Age of Myth (18 page)

Maybe that's the point. His way of displaying he's above such mundane concerns.

Given the length of his fingernails, he certainly couldn't juggle her rocks or—she smiled—open doors.

“Ferrol's Law was created for ordinary Fhrey,
not
the Miralyith,” Gryndal said. “The Art has elevated us, and we cannot be bound by the law of a god when we have become gods ourselves.”

Arion saw Mawyndulë nodding, a look of wonder and admiration in his eyes. He would be the next fane, and it was her responsibility to make sure he was a good ruler.

She stepped forward. “How wonderful! I wasn't aware we had achieved divinity. When
exactly
did that happen?”

Her tone caught them all by surprise.

“And now that we have,” she continued, “please tell me when we'll be having tea with brother Ferrol? My mother would love his recipe for vegetable soup. As for myself, I'd like some advice on how to create my own race of people, for that ability has eluded me.”

Gryndal's chains rattled as he turned to glare, his look so venomous that she prepared to weave a shield. He wasn't beyond abusing his power. There were those who accused Gryndal of excessive violence during tournaments and told stories of him using the Art in romantic encounters. One ex-lover claimed their tryst had resulted in her death and resurrection, which proved that not all the rumors were true. Still, Arion once had seen Gryndal torture another Fhrey, a simple Gwydry farmer. As far as she could tell, he'd done so for the thrill, seeing how far he could go without killing the man. Not unlike holding one's own hand close enough to a flame to almost burn.

“Gryndal didn't mean it that way,” Lothian said. A flip of his hand revealed how oblivious the fane was to the cataclysmic eruption pending only three feet away. “But he makes a valid point. Miralyith are a breed above everyone else. It's foolish and outdated to think otherwise. We might not be gods, but compared with the other tribes we might as well be.”

“Then we should seek to be benevolent gods, yes?” Arion said. “Treat other tribes the way we would like Ferrol to treat us?”

“Exactly,” Lothian said. “We have a responsibility to our own, and the Instarya are monsters of our making. They want to return. Did you know that?”

“You can't allow it,” Gryndal said, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Arion. “They can't hope to assimilate into Fhrey society any more than a Rhune could. They would be a terrible disruption.”

Arion noticed how the First Minister used the term
Fhrey
as if it no longer applied to himself.

“Come now, Gryndal. It's not quite as bleak as all that,” the fane said. “Rhunes are vile, filthy beings living in makeshift dwellings of dirt and rocks. They wallow in their own waste.”

“You've seen them?” Mawyndulë asked excitedly. “You've crossed the Nidwalden River?”

“Yes, once. Many centuries ago.”

“You left Erivan?” Arion asked. “Why would you do that?”

“My mother required it. During the Dherg War, she wanted me along to see it for myself.”

“And you saw a Rhune?” Mawyndulë asked again.

The fane chuckled. “Not a Rhune, many Rhunes. They multiply at a ridiculous rate. A single female can give birth to a brood. Some mothers have as many as twelve or fourteen offspring.”

“Fourteen?” Arion said, shocked.

“Yes…well, not at one time, at least I don't think,” Lothian explained. “But they have been known to bear a single litter of two or three, possibly more.”

“There must be thousands,” Arion said.

“Tens of thousands,” Lothian corrected. “We actually don't know how many.”

“Are they dangerous?” Mawyndulë asked.

“No more than any other animal,” Lothian said. “In fact, a bear or big cat is far worse. The Rhunes are terrified of us. They would scatter if we came near.”

“You are correct, my fane,” Gryndal said. “I shouldn't have grouped the Instarya so easily with the Rhunes, but it doesn't change the fact that centuries among the barbarians have made the Instarya unfit for Fhrey society. Similarly, I don't think the Instarya at Alon Rhist are capable of dealing with Nyphron and his Galantians.”

“So you have no confidence in Petragar?” the fane asked.

Gryndal looked at Lothian as if he'd made a bad joke. “Nyphron is dangerous, my fane, and one of your best warriors. I think you would be wise to send a Miralyith. The Instarya revere Nyphron and his Galantians. The longer they avoid judgment, the greater the risk becomes they could fuel a rebellion, as we saw with Zephyron.”

“But that wasn't a rebellion,” Arion said. “Zephyron followed the law and acquired permission from the Aquila to blow the Horn of Gylindora and challenge for the throne.”

“It was
legal,
” Lothian told her. “But it revealed a mindset, a propensity for dissent against the rule of the Miralyith, that I don't appreciate.”

