnadon Choir practicing for their performance before the fane. She settled in for a long battle and focused on her breathing, each inhalation and exhalation evenly paced. Arion was just becoming comfortable when Mawyndulë's glare wavered.

The prince huffed, and with a scowl picked the stones up again—two in one hand, one in the other. He threw the first, but with too much force. Arion was grateful she had insisted on practicing under the high ceiling of the entrance hall. Mawyndulë quickly threw the second stone, too quickly. The height and timing were both off.

Is he really so inept or feigning incompetence out of defiance?

The stones came down like projectiles, and Mawyndulë chose to dodge rather than catch. She didn't criticize his reluctance. From such a height the rocks would hurt.

The stones hit the floor again with loud cracks.

“See!” Mawyndulë shouted, putting hands on hips. He pursed his lips so tightly that they went white.

“Yes, yes, I see. You've proved me wrong. That's wonderful. Now, if you'd actually juggle the stones, I'd appreciate that even more.”

“It's stupid, and I don't see what this has to do with the Art.” He hummed, and with a tension-filled flick of his fingers the stones rose and chased one another in a circle like a wheel spinning in the air. “Why should I use my hands when I can already do this with the Art? Your lessons make no sense.”

“Yes, you're very clever, but that isn't today's lesson,” she said.

Arion picked up a wineglass from a nearby table. She'd been enjoying the light, delicate ambrosia while waiting for the prince. The glass was empty except for a dry red ring at the bottom.

“Catch,” she said, and tossed it at Mawyndulë.

“What?”
Panic flashed across his face. The prince reached out with his control hand, and the crystal goblet bounced off his fingers. He tried to make a grab with the other, almost had it, but the glass slipped away, as did the stones. Everything struck marble. The stones clattered; the glass shattered.

“Hmm,” Arion mused, tapping her upper lip. “Something seems to have gone wrong there, didn't it?”

“Yeah, you threw a glass at me!”

“Imagine if it had been a knife, a javelin,
or a ball of fire.
And instead of stones, what if those rocks were people's lives?” She looked down at the mess at his feet. “Perhaps if you had learned how to concentrate on more than one thing at a time, they wouldn't all be dead right now.”

“Arion,” the boy said, looking down. “They aren't people; they're stones.”

“Lucky for you, or should I say lucky for them? Now pick up those poor dead bodies and try again.”

“And the glass? That was—”

Arion coughed, and the eight large pieces, seventeen shards, and two thousand three hundred and seventy-four grains of powdered dust leapt off the floor and reassembled themselves into a glass, sitting on the table, perfectly restored. Even the residue stain remained.

“Whoa.” Mawyndulë stared at the goblet. “How did you do that?”

“By paying attention when others were teaching me and not questioning their methods.”

The prince contemplated this. His eyes shifted between the glass and the stones while he rubbed the stubble on his head. Like all Miralyith, Mawyndulë shaved his head, but it had been a few days, and a dark shadow was forming. Arion couldn't understand how he could allow that. She couldn't go two days without shaving. It didn't feel clean.

As Mawyndulë bent to pick up the stones, the doors of the Grand Entrance burst open and boomed as they banged against the walls. Arion didn't need to look to know who it was. Gryndal's aversion to touching doors bordered on obsession. He avoided touching most things, preferring to cultivate lavish fingernails long enough to curl. Instead, he used the Art to punch doors open and always overdid it. Arion knew the excessive force wasn't due to a lack of skill or control, just one of Gryndal's many idiosyncrasies. His issue with doors was among the least peculiar.

Gryndal didn't offer so much as a glance in their direction as he marched across the hall. The jingling of tiny chains draped between piercings in his ears, cheeks, and nose accompanied each step. A long golden cape flowed in his wake. Arion rolled her eyes. Gryndal was using the Art to summon a breeze to make his mantle billow. He maintained a second weave to enhance its color, which was brighter than any dye could achieve. Mawyndulë had a different reaction. He watched the First Minister with wide-eyed eagerness.

As Gryndal passed them without breaking his stride, he barked out, “You. Follow.”

“Do you think he means you or me?” Mawyndulë asked Arion, unable to contain his excitement.

“I suppose we should find out. Go on. You won't be able to concentrate now, anyway.”

The boy sprinted after the First Minister, toward the throne room. Arion bent down, picked up the rocks, and placed them in her satchel. Although ordinary, the stones were the same ones she'd learned with. Arion kept few keepsakes, but these were three of her most prized. She had hoped they would somehow make things easier with the prince by instilling the same sense of wonder in him as mastering them had in her. So far things weren't going as she'd hoped.