“I'll go!” Mawyndulë announced, eyes shifting between his father and Gryndal. “I'll bring this Nyphron back on a leash.”

“The frontier is no place for a child,” Lothian declared.

“I'm not a child.”

This united them all in a smile, all except Mawyndulë.

“Actually, this is why I invited you to this meeting, Arion. I think you should be sent to subdue this Artless rebel,” Gryndal said.

Arion was stunned and not at all pleased. “I have responsibilities here. I need to continue Mawyndulë's lessons. He's woefully behind.”

“I can fill in for you,” Gryndal said.

The delight on Mawyndulë's face was unmistakable.

“Besides, as tutor to the next fane, wouldn't you agree that crossing the Nidwalden and seeing the greater world would enhance your ability to educate the prince?”

A good argument. Too good.

She didn't have a response.

“It shouldn't take long,” Gryndal assured, most likely to preempt any objection. “Certainly not for one such as you.”

“I don't see how I'm any better suited than any other Miralyith,” Arion said.

“You're too modest. Were you not handpicked by the great Fenelyus to be Mawyndulë's tutor? And didn't she bestow upon you the honorific of Cenzlyor? Surely you possess talents that impressed her. Why else would she choose you over me? Here is your chance to utilize such skills.”

He's maneuvering me out of the way.

What she didn't know was how long Gryndal had been planning the move. The comment about Fenelyus choosing her over him was troubling. He hadn't shown any interest in teaching the prince, but that didn't mean he hadn't been harboring resentment. Arion had the nagging sense that she ought to resist the invitation, but Lothian was nodding with a smile in her direction. The decision had been made already, and her opinion no longer mattered.

Although I still see the days of my youth as warm and sunny, I realize now that before the gods came, life on the dahl was a monotonous routine of drudgery. Afterward, nothing was the same.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

“What are they doing now?” Moya asked Brin, who peered through the open door of the roundhouse. “Where are they?”

“Haven't moved. Still in front of the lodge steps. They're setting up a little camp, laying out beds for the night. I only count eight, though. One's missing.”

They were all in Roan's home. Although no smaller than Sarah's roundhouse, it felt cramped, stuffed with all manner of things including: piles of antlers, string, branches, stones, boxes, tusks, bones, sticks, reeds, plants, and an abandoned beehive. Since returning, Persephone no longer felt comfortable imposing on Sarah's hospitality. Her husband, Delwin, had appeared less than enthusiastic at the prospect of their one guest turning into five. It certainly didn't help that one was a Dureyan, another a wolf, the third a mystic, the fourth an ex-slave from Alon Rhist, and that Persephone had been accused of murder. In contrast, Roan and Moya were delighted to have them. Roan even rushed out and enlisted Padera's help to fix their meal. Roan hadn't entertained before and was clueless about what to do. She wanted everything to be perfect.

“The missing one is probably up on the wall somewhere,” Malcolm said. “The Instarya are a militant group and always post a sentry.”

“The gods are making beds?” Moya asked.

“Yes,” Brin said, acting as everyone's eyes and ears. “One's setting up a fire. Two others are sharpening weapons.”

“So gods sleep?” Moya asked no one in particular.

“They aren't gods,” Malcolm said. “Actually, they're not much different from us. Some think the Fhrey, Dherg, and Rhunes are all related.”

“Like from the same clan?” Persephone asked.

“Originally, yes.”

Raithe, who was sitting on the floor beside Malcolm, Suri, Minna, and a goat's skull, offered a sour chuckle. “We're nothing alike.”

Malcolm smirked. “You're worldlier than I thought. Met a number of each, have you?”

Raithe replied with a scowl and shifted the goat's skull to clear a few more inches of room.

“I have,” Persephone said. “And although being from the same clan does seem to be a bit of a stretch, I can see the point. There are a lot of similarities.”

She sat in one of the net swings that dangled from the roundhouse's main support beam.
Hanging chairs,
Roan called them. Roan had a habit of making unusual things, and her home, in addition to resembling an overstuffed squirrel's nest, was a showcase of oddities.

The house had been built by Iver the Carver, who had been a part-time peddler. As a result, the place was always filled with a scattered assortment of trinkets. Having been Iver's slave since birth, Roan had grown up as one more bit of scrap. Iver had died the previous winter, and Roan was still trying to figure out life as a free woman. Moya had moved in with her a few weeks after Iver's death. Given Moya's outgoing nature, everyone expected her to be a positive influence on the shy ex-slave, and Roan did seem a little better. But the improvement hadn't extended to the house. Neither Roan nor Moya, it turned out, could be called tidy. The only thing not in abundance was floor space.

“How are we similar?” Raithe asked.

Persephone shrugged. “Well, we all sleep. I wouldn't think a god would have a need for that.”

“So do rabbits.”

“Yeah, but rabbits don't wear clothes, have language, or use tools.”

Moya nodded in agreement. She, too, was in a hanging chair and was using both hands to sip tea from one of Gifford's beautifully crafted ceramic cups. His creations were delicate, perfect works of art that everyone treated with care. “What about Konniger, Brin? Any movement from the lodge?”

“Both doors still closed,” the girl replied with professional brevity.

“I'm going to have to go up there,” Persephone declared.

“Why?” Moya and Raithe said together, each with the same shocked tone.

“I have to tell Konniger what's going on. He's the chieftain and needs to know. Can't imagine what he's thinking with nine Fhrey on his doorstep.”

“Seven,” Brin corrected. “Seven Fhrey, one giant, and…I can't tell what the other one is.”

“What
is
that ninth one?” Raithe asked Malcolm. “Do you know?”

“Goblin,” Padera said. The old farmer's wife was deftly working the glowing coal bed in the fire pit. She was boiling water in a suspended skin sack and showing Roan how to bake bread wrapped in soaked leaves.

“Goblin?” Moya leaned over, dangling precariously in her swing and trying to look out the door Brin was holding open. “How can you see anything with those old, tired peepers of yours?”

Persephone had wondered the same thing. The old woman's squinting eyes were so lost in the folds, creases, and wrinkles of her mushed-melon face that they all but vanished. When Padera spoke, one—and only one—would pop open with a powerful glare while the other squeezed tight as if she were taking aim.

At that moment, the old woman had her sight on Moya. “These old eyes can still thread a needle faster than you can explain why you're hanging there and dangling your breasts in front of two men.”

Moya scowled and sat back in her swing.

“I don't think you should go near the lodge,” Raithe told Persephone. “Before the Fhrey showed up, your chieftain was siding against you. Didn't seem too happy afterward, either.”

“Konniger isn't the problem,” Persephone said. “It's Hegner who's lying.”

“Maybe so,” Moya said. “But if Konniger wants to know what's going on, he can come out and talk to the Fhrey himself.”

“This shouldn't be about Konniger and what he should do or hasn't done,” Persephone replied. “For the good of the dahl, the chieftain needs to know what is happening.”

Roan carried another Gifford cup of hot tea and handed it to Persephone.

“Thank you, Roan.”

Roan didn't reply. She just nodded and made her way back through the debris to where Padera was working over the pit fire.

“I wish the Fhrey had accepted your invitation to stay in the lodge,” Moya said, grinning mischievously over her drink. “Can you imagine? Konniger having to move back into his family's house? He hates them, you know. Tressa has been bragging all over the dahl about how wonderful it is to be out of that
overcrowded pit.
When she was safely in the lodge, Tressa called Autumn and her husband pigs and said she didn't know how she managed to live there.”

“You
really
don't like him, do you?” Persephone asked.

“What part of
Konniger is making me marry The Stump
don't you understand?”

“ 'Bout time you married someone and stopped tempting every man from here to the Blue Sea,” Padera said, slurring the words through toothless gums. “You know, wars have started over women like you.”

Moya scoffed. “You're so full of crap, old woman.”

“Brin?” Padera called.

Brin tore her eyes away from the doorway. “Augusta of Melen, daughter of Chieftain Eisol, started the Battle of the Red River when she refused to marry Theo of Warric. When Theo's father was killed in the fight, Theo vowed vengeance and summoned all of Clan Warric to his banner. This resulted in what became known as the Ten Year War, which claimed the lives of a thousand men and instigated a famine that lasted two years.”

“See,” Padera said. The old woman handed the dead chicken she'd brought with her to Roan. “Pluck it.”

“I'm sorry.” Persephone sat up, making her seat rock. “But I have to side with Moya on this one. Konniger is making her marry a man who tried to kill me.”

“Why
is
that?” Padera asked, once more peering out at her with one eye.

“I wish I knew,” Persephone said. “I wouldn't say we're
friendly,
but I'm not aware of any ill will between us. I hadn't had any trouble with any of them until yesterday.”

Roan, who stood next to Padera, struggled to yank feathers from the dead chicken, which she held by its feet. The old woman sighed. She took the dead bird and submerged it in the skin of water, which by then was boiling. She jiggled it vigorously up and down, waited a few seconds, pulled it out, and then submerged it again. The old woman did this several times, then plucked out a tail feather and smiled. “There,” she said, handing the chicken back. “Try it now.”