When she looked up, Mawyndulë was already out of sight. Arion sighed. Gryndal was a tough act to compete against. As the winner of the Grantheum Art Tournament each year as far back as anyone could recall, he was the idol of every Miralyith. Arion was in the minority; she couldn't say she cared for him. Although Fenelyus hadn't mentioned anything, Arion suspected that the old fane had shared Arion's opinion.

I wonder what she would have made of Trilos
.

Who, or what, he was remained a puzzle. She hadn't seen him since that one meeting, and even though she inquired about him everywhere she went, no one had heard of anyone by that name. Her failed efforts to unmask the stranger deepened the mystery to the point that she almost doubted the encounter altogether.

Arion caught up to the pair outside the throne room. Even Gryndal didn't dare blast open
that
door, but she was surprised he had waited for her.

“Your flawless magnificence, I have news,” Gryndal said to the closed doors, and a moment later they opened. Gryndal entered, his cape whipping like the tail of a cat nervous about getting it caught. Arion and Mawyndulë followed.

The throne room was precisely that—a room for the throne. The chamber needed to be massive because the Forest Throne consisted of six extremely old and intertwined trees of different varieties—each representing one of the six original tribes of the Fhrey. A mass of roots formed the room's floor, and the ceiling was an impenetrable canopy of branches and leaves. The fane's “chair” predated everything except the Door. The Forest Throne was the second oldest thing in Erivan and perhaps the world. The room, the whole palace, had come later.

“Your Majesty, a bird has arrived with confirmation from Alon Rhist on the matter of Nyphron and his Galantians,” Gryndal said. He and Mawyndulë stood at the foot of the Forest Throne, where Fane Lothian sat listening. “They have indeed refused to obey your edict and assaulted Petragar before escaping to the wilderness of Rhulyn.”

“How is Petragar? Did they kill him?” the fane asked.

The Fhrey's supreme ruler—and divinely chosen voice of the god Ferrol—sat with one leg over the tendril arm of the magnificent throne, absently strumming a seven-string vellor. The Great Chamber wasn't designed for music, and the soft notes were lost to the expanse, making weak, wistful sounds. Fane Lothian wore a green robe and the familiar gold-cast circlet of leaves, the same one that had graced Fenelyus's head for as long as Arion had lived. Seeing it on his bald head, she conceded Fenelyus's argument that hair had its beauty.

“No,” Gryndal reported. “Petragar is alive but seriously injured.”

“So where are they now?”

“Unknown. I don't expect they'll return to Alon Rhist. Not on their own, that is. They'll have to be brought to justice.”

Lothian sighed. “I didn't want it to be this way.”

“Excuse me, my fane, but I'm a bit lost,” Arion said. “Exactly what are we talking about?”

“Nyphron, son of Zephyron, was the commander at the Alon Rhist frontier outpost.”

“Son of Zephyron? The Instarya who challenged you for the throne?”

Lothian nodded. “I doubted his son would give me his unwavering loyalty, so I replaced him with Petragar. Nyphron took the change worse than I expected.”

“Indeed, after beating the new commander bloody, he deserted,” Gryndal added.

“That's horrible,” Arion said. “I had no idea conditions out there had become so atrocious.”

“Few do,” Gryndal told her. “And we need to keep it that way. All these centuries stationed on the borderlands, all these years living among savages, has bred dissent among the Instarya. They have grown wild and insubordinate, and the Galantians are the worst example of this. They're more Rhune than Fhrey now.”

Arion frowned as she noticed how Mawyndulë stood with hands grasped behind his back in the same stance as Gryndal.

“Uncivilized barbarians.” Gryndal's usual voice could make
Good morning
sound like a death sentence, but he spoke now with even greater brutality.

Arion thought Gryndal saw himself as the epitome of culture. Dark eye makeup, half a dozen facial piercings, and an obsession with wearing only gold were all attempts to demonstrate his refinement. As fastidious as he was about his appearance, the Art was his true addiction. Fenelyus had warned about the temptation to overindulge.
Power has a way of seducing by saying what you want to hear. Remember, it's easier to believe an outlandish lie confirming what you suspect than the most obvious truth that denies it,
the old fane had said.

“Such insubordination is dangerous to leave unchecked, my fane. I advocate execution,” Gryndal said.

Lothian considered this, then shook his head. “I don't agree. They only beat Petragar. They didn't kill him. If they had crossed that line—”

“They haven't crossed it…yet. Are you willing to take such a risk?”

“I may be the fane, but I still need justification. Ferrol's Law grants me the power, but I must be judicious in its use.”

Gryndal looked irritated, more so than usual. Seeing any expression beneath all the rings and chains was difficult. Arion suspected that he walked carefully through the thickets of the Garden so he didn't catch the hoops or chains on any branches.