Roan pulled the first feather, and it slipped free without effort. “You're a genius.”

Padera grinned, or more accurately her eternal toothless frown stretched wider. “
You're
the genius. I'm just old. When you've raised six children, a husband, and dozens of cows, pigs, sheep, and who knows how many chickens, you learn a few things. Just remember, there's always a better way.”

Roan nodded with fierce conviction, her eyes serious and focused as if Padera had charged her with a crucial task. “There's always a better way. There's always a better way…”

“Well, if you have to go, I'll go with you,” Raithe told Persephone.

The big man stretched out his legs, which extended across a third of the room.

“Thank you, but I'm not sure that's such a good idea. If I bring you into the lodge, it might start a fight.” She took a sip of tea.

“You can't go up there alone.”

“Wasn't planning on it. I'll bring Delwin and maybe someone else I trust, like one of the farmers.”

“What are they going to do if he decides you're guilty and wants to execute you right there in the lodge? You might need someone who can fight.”

“Maybe that's how things are done in Dureya, but there's a process here. Our Keeper of Ways will insist.”

“Your Keeper is a big man, is he?”

“A frail old woman, actually. But our chieftain respects our traditions and will listen to her. No one is executed without a public hearing.”

“Uh-huh, sure. I'll be outside just in case. If you have trouble, yell.”

Flattered by Raithe's concern, Persephone took a quick sip of tea to hide a self-conscious smile.

“So, Brin”—Moya leaned over the edge of her suspended netting—“what happened? To the woman who started the war?”

Brin took a second to think, and her eyes shifted in focus. “After Theo of Warric successfully besieged Dahl Melen, he burned it and killed everyone she ever knew and a good deal of livestock. Then Augusta of Melen killed herself.”

“Oh,” Moya said with a suddenly sour look.

“Raithe, Malcolm,” Padera barked. “Fetch us some water. Take those empty gourds by the door.”

Without a word, the two men got to their feet. Raithe bent low. The ceiling was too high for most to touch, but Raithe was tall and there were plenty of plants, gourds, and fish hanging from the rafters to bang his head on. They grabbed the containers and headed out.

“You sent
Raithe
to fetch water?” Persephone and Brin asked in concert the moment the two had left.

“Was just sitting there,” Padera replied.

“But…but…the man saved us…and he's killed a god!” Brin declared, crawling back toward the fire and rising to her knees in protest.

“Then he ought to be able to handle carrying some water, don't you think?” The old woman fixed her with a one-eyed stare and a misleading toothless frown that Persephone knew to be a smile.

“I can't believe how fortunate it was, running into him in the woods,” Moya said to Persephone. The young woman clutched the teacup to her breast. A wicked smile crossed her lips. “He's handsome.”

“You're spoken for,” Brin reminded her.

“Shut up, will ya?” Moya scowled, huffed, and slammed her head backward on the netting, making a
thrum
sound. “The Stump can go hang himself. Got any spare rope, Roan?”

Roan paused in her chicken plucking. “Of course I do. I always keep—”

Moya sighed. “Roan, I'm not serious.”

“Oh…sorry.”

“Don't need to apologize, Roan.”

“Sorry.”

Moya sighed again. “Never mind.”

Persephone loved Moya for her forthright, honest, speak-her-mind openness. She didn't know anyone who was braver or more helpful. But secretly Persephone wondered if Konniger, Tressa, and Padera were right about Moya taking a husband. Not that she should be forced to marry The Stump, but Moya, looking the way she did and refusing every proposal, had started fights among suitors. The gods had blessed her with beauty beyond mortal bounds, just as they had given mankind fire. Both gifts had the ability to leave destruction in their wake, but no one was foolish enough to swing a torch at every tree. Moya, on the other hand, was an uncontrollable flirt and oblivious to the devastation she caused.

Brin resumed her vigil at the door, her eyes intent on something. “Raithe and Malcolm are at the well.”

“The Fhrey doing anything?” Moya sat up.

“A couple looked over, but they're still just sitting there.”

“Keep an eye out,” Moya told her, then turned back to Persephone. Drumming her fingernails on the cup, she asked, “So what
were
you doing out in the forest? You never did say.”

Persephone looked embarrassed.

“You weren't really secretly meeting Raithe, were you?” Moya sat up, her brows rising. “You weren't, you know…what The Stump said?”

“No!”

Moya frowned and settled back in disappointment. “What, then?”

Persephone sighed. “I went to talk to a tree.”